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It was moonless, the seas mountainous, and the boy’s maiden voyage was rapidly losing its appeal. ‘The mizzen’s about to be reduced to a stump!’ he yelled into Silver’s face, ‘and you sit like a nightwatchman at his brazier!’ Long John ignored him and continued to spoon up his duck stew, the parrot watching every movement. Only when the last drop had gone did he sweep rheumy eyes up to the boy’s panic-stricken face. ‘This vessel is of English oak,’ he said calmly, just audible above the weather, ‘built in an English yard. She is not some flimsy Chinaman out of Hangzhou. She will ride this bouncer of a sea without a slip, young sir, you’ll see. Now get into your swinger and hang like a bat until this squall passes.’ Silver snatched his crutch from its hook to steady the boy’s untouched stewpot. ‘’Tis an ill wind,’ he chuckled.
R. Kingston
M’s secretary hung her phone on the hook as he walked in. ‘Morning, James. M wants to see you at once.’ The Side-Swinger missile business, Bond supposed. He’d thought that was finished. ‘What about our lunch date?’
‘Have to duck out, I’m afraid. Meeting a maiden aunt at Fortnums.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Bond, and meant it. George, the nightwatchman, an ex-Commando and former night-club bouncer, was convinced the girls in the Service were chosen for their sex appeal. Bond liked the theory. ‘No chance you could slip off early?’ She didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘No.’
M was at his office window, staring out at the sweep of roofs beyond Regent’s Park. ‘Ah. Come in, 007. Take a seat.’ He dug at his pipe with a stump of pencil. ‘007,’ he said, ‘what do you know about Chang Lee?’ Bond frowned. The name meant nothing. ‘Sounds like a Chinaman, sir.’
Hilary Wade
‘This is an appeal by Mr William Fox, a bouncer and Quaker …’
‘Like a mover and shaker?’
‘Not entirely, your Honour. On the relevant night, Mr Egerton, a nocturnal security operative, and Mr Astley …’
‘A what?’
‘Nightwatchman … attempted, ticketless, to enter Swindon Rockodrome, where Iron Maiden were performing. Your Honour may not…’
‘Pioneers of heavy metal. You can’t stump me, Mr Winstanley. I used to be quite a swinger.’
‘And I’m a Chinaman. Mr Fox told Mr Egerton, politely, to sling his hook, intimating that otherwise, while opposed to violence, he would sweep the floor with him. Mr Astley, unwilling to let slip the dogs of war, fled instantly, like a bat out of hell. Mr Egerton stood his ground, whereupon Mr Fox explained that his fist and Mr Egerton’s face were about to occupy the same space. Unwisely, Mr Egerton imitated Mr Ronald Reagan. He forgot to duck.’
Nicholas Hodgson
‘Meet me at Wang’s,’ Holmes had said. ‘My disguise may stump you.’
‘Holmes?’ I challenged the nightwatchman.
‘’Wish I ’ad one,’ he grumbled. Wrong.
Wrong again over the bouncer outside the dive that advertised Peking duck; and over the Chinaman who welcomed me; and over the maiden of delicate appeal who seated me.
I made a visual sweep of the customers: a sailor with a wooden leg and a hook for a hand, a young tart, and an old bat just moving into the seat behind me. I suddenly realised my wallet had gone. Wheeling, I found the old lady stowing it in her bag. Her eyes met mine, and panicked. ‘No, guv!’ she whined. ‘Call it just a slip. If they nail me again, I’m a swinger.’
I sighed. ‘You’d better join me, Holmes,’ I said.
Paul Griffin
No. 2401: Split personality
You are invited to provide a dialogue in verse (maximum 16 lines) or prose (maximum 150 words) between two parts of yourself at odds with each other. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2401’ by 14 July.
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