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    Red Gold
    Red Gold
    Red Gold
    Ebook160 pages2 hours

    Red Gold

    By David Vernon

    ()

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    About this ebook

    From murder and mayhem to ghosts and grave-diggers (oh, and that strange succubus that just happens to slip into your life when you aren't looking), 'Red Gold' is an anthology of twenty-seven award-winning tales from the Stringybark Malicious Mystery Short Story Awards. Australian and international authors showcase their malicious and nasty imaginations in this entertaining collection of stories. Read them if you dare!

    Martin concentrated on her mouth. It was safer that way. Eyes could detect his innermost thoughts and he hated that. So he avoided the eyes and watched her lips, imagining the tongue nestling over the sublingual gland, the saliva erupting into her mouth...
    “What the hell are you staring at?”
    He jerked his head away and looked out the window. Wrong again.
    - from 'A Place in the Heart' by David Campbell

    He hunched over the bed, so close, nearly touching Lauren as she slept. The sweat on his bare upper body glowed faintly red in the gleam from the stand-by light of the small television on top of the bookcase.
    Lauren murmured and turned onto her back, unaware of the bent figure closing in on her lips. His breath could have stirred her hair but his pose was static; no breath, no twitch of a muscle, no animation. The figure exhibited no life but his image shivered, perhaps in anticipation of the inevitable contact with Lauren’s teenage body.
    - from 'Night Moves' by Lyn Brandon

    Shrouds of decaying vegetation and algae embrace me in gloom. And while I have no company, I’m never alone. The constant crackle of the bottom feeders see to that. My body has become a home for a variety of tiny shellfish, worms, crayfish, crabs and a kaleidoscope of hungry fish. And while they flit between my bones I lie in the ooze imagining the conga lines of women entering my front door, all feigning sympathy yet veiling scheming hearts.
    - from 'Recluse Bay: The View to Die For' by Anne D Arthurs

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Vernon
    Release dateJan 29, 2018
    ISBN9781370110353
    Red Gold
    Author

    David Vernon

    I am a freelance writer and editor. I am father of two boys. For the last few years I have focussed my writing interest on chronicling women and men’s experience of childbirth and promoting better support for pregnant women and their partners. Recently, for a change of pace, I am writing two Australian history books. In 2014 I was elected Chair of the ACT Writers Centre.In 2010 I established the Stringybark Short Story Awards to promote the short story as a literary form.

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      Book preview

      Red Gold - David Vernon

      Red Gold — twenty-seven award-winning stories from the Stringybark Malicious Mysteries Short Story Awards

      Edited by

      David Vernon

      Selected by

      Maree Teychenné, Marguerite Perkins, Jamie Todling and David Vernon

      Published by Stringybark Publishing

      PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

      http://www.stringybarkstories.net

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright: This collection, David Vernon, 2018

      Copyright: Individual stories, the authors, various.

      These stories are works of fiction and do not relate to anyone living or dead unless otherwise indicated.

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the editor, judges and the author of these stories.

      Contents

      Introduction

      Turning Point — Grahame Maclean

      Night Moves — Lyn Brandon

      The Witch — Tee Linden

      Beneath the Heat — Deanne Seigle-Buyat

      A Place in the Heart — David Campbell

      Home Visits — Patricia Cation

      Turn — Jacqueline Winn

      The Killing — Jon Presswell

      Malicious Murphies — Wendy Swarbrick

      Golden Rings — Nikki Reid

      The Perfect Job — Robin Storey

      Wally’s Story — John Bauer

      Red Gold — Kerry Cameron

      The Death of Francis Bakersfield — Eugenie Pusenjak

      A Mug’s Game — Gordon McPherson

      Old Twisty — Beverley Butcher

      The Lesson in the Lens — Nicola Wardley

      Unravelled — Amanda Molyneaux

      Fetch — C.L. Fulton

      The Parcel for Number 66 — Mick Wiley

      The Gravedigger — Merinda Young

      The Toy Maker — Jason Hemens

      Recluse Bay: The View to Die For — Anne D Arthurs

      Little White Lies — Deidre Le Sueur

      Maryanne — Kay Spencer

      Leg of Frog, Eye of Newt — Kym Iliff-Reynolds

      No Sugar for Pills — Cam Dang

      The Stringybark Malicious Mysteries Short Story Award 2018

      About the Judges

      Acknowledgements

      Other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

      Introduction

      — David Vernon

      Roald Dahl is mostly famous for his children’s books — Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach and The BFG to name just a few. As a child I was unaware of any of these stories but I did know (very well) his anthologies of short stories, written for adults — Kiss, Kiss, Switch Bitch and Henry Sugar, among others. I was always impressed by their cleverness and the bizarre nature of humanity that he managed to bring to the fore. With this background I have always been attracted to these kinds of short stories and hence I have been keen to encourage stories with a twist. Red Gold is our third anthology in the malicious mysteries genre. Our other two are Malicious Mysteries and The Ghostly Stringybark (sold out as a paperback but available as an ebook). Red Gold is also our thirty-second anthology. It is compiled from the judges reading over 120 entries in the competition. The four award judges, Maree Teychenné, Marguerite Perkins, Jamie Todling and I, are pleased to present to you twenty-seven short stories, all which contain a touch (or more) of maliciousness. I am sure Roald Dahl would approve.

      Happy reading!

      David Vernon

      Judge and Editor

      Stringybark Stories

      Turning Point

      — Grahame Maclean

      He could feel it long before he saw it.

      A taste?

      A sound?

      A touch?

      He wasn’t sure. But there was certainly something in this attic.

      The day had started well. David Barnes arrived in Norwich on a warm April Saturday morning and parked his car by the Castle. He walked north, towards the river and his favourite haunt, the cobbled lanes of Elm Hill. Its crooked buildings – rebuilt after a devastating fire in 1507 – stood in bright, lime washed gaiety, like huckster mausoleums, offering rare books to anyone who could pay. And David could pay. The proprietors – always welcoming to the serious buyer – would glide quietly between high ordered bookshelves. Whilst below, in the earth, and the flint, and the charred embers of the tarred oak beams that once burned acres of flesh, lay the grey ash, of a lost generation.

      Quite unexpectedly his thoughts turned to Penelope.

      It had been five years. They had married on a soft August afternoon in the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon. As they exchanged their vows, in the chancel where William Shakespeare had been interned five hundred years before, a narrow beam of bright sunshine burst through the high stained glass window in the south transept, and fell on the bride.

      After the service the guests were transported back to a glittering reception at the 5000-acre estate of Penelope’s father, Sir Archibald McGregor. And while the guests drank champagne, and an orchestra played Handel’s Water Music by the lake, David Barnes sat in a quiet corner of the rose gardens, hardly able to believe his luck.

      He’d been summoned to a meeting with Sir Archibald just over a year ago, after achieving double firsts at Oxford in Modern and Ancient Literature, Philosophy and Languages. They met in the library at the McGregor estate one bright Monday morning in July. Sir Archibald, a man of few words, got straight down to business.

      I’d like to offer you a job David. I want you to look after my library, and expand it however you see fit.

      David had not expected this manna from heaven. Well… what can I say? he replied, I would love to —

      Good, said McGregor, standing up. You’ll get a rent free house in Banbury, I’ll instruct head office to pay you a comfortable salary, and you can start a week from today. Goodbye.

      David started work the following Monday and within a year had turned the library into one of the most prestigious private collections in the world. One morning Sir Archibald walked in and sat down. David, he said, what are you doing on the 23rd of August?

      Nothing sir, why?

      Good. You’re getting married.

      Married! said David. To whom?

      To Penelope of course.

      Your daughter?

      Yes. I know she’s not bright but—

      Sir Archibald! said David looking distressed, I hadn’t planned on getting married to anyone – and how do you know Penelope wants to marry me?

      I’ve asked her, he said, and I’ve made a deal. Now sit down and listen.

      David was in shock and sank into a chair.

      Logical equation, said McGregor, in a professorial manner. "Penelope – dim. Rich

      kid male friends – lazy and dim. Grandchildren – dim."

      He smiled. Alternative! Penelope – dim. David Barnes – genius. Grandchildren – brilliant. Grandfather – happy.

      But I –

      "No buts David. It’s perfect. Penelope likes the idea of a trophy husband. She’ll keep her freedom, and be away partying most of the year. That’s the deal. You’ll meet for an occasional… tête-à-tête – and you, David Barnes, are secure for life."

      David nodded. He had never had the slightest interest in sex – but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

      Done, he said quietly.

      The honeymoon had been spent cruising the Norwegian fiords on the 160-metre McGregor yacht, Dominator. They arrived at the yacht’s berth in Southampton, late in the evening of the wedding, and were shown straight to their suite. They were tired, and in Penelope’s case drunk, so it was by common consent that they went straight to bed and slept.

      The following morning David woke to find his new wife trying to get into his pyjamas. Err, what are you doing? he said.

      Darling, whispered Penelope, don’t you think it’s time we — ?

      Got up? he replied, and leapt out of bed. He was about to feint a heart attack when there was a knock on the door. It was a steward inviting them to join Captain Demetrius Papadopoulos for a late breakfast. Penelope was not amused and said she’d stay in bed. David said it would be rude to decline the invitation. Within two minutes he was dressed and on route to the Captains quarters.

      It was during breakfast that chance offered an unexpected bonus for David’s future and peace of mind. As the two men chatted, it came to light that Captain Demetrius had studied at Athens University and was an academic too. The two men quickly bonded and spent the entire day discussing their passion for books. By the early evening, after several whiskies, the conversation turned to the future.

      You must be… very happy with your new wife? said Demetrius.

      David levelled a knowing look at his new friend. Not really, I prefer academia to the tedium of women.

      Demetrius smiled. I guessed. I have the same problem with ships.

      You don’t like your job?

      I used to. But now, like you David, I want to live in my own world of literature and study.

      The conversation became deep; sagacious; tactile. David reached out. Are you for sale? he said. It was a risk, but it felt right with this man.

      Everything is for sale my friend.

      Would five million dollars buy an alibi – and your silence?

      It would, said Demetrius, holding his gaze.

      Done, said David, for the second time that summer.

      The two men shook hands and David returned to his cabin. Penelope was painting her nails red, and looked annoyed.

      I’m sorry I’m late my darling, he said. The captain needed to discuss our route. Come on. Let’s take a drink onto the balcony, and then, I’ll take you to… bed?

      Penelope smiled. I was beginning to think you didn’t find me attractive, she said as they walked outside.

      They stood gazing at the Aurora Borealis. The stars twinkled in the firmament, and the full, white moon traced a silver beam across the black waves towards where they stood.

      My darling husband, Penelope whispered. I am so happy, I feel as though I am in… heaven.

      A few minutes later she was, as he threw her over the side.

      It was the perfect crime. He had a flawless alibi. And except for one small problem, when she’d grabbed the rail and hung terrified between eternity and the racing waves – requiring a smashed glass across her nails as she locked her final gaze on him – faultless, he thought.

      After the funeral he paid his debt to Demetrius, returned to academia – and two hundred million pounds in the bank.

      His destination today was a newly opened Antique bookshop. He entered, and was greeted by an old man with a shock of unkempt white hair.

      Good morning sir, can I help?

      I’m researching chronicles of the 12th century, said David. Do you have any?

      We certainly do sir. He smiled, pointing to a door on his left. If you go upstairs you’ll find plenty to interest you there.

      There were several dimly lit floors with no signage, so he continued to the attic. It was crowded with junk and shadows. The sulking air tasted of age, and he knew he was in the wrong place. But that sixth sense was alive, and he couldn’t leave. He crept forward.

      A narrow beam of watery sunlight angled down from a blackened roof light. It fell on an old wooden crate in the corner. On the crate stood a glass bottle. The bulbous base and long misshapen neck, common in the sixteenth century, held a pale liquid. He picked it up, held it close to his face, and looked inside. The faint smell of pickles, and the preserved bugs suspended in the fluid, answered one question. It was formaldehyde.

      There was something else.

      What appeared to be a small stick, or more likely a ridge of sediment, was lying across the bottom of the bottle. It’s probably dust that’s fallen in over the years, he thought. But he was wrong.

      Very slowly the ridge began to turn, like

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