Short Encounter

By Roy Heweston

“Mind if I sit here?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Not for most women.”

“A bird with your looks… don’t tell me you can’t get your own way.”

“I like this seat; good view of the lake, but discreet. Almost hidden by the bushes. Am I disturbing your privacy?”

“No objection to your disturbin’ my privacy. You a posh bird? Or is the talk put on to kid the masses? Whichever, you’re above my league, lady.”

“What league’s that?”

“There you go ag’en; more questions. You tell me.”

“I used to be a hairdresser, just off Bayswater Road.”

“My local’s in the Bayswater Road. There’s nofin’ exclusive about that. Just a old style British public ‘ouse.”

“I know. You drink there even more than you sit here. Your places of business: the pub and on this seat.”

“‘Ave we met?”


“Look lady, if you are a lady, maybe we just sit and enjoy the ducks.”

“Alright, Dave.”

“How the hell d’you know my name? ‘Aint sure I like where this is goin’.”

“But you’re intrigued. Admit it.”

“I’m bloody admittin’ nofin’. I’m off.”

“Sit down, Dave… closer. You’re being watched. That’s better. I asked for the meet.”

“Then why the mystery? I got the goods if you got the cash. Do it and we can end this.”

“Not how it ends, Dave. I haven’t the habit, although I knew someone who had. See that man by the fountains, the one looking this way? I’m protected, Dave. Pretend we’re lovers. He won’t approach unless invited.”


“Don’t be shy, Dave. What’s a kiss between lovers?”

“OK darlin’, you’re a looker, but I never mix business with pleasure. That’s my motto.”

“He’s still watching, Dave.”

“Who are you? Come clean or I’m off.”

“You’ve got enemies, Dave. Serious ones. While you’re with me like this he won’t make a move.”

“You’re really somefin’, you know that?”

“Good to be praised by an expert but remember, you’re being watched. See him? Still by the fountains. I’ll give him a wave. See? He nodded.”

“I didn’t see him nod. No one’s after me.”

“You’re a dealer, Dave. You peddle drugs.”

“I supply a demand.”

“See? He’s walking this way.”

“So are a dozen others.”

“If I stand up it’s over for you. Look at me, Dave. Do I remind you of someone?”

“Don’t know you from Adam.”

“You knew my sister. Remember Susan? She was Billy Chep’s girl. Did you know that?”

“Billy’s girl? ‘Onest to God I didn’t know.”

“Billy’s upset, Dave. You fed my sister’s habit and mixed your dirty business with your filthy pleasure. She’s dead, Dave. My sister’s dead. All I have to do is stand up and you’re dead too.”

“I wouldn’t have touched ‘er if I’d known.”

“You ruined her Dave, as good as killed my sister.”

“What’s ‘e comin’ over ‘ere for? No, no. Don’t do this. Don’t leave me with ‘im.  Don’t get up.”

“Goodbye, Dave.”

For twelve years Roy Hewetson has concentrated on fiction, winning prizes for short stories, seeing over fifty poems published and launching two novels. Much of his work reflects his wandering through the hills and valleys of Southern England and South Wales, but not all.


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