Phil Martin's Blog, page 7

POEM: The reason why we're Manc

The reason why we're Manc  
The reasonwe're called Manchester, and I hope this don't sound crude,Is becausethe Roman warriors settled at a hill shaped like a boob,When GeneralAgricola marched from Chester up to York,He neededsomewhere safe to rest, to eat his tea and talk,Perfect inits curvature, like every man's best friend, Thecurving slope in Castlefield was the easiest to defend,The breastshaped hill was perfect; it's where our town grew from,And theRoman word to sum it up was Mamucuam,Thefirst part of this word translates as 'shaped just like a breast,'Thesecond part means camp or site, somewhere for them to rest.
Noweven though our rivals may gleefully pour scorn,Itwas due to this comparison that our boob shaped town was born,TheSaxons came in Century five and changed the name again,Callingus Manigceastre but still focussed on the M,Invasionscame each century from Northumbria and the Danes,With Mamecaestre and Manceastre evolving as our names,So ifyou've ever wondered why we're all called Manc,Woman'sboobs and roman hills, we've got them both to thank,And if anybodysays to you that you look a right teet,Explain tothem your heritage and say ta for seeing it.



Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: Looking for Alex

Looking for Alex Show methe streets, where he played, when he was just ten,And theshipyards where he became a leader of grown men,Show methe fields where he dreamed of his footballing fame,And thewalls his leather casey struck, learning his beautiful game.
His firstlove Glasgow Rangers could have tinged his red blood blue,But I needto visit Queens Park, East Stirling, St. Mirren too,And Ayr, Dunfermlineand Aberdeen to see if it's hidden there,I need toknow the answer, coz it's drives me mad, I swear.
Becausesomething happened to this man at some stage of his life,He wasn'tborn one of us, thinking - United, kids then wife,But ithappened somewhere as he grew and I need to know,What made hisheart United, what drove his spirit so?
He couldhave followed Fagan, Paisley or Dalglish,But hisheart brought him to Manchester so he could unleash,Twentyfive years of trophies from when I was a kid,A career rewritinghistory books for Man U-ni-ted.
But why usI think, why Manchester, for your manager's fix?Why sohappy giving us your life since Nineteen eighty six?It wasn'tquick fix glory in the most selfish-ist of sense,You builtus a whole empire and went on the offence.
You made thedreams come true that I didn't know were mine,You foundus all the kids who would peak in ninety nine,From nearand far, you found them all, relentless in your search,Your onetrack mind, quite focussed, knock the scousers off their perch.
Thetrophies rolled, the records broke, the accolades did flow,But eventhrough these glory years, there's one thing I must know,Why here,why now, continuously, what drives this great man on?Dedicatinghis life to Manchester but not born Mancunian.
You'reScottish and proud, the super race, superior you say,But givehim the keys to Manchester; he's Manc in every way,He changedour path, he made us laugh, he filled our lives with glee,No manit's true could ever do as much as our Fergie.
Youdragged us from the eighties and the doldrums of our dread,Youchanged the happy gene for good for generations of red,You put uson the map again; you made our city known,All roundthe world and back again, United on our thrown.
Even nowwith records broke, it's plain for all to see,You won'tjust leave but leave us with a ten year legacy,The safeststructure that ever was, a team for many years,You'veearned your place in history, the third of all our sirs.
His cheeks are red, his languageblue, he dances like my dad,But he's a winner through and through,the best we've ever had,With his hairdryers and tea cupshe's ruled the dressing room,With a clenched fist to theStretford End, he made Old Trafford boom.
He changed my life, he changedyours too, lest we should forget,It's doubtful any other man put sucha spring into your step,This steely Scot, he's won thelot, our saviour from Govan,But still I really need to knowwhat drives this great man on?
There is apicture hanging, it's said above his bed,Is it aclue, it must be true, why he became a red,Forsmiling down on his eiderdown in coat and trilby hat,Is apicture of another great; the legendary Sir Matt.
Is thisthe reason that you're shaped in just the way you are?Is thisthe man whose ambition has driven you so far?It has tobe the answer; at last I think I know,But nowanother question nags at me what drove Matt Busby so?
Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

BOOK: Child Number Three-chapter 4

4. Casablanca was nothing like the quaint beach resort Amy hadimagined.   Thesprawling beaches were in keeping with her image of the region, yet thetowering city skyscrapers, which stretched out far beyond the historic medinaand the port area, gave it the feel of a big city.   The old town was everything she had hopedfor with its bustling alleyways of stalls offering everything from silk bedcoverings and rugs to tin lamps.   Burrosreplaced cars on the winding streets.  Yet the mix of Maghrebian and Mediterranean culture was clear with thepalm-lined boulevards and apartment blocks following a style more familiar to l'Coted'Azur than Africa.   Thefive-star hotel gazed lazily over the North Atlantic, its sprawling swimmingpool rippling in tandem with the ocean stretching all the way to the haze onthe horizon.  Amy decided to leaveCarolyn sleeping in the sun to complete her first task in finding out where shecame from; ringing the number Charlie had hidden from the world to find out ifhis friend Zitane Sirat would accept visitors or not.Thevoice that greeted Amy in Arabic scoffed when she asked to speak to Sirat theowner of the house."Thisis no house lady," the voice informed.  "Youhave come through to the logistics department of Casablanca Port.  Did switch board put you through here?  They shouldn't put anyone through to thisnumber.""NoI dialled this number directly.""Howdid you get it? You've come straight through to the port manager's office?" themanager asked. "This is not a public number."Amyexplained how Charlie had been a keen visitor to Casablanca with his work andthat she presumed this number had belonged to one of his friends. Having establishedit was over twenty years ago and that the current manager had only ever knownone predecessor, Amy was soon hurriedly dialling another number, not to ZitaneSirat but to the old manager of the port who may have known her father."Ofcourse I know Charlie Walker," the old manager, a pleasant sounding localcalled Jilali, informed.  "How could Iforget him?  But our friendship was along time ago now.""Sodid you work with my father in French petroleum?" Amy asked delighted thatthey'd even known each other let alone been friends."Charliedidn't work in French petroleum not whilst I knew him anyway but he did make mevery rich," Jilali corrected. "He paid me to provide him with information onthe port, detailing all the shipping companies that operated out of here, theirvarious comings and goings, everything was recorded and Charlie wanted to knoweverything.""Soyou sold it to him?" Amy questioned with an edge of disapproval. "Itwas classified information and Charlie was happy to pay. I presumed he was aprivate detective.""Butwhy, what was he doing?""Tothis day I don't honestly now," the voice at the end of the phone explained."He had cargo go missing, very expensive cargo, and he was desperate to findit. All the questions he wanted focussed on three days in August in themid-eighties, he wanted to know everything and I mean everything that happenedin the port during those three days.  Herang me every day for three months from England before he eventually came toCasablanca for a few weeks and went through everything with me. He paid me verywell for this help and I will always be grateful.""Didhe ever find his cargo?" Amy inquired. "Idon't think he ever did but Charlie never actually spoke about his cargo hejust obsessed about the boats going in and out of Casablanca.""Doyou know anyone called Zitane Sirat," Amy asked looking for more clues."I'mafraid not," Jilali said. "I know no man by that name."Amythanked him for his help and mentally pushed the phone number to one side as ared herring.  She nipped back to check onCarolyn, who was still asleep and then decided to at least locate roughly wherethe address was.Theirhotel was located on the Boulevard de l'OceanAtlantique along thecoast.   Amy wondered how much it had changedsince her father had last been there.  Shewondered too if he'd been to the flat that she was soon standing outside; theaddress of Zitane Sirat, the address that her father had felt compelled to keepin his possession yet keep hidden from the world.   Amy could only speculate as to itsrelevance.  Theapartment block seemed okay, not palatial but certainly not as bad as she'dfeared.   She'd done her research.   It was only a five minute taxi ride fromtheir hotel.   It was the reason theywere staying where they were staying.  The concierge had informed that the neighbourhood was safe enough soshe'd opted to go alone.  Shewas ten minutes into her thirty minute deadline when the door in front of herfinally opened.  Theman spoke only in Arabic.  Amy repeatedthe name again and again but the man eventually just shut the door in her face.  It couldn't even be called a wild goose chase it was over soquickly; such a long way for such an ungracious knock back.   Amy was just about to give up when she hearda shuffling behind her.  "I'm afraid the Sirats are long since gone from here," a femalevoice said, "not since…well not for a long time anyway."  It was a little old woman walking down the corridor carrying hergroceries.   "Do you know where they are now?" Amy asked.  "That would all depend on who needs to know and what theirbusiness is with the Sirats," the old woman replied coyly.   Amy kept her own cards close to her chest claiming the Sirats werea friend of her family and that her father had spoken fondly of his time withthem.   "I knew Zitane well," the old woman said.   "He was a good man."  The words warmed Amy.   Shefelt like she was on the right path once again.   But the tense used by the woman was aconcern.  "You said he was a good man.  Is he still alive?" she asked.   "He's been dead for overtwenty years. After his death, the Sirats fell on hard times and had to moveout of their home here. I visited them frequently for the first few years butthen things just got too difficult."  "Sodo you have an address where I might be able to find them?" Amy asked.  "Ihave the address of the place I used to visit them at but I've not been therefor many years," the woman explained.  "I hear bad things of this place now.""Please,I really need to talk to them," Amy begged. "Wait for me here. I will fetch a pen andpaper."  Amywaited for the woman to return and then glanced at the piece of paper handed toher.  'Carriere Thomas, Sidi Moumen,' it read.  Amy was just about to ask if the words were places or people whenthe woman's next sentence set her straight.  "Only go there if you really have to," thewoman stressed.   "And ask for the Siratfamily.   They will be close by.   I found this for you too."  Shehanded Amy a newspaper stained yellow by the passage of time.  The pretty Arabicwords curled this way and that but apart from the picture of Zitane Sirat thenewspaper did little to help her.     "I'm afraid it is in Arabic but maybe it will help you find hisfamily.   Zitane was a great friend ofmine," she added.   "I was devastatedwhen I found out he'd been murdered."  Amy looked up from the Arabic paper.   "He was murdered?" she said shocked.   "How? Why? Do you know what happened?"The old woman shook her head.  "I'm afraid it was neversolved.   Even to this day nobody knows whyZitane was so brutally killed."  "So when did this happen?"The woman nodded to the newspaper.   "This was the morning paper the day after his body wasfound."  Amy couldn't decipher any hint of a date in the Arabicscript.  As her eyes scanned the text the old woman put her out of hermisery.  The date shocked Amy much more than the mention of murder.   She'd seen that date before.   It had been stamped on her father'spassport.   It was the exact same datethat her father had left Morocco, twenty three years ago. 
***Despitethe strength of the sun, the idyllic beach on which she lay and the watchful,religious glare of the Hassan II Mosque, Amy couldn't relax.   The murder of this mystery man captured inher father's invisible ink played on her every thought.   Why was he dead, why did her father have agun and was the date just a coincidence? The questions reverberated around hermind.   "Go on ask them," Carolyn said to her friendas she looked up from her sun lounger.  "Next time the ball comes over here, ask them if they know any goodnight clubs?"Amylooked up at the group of men playing football in front of them.   The beach was full of footballers.   In fact Amy had never seen so manyfootballers in one place before.  "I'm not asking them that," she replied sheepishly.   "I'm not sure if they even go to nightclubsover here.   Isn't it against theirreligion?" "The number of discos along the Boulevard wouldsuggest not," Carolyn said with a wink before looking back at thefootballers.   "Okay if you won't askabout the nightclubs ask that one with the tight speedos how he can run so fastwithout his third leg getting in the way." Thetwo giggled until the ball was lofted in their direction once again.   It dribbled slowly towards them and lodgeditself under Amy's sun lounger.  "Now's your chance," Carolyn said removing her sunglasses to makethe most of her viewing.   The muscled hunk jogged over to them smiling.  "Ladies," he greeted.  Amy reached for her beach towel to cover herself up.  "Please," the man said.   "Iam not offended by your body."  "She's had better chat up lines," Carolyn chipped in.Amy tried to stifle her laugh. "I merely meant that freedom of religious faith is permitted bythe Moroccan law," the man added, "and I choose a more liberal viewpoint."  He glanced up and down Carolyn's body prompting her to reach forher own beach towel.  "I sense that you are new to Casablanca," the man added smiling.   "Perhaps you need someone to show you thesights."  "I think you've seen enough already," Carolyn said changing tactfollowing the man's eyeballing.   "Yourfootball teams waiting for you."  Amy reached into her handbag.  "Perhaps you could help with something," she said, scrabblingaround for the small piece of paper.   She'd already made several copies of the address that the oldAfrican lady had given her, conscious that losing it would render the rest ofthe trip a waste of time.  "I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find SidiMoumen?" Amy asked.   Carolyn threw her friend a belligerent look.   "My advice on how to getthere would go like this," he said in a deadly serious tone.   "Tear up this piece of paper and forget theaddress ever existed.   Sidi Moumen is noplace you need to visit. It is Casablanca's largest and most dangerous shantytown.   Outsiders are not welcome,westerners are not safe and women do not have the same…privileges, shall wesay, as they do in your world.   It ishome to thousands of very poor and very desperate people."  He stretched out his arm and traced an imaginary line in theair.  "It is a stone's throw from Casablanca's most opulent villas;poverty and luxury on each other's doorstep and it harbours terrorist cells soplease ladies enjoy our beaches and our hotels, tour round our Mosques but donot venture into the streets of Sidi Moumen.  I give you my word...you will regret it."  Carolyn stared at her friend wondering what craziness had got intoher crazy head? "One more thing ladies," the man said holding out his arms.   Both girls looked up ready for their next piece of advice.  "Please can I have my ball back?"Carolyn reached down between the sun loungers and prised the ballfree, rolling it back to the man.   Heturned and dribbled it back to his waiting team mates who berated him inArabic.  "I think your holiday list of things to do needs a littlereworking," Carolyn said sternly.  "What's going on Amy? Why on God's earth, do you want to go somewherethat harbours terrorists?""Because there's someone I need to meet," Amy replied.   "Plus he was exaggerating...to scare us. Hewants to show us around so he's playing the 'it's dangerous round here' card.""Who do you need to meet Aims?" Carolyn asked unamused.Amy thought about a cover story but decided it was time for thetruth, well part of the truth."Someone to explain why my father was in Morocco twenty threeyears ago when he should have been on a coach crash in Italy meeting me. He washere obsessing about boats and doing God knows what else."   "I knew it," Carolyn said. "I knew you had an ulterior motive forcoming here but don't let me hear you mention this Sidi Moo place again.   They had suicide bombers there a few yearsago."  Amy stared definitely back at her friend.   "After tomorrow you won't hear me mention it again," sheexplained.  "Good I'm glad…" "Because tomorrow I'm goingthere, first thing in the morning... to get it out of my system." 
***"This is as far as I will take you," the taxi driverinstructed.  Amy adjusted her strapless, orange beach dress and winced at thesite in front of her.   The shanty townof Sidi Moumen looked just as treacherous as the footballer had told them.   She ignored the taxi driver's final warningand paid him the dirham he asked for.  The pungent smell hit her first.  The buildings in front of her were run down, multi-stories but they soongave way to two storey tin-roof shacks and homes made out of breeze blocks andplaster.   In contrast to the poverty, satellitedishes stuck out of every flat roof.  Carolyn couldn't let her friend go by herself, safety in numbersand all that.   She'd opted for ripped,denim hot shorts and a tight white t-shirt which she'd rolled up and tiedaround the side to reveal her midriff.  On seeing the sight ahead she untied the bottom of her t-shirt androlled it flat over her stomach.   Shealso unrolled the hem on her hot pants to cover a little bit more thigh.   She suddenly felt more than a littleexposed.  In front of the girls lay a myriad of dusty dirt tracks in betweenfalling down, ramshackle houses.   Totheir right lay a wasteland where donkeys, dogs and goats were fighting overpiles of rotting trash.  "Do you remember that old saying about sticking to the beatentrack," Carolyn said,   "because I'lltell you this for nothing, I am not going in there."  "Fine you wait here then," Amy replied before marching over towhere a group of boys were peering intently over a broken motorbike.   Carolyn covered her nose and reluctantly followed.  "Hello, does anyone here speak English?" Amy asked confidently asthe group of boys turned to greet the outsider. They shrugged their shoulders and laughed amongst themselves.   Amy could tell she was being mocked.  "I need to find the house of the Sirat family.   They live in Carriere Thomas."  Again the group laughed at her prompting Amy to produce a wad oftwo hundred and fifty Moroccan dirham; the equivalent of twenty pounds.   It silenced the laughter.  "Carriere Thomas anyone?" she added smiling."Sweet Jesus. What are you doing now?" Carolyn saidstressing.   "Don't let them know you'vegot money.   You'll get us mugged... orworse."  One of the older boys stepped forward.   He looked to be in his mid teens.   "I will take you to Carriere Thomas," he said before demanding themoney.  "Half now, half when we get there," Amy said, delighted that she'dbeen astute enough not to part with all the cash at once.  Carolyn winced again as the boy grinned and then nodded inagreement before grabbing the money and marching into the maze ofalleyways.   The girls struggled to keep pacein their flip flops choosing to tread carefully over the broken rocks insteadof keeping up with the boy.   Eachdecrepit alleyway led into another.   Alleyes turned towards them; men stared and smiled, flashing broken yellow teethbefore muttering things to each other whilst veiled women stopped momentarilyto eye the western intruders before carrying on with lugging huge jugs ofwater.   Children kicking a football,bursting at the seams, froze too as the girls were taken deeper and deeper intothe shanty town.   "I thought this was goingto be a beach holiday," Carolyn complained.     "It is," Amy replied defiantly. "This is just a slight detour. You've heard of The Rough Guide Tohaven't you?""Yeah and I've heard of the rough part of town not to. And this isnot a normal thing for us to be doing."  "We'll be fine," Amy reassured.  "People have got better things to be doing than be bothering us."  "Like what?""Like living their lives."  "Yeah well I think we just made their lives a little but moreinteresting."  Amy too felt anxious but she'd come this far for answers andwasn't about to turn back now.   "That man on the beach said there were terrorists hiding out downhere," Carolyn began again.   "If we'retrying to trace your family tree what exactly are we doing down here? I can'texactly see Charlie and Jenny being part of this place and strapping explosiveto themselves to go on a suicide mission in rural Cheshire can you?"Amy continued to keep the murder of the man she was looking for toherself but it was constantly on her mind.  If her father wasn't implicated why did he have the dead man's addresswritten down in invisible ink?The boy suddenly stopped and held out his hand.   "This is Carriere Thomas," he said.  "And what of the Sirats? Where do they live?" Amy asked.  The boy shrugged his shoulders.  "I don't know them lady," he said.   "Deal was Carriere Thomas.  Give me my dirham."   Amy handed him the cash and he disappeared into the slums.  The stench was as bad as ever forcing Carolynto cover her mouth and nose.  "Nice one Aims," she said,  "our very own viewing of Putrid Palace.  It's not first on my list of landmarks but it's certainly a smell I'llnever forget.  It stinks. They clearlydon't have any plumbing.   So what's next?A tour of Sewer Central?""Nope, we're going to find this man's family?" Amy said taking thenewspaper page from her handbag unfolding it and showing the picture of Siratto her friend.  "And who's this badger? Where's he popped up from or shouldn't Iask?  You've got some serious fuckingexplaining to do here Aims."  Amy didn't take the hint and instead hurried over to the firstpassing female to quiz her over the potential whereabouts of the Sirats.  The slum girl's lack of English came as nosurprise.   These were the depths of theshanty town.   Amy wasted no time in trying to track down an Englishspeaker.  "English? English?" she asked frantically.  It wasn't until she produced more dirham that a man caught hereye.   He lent his motorbike against ametal pole and attached a chain to link his bike to it, then removed a bag ofgroceries from the back of his bike.  "What are you doing here?" he asked in educated soundingEnglish.   "Why are you on thesestreets?""I need to find the Sirats," Amy replied.   "I know they live round here.   Please I have dirham."  The man looked at Amy with distain.  "I am not a peasant," he said.  "And I do not need your pity or your dirham.   But tell me, what is your business with thisfamily?"The man was well groomed, his beard neatly trimmed, and he waswearing clean, neatly pressed clothes.  He clearly didn't fit into the slums. "My father knew this man," Amy said holding up the newspaperpage.   "Zitane Sirat."  The man widened his eyes slightly in recognition of the photo andsmiled slightly.   "Well would you believe that? My own father did too.  He used to work with Zitane at theInternational Hotel before the bombs.  These are very bad times for the Sirats," he said, "but I will take youto Karim.   He was only ten when he sawhis father murdered."  Even with bombs and murder in the same sentence, Carolyn knew herglare at her friend would be futile.  The man beckoned for the girls to follow him.   "Now all these years later it seems poor Karim must watch hismother pass too.   Still this time hisonly conflict of interest is with Allah and her passing should be an altogethermore peaceful experience.   Come I willtake you to their home."  He began navigating his way through the rubbish on the streets,giving Carolyn chance to pull back her friend. "I'm sure there's a natural explanation Aims but terrorists,shanty towns, bombs, murders? I'm starting to wonder what Charlie got himselfmixed up in and why you what to get mixed up in it now.   I think we should give this a wide berth anddo a hop, skip and a jump back to the nice side of town.   There's a sun lounger with my name onit."   "Charlie didn't get involved in anything," Amy mouthed back. "And I'msorry but I need to know where I came from. It's slightly more important thangetting a tan that will fade on the plane home."  Carolyn swore under her breath as she clipped her big toe onanother broken boulder and then carried on with her complaints.  "Well I'm not gonna pull any punches kidda, I hope for your sake,this isn't where you came from?"Although she wouldn't admit it, Amy was already thinking the samething. 
***The shanty town guide stopped outside a double storey concreteshack where a door and two window shapes had been cut out of the concrete andfilled with clear plastic sheets.  "You must wait here," the man said pulling back the plasticcovering from across the door.  Carolyn raised her eyebrows in alarm at being left.  "You will be quite safe," the man said clutching the bag ofgroceries.   "Carriere Thomas is likeanywhere in the world.   There are goodpeople and bad people but the good far outweighs the bad."  He disappeared into the hut.  The girls could hear him speaking Arabic inside with another man.  Carolyn shook her head in disagreement with his parting comment.   "The problem here is that the poor and needy far outweigh the richand affluent and as we're the only two in that latter category we risk beingpicked off and stripped of our riches whenever we stand still."  Agroup of young boys passing by emphasised her point.   They stood and stared at the two girlsspeaking slowly in Arabic, no doubt detailing what they would like to do toeach girl in turn.  "Cover your face with your scarf," Amy said.   "In fact try and cover up all over abit."  "It's too hot," Carolyn complained before moving the scarf back upto her face all the same.  It was a sticky heat, the sort only a dip in the pool would seeright.  The man suddenly appeared at the door.   "I'm afraid Karim won't see you," he said.   "But don't take it personally.   His mother is very poorly and he has stressup to his eyeballs.   Plus he refuses tosee anyone connected to his old life.   I'm afraid he said he is too busy for a friend who hasn't been there forthe last twenty three years.   I'm sorrybut I did try."  The man pushed politely through the girls and out into the dirtpath masquerading as a street.   Withinseconds he was gone.  "There goes our security blanket," Carolyn said.   "What next Aims?"Amy had already pulled back the plastic sheet covering theentrance to the ramshackle house and crossed the threshold.   Two basic rooms greeted her; one with atable, displaying the bag of groceries left by the well dressed man, along withtwo chairs, the other with some decrepit stairs going up to the nextlevel.   The once white walls werestained black.   Amy could see where afire had burned in the winter.   "Hello?" she said tentatively.  She heard movement upstairs and shouted out her greetingagain.   This time the sound of movementculminated with the appearance of a young Arab in his late twenties.  "Karim?" she questioned.  "How dare you come in here uninvited," Karim spat.  "I'm sorry for barging in," Amy apologised.   "I know this is a difficult time for you andyour family but I really need to speak to you." "But I do not need to speak to you, whoever you are," Karimsaid.   "The world turned its back on meand my family when we were forced into these slums and now I do the same to theworld.   Now get out of my home."  "I think my father knew your father," Amy replied, desperate toget the man onside even if it was just for the smallest amount ofinformation.   She unfolded the newspaper article and showed it to the man infront of her.  "My father was here in Morocco twenty three years ago on the daywhen your father was murdered," she continued.  "He kept an address of your old family home in his desk.   I need to know…"As Carolyn wondered what the hell her friend was doing linking herfather to the murder of the man's own father she decided against joining herinside but then reluctantly forced herself. Her emergence through the plastic sheet of the door startled theman.  "Who is she? How many are you?" Karim shouted.  "She's my friend," Amy reassured.  "There's only her.   Now please isthere anything you can tell me about your father's death, anything atall?"  The man returned his glare to Amy.   "Why do you need to know anything about my father's death?" hesaid slowly with distain.  "What does hisdeath have to do with you?""My father was a good man and I know your father was a good mantoo.   I think they were friends.  The dates, the address, it's too much of acoincidence.   I need to know if theyknew each other."  "Why?" the man shouted.  "Why do you need to know anything about what happened twenty three yearsago."  Amy looked the man directly in his dark eyes.   "Because the date that your father was murdered was also the datemy foster father said that he met me for the first time.   He adopted me in England saying my parentshad died in a coach crash but I know that wasn't the truth.   I know he was here in Morocco on that date,and I found your father's address in his desk." Amy looked deep into the man's eyes hoping the fear in them wasn'ta window into his soul.  "I'm starting to wonder if I was here too," she added.  Karim froze for a second, a look of realisation spread across hisface and then forced his frown.   "You do know somethingdon't you?" "Get out of here," the man screamed, flashing a curved knife fromunder his djellaba.   "Pleaseif you think you can help me at a later date we're staying at this hotel forthe next four days."   Amypresented the man with a business card from the hotel they were staying at,which he refused prompting Amy to drop it to the floor.  "Getout of here," Karim said quietly this time but far more threateningly, "andnever ever come back."  Heraised his weapon up to shoulder height.  .  "It's time to do what he said and get out of here," Carolynsaid, tugging at Amy's beach dress and pulling her friend towards the door.  Amy refused and struggled against Carolyn's grip.   "What did you remember? You remembered something then.   Was it about me?  I could see it in your eyes."  The man walked right up to the girls towering above them.  "Yes, I remembered. I remembered it was because of you that Iwatched my father die, that it was because of you that I have lived all my lifein this slum and that it is because of you that my mother is dying in this hellhole."  He lurched forward raising his knife.   "Now get out."  He crashed the knife down onto the wooden table lodging it deepinto its timber.  Carolyn had seen enough.  She pulled Amy through the plastic sheet and out into the dirt pathwhere a crowd had already gathered, attracted by the shouting and the generalcommotion the girls had caused.   Over adozen men were quickly joined by more.  They shouted at the girls in Arabic, gesticulating and egging each otheron.  "Lady, lady," shouted one grinning man.   "You gave my brother two hundred and fiftydirham to get here.   It will cost youtwo thousand to get out."  The girls retreated onto the step of the hut they'd justleft.  "What do we do now?" Amy asked as the crowd surged forward.    "I don't know," Carolynreplied, "throw some money in the air and make a run for it?"Amy reached into her handbag and hurled a few hundred dirham up inthe air, forcing a surge from the crowd as they fought with themselves andsnatched at the notes as they floated down like pennies from heaven.   More locals appeared from each end of thestreet.  "This is getting way out of hand.  We've got to get out of here now, throw some more money in the air andlet's leg it," Carolyn instructed.  Amy reached deep inside her bag but the crowd surged again inanticipation.   A small boy at the frontgrabbed at the strap of her bag pulling it fiercely and yanking Amy off thestep.   Another snatched at the strap asa flailing arm hit Amy in the face, forcing her to drop her bag.   Its contents spilled onto the floor and weredevoured by the crowd.   As Amy lurchedforwards to fight for her handbag, a force behind her pulled her back throughthe plastic sheet and back into the hut. Karim pushed past them and shouted at the top of his voice inArabic whilst brandishing his weapon for the crowd to see, immediatelysilencing them and backing them off. "You shouldn't have comedown here," he said to the girls.   "Butyou don't deserve to be torn limb from limb for your stupidity."   He shouted at the crowd again and they moved further away from hishouse, then ushered both girls through his shanty house and out through a backdoor blocked off with a huge piece of wood. "My friend will see you out of here," he said pointing at the wellspoken, grocery delivery man from before who was sitting on a clapped outmotorbike, smiling politely.  "But I meant what I said," the man added.   "You are not welcome here.   Never, ever come back."  Amy wiped the tip of her nose.  She was bleeding.   She knew Karimknew more than he was letting on.  "Please help me," she pleaded. "My help ends here," the man said leading the girls towards themotorbike and pushing them onto the seat.Amy wrapped her arms around the driver whilst Carolyn clung on fordear life to her friend.  "Now go," the man said.  A dust cloud engulfed the girls as the motor bike tore away downthe dirt track.   Relief flooded throughAmy's veins but it was eclipsed by disappointment.   This had been a once in a life timeopportunity to find out what the hell her father had been doing in Casablancaand she'd blown it.  She was gettingnowhere fast. The sinking feeling as they drove out of the slums left her as lowas ever before in her life.  

POEM: When will Manchester be sun-kissed again?

When will Manchester be sun-kissed again?
We're madfor the sun when the Med comes to Manc,Therainclouds have cleared and it's hard not to thank,As our shoppingchores become tomorrow's tasks,And wegrind to a standstill as the whole city basks.
This sun-soakedscene is set all over town,The city relaxesas the sun blazes down,PiccadillyGardens awash with sunbathers,All thankfulfor one day the summer has gave us.
Kids dancethrough fountains in soaking wet duds, Screamingand splashing in impromptu floods,Moments tocherish in infantile minds, As thesprays become waterfalls in far off climes.
But giveup the shopping, it's simply too hot,And sit inthe shade with the goods that you've got,Time for aspritzer or a beer and a chill,AsDeansgate grinds to a sweaty standstill.
To Livingroom,too busy, there's no space outside,It's standingroom only in this patch we reside,All seatsare taken, folks spill out on the street,Making themost of this unexpected sun treat.
To Saint Annesinstead for a sun-filled lunch, But it's brimmingwith bathers nibbling butties or brunch, Like continentalcoffee bars we're all sitting outside, The squarespilling over as Mancunians fry.
So town istoo busy there's nowhere to sit,But whenit's sunny, Castlefield's always a hit,The otherside of town, it's a bit of a trek,But it's designedfor good weather so hey what the heck.
To walkingthe canals, it feels just like Venice,But withcobwebbed tunnels brimming with menace,Feedingthe swans a stray bit of burger,Thenrunning for cover as ten of 'em herd you.
To SunglassesSundays at Dukes Ninety Two, IfManchester's sunny it's just what we do,Relax inthe courtyard with the sun on your face,Remindingyourself why Manchester's ace.
But it'spacked there already, no tables are free,Coz at thefirst sign of sun there's a Castlefield spree,Didn'tknow what to drink, in the end I got gin,But atlast, settling down to some people watching.
Nice ladsdressed scally in shorts and in vests, Girls outpeacocking in nightclubbing best, Hidingweekend sins behind their sunglasses, But stillwith Saturday's wristbands as passes.
The hoardsclearly melting but still glitzed and glam, Girlsgetting giddy on the sambucas they slam,Lad'snecking Stellar; the Manc's gettin' coarser,Monday's workvoices will be so much hoarser.
Squeezingin spots where the sun loves the most,Castlefield'salways the most generous of hosts,The sun beamsdown, perfect; we're all in no doubt,There's nobetter place when Manc's sun plays out.
But fromnowhere a cloud comes into view,It'sManchester's climate, there's nowt you can do,Then thedownpour opens catching all on the hop, And theManchester monsoon means a see through top.
Everyonescatters like there's darts in the rain,Sendingthe sunshine down the Manchester drain,Thecourtyard is emptied, the revellers all flee,Or battlefor shelter under the canopy.
The delugeis heavy, drops bounce on the floor,It's likewe've never seen rain storms before,Castlefield'scobbles overflow with the flood,As bulletsized raindrops are unleashed with a thud.
One dropis fatal, sabotaging girls' hair,Just yardsto the entrance but no one will dare,So stayunder cover... all of us huddled,Wonderingwhy is our weather so annoyingly muddled?
But sackthis we're Manc, we know how it feels,To besoaked to the skin in flip flops or heels,With our wethair plastered to our sun kissed skin,To doubt amoment of sunshine is a Mancunian sin.
Umbrellasare useless, there's just one thing to do,So dancein the rain til your clothes are wet through,Brightshine then deluge is our climate's tradition,Likesomeone's forcing a wet tee-shirt competition.
Butstill... the rain... slams down in buckets,Ascollectively Castlefield sighs, oh just ffff... forget it,I'm wetnow; it's pointless I'm soaked to the bone,But asprinkling of water ain't sending me home.
There's anair of reluctance; that's just how it is,We don'tlive in a Barca, a Rome or Madrid,We alllove our city if not quite its weather,But when willwe get a full summer ever?
Thetemperatures drop but the smiles ain't gone,We'regrateful for one day when it has shone,Just oneburning question will always remain,When willManchester be sun-kissed again?

BOOK: Child Number Three-chapter 3

3.  During the week that followed Amy had never felt more alone.   Riddled with a cancerous guilt, she wishedshe'd just left everything to do with her adoption alone, neatly packed away ina box marked 'do not open' in the attic of yesteryear.  If she had, she would still have had her mother. Instead apainfully lonely feeling of isolation was all she had keeping her company atnight.The second family funeral in just a few months had beenharrowing.   It left Amy with nothing, noone, no immediate family, no family at all.  Only a few people had turned out for it, a few acquaintances from thevillage and a show of support from Amy's own friends.   Derek Blake was nowhere to be seen.   Not that Amy cared.   She'd pushed the whole self discovery thingto one side to concentrate on the grieving process.  Sitting in silence and looking through her parents' belongingsbrought some comfort; photos, diaries, letters, books, whatever she could gether hands on to keep their memory alive.Charlie's desk was full of mementoes from his many work trips toAfrica and the Middle East, when he'd worked for a French petroleum company.It was late and Amy knew she should get some sleep but the drawerin her father's desk intrigued her.  Sherocked it to and fro but the third drawer was locked.   As her curiosity over what Charlie might lock away turned into aburning desire to know, Amy pilfered the tools she needed from her father'sgarage; a heavy sledge hammer, a chisel and a saw before attacking the drawer.It had no chance and eventually splintered to reveal a pile of documents,bills, receipts; nothing worth keeping under lock and key.   But then she noted the anomaly.  The level of the shelf in the drawer didn't quite match the bottom ofthe drawer with a gap of maybe two inches unaccounted for.   She reached for the chisel and hammeredunforgivingly, unsealing the tomb hiding her father's chosen artefacts.   Her fingers touched the newspaper first, asheet of four pages of the Birmingham Post faded yellow, making it look like ithad been printed on the parchment usually reserved for treasure maps.   She lifted the newspaper from her father's time capsule with theintention of reading it but what lay beneath froze her intentions.   What was her father doing with a handgun?  She reached for the weapon holding it in bothhands.   It made no sense.   Herfamily had no gripes with anyone.   Theylived a non-descript suburban lifestyle based mainly on good food, supermarketshopping and recycling.   The Birmingham Post included quotes from David Johnson, the manAmy had spoken to but no mention of any baby orphaned by the crash.  She was never a Johnston.  Itwas all lies. Her parents had purposefully kept this information from her.   Amy had never felt the emotion washing overher before; betrayal, anger. A black file pulled out next delayed herdissection of the feeling. It contained page after page of women's names,listed alphabetically but split between different countries.   It made no sense.   The only thing left in the secret drawer wasa pile of old passports, each with a corner clipped out of them.   Amy flicked through them looking at thevarious passport photos of her father through the ages.   A stamp marking his exit from a particular country on a particulardate stopped Amy in her tracks.It was for the day when he should have been in Tuscany, the day ofthe crash.   Her father was nowhere nearthe coach crash on that day.   He wasnowhere near Italy.   Passport stampscouldn't lie but it would seem foster fathers could.   Charlie had been working in Morocco,Casablanca to be more accurate.   Sheglanced again at the hand gun; her father's hand gun and then at the rest ofthe contents of his desk's hidden compartment.  Nothing was making any sense but then a moment of inspiration hither.   She looked at the collection ofinvisible pens in the desk tidy and wondered if maybe just maybe she coulduncover even more of her father's secrets using little more than a game theyused to play when she was young. 
***He adjusted his balaclava and looked again at the house throughthe slight crack in the eight foot fence.  All the lights at the back were out just like the client hadsaid.   Its only occupant, a woman, hadrecently passed away.   He looked againat the list of items the client had requested.  It was a schizophrenic list with each item barely correlating to thenext.   Still this wasn't his puzzle tosolve.   Unlike the vast majority of hisinvestigative work, this guy didn't want anyone followed or photographed orrecorded.   He just wanted the deliveryof several documents or as many of them as possible.   Breaking and entering was part of the job,and carried the greatest risk but the client was paying well; two grand upfront and then a further two hundred and fifty pounds for each item from thelist.   For one night's work it couldprove quite an earner.   He looked oncemore at the list; a passport from the seventies, any documentation relating toan adoption agency and any letters or documents from any governmentagencies.   It couldn't have beenvaguer.   The hardest bit would begetting in but not even that would prove much of a challenge.   The rest was just child's play. 
***The list of female names provided no further clues as to whatAmy's father had become involved in.   As she flicked through the thick folder of documents, realisingsome of it was coded and some of it wasn't, she wished she'd tried to find outmore when he was alive; one simple question could have cleared up all thismystery.  Reams of coded words staredback incomprehensively.  Amy grabbed oneof the pens and systematically covered each page with a variety of invisiblemarker pens but no underlying ink was revealed.   Next she used an old style face lamp in anattempt to show up any UV light friendly ink.  Both methods had been played out in the innocence of her youth.   She flicked the light switch off in theoffice and turned on the powerful white light of the lamp, shining it on pageafter page.  Half way through the blank pages at the back of the folder, reamsof barely illegible notes scrawled in her father's hand writing stared back ather; more names, telephone numbers and international dialling codes.   And then it hit her; the five lines of an address in Casablanca,Morocco, the place stamped on her father's passport when he should have been inItaly; a number and a name, Zitane Sirat.  Her hands shook as she ripped the page out of the folder.   It was then too that she heard the firstnoise.   It sounded like the clunk of theback door.   She immediately turned offthe face lamp and edged silently towards the door of the office.   As she opened the office door slightly, sherealised someone was shining a small torch around the hallway.   Adrenalin and fear rushed her, crippling her ability tofunction.   She slumped to her kneesbehind the door and covered her mouth.  The intruder moved through the house downstairs from the kitchen to theliving room, rustling around in drawers and then eventually began his ascent upthe stairs.   His steps were slow,methodical even.   Amy crept away fromthe door and then remembered her father's gun.  She hid behind the desk waiting for the door to open, aiming ashaking gun to where the intruder would appear but no one entered.   She waited quite still for an eternity butstill no sound of life presented itself.  Maybe the torch had been a car turning in the cul-de-sac and thefootsteps just the creaking of wood expanding in an old house.   She tentatively got up from behind the deskannoyed that she'd managed to spook herself so convincingly.   The door creaked as she opened it.   Amy lowered the gun to her side andconcentrated on scrabbling around for the landing light switch.   Her lungs emptied as the light clickedon.   A balaclaved man towered aboveher.   By the time the piercing screamleft her lips, the intruder had crashed his own weapon across Amy's head.   Instinctively she squeezed the trigger butas the bullet lodged harmlessly into the wall of the staircase, the blow senther stumbling to the floor into a different sort of darkness. 
***Amy edged slowly back to life with just one thought on her mind;the address in Morocco.   Someone kneeledover her; a woman, reviving her. She wore a police uniform.   As Amy came round she realised she'd beentied up in her father's office.   A gaghad been loosened and lay limp around her neck. "You take your time," the officer said.   "You've had a nasty blow to the head.   Do you remember what happened at all?" theofficer asked loosening the rope that had bound Amy's hands together.  The blow to the head had been nothing.   Amy remembered everything immediately butdidn't know yet what she should report.  She glanced around for the gun.  It was nowhere to be seen.  "I remember a man with a balaclava," she offered.  The police officer widened her eyes.   "He had more than that," she replied.   "He fired a bullet into the wall coming upyour stairs.   Are you sure you'realright?"
"I'm fine.   Have I been burgled?" Amyasked tentatively whilst remembering her father's hidden drawer.  "Your office has been ransacked," the officer explained.   "They've made quite a mess of your desk,hacked it to pieces but nothing seems to have been taken from downstairs; TV,DVD player, stereo, they're all still there.  Do you know what they may have been looking for?"Amy shook her head.   "I don't live here," she explained looking around the office.   "This is my parent's house."  All the drawers from the desk had been emptied onto the floor andall the documents Amy had found in the secret drawer had been taken.   There were no passports and no files ofcoded or hidden messages.   "My mum died a couple of weeks ago and my dad six monthsback."  The officer offered her sympathy.  It was often the case that burglars prayed on the houses of the recentlydeceased.   Amy had already focussed onsomething else.   She stood up andstepped over to the desk surveying the mess that she'd made of the wood.  Her father's paperwork was strewn everywhere.   She needed that address.  And then she saw it, the piece of blank paperripped through the ring binders of a folder.The sound of footsteps running up her stairs panicked her, forcinga glance towards the female officer.   "It's just my colleague," she assured.   "He's been checking outside for signs offorced entry.   Do you have anyone whocould stay with you tonight?" "Maybe," she noddedthinking of Carolyn.   The officer turned to greet her colleague as he emerged in thedoorway.   It gave Amy ample opportunityto reach down and pick up the invisible address.   Her panic calmed as she pushed the piece ofpaper with the address, name and number on it deep into her jean pockets.   At least she had something.  Carolyn could stay.    She'd feel safer with someone else in thehouse, plus it would be the perfect chance to tell her. She'd dress it up astravelling or holidaying, whatever it took but she'd be doing neither.   Her father had lied and she simply had toknow why; her answers would start in Morocco.
*** "Casablanca?" Carolynquestioned incredulously whilst curled up in what was Jenny's favourite armchair.   "I don't know what you'relooking for but I'm after a holiday romance not a war time one?"Amy shifted her position on the sofa and sipped from her glass ofred wine.   She'd decided against lettingher friend know exactly why the location had been chosen, at this stageanyway.   She knew Carolyn would needsome convincing.  "Look there's beautiful beaches and sunshine," Amy began.   "And we can take in some local culture withthe mosques and the markets."   "I was thinking more about taking in a nice local man on anidyllic Greek island," Carolyn joked.  "Yeah well we both know you can pull anywhere," Amy replied.   "Look I've always wanted to go to Morocco.   My dad used to rave about it," Amycontinued.   "He used to go loads. Whatdo you reckon? Will you come with me?"Carolyn smiled at her friend.  It was only natural that she'd still be grieving.    "It sounds like you've made up your mind already, lady," shereplied.   "If that's really where youwant to go, let's do it."  Reaching agreement filled Amy with a sudden rush ofapprehension.   She waited until Carolynwent to fetch the bottle of wine for a refill and then pulled out the piece ofpaper containing the address from the back pocket of her jeans.   She read the name she'd written on it again;praying that her father's friend Zitane Sirat would tell her what the hell wasgoing on. She recited the address in her mind and then the telephone number.   If Derek Blake couldn't give her the answersshe wanted maybe Morocco could.   
Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: The bullet proof smile

The bullet proof smile

"You're notcoming in, you've not reserved space, We don'tlike your jeans; we don't like your face,Read mylips sunshine, it's guest list only,Your namesnot down, shall I say it more slowly?"
All overtown the script is the same,The swankybars want a celebrity name,But usnormal folk just ain't willing or able,To pay athousand quid bar tab just for a table.
The posherthe place the worst the banter,As z-listsand wannabes go in at a canter,We standoutside with rain on our face,Knowing weain't getting into this place.
But it'sbusy tonight and the guest list must wait,And thisis something that wannabes hate,They thinkthey can waltz up and go straight down,Allthinking that they're the main face in this town.
We standin the queue and we watch for while,And seefor the first time the bullet proof smile,Of thebouncer that's nice, even when he says no,Even when he'ssworn at, it still doesn't show.
I stand andwait for him to turn me away,As dozensof people rack up to say,I'm mateswith the owner; it's always the same,Do youknow who I am? Do you not know my name?
They pushand they surge to force themselves in,But notone of them can steal the bouncer's broad grin,They shoutand they swear, but he still doesn't frown,As thecrowd shouts as one; I'm the most famous in town.
But it'sfull downstairs, its' one in one out,Not eventhat stems their arrogant shout,The guestlist is fuming, they're starting to bitchYou'd bestlet me in, I'm famous, I'm rich.
We standin the queue, all mild and meek,Is thiswhat it's like for the bouncer all week?Smilingpolitely as folk scream and swear,All sayingthings they wouldn't normally dare.
The insults like bullets fly through the air,But don't lessen his smile or ruffle his hair,They bounce off his teeth but don't shatter hisgrin,Shout all you like, you're not getting in.
He smiles politely as the girls start to hiss,Standing quite happy but not taking the piss,Then with no warning and to my great surprise,The smiling bouncer looks straight in my eyes.
It's myturn for rejection but there's nothing to fear,You're in-he says -with his smile ear to ear,The guestlist gasps - in horror, I'm in,His bulletproof smile, my Cheshire cat grin.


Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: The poisonous apple

The poisonous apple
Whatever the weather, he's there every day,
Refusing to budge but with nothing to say,
He sits in his park with a space either side,On his bench nothing moves him, wind, rain or shine.
He holds out his lunch with an outstretched arm,Maybe not even knowing the harm,As he looks at his apple, should he take his first bite?Pondering daily and all through the night.
Cast out of bronze in Sackville Park,Frozen forever from dusk until dark,In solitary silence and out on a limb,Stuck in the moment just before-it took him.
Did they not care that you were one of our geniuses?An expert in maths and cryptanalysis, Bouncing bombs, PCs you invented them all,You beat The Engima and ended the war.
But that didn't matter; they'd still make you pay,They came to arrest you just because you were gay,Why did they do it, were their minds so small?To punish a war hero who helped end it all.
Your inventions didn't count, and this is the sickener,They punished a man who helped bring down Hitler,Who was it that decided to treat you that way?Imprisonment or hormones, just because you were gay.
Today it sounds crazy, so stupid and wrong,That you weren't worshipped all your life long,Just forty one on the day that you diedBut who coated your apple in cyanide?
You laid the foundations for our computer world,And still your fingers round that apple are curled,Is it a tribute to you, I wonder then grapple,That MACs became known round the world just as 'apple.'
One wonders what inventions were still to be born,From your genius mind, if they hadn't poured scorn,On a life choice that is- quite normal today,You're a Mancunian hero, yep, that's fair to say.
So sit next to Alan on his Sackville Park bench,And imagine your granddad in a war time trench,Imagine his joy when the news broke through,That because of our Alan they knew what to do.
Next time you're in Sackville passing your day,Glance over to Turing and silently say,We're sorry that back then, folk had it so wrong,But nice one Alan, your memory lives strong.
Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

BOOK: Child Number Three-chapter two

 2. "It's got to be a mistake," Amy whispered before covering mouth in shock.She huddled over the university library computer and looked for further answers from Francesca, a medical student from Italy, who was translating.Together they'd got their hands on the edition of La Nazione, the local Tuscan newspaper, which included a story on the crash.   They knew the year of the accident and the month so it was just a case of asking someone with access to the papers at the University of Tuscany to look through thirty one editions, one for each day of August.   "There's nothing there I promise," Francesca said scanning through the PDF of the newspaper page again before bullet pointing the details again; fifty four passengers; collision between Florence and Pisa, coach careered down embankment, nine people dead.   "So no mention of a baby being orphaned?" Amy asked as her stomach tied itself into knots."I'm sorry babe, there's nothing."  "That's strange. I thought that would have been an important detail, human interest angle and all that."   "Lazy journalism perhaps?" Fran offered.Amy tried to shake the deep frown from her face."What about where my parents were from," she begged.   "My birth certificate says Birmingham but I went down that route last time and found nothing."   "Sorry Aims, it doesn't mention your parents by name or where they were from in England," she explained.   "It just says that two English tourists were amongst the dead."  Amy decided to take the one positive.   "At least I've got the exact date now," she said, "and that could be enough. I'm sure everything else can be explained."   She printed off the newspaper page and deliberated over her next move.   "Why don't we look for your parents' birth or death certificates on the internet?" Francesca suggested hoping to move Amy on from her grounded disappointed.   Her fingers hovered in eagerness over the keyboard."I've tried before, loads of times," Amy said still disheartened. "My birth certificate says Birmingham but I haven't a clue what theirs says. I tried matching both their names to a common birthplace but it threw back hundreds of possibilities for each of their names.""But now you've got the date of their deaths and Pisa, where the accident happened, you should be able to cross off anyone else with the same name."   Francesca's excited fingers scrabbled over her keyboard hoping her search for birth, death and marriage certificates would bring new optimism. It took just ten minutes and one credit card payment to throw back the information by matching the data on their death certificates. "My father was from Walsall?" Amy read out loud, "and my mother was too."  "Ah, they grew up near each other," Fran said lovingly. But then Amy saw something she didn't understand.   "This must be the wrong Terry Johnson though," she said with dismay.   "This one had two brothers and I was only put up for adoption because my blood parents didn't have any other relations."  "So what are you saying?" Fran quizzed, "that maybe there were two Terry Johnsons who died in Tuscany on the same day?" "I'm saying maybe someone's made a mistake with their records but I'll speak to my mum later and see if Walsall rings any bells.   It might just jog her memory on a bit." 
***With her student digs to herself Amy settled into a soak with a bath overflowing with bubbles.   Even the trip to the library had been emotionally draining.  She hoped a soak and a glass of wine would soothe her.   She submerged herself under the hot water, getting used to the temperature and closed her eyes hoping to flush out the stress but her mind refused to relax. She reached for the towel to dry her hands and then for the phone to dial home again, only to be greeted by the engaged tone... again.   Jenny was hardly ever on the phone but now when Amy had something really exciting to share she'd managed to locate a long last friend from somewhere.  It was another twenty minutes before her mother finally picked up the phone.  "Who have you been talking to?" Amy began.  "Just an old friend," Jenny replied sounding tired.  "Are you okay?""Yes I'm fine dear.   I just didn't sleep very well."  Excitement took over as Amy told her mother about her breakthrough on the internet and of her confusion over the mystery brothers.  "What do you think? Is it a mistake on the database or do you think he could have actually have had two brothers?"Jenny remained silent until prompted again from Amy.   "I really don't know," she said.   "Charlie did his research and there really was no family tree for us to offer you.  I really wish you would just let sleeping dogs lie."  Amy pushed her big toe into the cold water tap, sending a trickle of ice cold water down across her foot, across her scar.   "This isn't about dogs mum.   This is about my ancestry.   One of the brothers is still alive, meaning I may have an uncle."  Again Jenny stayed silent for a few seconds.   "I understand how family trees work Amy but you must have the wrong person.   And I don't think Charlie would like you doing all this rooting around," she eventually said.  She had a tone in her voice that Amy hadn't heard before.   She sounded nervous but on the verge of disciplining her.  "None of this will alter my feelings for you and Charlie," Amy explained.   "This isn't about replacing you.   You'll always be my real mum and dad.   This is something completely different.   I'm thinking of trying to track down the brother.   He lives in Walsall."  "Amy please don't do that," her mother instructed.   "It will just upset you if he's not receptive and it might open up old wounds for him too.   Some people aren't good at dealing with grief.   It's a really bad idea."  "I'm sorry mum there's something inside me that's forcing me to do this."  She hated defying the woman who had sacrificed her own life for hers but it was the truth.   Something was driving her.   She took a sip of her wine and realised she'd never had such a staggered conversation before with her mother.  "I can't urge you strong enough Amy, whatever it is compelling you to do all this, please just stop it.   You need to go on a nice holiday in the sun with Carolyn and then get on with the rest of your career not go digging around in all this tragedy."  "But I need to," Amy began.  "No you don't need to. You need to stop all this now," Jenny said curtly.   "I had a phone call from Derek Blake from the adoption agency earlier saying you'd called round to see him.   He's a very busy man and I don't think he's got time to go trudging through all his paperwork from over the last twenty odd years.   If you have any respect left for Charlie... and me, you will put all this nonsense out of your mind...forever."  And then Jenny did something she'd never done to her daughter before in over twenty years.   She hung up. 
***The numbers stared back, tempting her as the next clue in her trail.   The online telephone directory had thrown back just twenty eight matches for 'D Johnson' and 'Walsall', all with land lines and addresses.   Amy's heart skipped a beat as she scanned them and wondered if her bloodline lived at any of them.   She checked her watch again and figured she might be able to cross off half the list before Walsall's collection of D Johnsons left for work.   All but one would be quick calls after all.   She printed the list off and felt her body fill with a strange mix of apprehension and excitement as she dialled in the number.  "Hello I'm looking for a David Johnson who had a brother called Terry," she said in response to the first 'hello.'"Wrong number love," the man on the other end of the phone said and immediately put the phone down.   She crossed the number of her list.  The next number rang out.   The next that answered told her never to cold call him ever again.   She had two more confirmations that they weren't the D Johnson she was looking for and four more unanswered calls before one bit.  "Who is this?" D Johnson asked in his Brummie accent.  "I'm looking for a David Johnson who had a brother called Terry," she repeated.  "I heard what you said," the voice stated.   "But I asked who you were."  "I'm kind of trying to trace my family tree."  "And what branch do you think I am?" "I'm not sure.   It depends on whether you had a brother called Terry who died in a coach crash in Italy, twenty three years ago."  There was a long pause as the man deliberated over his answer.   "What if I told you I did?"Amy's mind and heart raced each other, egging each other on.   "I'd ask you to promise me you were telling the truth," she replied.  "This is something really important to me."  The man deliberated long; the silence teased Amy, goading her until he spoke.  "My brother Terry died with his wife Jackie when a coach came off the road just outside of Tuscany," he said unprompted.   "Now maybe you could reward my honesty by telling me where you think you fit into all of this."  Amy's mind raced again.   She wanted to drive to Walsall and meet her uncle; ask him all about her parents and look through his photo collection.   "This is going to be a bit of a shock after all these years but I'm Terry's daughter," she said rambling with excitement.   "I'm your niece."The man stayed silent.  "I'm sorry this must be a bit of a shock to you," Amy said.   "But I was wondering if we could possibly meet up?  I was brought back from that coach crash and went into the adoption process."The suggestion sparked the man into action.   "Slow down," he said sympathetically.   "Look Amy I feel for you on this, I really do but you're barking up the wrong tree.   Terry and Jackie didn't have any children and I'm just as certain that there was no young child orphaned on that coach."  Amy was just about to ask how he could possibly know when the man's next sentence stunned her into silence.  "And I should know," he said.   "I spent over an hour helping to pull out most of the survivors." 
***Derek Blake hurled the last of the luggage into the back of the family car and pushed it down hoping the window of the boot wouldn't shatter as it closed.   He was in the process of rearranging the bags again when his mobile phone rang.   A glance at the name was enough to tempt him to ignore it.   The discussion last night had become heated and he didn't know if his holiday stress could cope with anything else.   His curiosity got the better of him though.   This would after all be his last point of contact with the world for the next three weeks.   He flipped his phone open.  "Jenny," he greeted jovially.   "I hope you're seeing things a bit more clearly this morning."  "Derek, I'm going to have to tell her something," Jenny began at a pace, clearly panicking.   "She's managed to track down the brother of that poor couple on that coach in Italy.   I've just had her on the phone.   She's even spoken to him and now she's asking me all sorts of questions about there not being an orphan in that bloody coach crash.   I don't know what to say to her." 
"Well think very carefully about what you do say Jenny?" Blake warned aggressively.   "Because it's really important that you say the right thing.   It's really important to all of us."  He could tell Jenny was all of a dither.  "I'll tell her what you told me to say," she began, "that databases aren't always accurate and that computers are only as competent as the humans who type things into them but what if she doesn't buy it?   I don't know if I can do this Derek.   She's on her way round here to interrogate me right now."  Blake smiled at his wife who was running a quick cloth around the inside of the living room window, keeping things spick and span for the burglars.   "Don't you dare tell her anything more," he said. "I mean that Jenny.   The slightest wrong word from you and this could open a Pandora's Box.   The authorities will be all over this like a bad suit.   I mean it Jenny.   You'll be up for all sorts."  Blake wasn't prepared to go down for this. He had to scare Jenny into silence.   "And that girl, that girl you've loved so much will hate you with every inch of her heart.   She'll despise you for what you've done to her."   "That's not true," Jenny replied trying to convince herself.   "Amy would understand that we did what we had to."  Blake went in for the kill.   "The day that Charlie agreed to take that girl was the day he signed his own death warrant," he said.   "He lived with that stress from that day on.   It hung over him like a noose.   That was the day he signed your death certificate too Jenny.   This has been a time bomb waiting to explode and it's about to go off.   If Charlie is looking down on this he'll be glad he's not here.   He got out when the going was still good.   If you say one word to that girl, one word Jenny, you're going to blow this to pieces and I'm not prepared to let you take me down with you.   This was Charlie's gamble not mine.   I'll deny everything.   Do you hear me? Everything. This will all come back on you.  Amy will never speak to you again and you'll die in prison a lonely, old woman."  Blake heard Jenny pleading with him and then he heard her breathing change as she gasped in the background.   Her words stuttered and froze. He looked again at his wife and smiled as she finished the window and pointed at her watch.   Jenny's phone crashed to the floor followed by a dull thump which he could only imagine was the woman, who held the key to his prison cell, falling.  "Jenny?" he questioned.   "Are you okay?"She murmured in the background.  The wrongness of his thought brushed over him.   He hoped it was her heart.   This was self preservation at its most selfish.   He couldn't risk jail or the media spotlight.   He had a family to protect.   He clicked the call off, knowing he should ring emergency services but what if he hadn't realised? What if the phone call had finished before she fell to the floor? Derek Blake casually put his mobile back into his jacket pocket and convinced himself the call had finished in a more traditional way.   It would be better for everyone that way. 
***It was only a forty minute drive to her parents.   Amy hadn't wanted to move far when she went to Uni and Manchester's medical school was one of the best in the country.   Amy had always been a home girl.   She could do the drive home with her eyes shut, predicting the landmarks on the motorway without looking, running through the junctions like they didn't exist and then swerving with each bend in the country roads.   Her knowledge of the route allowed her mind to wander from Walsall to Tuscany and back.   Her curiosity had already matured into an all out obsession.   She simply had to iron out these discrepancies and find out who she was.     The little country cul-de-sac which she pulled into would always be home; no matter what happened, and the parking space outside on the road would always be hers.   She knew her mum didn't want to talk but knew too she had more information than she was admitting to.  The front door was locked, which was good.   Amy had pleaded with her mum to get into the habit of locking the door ever since Charlie had passed away.   Nowhere was safe these days.   "Are you upstairs mum?" she shouted.   "Oh my God."Amy didn't scream as she saw her mother, sprawled out on the tiles in a text book recovery position; she just ran towards her to perform CPR but she knew straight away she was dead and gave up quickly enough; instead she lay over her mother cradling her body and sobbing.  The grief was immediate.   She'd met death enough times to understand it but never so personally.   Amy sobbed as she begged her mother not to leave her but she knew it was too late. She wiped away the tears and kissed her mother on the forehead and said a prayer for her. It was then that she noticed the beeping. The phone was on the floor next to her mother beeping furiously.  Jenny had died on the phone, talking to someone, probably from a massive heart attack or stroke.   Still sobbing she flicked through the list of calls received.   It was Amy's. She looked at the last call made. It stopped her tears immediately.   She recognised it straight away but pressed redial to confirm who her mum had been speaking to... but she knew already.   The call clicked straight through to an answer machine, Derek Blake's answer machine.   Her mother had died talking about her adoption.   The sobbing took control again as Amy realised she'd generated the stress that had pushed her mother over the edge.   It was her fault.  The guilt flooded her soul as her tears dripped to a deluge onto the kitchen floor.


Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
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POEM: Manchester's wall of silence

Manchester's wall of silence
You must be finished; you've been here so long,But what's the story, where did it go wrong?A successful buffer to our bus station,But you don't fill folk with joy or elation.
A bare concrete slab dividing the gardens,An ugly monstrosity, not so much as a pardon,Someone designed you and someone felt good,That you were being built in our neighbourhood.
Bare slabs unfinished, a blank canvass maybe,But what was the thinking, I really can't see, You're screaming out for some decorative attention.Our own Berlin Wall in Piccadilly bus station.
You're there to keep the bus noise at bay,But are you finished? Not on my life, no way,Some bushes or foliage would look quite good,A wall of greenery to lessen the thud,
Of buses braking and dropping folk off,A memorial surely would finish you off,Street art would work or a scene from our city,You look such a mess and that's such a pity.
Coz you must fill tourists with abject shock, To see something so ugly or maybe they mock,Maybe they think you're not finished yet,Or just run off screaming full of regret.
Put something up there; give us something to see, Cover it in our fine Manc history,I really couldn't care if it's discrete or loudFinish off that wall and make us more proud,
Coz even graffiti would look miles better,Than those grey blank slabs, I might write a letter,To the council to beg them to make you look nice,And make Piccadilly Gardens a more prettier of sights.
Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: Manchester-On-Sea

Manchester-On-Sea Manchester's got everything; just two things let it down,We haven't got a beach a point made by Ian Brown,But even if we did have one, few cities are wetter,So here's what I would propose to make Manchester better.
Firstly dig The Pennines up; they're blamed for our bad weather,Chop them down, they pop our clouds, and then it won't rain ever,Next let's pop to Liverpool and I say this with a wink,Because legend says the Liverbirds can make their city sink.
So set them free and watch them fly and watch the waters reach,Warrington and Saint Helen's giving Manchester a beach,We could build ourselves a promenade and a Golden mile to boast,And new nightlife would soon spring up on our manufactured coast.
But if we had a beach to bathe and it rarely ever rained,It wouldn't just be our life styles but our attitudes that changed.We'd all wag work so we could take advantage of our beach,We'd lose the swagger from our walks and greatness from our reach.
We'd lose the creativity that makes our city great,And the talented amongst us all would all just go to waste,We'd be too busy basking in the utopia we'd made,We'd be too lazy sunbathing to bother getting paid,
Just like a Spanish stereotype we'd always put things off,Tomorrow's good, today I'm spent, at hard work we would scoff,And if we lost our downpour too, our parks would lose their green,The price of water would go up, as the reservoirs fall lean.
So even though we moan and curse and begrudge our city's weather,I'm still not sure whether beaches would be better altogether,So I'm not sure that we should change dynamics near and far,Let's leave The Pool and hills alone; we're better like we are.
Copyright©2011 by Phil Martin
All rights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2