I wrote most of this short story a year or two back, but returned to finish it earlier this year. I had been reading a lot of short stories and always found myself drawn most to those that included some kind of mystery twist as you approach their end. I’m not so bold as to compare my story with the best that are out there, but I am quite pleased with how it turned out, and the way that the three sections work to give the story its three distinct scenes. There are a few elements from my childhood in Somerset thrown into the mix – the shop in the first section was based on one that we used to visit sometimes on the way home from school on the Durleigh Estate in Bridgwater, the boys names match those of some of my class mates, I used to count Fig Rolls as my favourite biscuits and enjoyed many long bike rides out on the lanes that criss-cross the Somerset Levels. The tower itself is very loosely modelled on the Burton Pynsent monument near Curry Rivel, although in my minds eye I relocated this to the northern end of the ridge that runs north-northeast from Aller where the road from Othery to Langport makes a right-angle turn.
This is a fairly long read (it’s ~4000 words in total) but hopeful someone out there will make it all the way through and enjoy reading it!
They had agreed to meet outside the mini-mart at nine thirty but it was already pushing ten and Andrew still hadn’t arrived. The other two had waited patiently at first, assuming that Andrew was delayed at home by some last minute chore, but with every minute that passed this seemed less likely. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all.
Throughout their wait, James had remained seated on the wall next to the steps down to the shop. He selected pieces of gravel from a handful he had taken from the driveway of a nearby house, lobbing each one towards a bin that stood a few yards away. Most of his throws missed, but he heard the satisfying clang of stone on metal just frequently enough to keep him at it. In contrast, Steve was on his bike, pedaling loops around the small car park in front of the store. It was Sunday, and with the shop not opening for another ten minutes, there were no cars to obstruct him. That would soon change as people started to pull in for a newspaper, some bread or a pint of milk for their breakfast, or supplies for a family trip.
Mr Sousa had arrived in his battered Austin Allegro not long after the boys, and they had grunted a hello to him as he had unlocked the shop door and disappeared inside. They could see him moving around at the counter, and he would soon be flipping over the sign that hung in the doorway to announce that he was open for business.
As Steve freewheeled towards the shop he squeezed the brake lever to lock his back wheel, allowing it to slide out from beneath him to spray a satisfying shower of dust and grit towards where James sat. He brought his bike to a halt.
“Hey, Humpty, let’s get going. If he was coming he’d be here by now. We can’t wait all morning.”
“I guess,” James replied, before directing his next piece of gravel in Steve’s direction, “but it’s odd, it was his idea to go to the tower in the first place.”
“That’s true,” Steve responded, “but he’s always a bit flakey. He probably had second thoughts when he realised the state he’d be in after dragging himself there on that crappy old rust heap he calls a bike. What sort of person rides a bike with only five gears?”
“It’s not his fault,” James said defensively, mindful that Andrew’s family were always struggling to make ends meet, “but it’s annoying. We’ve already wasted half an hour… and he was the one bringing the biscuits. We can’t go out on a bike ride without biscuits. At least Sousa will be opening up soon.”
“You’ll have to go in,” said Steve, “I’m not getting off my bike just for your precious biscuits. Here you go, he’s unlocking the door now. Get your fat arse off that wall and get in there.”
James sighed, he liked Steve, but sometimes the constant jibes got on his nerves and he thought he might bite back. He never did though. It wasn’t worth the bother. They had been mates for as long as he could remember and shared some great adventures together. The last thing James wanted to do was sour their friendship with the whole of the summer holiday still ahead. It did annoy him that Steve’s insistence that he should be the one to go into the shop meant that he would be the one to spend money but that, of course, was the point. Steve might be a lot of things, not all of them nice, but he certainly wasn’t stupid.
James watched as Steve pressed down on his pedals to start another loop and smiled as his friend swerved to avoid a car that had just turned into the car park. He slipped down from the wall and entered the shop.
“Morning Mr Sousa,” he called, heading to the second aisle.
Hmmm… what was it to be? His own favourites were fig rolls, especially the ones you could gradually dismantle, biting away the sides then detaching the base and top to leave only the sweet chewy slab of fig. But Steve hated fig rolls so there was no point in getting those unless he wanted their smashed fragments stuffed down his shirt. No, he supposed that it would have to be ginger nuts again. He reached out to grab a packet but his eyes flicked to the shelf below, and before he could stop himself he was uttering the words “Oh yay, oh yay – excellente, perfectissimo” as his fingers wrapped around a packet of custard creams.
“What’s that James? Did you say something?”
It was Mr Sousa.
“Have you found what you came in for?”
“Yes, it’s fine,” James responded, with a hint of embarrassment, “I’m just getting some biscuits. We’re heading out on our bikes. Andrew was supposed to be coming too but he’s not shown up.”
James slid an assortment of coins across the counter to Mr Sousa, who dragged them over the edge into his cupped hand before pushing the lever to spring the cash-tray towards him and depositing them safely in the appropriate compartments.
“Custard creams eh? Not a bad choice, although I’d have gone for fig rolls myself,” Mr Sousa said cheerfully as James made his way out of the shop.
James was struggling to convince himself that they had drawn any closer to the tower since they’d left the mini-mart car park just after ten. They’d been pedaling for an hour and a half, but despite their efforts it was still only a small bump on the horizon. The ride had been easy at the start, straight down the hill, and then left along the main road, before turning into the hedgerow-lined lane that snaked its way through the fields towards the council estate. They’d put their heads down and pedaled past the stained concrete houses as quickly as they could, and then they were free, out on the flat expanse of the moor. Their target, the ridge with the old tower at its far end, rose like an island to block out the world beyond.
James had only visited the tower once before. It had been a family trip towards the end of the previous summer, the four of them in the little car with the wicker picnic basket, tartan rug and his brother’s kite. It had not been a great trip. Despite their elevation the kite flying had not been successful, and his brother, mood sullied, had decided to entertain himself by trying to trip James over as often as he could. To make matters worse, they had found the gate to the tower held firmly shut, a fat chain doubled around the metal bars and gripped tightly by a heavy-duty padlock. It was a discovery that had done nothing to improve the mood of the day, and the journey home, back through the winding lanes that followed the rhines around the edges of the fields, had been made in silence, each of them knowing that words would only serve as a spark to set the air in the car alight with anger and blame. So much for a happy family day out. But amidst all of the recriminations about why no-one had thought to check whether the tower was open, James had noticed a small gap in the wall, just along from the metal gate, and he had tucked a memory of it safely away for future reference.
It was Andrew who had suggested that they cycle to the tower. James would never have thought of making such a long journey. He was quite happy wheeling around the lanes closer to home but heading out through the network of lanes that criss-crossed the marshy moor was not the sort of idea that came into his head. He’d protested that they didn’t know which of these lanes they should take but Andrew had said that it didn’t matter, all they had to do was keep the tower in sight and work their way towards it. There was no argument against that really because the tower’s prominent position meant that it could never be out of sight for long and so the plan to make this their first adventure of the summer holiday had been hatched, although it had really been Andrew who had made the plan. James’s only contribution had been to inspire the destination when he had told the others about the gap in the wall. And Steve? Well Steve didn’t really care what he was doing or where he was going as long as it gave him something to do. So here they were, Steve pushing on ahead, setting the pace and making the decision about which way to go whenever they came to a junction, James straining to keep up and Andrew nowhere to be seen of course.
They hadn’t bothered to pack any other food and James was starting to think that this was a mistake. One packet of biscuits was hardly going to be enough to sustain them through the day, although with Andrew not there at least there would be more for him. But the biscuits had to wait until they had arrived at the tower. It was one of the rules that the boys imposed on themselves – no biscuits until the destination is reached. They were lucky that they had any biscuits at all today, James thought to himself, as he tried to contain his hunger with a swig of water from the plastic bottle that was cradled on the frame beneath him.
It was hot, approaching the middle of the day, and although they were definitely closer to the tower now, it was clear to James that they still had as much as an hour of pedaling to go. The view from the top of the tower had better be worth it after all of this exertion. It was a great surprise then, that as he rounded another of the right-angle turns at one of the field corners, James saw Steve’s bike propped against a gate and Steve himself sitting on the grassy verge, his back against the gate post.
“Hurry up slow coach,” Steve called out as James came to a halt, “I’m hungry. It’s time to crack open the biscuits.”
“But we’re not at the tower. We can’t open them yet. You know the rules,” James protested.
“Oh sod the rules,” Steve responded, “Who thought them up anyway? It certainly wasn’t me. It’s not like a flash of lightning is going crash down to punish us is it? To be honest if I don’t get something inside me I’m not sure I can be bothered to go all the way to that stupid tower anyway.”
James knew that it was pointless to argue, but it did annoy him that Steve was so quick to discard one of their rules in such a cavalier fashion. Yes, obviously, their rules were not important in the grand scheme of things, but they were their rules and they had all agreed to them. It was just how they did things, part of the special bond that held the three of them together. Now here was Steve, always quick to castigate James or Andrew whenever they suggested a breech, throwing this rule away without any discussion whatsoever.
With some reluctance, James slipped his pack from his back and pulled out the packet that he had purchased earlier.
“You’d better not have squashed them,” Steve exclaimed, and before James had time to reply he reached up to snatch hold of the packet.
“What are these?” Steve moaned with a hint of disgust in his voice, “Custard Creams?”
He ripped open the packet and grabbed a handful of the pale-coloured biscuits.
“At least you weren’t stupid enough to get those disgusting fig things you’re so fond of”, he continued, but his last few words were not really decipherable due to the presence of several biscuits that were already crammed into his mouth.
The two boys sat for a few more minutes. James was dismayed to see the packet emptying steadily.
With just one biscuit left James knew better than to think it could be his, so it was a shock when he heard Steve tell him that he could take it if he wanted. It was too good to be true of course. As James reached down, Steve’s hand shot out to grab the last biscuit, before hurling it across the lane in front of them with a shout of “fetch”. James watched as the last custard cream traced a smooth arc through the air before it dropped with a loud plop into the drainage ditch that ran alongside the field on the opposite side of the road.
James sighed. Not only had they broken their no biscuits rule but Steve had wantonly wasted valuable resources. It was not good, not good at all… But there was no time to consider things further. Steve was already on his bike and accelerating rapidly away.
“Here we are then Mr Webster,” Jake announced somewhat breathlessly as he brought the wheelchair to a halt next to the wooden bench that looked out across the moor, “We’ll just get you settled onto the bench and then I’ll leave you in peace for an hour or so.”
“Thank you Jake, it’s very kind of you to bring me you know. It can’t be easy pushing me all that way,” the old man replied.
“Oh, it’s not too bad,” Jake responded, “at least I was able to park up here. I certainly wouldn’t have fancied pushing you from the bottom of the hill.”
“There you go.”
He planted Mr Webster’s body onto the bench.
“Here’s your paper – you can read all about last night’s match – and here are your biscuits. Don’t eat them all at once!”
Jake folded the wheelchair and propped it securely against the bench.
“I’ll leave you now, but I won’t go far. I’m going to follow the footpath along the ridge towards Ilton. I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go getting thoughts of racing off down the hill will you,” Jake said cheerily as he began to walk away from the bench.
Jake had started working at the home a few years previously and this was the third time he had brought Mr Webster to this spot. He liked Mr Webster – he was sharper than a lot of the other residents and always liked to talk about the latest football scores or news stories. It always amazed him how much Mr Webster knew about things. It was a couple of years now that he had needed the wheelchair to get around but his mind certainly wasn’t failing. There had been some discussion about whether it was sensible for him to be taken out like this, but Jake had been happy to sort things, and Mr Webster was such a long-standing member of the community at the home that the management had not taken much persuasion to allow the trips to continue. It was not as if Mr Webster demanded to be taken to all kinds of different places at all times of the year. No, Mr Webster only ever wanted to spend a little time in one place, up at the viewpoint towards the end of the ridge close to where the old tower had stood, and always on the same date, July 27th. It was an odd choice – the tower had been demolished many years ago, and the viewpoint and the small parking area nearby had become rather overgrown – but Mr Webster had never given any reason. It was just where he wanted to go, and Jake was happy to take him there and have a few hours away from the slightly stale smell and hushed atmosphere inside the home.
Mr Webster sat on the bench staring out across the patchwork of ditch-lined fields on the moor below. In places the field boundaries were marked by hedgerows and occasionally there were stands of bright-leafed willow trees nestled alongside the larger drainage ditches. A few small roads crossed the moor, zig-zagging their way around the fields to link together the farms and small-holdings dotted within the landscape. It was a long time since Mr Webster had been down any of those roads, not since his childhood in fact, and each year it occurred to him that his trip here might be his last.
He was tempted to close his eyes to nap, but the whole point of coming up to this bench was to feel the air, to sense the sounds and the smells, and most of all to try to absorb the spirit of the place. He couldn’t do that if he dozed off. He wouldn’t be here long, so it was important to remain alert. He didn’t want to miss anything. Not that anything had ever happened up here during any of his other visits. He’d been coming here for almost ten years now, ever since he had moved back down to the area, and just being here sent his mind tumbling back to memories of schooldays, old friends and summer adventures. But this was the first time he’d been back on a Sunday.
It had been quite a wrench when they moved away. He could still remember that other Sunday morning all those years ago when his parents had announced that they had to rush to be with his Mum’s family. There had only been time for him to pack a few things before being bundled into the car for the long drive north. After a few weeks it dawned on him that they would not be heading back, and his suspicions were confirmed when his father hired a van and made the return journey to pick up the rest of their belongings. His parents had asked whether he wanted to go back to help on that trip, but were not surprised when he had said no. After all, he was only young, and it was to be expected that he wouldn’t want to be reminded of what had happened down there. He’d known the two boys well and should have been with them that day, so their disappearance would obviously be difficult for him. So, he had remained in the north, distance keeping him detached from the tragedy.
But he had not forgotten about the others.
When his wife had passed and with his daughter living in Canada, he had decided to return south. The retirement home was ideally located, close enough to his old haunts to provide a feeling of connection, but far enough away for him not to be constantly chased by memories of the time he had spent in and around the area in his childhood.
He caught sight of the boys as they pedaled along a lane beside one of the fields at the edge of the moor, close to where the road climbed steeply towards the ridge. They had emerged into view from behind one of the stands of willow trees – the red-haired boy out in front setting a stiff pace and the other boy trailing a little way behind. He glanced down at his watch and made a mental note that they should arrive at the bench in about twenty minutes. Jake would be on his way back by then. When he looked down at the road again the boys had slipped from view. They would soon be pushing their bikes up the hill.
James was first to emerge followed a little way behind by Steve. They were instantly recognizable. As they pushed their bikes towards him the boys moved closer together, and Mr Webster could see James pointing past the bench towards the wooded area where the tower had stood. They drew level with the bench, and Mr Webster called out to them.
“Well done boys, that must have been quite a climb.”
They did not really respond, just nodding and making a few grunting noises.
“Here, sit yourselves down for a bit of a rest. You’ve earned it. I’ve got some biscuits here – Ginger Nuts. I’m not that keen on them myself but they were the favourites of one of my old schoolfriends.”
The two boys weren’t really interested in sitting and talking to some old codger with false teeth and hair growing out of his ears, they had more exciting things to be doing, but at the mention of biscuits they had pricked up their ears. Steve was the one to reply.
“Yeah, thanks, that’s funny, they’re my favourites too.”
He nodded towards James.
“That idiot went and bought Custard Creams earlier, but we’ve eaten all of those already.”
“That’s a shame,” Mr Webster replied, “Custard Creams are my favourites.”
He passed the unopened packet of Ginger Nuts to the boys.
“If Custard Creams are your favourites why did you bring Ginger Nuts with you?” James asked the old man, “I’d always choose my favourites if it was just me eating them.”
Mr Webster let out a soft sigh.
“Well, I guess I didn’t bring the biscuits to eat myself,” he said, “I usually do bring Custard Creams when I come up here but for some reason I asked Jake to get Ginger Nuts today.”
“Who’s Jake?” James asked, but Mr Webster seemed lost in his thoughts and gave no answer.
Steve glanced towards James, and with eyebrows raised and his finger pointed towards his head, made a whirling motion with his hand as he rolled his eyes. He placed the open packet of biscuits down on the bench and grabbed the handlebars of his bike.
“Come on then,” he spoke to James, “we might as well go and explore that damned tower now that we’ve made it here,” and as the two boys walked away from the bench he continued in a whisper that only James could hear, “There’s something funny about those biscuits. They’re different from the ones we usually get. The packet was different and all. Let’s get going and leave him to his newspaper.”
The two boys walked up the track and disappeared into the line of trees that circled the summit of the hilltop at the end of the ridge behind which the tower was to be found.
Jake sensed that something was not right as soon as the bench came into view. Mr Webster was sitting exactly where Jake had left him, but his head was slumped back against the bench. On the ground nearby lay the packet of biscuits that Jake had bought in the garage on the way over in the morning – not Mr Webster’s usual Custard Creams but the Ginger Nuts that he had expressly asked for – and a group of three sparrows were darting to and fro, sweeping up any crumbs that they could find. As he approached the bench, a gust of wind caught hold of the newspaper on Mr Webster’s lap and flicked it open. The movement distracted Jake for a moment and he glanced down to see a headline that read ‘The Lost Boys – 60 Years Ago Today’, but as intriguing as that sounded, this was no time to start looking at articles in the local newspaper.
Jake took one more look at Mr Webster and was pleased to see that he had a smile on his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.
When his call was picked up he responded to the questions calmly.
“Ambulance please.”
“The bench at the end of the ridge that runs southwest from Ilton, next to where the old tower used to be.”
Then Jake turned away, first looking out across the moor below and then turning to follow a gentle breeze that brushed past his face as it sped towards the small wood that smothered the space where the old tower had once stood.
(c) Tim O’Hare, March 2025
Tim O'Hare 