The caged songbirds of Vietnam

One of the more traditional ways of life is the Vietnamese love of birds. This becomes apparent when you visit a Vietnamese market.  There is a strong possibility that you will see someone selling birds.

There is Buddhist belief that one can gain spiritual merit by freeing birds from their cages.

However to supply this market, one has to capture them in the first place.  The main issue being that most birds are caught in their natural habitat (woodlands in general) and then released in cities.

Caged birds are hung outside people’s homes.  Space is a premium in HCMC and it’s generally hot and humid here so seeing birds out on balconies is common.

The history of the caged bird

The Sumerians, the oldest civilization known to have kept written records, had a word, subura, for birdcage.

Caged birds were used by ancient mariners—namely Babylonians, Hindu merchants of the fifth century BC, Polynesians, Vikings—often carried caged birds on long ocean journeys. When seeking land they would release a bird and observe its flight. If the bird saw land in the distance it would fly in that direction and not be seen again. If no land was detected, the bird would return to the ship, to its cage.

For hundreds of years, the royal courts of Europe (women’s quarters) were enriched with cages housing local species of birds (tropical imports could not survive the cold of winter). Among those most prized were chaffinch, greenfinch, siskin, and, especially, bullfinch, which were trained to mimic a variety of melodies.

Following the Portuguese explorer Vasco de Gama’s completion of a sea route to India in 1499, traders began transporting large numbers of parrots from Africa, India, and Java to the capitals of Europe, where they were purchased as house pets by merchants.

The Chinese Buddhist custom of fang sheng, or “release life,” has long granted honour to those who would bestow freedom upon captive birds and other animals.  Something that is being practiced today in Vietnam.

Don’t forget that the a caged bird is used by us to represent captivity such as the word “jailbird” was a common slang term from the 16th century describing an incarcerated prisoner.

In the late 1870’s a bird importer from the states wrote the following “Persons keeping canaries for their singing only, should keep them in cages of about a foot in diameter, either round or square; as in a large cage they will not sing so well or constant, having too much room to fly about and amuse themselves, which in a great degree takes away their attention from singing.”

Caged Birds today

According to one study, roughly 35% of homes in the Southeast Asian region keep birds as pets. It’s not just Southeast Asia that has a penchant for keeping birds in cages, it is estimated that 6% of US households keep birds as pets.

Some men believe that by looking after a bird allows them to stay clear from vices such as alcohol and gambling.  Whatever the reasons people keep birds in cages there is a strong possibility of the extinction of a number of species as some people prefer birds that are caught in the wild and not captive-bred, the more unusual the better according to a study in the Biological Conservation journal.

In Southeast Asia, some species of songbirds may sell for as little as ten cents to as much as $20,000. The expensive ones go into singing competitions.

Songbird Cafe’s in HCMC

I’ve read about a few places/cafe’s that people bring their songbirds to, but the one I visited was a little off the beaten path and was situated in a place where only locals frequented.  I was given a really nice warm welcome by the dozen or so guys that were shooting the breeze.

The guys at the cafe were busy sharing stories about their birds (I think), maybe giving each other advice on how to look after their birds, every so often they would either move their own bird to another location or sometimes cover it from the light.

People buy small plastic bags of locusts that they feed their birds with, one guy was adamant that I look at them and he showed me how good they were by popping one into his mouth!

The idea behind socialising birds together is so they have an increased chance of learning the songs of others.

“Do we bring birds inside our homes because we are unable to enter theirs? Do we try to tame wild nature because we fear we can never tame our own?” by Jerry Dennis on the history of caged birds

Serial time! Chapter 3 – ‘The Gun.’

Chapter 3.

“Where’s my tracksuit?” Rosamund looked at Reg in amazement.

“Probably buried under about ten years worth of old clothes in the back of the airing cupboard. Thinking of doing the marathon dear?”

“No, my job is sedentary. I’m sedentary, even the cat is sedentary. I need to get more physical exercise into my life before I die of sedentarism.”

“There’s no such word.”

“There is, but if there isn’t there should be. I thought I might take the car each morning and park on the top of the Doward and do a bit of speed walking around that track we used to walk the kids ‘round.”

“Speed walking! That funny thing where your bottom jolts from side to side?”

“Yes I read an article. It’s supposed to be very good for the heart and doesn’t damage your joints. We have to be careful at our age.”

“I’ll get it out and give it a wash. When do you intend to start this regime?”

“Five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t wake me up getting out of bed and don’t flush the toilet.”

“Why don’t you come with me? We’re both putting on a few pounds.”

“No thanks I need my beauty sleep. My skin needs time to rehydrate!” 

Reg moved quietly as he could down the stairs. His once loose and voluminous tracksuit was now less loose, but it did smell fresh. He grabbed a small towel from the banister rail and curled it round his neck. A swig of semi-skimmed milk from the fridge freshened his mouth. He unlocked the back door as quietly as possible and made for the shed pursued by Sophia who bounced noisily through the cat flap.

Every time he touched, looked or handled the gun it excited him. This time more so. The six cartridges clinked and slid easily into the open chambers. Reg flicked the chamber shut with a flourish of his wrist. He’d seen it done in the movies but with the additional weight of the bullets it clunked satisfyingly shut. He positioned the gun in his waistband under his top but the moment he moved it started to slide down his leg. Shit he didn’t want to have to carry it to the car just in case Rosamund peeped out of the window to wave him off. Looking round, he found an old bungee strop. It was short and only just stretched around his waist. It did the job. The gun was safely jammed against his stomach. The ends of the wire clips hurt a bit but it was tolerable for a short while. Pulling down the dark blue tracksuit top over the trousers concealed everything.  

He walked round the side of the house and into his car. 

Although it was a light summer morning he had to use his lights. The dense full foliage of summer overhung from both sides of the steep narrow lane cut out most of the light. The Civic clawed its way up, emerging at the top into the green bright light of the just dawned day.

Reg locked the door and did a few warm up stretches. It was a long time since he’d done anything physical. He set off at a brisk space down the stony road. The gun digging into him. He was alone in the woods.  Down and down he went into the old disused quarry.

Rabbits stared at the early morning human before hopping off to safety into a bramble clump. Woodpeckers savagely rattled away in short staccato bursts. A peregrine flew from perch to perch in front of him, annoyed by his intrusion.

Reg’s heart was thumping but not from physical excursion. At the bottom of the quarry was an old derelict brick built shack. The stripped of paint wooden door hung on one hinge whilst nettles and thorns grew ‘round its base. All the glass in the metal frames had long gone. Inside was just a concrete floor and a few discarded beer cans.

Reg had never fired a gun before. He didn’t know what it felt like. He didn’t know what it sounded like. He didn’t know what it smelt like or what the bullet would do.

He had thought it through. He would fire off the six rounds quickly into the door and then climb quickly out of the quarry and resume his intended speed walk. If he met anyone who commented on hearing shots he would agree and suggest it was deer poachers.

The target was the door handle. He would try both ways, just pulling the trigger and cocking the hammer by hand. 

He pulled out the gun from his stomach. It glinted and shone in the morning sun. He wondered when it had last been fired. Perhaps it had never been fired, he had inspected the bore and it looked perfect.

One hand or two. He decided two. Reg lined up the V sight and the notch on the end of the barrel with the door knob and slowly pulled the trigger. The hammer eased back then BANG! The   huge explosion bounced and cracked around the wall of the quarry. Smoke wisped out of the end of the barrel. The door had a large smashed and splintered hole in it to the left of the doorknob. 

Jesus it was scary!! The recoil was strong as the barrel whipped upwards. Its job done and its energy spent. 

Two more rounds thudded their way through the old timbers. The smell of cordite drifted off the gun. The oil began to seep with heat. Reg cocked the hammer by hand and took careful aim BANG! The old Bakelite door knob just disappeared. He re-cocked the hammer and turned to aim at an old fire some hundred yards away. The fire had the remnants of burnt food containers and beer cans. BANG! The explosion ricotched around the rock walls, the old fire remained intact. His final bullet hit an old burnt log some fifty yards away causing it to move back about a yard. The barrel of the gun now felt hot as he concealed it within his clothes and headed up the track and away from the quarry. God it was exciting! The smell, the sheer power, energy and destruction in the bullet. The sense of hidden secret capability. I can end someone’s life if I want to. Not if I need to. Not if I must. Not if I have to, but if I want to! Reg felt so exhilarated he didn’t notice the steep incline out of the quarry.

Reg hid the gun under the driver’s seat and speed walked around the woodland track. It took him thirty two minutes. He noticed nothing of the absolute still summer beauty that surrounded him. He saw no one. A troop of about a dozen deer skipped over the track and disappeared into the wood. Their white hinds bobbing up and down as they skipped between the briars two hundred yards in front of him. His ears still rang and whistled with the blasts. ‘How would it feel to be on the wrong end of such a weapon he thought? To have it pointed at you?’ Now he really knew how powerful it was, the thought was at least calculable. Forty four bullets left! The sensation was intoxicating and addictive. He wanted more.   

Reg was seriously puffing and panting by the time he had made it up the long incline back towards his car. The last quarter of a mile, more walk than speed, as the gradient increased.

He unlocked the silver car twenty yards before he got to it. The flashing indicators welcomed him home. He wasn’t as fit as he used to be, still, if he could stick to doing this most mornings he would soon lose a few pounds. He stopped to relieve himself by a bush. Very difficult in a tracksuit he had to pull down the strong elasticated waistband then sort of rested his dick on top of it. He watched the flow as it built up in a small puddle on the ground then start to trickle downhill. He wondered if it was a Tsunami in a bacterial or insect world. Had he killed something by having a piss?

He opened the door and was immediately hit by the strong smell of burnt cordite. Collapsing into the driver’s seat he wiped his face and neck with the small towel then had a good spit. Closing the door he turned on the ignition and dropped all four electric windows. The Radio burst into life with Sarah Kennedy doing her “bored, tired of this” early morning show. Still at least she was there and not ill, on holiday or just failed to turn up. The cold early air was welcome as he cruised down the hill to home.

“Is that you love?” Rosamund called out from upstairs as she heard the front door open.

“No it’s a Neanderthal humanoid life form that’s just escaped from a cave deep in the Doward hill, hell bent on rape and pillage.”

“Be a love and feed the cat.”

Rosamund pecked him safely on the cheek as she fled, late, out of the front door.

 From the front door of her car she shouted “Your lunch box is in the fridge. There’s a bit of cake in it, left over from the weekend. Lemon drizzle. Your favourite.”

“Oh OK, thanks.” Reg replied as the diesel engine of her beetle throbbed into life.

He watched her drive off then went into his car. The gun, carefully wrapped in rags, was still warm. The now empty brass cartridge cases rattled in their chambers. Moving quickly around the side of the house he made the shed. He must clean it. He’d read that the cordite was highly corrosive and the barrel must be cleaned after use. He hadn’t time to do it properly and reached for his new can of WD40. A strong spray of the fluid down the barrel and into the chambers should do the trick. The smell of WD 40 mingled with that of the cordite. It was quite pleasant. He liked it. Sort of masculine and efficient. Wiping the gun nearly dry he returned it to the box hidden in his bag of rags.

Allan Mayor knocked on Reg’s office door and came in.

“Got any info on these Subaru ram raiders Reg? Truckers Garage got done last night on the A40. The car was a white Sierra Cosworth 4×4 but we kind of think it was the same gang. Fast car, four seats and four wheel drive. No plates on it obviously. CCTV shows just four well covered males wearing balaclavas can’t even tell black or white.”

“Not at the moment Allan but I’m going to Birmingham tomorrow for a conference with West Mids about ram raiders so come and see me on Wednesday. I hear you’re getting married.”

“Bad news travels fast, as they say.” Allan laughed.

“How old are you Allan?” Reg asked.

Allan looked at him reproachfully. “Twenty three. Why?”

“First real girlfriend? First time you’ve been in love?”

“As it happens, yes.”

“Good luck! Oh Allan before you go can I ask you to do something illegal and highly dangerous for me?”

Allan was now looking totally bemused and puzzled. “What?”

“Can you get me about a dozen of those thick white cable ties they use as emergency handcuffs from the charge room? I’ve got some young trees in my back garden and they keep bending over in the wind,”

“See what I can do.” Allan winked as he closed the office door.

Reg turned back to his computer. Better check exactly what we have got on ram raiders before my trip tomorrow. He thought.

“Might be late tomorrow night. Going to Birmingham for a conflab about these bloody ram raiders. I’ll get a McDonalds on the way home.”

“I’ll just have salad and pasta then.” Rosamund replied from her end of the settee.

“Got anything for me Reg?” Allan knocked and entered at the same time bearing a brown thick paper property bag with concealed content.

“Sit down Allan. It looks like a gang of four Afro-Caribbean lads from Digbeth. All of the stolen four by fours are from Digbeth or the surrounding areas. No plates recorded at the scenes of course but their M.O. is to torch the vehicle after they’ve finished with it. DS Parkinson from West Mids is the guy to talk to but there will be a pack coming out soon. The priority at the moment is to identify vulnerable premises and strongly advise them to spend some money on bollards.”

“Okey Dokey Reg I’ll get that organized. Thanks very much. Here’s your stolen goods. For gods sake don’t tell the police.” He winked as he was leaving.

Reg took one of the cable ties out and inspected it. Just a patent number.

“Happy birthday to you! Mashed potatoes and stew!  Bread and butter in the gutter! Happy birthday to you!” Reg burst into their bedroom in just his underpants carrying her carefully wrapped present and a card. Leaning over he kissed her tenderly on the nose.

“Wake up! It’s your birthday!” 

Rosamund sat up and rubbed her eyes then looked at him and the present.

“What is it?”

“How the bloody hell should I know? It was delivered by some sharp dark young Latino in a blood red Ferrari F40. He wanted to sing underneath your bedroom window but I told him to sod off as I couldn’t understand Italian.”

Rosamund carefully removed the thick expensive paper. The polished old walnut looked deep and beautiful in the morning sun. The small central lock and key now polished and cleaned to reveal its true brass colour, matched by the full length brass hinge at the back. The box looked good from any and all angles. She turned the key and eased open the lid. The inside now compartmentalized and clad in new deep green baize.

“It’s beautiful Reg. I wondered what you were doing nipping back and forth to the shed all the time.”

“Thought you could put all your diamonds and jewelry in it. You know! Makes it easy for a burglar to steal if it’s all in one place.” She kicked out at him from underneath the duvet then put her arms around him and kissed his neck. 

“Thank you. You old romantic.”

“I’ll have less of the old if you don’t mind. I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea in bed seeing as it’s your birthday.”

“Of course!” Rosamund inspected the box from all sides and stroked the highly polished wood.

“It’s lovely Reg. Where did you get it?”

“Stole it.” Said Reg leaving the bedroom.

Reg woke with a jolt from a doze on his end of the settee.

“Who got booted off?” He asked Rosamund.

“Tracy.” 

“That’s a shame. I liked Tracy.”

“Well it’s your fault you should have stayed awake and voted for her. Do you fancy a cuppa?”

“Oh yes please. Got to go to Birmingham again on Friday for another one of those Crime Conferences. I’m going to take my car to Ledbury and catch the train. I can’t be doing with the hassle of parking. I might be late back depending if I have a drink or not. I’ll see how I feel.”

“That’s OK I’m out on Friday night. Having a drink with Cynthia, find out all the gossip about her disgusting lover.”

“Why’s he disgusting? Is he depraved or something.”

“He’s disgusting because she’s totally besotted with him and he treats her like shit.”

“Perhaps she likes being treated like shit.” Rosamund threw a quick ‘are you totally mad’ glance at him.

“Have you had a shave today?” 

“No. I’ve got a really itchy rash under my chin. I thought I’d knock off shaving for a week, see if it’ll settle down. I’ll have one of those grey designer stubble beards’. I expect people will start mistaking me for George Clooney and ask for my autograph when I go to a coffee machine.”

The second ‘are you totally mad’ glance sliced its way towards him.

It was eight years ago that Reg hid it behind the immersion tank in the airing cupboard. Rosamund had gone shopping to Cheltenham. She would be hours. He pulled out old pillows, sheets, pillowcases and even some old baby clothes. Kneeling down he reached behind the tank. His fingers felt something soft and polythene, He grabbed it and pulled it out. Yes! There it was looking like a brown dead rat ensnared in a plastic bag.

He pulled out the wig and positioned it onto his bald plate. Jiggling it around he decided that if you were half blind in one eye and cataracts in the other it looked OK. All the kit was still there to fix it to his shiny head. He packed it all away and hid it under the spare bed in the back bedroom.

Reg eased and inched his car into the tight space in Morrison’s car park. It was only eight in the morning but already some quasi uniformed retired robot was collecting car numbers in the half empty car park. The store had only just opened. Everything normal was now heightened and scary. He started to sweat with excitement as he entered the store. Not bothering with a pound released trolley, he opted for a basket and headed for the fruit counter. There they were. Just what he wanted. Big dark green striped rugby balls masquerading as watermelons. He picked the biggest and put it in his basket. What a weight! He scratched at his itchy beard and made for the electrical aisle. Morphy Richards travel electric razor. Thirty two pounds, special offer, that will do. He picked the box off the shelf and dropped it into his basket. Making for the tills he passed a display of Welsh Cakes. He loved Welsh Cakes. A pack jumped into his basket. He thought it highly ironic that here he was, about to do something staggeringly monumental and hunger was still a factor in his day.

The fat ugly made up young girl scanned his shopping. The omnipresent beeps her only motivation. 

“Thirty four pounds fifty.” No please or smile. “Do you want a bag?” 

“Yes Please.”

“Regular or ‘for Life’?” Reg wondered how long, in his particular case ‘for life’ would be?

“Does the ‘For Life’ one have a zip?”

“Yes”

“For life please.”

“That’s another twenty pence then.” At no time had she looked at him.

Reg picked up the receipt and the change from his two twenty pound notes from off the hard stainless steel down sloping loading shute.

“Have a nice day.” She uttered without taking her eyes away from the electronic till.

Reg put his melon and razor in the green and red ‘for life’ bag and left. 

Munching on his Welsh Cakes calmed him as he drove the twelve miles to Ledbury. He reached under his seat and put the bulky Waitrose carrier bag into his ‘bag for life’.

Reg liked Ledbury station. It was a 1950’s time capsule. There was always room in the car park. The parking was free and the man who sold you the tickets was polite, courteous and helpful. The tickets were dispensed from what was, in effect, a wooden shed, adorned with railway memorabilia.

By now it was raining, not heavily but spasmodic. Reg rummaged in the Morrison’s bag for the razor. He took it out of the box and flicked it on. It worked but only just. The battery was weak. Getting out of his car he put on his coat, black side out. Picked up the bag and discarded the razor box in a litter bin. The charger he stuffed into the pocket of his coat. The bag was quite heavy. 

“Day return to Richmond please?”

“Now would that be Richmond Surrey or Richmond Yorkshire?” The ticket office man wearing his peaked cap inside the wooden office asked.

“Yorkshire.”

He tapped into the machine and winced.

“Not cheap Sir.”

“How much?”

“One hundred and eleven pounds eighty.”

“Oh well. Needs must and all that.” Reg was acting. Inside he thought the price was exorbitant, but this reaction paled into insignificance with what he was about to do.

“Platform two across the bridge next train to Birmingham, gets in at 11.13, or at least it’s supposed to. 1130 connection to Darlington and then the 14.33 connection to Richmond. Gets in at 1504. What time you coming back?”

“Don’t know yet. Depends what time my meeting finishes.”

“Well, the latest you can leave is the 18.05 from Richmond, that should get you back here at 23.38 if all goes well.”

“OK. Thanks.”

Reg lugged his heavy bag over the bridge and waited along with two other men and a young woman with a pushchair for the two tone green train. Within five minutes it was there.

Business men with laptops were everywhere. He couldn’t help wondering what was so important in their lives that required them to tap away at god knows what whilst commuting through Colwall Malvern Worcester Droitwich and Bromsgrove. He decided it was nothing. They were just playing the part. Dynamic, focused, dedicated, valued and seemingly important men. He plugged in the charger to his cheap shaver and connected it up. A little orange light told him it was charging. The young woman with the baby looked strangely at him. Had it been a mobile phone or an Apple Netbook she wouldn’t have noticed but a shaver! Well that was different.

The route and scenery to Birmingham was familiar. He knew all the stops. He concentrated on looking out of the window. He couldn’t allow himself to consider or think about what he was doing.

The route northwards out of Birmingham was unfamiliar. That made it easier. Watching the changing landscape as they rattled and surged northwards took his mind off things.

The grass changed colour. It was still green but somehow lighter and more sparse. Hedgerows started to change into limestone dry stone walls. Hills became a more prevalent part of the overall scenery. Rock became commonplace. By the time Sheffield and Leeds had passed his shaver was fully charged.

The change at Darlington gave him twenty minutes. He was hungry but couldn’t eat. Thirsty but afraid to drink in case he needed the loo at an inconvenient moment. No! He waited on the platform for the grey two unit local train to arrive.

The train blasted its two tone noise and rattled out of the station south towards Richmond. The train was almost empty. He reached into his bag and pulled out the Waitrose carrier, stood up and headed for the toilet. Once inside he looked at himself long and hard in the mirror. He looked pale and nervous. Reaching into the bag he brought out the wig, he straightened it out and fixed it carefully into position. He looked at a changed man. The wig was OK if you didn’t look too hard. At just a glance, it looked almost real. There was a colour difference, the remaining hair on the side of his head was now mottled with grey but it wasn’t too bad. He reached back into the bag and brought out eight of the white wide cable ties. Reg carefully curled them into a pocket. He hoped that would be enough. His final delve into the bag brought out the gun. He looked at it. Its brutal weight and presence gave him confidence. Reg flicked open the chamber and spun it. Six brass cartridges glistened. The copper percussion caps in the center of each one, soft and protected. He clicked it shut and slid it butt down into his left inner pocket. It fitted well. He didn’t want it to fall out.

Reg slid back the lock and went back to his seat. No one noticed that a bald man had gone into the toilet and a man with hair had come out. 

The train was coming to a halt. The computerized message told him that ‘This Is Richmond’. He waited by the door. Two young men with bikes were also waiting for the train to come to a halt.

“How far is it from the station to the Market Square?” Reg asked. The dark haired youth responded.

“It’s really close; take you about five minutes if you walk.”

“Thanks.” Said Reg. 

The train stopped and he got off. By now his heart was audibly pounding. A five minute walk would do him good. It was cloudy and overcast but not actually raining although it had been judging by the wet gutters. Reg followed the signs to the centre of town. The watermelon was becoming increasingly heavier; he questioned his decision to bring it. Perhaps he wouldn’t need it. What a waste of one pound fifty. He reached into his right hand pocket and put on a new pair of cream thin leather pilot’s gloves. The leather was so thin and supple that they were almost unnoticeable. 

There it was, directly in front of him. Two front windows displaying services and deals, above the windows in green lettering ‘THE YORKSHIRE BUILDING SOCIETY’.

‘For fucks sake turn around and go home Reg Moorcroft. What the fuck are you doing?’ His whole life and world was screaming at him. ‘Don’t do it!’

Reg stood there looking at the pinkish tinged sandstone building. The watermelon in the Morrison’s for life bag in his right hand. The gun resting and pulling on his left front. He turned away from the kerb and caught sight of himself in a shop window.

Unkempt windblown wig, scruffy almost beard in a black car coat. Mr. Nobody. If he died right there and then nobody would be affected with the exception of his immediate family. The world wouldn’t know or care. He’d leave nothing behind of any lasting value. A few sad comments and life would go on.

He turned quickly to face the road and the building society office on the other side. Stepping out into the road totally focused he suddenly heard a screech of locked tyres coming from his right. A well worn transit van shuddered to an emergency stop inches from him.

A young Yorkshire male leaned out of the window and yelled at him.

“You need to get some glasses you stupid old bastard!”

Reg ignored the tirade and continued across the road. The door to the building society office was locked. There was a green button on the door jam next to the handle. Reg pressed it. A woman from behind the glass screened counter peered at him. He smiled.

She reached under the desk and the door buzzed. He pushed the door open and entered. There was only one customer. A grey haired man clearly in his seventies. A service desk with three glass screened points led over to a stout wooden access door protected by a push button security lock. The whole served to separate the front customer end from the rear staff end. He could see five females behind the desks. No males. Reg transferred his Morrison’s bag into his left hand and reached in for the gun. It came out barrel first. His left hand and the bag came up to momentarily assist his right hand whilst he grasped the grip in his palm and got his finger on the trigger. In an instant there was a massive explosion and the glass screen shattered. The women screamed and threw themselves to the floor. The old man stood there mesmerized, transfixed and motionless. The second blast literally blew away the security lock on the door, slamming the door itself back on its hinges into the wall. The noise from the two shots was horrendous when confined in a small space. Much worse than the quarry. Reg waved the still smoking gun at the old man and indicated for him to move into the back. A few people looked in through the glass door window but quickly ran away when they saw the gun.

“If any one moves they will not get out of here alive.” Reg spoke authoritatively.

 He looked at the name tags they were wearing. Kathleen Thomas Manager. The gold lettering said on her badge. 

“Stand up Kathleen Thomas.” Reg commanded. She dutifully rose. Reg delved into his coat pocket and produced five cable ties. He gave them to her.

“Put your colleagues and that customers ‘ hands behind their backs and secure them tightly. Do not worry I will check that you’ve done it properly.”

“DO IT QUICKLY AND DO IT NOW!” Reg half cocked the hammer and pointed the gun at the old man. He was empowered. He wasn’t the office Reg any more. He was strong, commanding. He was a different man. 

Kathleen Thomas frantically did as she was told. Her nerves and shaking made it difficult to thread the ties. 

“Now use your manager’s keys and open up the strong room.”

“I- I- I can’t.” She stammered. It’s on a time lock released from head office.”

“I don’t believe you! It’s business hours you would not have to contact head office every time you wanted a bit of money.” 

“It’s true! It’s true!” She pleaded.

Reg took her gently by the hand and led her to a chair by a table. He turned the chair with its back against the wall. 

“Please sit down.” She did as she was told. She was frightened witless. Reg put another chair on the other side of the table, again with its back against the wall. Moving quickly he assisted one of the tied up assistants onto the chair. He moved towards his bag and took out the melon. Placing it exactly between them on the table he stood two yards back and fired. It was as though the whole room had exploded. The sound and shock waves contained and deafening. The watermelon literally disintegrated showering the two cowering women in red wet pulp. Reg fired another round five seconds later to the left of the other woman’s head. A huge chunk of masonry fell away as the heavy bullet embedded itself in the wall. The room began to fill with smoke and dust. 

“Alright! Alright! I’ll open it.” Kathleen Thomas gasped.

She fumbled with the large bunch of keys retrieved from her handbag and unlocked the two locks. She finally punched in the code to the security timer then eased the door open. 

It was a cream painted well lit strong room. Surprisingly empty. On the end shelves at the back were neat bundles of fifty, twenty and ten pound notes. Reg gave her the Morrison’s bag. 

“Fill it up. Fifties first then twenties and if there’s any room left tens.” She scurried in scooping the rubber band wrapped bundles into his bag. Reg remained at the door watching and waiting. Within thirty seconds she’d finished. The bag was full.

“Zip it up please and give it to me then bring your handbag and come with me.” 

Reg and his hostage moved towards the back door.

“Open it.” He commanded. She fumbled and unlocked the door. They moved outside.

“Lock it then give me the keys and your car keys.”  Kathleen searched in her bag for her car keys.

“Which is your car?” He inquired.

“The silver Renault Clio over there.”

“Do I need a pass to get through the car park barrier?”

She dove into her handbag again and quickly handed over the plastic bar coded card.

Reg led her discreetly back to the rear door of the building society and opened the door. He used a cable tie to secure her hands behind her back then gently pushed her inside and locked the door. 

The Clio started first time. He drove calmly and slowly out through the barrier and into the town. He headed for Tesco’s. Once mobile he slipped the gun back into his inside coat pocket. He drove into the crowded car park and found a spot in the middle of the busiest area, parked, left the keys in the ignition and walked away with his bag out of the car park and towards the station. He figured it would be at least late tonight before Tesco’s rang in the vehicle and their CCTV would record the same bearded brown haired man.

It took him twenty minutes to walk to the station. He didn’t hurry; he was an old man with a Morrison’s ‘for life’ carrier bag. The spitting rain felt good. He could hear sirens heading towards the centre of town.

There was no ticket inspector at the station. Reg caught the 17.10 train for Darlington.

Ten minutes into the journey he went to the toilet with his bag. Locking the door he ripped off the wig and took off his coat. Reg reversed it so the tan colour was outside. Taking out his Waitrose bag he wrapped the gun in its rag then put it into the thin green and white plastic bag, folding it and knotting the handles as well as he could to prevent the cordite smell from escaping. He reached into his pocket, took out his shaver and switched it on. The rotating blades chewed their way painfully and slowly through his dense tough growth. Occasionally they clogged up and stopped altogether. It was a long uncomfortable process and now he really did have a bad rash under his chin but he no longer had a beard. The wig and the keys to the Richmond office of the Yorkshire Building Society were quietly dropped out of the window. 

“Tickets please?” The scruffy young ticket inspector scribbled on his ticket and moved on. Reg jammed the bag between his feet and watched the summer evening clatter by.

And finally- two new pictures from ‘john’s corner!

Love and peace -John