Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

April 2020

Termination - Pete Norman

John Bond was sat in his usual seat, one that had a grandstand view of the whole room – and, more importantly, a grandstand view of the tables and everything on them. This seat was far enough away from everyone else that he could avoid their inane chatter, loud snoring, repetitive medical discussions and flatulence.

He was, however, close enough to take full advantage of all of the treats which were made available for the residents. However, the problem was that the best bits were only available for a relatively small window in time, so he made a point of always being the first one in the Common Room for the morning tea session.

The routine was the same every day: three plates of biscuits were placed strategically around the room (three, mind you, happily never two and sadly never four) but the routine was also regimental in the content of the treat itself: each plate bore 2 Chocolate Digestives, 1 Jaffa Cake and half a dozen others which, as far as he was concerned, were boring, tasteless and virtually inedible.

His tea was delivered to him with a warm smile by his favourite nurse, Mary, in his favourite mug – emblazoned with the bold but somewhat inaccurate logo: ‘Best Granddad in the World’. However, John fervently believed that tea is far too wet on its own – it tastes so much better with a biscuit. He eased himself out of his seat and raided the plate by the window for the Jaffa Cake and the Chocolate Digestives, all of which were mysteriously missing from the plate nearest to his table . . . but that might have something to do with the fact that he had already eaten them.

He picked up the racing pages and began to scan down the lists, trying to find a horse that would not sneak off for a bite of grass during the race, had not yet reached retirement age and, most importantly, had more than three legs. Unfortunately most of the horses he usually backed were at least one of the above.

He took a sip of his tea and as he was setting his cup carefully back on the table he noticed them – their latest residents. They were like wraiths. One minute they weren’t there and the next minute they were sat at their table as if they had always been there. It was weird that he had rarely ever seen them arrive and to the best of his memory had never once seen them leave. They truly were an enigma.

And the other enigma was the plate of biscuits which had mysteriously materialised on their table without any of the staff, to his knowledge, coming anywhere near them. However, he shrugged off the mystery because that increased the number of chocolate biscuits in the room by three.

There were always the four of them, the four of them together. They always kept their own company and made no effort to join in any of the other conversations. They had such an aura about them that, after the first couple of days, no-one else seemed to bother any more and they were left to their own devices.

They hardly ever spoke and John had never seen any of them show any human emotion like smiling, laughing, displaying anger or irritation; they just sat around their table as if they were waiting for God, or for hell to freeze over . . . or maybe for something edible to eat at dinner time.

Joanna said that she had once overheard them – very carefully overheard them, that is – talking about horses. They were surely much too big to be jockeys and far too posh to be stable hands so she had decided that they must race the buggers. John acknowledged the common interest and had made a couple of casual comments to them in passing but they were not the most communicative of men and he had abandoned the idea quite quickly.

They were an unusual and eclectic mix.

Walter was enormous and built like a brick outhouse. His biceps were as large as John’s thigh and he sported an unkempt Genghis Khan beard – however his days of ‘fearlessly leading the hordes across the Mongol Steppes’ must clearly be over because he suffered from a bad back, from which he appeared to be constantly in pain.

Percy was a weaselly, oily sort of man – the type who would make a successful second hand car salesman – but from the size of the ancient hearing aids which almost obliterated his ears, it seemed as if his ‘fleecing the customer’ days were a thing of the past.

Fred was quite tall but what he had gained in height he had lost in girth – he was the skinniest, most emaciated man John had ever seen – and the omnipresent zimmer frame suggested that he could probably no longer run marathons.

However, Desmond made the other three look almost normal. It was difficult to say precisely what was abnormal about him because John found it hurt his eyes if he tried to focus hard enough on the man’s features to work that out and sometimes he had to blink to convince himself that Desmond was even there at all. His hair was so black that it could only have been dyed to make him look younger – but, if that had been the intention then it failed miserably . . . by a few millennia.

They were each radically different but only commonality between them was that they all looked older than Methuselah; St Peter must surely have his book open at their pages and be constantly monitoring the four of them.

John gave up on them and focussed his attention back on the racing pages but after a few moments his eyes were subconsciously drawn back to their table. It looked, materially, as if nothing had changed but there now seemed to be a tension in the room, as if something momentous was about to happen, however he had an uneasy feeling that he might not be too happy about it when it did.

For a few minutes nothing did happen except that the tension – like an electric charge in the very air surrounding them – was growing exponentially. John put his paper down and unashamedly observed from his perfect vantage point – if something interesting was going to happen, then he was not going to miss a thing. Even then, when it finally did happen he very nearly missed it and, when he tried to make sense of what he had seen, his powers of reasoning screamed in agony and ran for the hills.

It did not drop down from the ceiling. It was not dropped by one of them. Desmond sort of held out his hand and it sort of materialised from empty air and sort of dropped into his empty palm.

Desmond took a cursory glance at the paper and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it evaporated in a puff of blue smoke.

John was stunned. He pushed an entire Bourbon Cream into his mouth and chewed on it mechanically without any thought for his own digestive safety.

The four men became more animated than John had ever seen them – their conversation was deathly quiet but had an intensity that was almost palpable. However, if he had had the benefit of hindsight, he would probably agree that it was better for him that he could not hear what they actually were talking about.

* * *

Desmond looked around the table. In a voice deep and sepulchral he said, ‘It begins.’

Walter flexed his knuckles with a loud crack and a somewhat softer groan of pain. ‘Where is it to be? The Hill of Meggido again?’

Desmond nodded. ‘Where else? It has begun, at that accursed place, every time hence.’

Walter banged his fist on the table, which shook with a violence the poor thing had probably never before experienced. ‘I hope this time that something meaningful comes of it. I’m tired of being summoned to every insignificant skirmish that mankind inflicts upon themselves. Without exception they have each concluded long before the end was nigh.’

Percy gave an evil grin. ‘Perhaps there will be a decent plague this time; they failed miserably all the other times they have tried.’

Fred said, ‘I’m hungry.’

Desmond glared at him and snapped, ‘Then have a biscuit!’ and he pushed the plate across the table. He looked around the group. ‘To satisfy your idle curiosity, it would appear that we have reached the final one.’

He had their full attention now.

‘The Americans have already tried to dominate Iraq and Iran and Afghanistan and China but it appears that it is the old war in Korea that will turn out to be the catalyst. Kim Jong-Un has finally developed the nuclear capability and it seems that he is anxious to wipe the United States off the face of the earth.’ He acknowledged Walter’s grin and added, ‘Russia and Britain and France and all of the other Nuclear Weapon States will obviously take sides and join in and the cataclysm that follows will likely be the end of all life on this planet as we know it.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe, at last, we can finally retire?’

Walter said, ‘I’ll summon the horses.’ He put his fingers to his lips and blew. Not a sound emerged but the air above the table shimmered and rippled menacingly.

After a few moments Desmond looked to the ceiling, an expression of cold fury on his face. He wrung his hands in frustration. ‘Hell and damnation! All the stables had to do was to look after four horses – that was all they had to do, look-after-four-horses! Surely it isn’t that difficult?’

Walter leaned in closer. ‘How long?’

Desmond gave a wry smile. ‘They say next Thursday at the earliest. Three of them need new shoes, they are not up to date on their injections and apparently Thunder and Botulism have got colic.’

Walter said, ‘Surely in an emergency like this they can come up with suitable replacements?’

Desmond fixed him with a steely glare. ‘Would you be comfortable riding out on Clara-belle, Daisy or . . . ’ he turned to Fred. ‘Dobbin!?’

Percy threw up his hands. ‘Then they will simply have to delay until we are fully prepared.’

Desmond shook his head sadly. ‘Not going to happen. We must proceed with what we have.’

With that all four rose simultaneously, to a chorus of creaking backs and groaning knees and painfully headed for the door.

John, although he had not heard a single word of their conversation, had been following the body language and it was obvious to him that something very significant was about to happen. He waited until they had left the building and then slipped out after them.

The four men walked to the dead centre of the lawn where they stopped and looked up and began to search the sky. After a few moments the air shimmered and a misty shroud descended. Out of the mist came four massive and magnificent horses. They circled the lawn before settling down upon the grass more delicately than their enormous size implied. Desmond took the reins of a pure black destrier which was panting from the exertion, his breath coming in rapid and intense bursts. He rubbed the horse’s cheek. ‘Termination, my good friend. We have one last commitment to fulfil.’

Walter selected Clara-belle, Percy took Daisy and held out the reins of the last horse, a rather scrawny pony. ‘There you go, Fred, Dobbin looks just perfect for you.’

John was watching from behind a wall. As they mounted, the horses – even Dobbin – seemed to grow in stature. They pounded the grass with impatience.

In a voice as soft as falling snow but as hard as a stone sarcophagus, Desmond said, ‘Horsemen. We ride out!’ and as one the horses leapt up into the air. In a moment they were gone.

John walked thoughtfully back into the building. He had heard Desmond call his horse ‘Termination’ and it truly was the most magnificent horse he had ever seen. He could swear that he had seen a horse of the same name running at Cheltenham – he would have to check because a horse with a name like that surely had to be a winner.

He walked back into the Common Room and headed straight for their table, where he liberated everything containing chocolate.

As he sat back down to devour his feast he found himself wondering what all of that was about, who they were, where they were going and what they were going to do when they got there . . . but . . . he popped a Jaffa Cake into his mouth . . . perhaps he would read all about it in the papers tomorrow.