If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 03 - 06…
 
With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I believe they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “They have horns, and I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”

Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are their closest neighbour. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and me went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t answer the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me? I scare the crap out of people.”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you. Once people get to know you, they find you're the sweetest creature on Earth.”
*
Next morning, on a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner sold it to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.

Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.

Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded at first meeting.

After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his new neighbour’s front door. He reckoned they must be in, because he could see the curious light everyone talked about, throbbing behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.

Florence hadn’t mentioned they had luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, their gardens on the lane's other side. Lawn covered all of number three’s garden, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.

The three houses' backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”

The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when they still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept across the living room and into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.

The minuscule woman stared at him as if the devil confronted her. Her eyes were placed far apart on each side of her head and had a broad nose-bridge between them. They moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.

Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at him.

The only furniture in the room was a three-piece suite and a sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.

Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.

Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.

A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.

“Don’t kill us. We mean no Harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”

“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”

“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”

Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”

“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”

“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”

“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”

“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”

The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”

“Well, why did you?”

“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You are a race of fierce, egoistic beasts who kill animals for their meat.”
 
Part 07:
In this post: The gullet of a black snake confronts Bert.…
 
It occurred to Bert the woman might be a loony, escaped from an asylum somewhere. Time to phone Florence for help; she possessed almost as much gumption as his best friend, Alf. "When did you last eat?" he asked as he plucked his smartphone from his back pocket.

The woman flinched and drew her children to her breast. "Don't shoot," she whimpered. "We're so small, there’s hardly any meat on us."

Bert scratched his head. No doubt. Loony. "This is a phone," he explained, drawing the words out and holding it to his ear to demonstrate. "I'm going to call for help."

A wave of relief washed over the woman’s face, but only enough to give her the courage to speak calmer. "A phone. Can I see it?"

"Yeah. Take a look. It's harmless." He held it at arm's length and the woman snatched it from his hand. "Hey," he said, "Don't do that." But it was too late. She tore the back cover from the phone, ripped out the battery, prodded at its workings with what resembled a crochet hook until her palm contained a jumble of fragments.

"It weren't a gun," said Bert, dejectedly. "You didn't have to ruin it, and if you didn't want me to call for help, all you had to do was to say."

The woman didn't answer. Instead, she sifted through the bits as if hunting for lice. Then she pinched up one black piece, dumped the rest of his ruined phone on the carpet, and picked up the doodad. With the doodad in one hand and the part from his phone in the other, she slipped the part into the doodad. Immediately, the gadget's lights stopped throbbing. With a jubilant cheer, the woman bounced to her feet and clapped her hands. "It works," she said.

"What works?"

"Can't you see? The doodad. We can go home to our own world."

The children danced and pranced with as much boisterousness as a pack of excited Billy Goats.

"Wait and watch," said the woman. Bouncing from foot to foot, eyes gleaming, she placed the gadget back on the floor.

Without warning, the air above it warped, like a heat haze, even though the room was freezing. Looking into the haze was like peering into a fire while daydreaming. Only there were no flames, just the vague impression of a black hole.

Bert stared at the patch of distorted air. It grew larger and more distinct, and he spotted odd translucent shapes eddying within it. A dull pressure made his ears ache, and a drop of sweat slid down the hollow of his throat, leaving a cold track.

The hazy hole had no outer boundary; it simply hung in midair, the entrance to a tunnel leading to an unearthly distance. Every muscle in Bert's body seized, pressure built in his ears, and the hiss of piercing static made his teeth cringe. The tunnel's depth pulsed like a black gulping throat, and the static hiss grew louder, wavering in pitch.

"Come," said the woman, suddenly by his side and tugging on his hand. "Come with us."

"Where?"

"To our world."

Bert, still hypnotised by the tunnel and fascinated by the notion of other worlds, staggered along beside her. They stepped inside, its depths shrinking and widening like the gullet of a black snake.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

Image by ​thedigitalartist 

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 02 - 05…
 
A knock at the front door made them both turn. “Come in,” called Bert, even though it was Olive’s house. “It ain’t locked.”

"Are your dogs in there?"

Bert recognised Chief Inspector Dobbs voice calling through the letterbox. Everyone was frightened of his two Alsatians, even though they'd never tear anybody's throat out unless he commanded them to. "No, me Chums are out back."

The door opened straight into the snug lounge. Three people stepped inside, each stopping to wipe their shoes on the Welcome mat: Vicar Bitter in his two-piece black suit and dog collar; Chief Inspector Dobbs in his yellow pullover and baggy trousers with turn-ups; and his wife, Florence, plump and younger-looking than her fifty-something years.

Their faces looked grave, and Bert wondered what he’d done wrong now. The last time they ganged up on him was to accuse him of being a pickpocket. In his youth, he had been, but not these days. These days he worked at the Cloud Estate as a security guard, and despite his brutal appearance, was mostly a model law-abiding citizen.

Olive lifted a pile of blankets and overstuffed cushions from the settee and dumped them on the floor. “Take a seat.”

Florence nodded a greeting, bustled past her into the adjoining dining room, and sat at the table next to Bert. He shifted his bulk to give her room. The others followed and settled on the table's opposite side.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Olive, and headed for the kitchen. “I can’t guess why you’ve come, but from the look of you, it must be something juicy. Don’t start until I get back.”

With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I think they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “They have horns, and I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”

Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are their closest neighbour. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and me went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t answer the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me? I scare the crap out of people.”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you. Once people get to know you, you're the sweetest creature on Earth.”

*
Next morning, on a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner gave it to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.

Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.

Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded at first meeting.

After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his neighbour’s front door. They must be in, because he could see a curious light behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.

Florence hadn’t mentioned they had luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, their gardens on the lane's other side. Number three’s garden comprised of lawn, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.

The three houses' backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”
 
Part 06:
In this post: Bert visits his neighbours. They resemble goats…
 
The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when they still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept into the living room. Nobody. From there into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.

The minuscule woman stared at him with eyes placed far apart on each side of her head and a broad nose-bridge between them. Her eyes moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.

Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at Bert.

The only furniture in the room was a three-piece suite and a sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.

Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.

Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.

A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.

“Don’t kill us. We mean no Harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”

“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”

“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”

Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”

“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”

“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”

“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”

“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”

The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”

“Well, why did you?”

“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You are a fierce, egoistic race who kill animals for their meat.”
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

Click here If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Bert turned the page of his alien invasion magazine and could feel Olive’s impatient eyes burning a hole into the back of his neck. Knowing his fiancé as he did, she had some gossip she wanted to pass on.

“Why do you read that rubbish?” she said.

Bert swung around, causing the chair to creak under his weight. Olive stood with her hands resting on her generous hips, her left foot tapping. “This here,” said Bert, finger jabbing at his magazine, “is intellectual stuff, written by genuine professors about alien invasion and obstruction.

“Do you mean abduction, Bert?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, up-suction. I’m reading it because you don’t like it when I read my Hulk comics or even Popeye. Popeye has a sweetheart called Olive, just like me and you, and when he eats spinach, his muscles grow so big that—”

“Stop it,” screeched Olive.

“Anyhow, these intellectual professors reckon aliens are roaming all over Earth.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yeah, of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading this rubbish, would I.”

Olive’s lavish make-up enhanced features broke into a smile. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Yeah,” Bert closed his magazine and sighed. “Fire away.”

“Have you seen the new neighbours at number three?”

Bert’s house was number one in Flintstone Terrace. Olive’s was the middle house at number two, which is where he now sat eating egg and bacon and studying the fantastic pictures in his magazine. Number three was at the terrace’s other end. “No. What about them?”

“They’re weird, spooky.”

“Maybe they’re aliens.”

“Maybe I should clout you around the head. Anyway, Florence told me she—”
Bert shut his ears off and let his eyes drift back to his magazine. The pictures of wiry aliens with egg-shaped heads fascinated him. If he ever met one, he wondered what he’d say. Probably something like, “Welcome, mate. Please don’t poop in the sink.”

A knock at the front door made them both turn. “Come in,” called Bert, even though it was Olive’s house. “It ain’t locked.”

"Are your dogs in there?"

Bert recognised Chief Inspector Dobbs voice calling through the letterbox. Everyone was frightened of his two Alsatians, even though they'd never tear anybody's throat out unless he commanded them to. "No, me Chums are out back."

The door opened straight into the snug lounge. Three people stepped inside, each stopping to wipe their shoes on the Welcome mat: Vicar Bitter in his two-piece black suit and dog collar; Chief Inspector Dobbs in his yellow pullover and baggy trousers with turn-ups; and his wife, Florence, plump and younger-looking than her fifty-something years.

Their faces looked grave, and Bert wondered what he’d done wrong now. The last time they ganged up on him was to accuse him of being a pickpocket. In his youth, he had been, but not these days. These days he worked at the Cloud Estate as a security guard, and despite his brutal appearance, was mostly a model law-abiding citizen.

Olive lifted a pile of blankets and overstuffed cushions from the settee and dumped them on the floor. “Take a seat.”

Florence nodded a greeting, bustled past her into the adjoining dining room, and sat at the table next to Bert. He shifted his bulk to give her room. The others followed and settled on the table's opposite side.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Olive, and headed for the kitchen. “I can’t guess why you’ve come, but from the look of you, it must be something juicy. Don’t start until I get back.”

With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I think they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”

Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are their closest neighbour. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and me went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t answer the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me?”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you.”
 
Part 05:
In this post: Before visiting his new spooky neighbours, Bert fetches Big Foot…
 
Next morning, on a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner gave it to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.

Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.

Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded.

After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his neighbour’s front door. They must be in, because he could see a curious light behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.

Florence hadn’t mentioned they had luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, gardens on the other side. Number three’s garden comprised lawn, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.

The three houses backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-to edit.

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Bert turned the page of his alien invasion magazine and could feel Olive’s impatient eyes burning a hole into the back of his neck. Knowing his fiancé as he did, she had some gossip she wanted to pass on.

“Why do you read that rubbish?” she said.

Bert swung around, causing the chair to creak under his weight. Olive stood with her hands resting on her generous hips, her left foot tapping. “This here,” said Bert, finger jabbing at his magazine, “is intellectual stuff, written by genuine professors about alien invasion and obstruction.

“Do you mean abduction, Bert?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, up-suction. I’m reading it because you don’t like it when I read my Hulk comics or even Popeye. Popeye has a sweetheart called Olive, just like me and you, and when he eats spinach, his muscles grow so big that—”

“Stop it,” screeched Olive.

“Anyhow, these intellectual professors reckon aliens are roaming all over Earth.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yeah, of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading this rubbish, would I.”
Olive’s lavish make-up enhanced features broke into a smile. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Yeah,” Bert closed his magazine and sighed. “Fire away.”

“Have you seen the new neighbours at number three?”

Bert’s house was number one in Flintstone Terrace. Olive’s was the middle house at number two, which is where he now sat eating egg and bacon and studying the fantastic pictures in his magazine. Number three was at the terrace’s other end. “No. What about them?”

“They’re weird, spooky.”

“Maybe they’re aliens.”

“Maybe I should clout you around the head. Anyway, Florence told me she—”

Bert shut his ears off and let his eyes drift back to his magazine. The pictures of wiry aliens with egg-shaped heads fascinated him. If he ever met one, he wondered what he’d say. Probably something like, “Welcome, mate. Please don’t poop in the sink.”

A knock at the front door made both of them turn. “Come in,” called Bert, even though it was Olive’s house. “It ain’t locked.”

"Are your dogs in there?"

Bert recognised Chief Inspector Dobbs voice through the letterbox. Everyone was frightened of his two Alsatians, even though they'd never tear anybody's throat out unless he commanded them to. "No, me Chums are out back with me horse."

The door opened straight into the snug lounge. Three people stepped inside, each stopping to wipe their shoes on the Welcome mat: Vicar Bitter in his two-piece black suit and dog collar; Chief Inspector Dobbs in his yellow pullover and baggy trousers with turn-ups; and his wife, Florence, plump and younger-looking than her fifty-something years.

Their faces looked grave, and Bert wondered what he’d done wrong now. The last time they ganged up on him was to accuse him of being a pickpocket. In his youth, he had been, but not these days. These days he worked at the Cloud Estate as a security guard, and despite his brutal appearance, was mostly a model law-abiding citizen.

Olive lifted a pile of blankets and overstuffed cushions from the settee and dumped them on the floor. “Take a seat.”

Florence nodded a greeting, bustled past her into the adjoining dining room, and sat at the table next to Bert. He shifted his bulk to give her room. The others followed and settled on the table's opposite side.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Olive, and headed for the kitchen. “I can’t guess why you’ve come, but from the look of you, it must be something juicy. Don’t start until I get back.”

With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I think they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”
 
Part 04:
In this post: Bert can't abide mobbing…
 
Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are their closest neighbour. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and me went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t come to the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest Eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me?”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you.”
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Bert turned the page of his alien invasion magazine and could feel Olive’s impatient eyes burning a hole into the back of his neck. Knowing his fiancé as he did, she had some gossip she wanted to pass on.

“Why do you read that rubbish?” she said.

Bert swung around, causing the chair to creak under his weight. Olive stood with her hands resting on her generous hips, her left foot tapping. “This here,” said Bert, finger jabbing at his magazine, “is intellectual stuff, written by genuine professors about alien invasion and obstruction.

“Do you mean abduction, Bert?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, up-suction. I’m reading it because you don’t like it when I read my Hulk comics or even Popeye. Popeye has a sweetheart called Olive, just like me and you, and when he eats spinach, his muscles grow so big that—”

“Stop it,” screeched Olive.

“Anyhow, these intellectual professors reckon aliens are roaming all over Earth.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yeah, of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading this rubbish, would I.”

Olive’s luscious make-up enhanced features broke into a smile. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Yeah,” Bert closed his magazine and sighed. “Fire away.”

“Have you seen the new neighbours at number three?”

Bert’s house was number one in Flintstone Terrace. Olive’s was the middle house at number two, which is where he now sat eating egg and bacon and studying the fantastic pictures in his magazine. Number three was at the terrace’s other end. “No. What about them?”

“They’re weird, spooky.”

“Maybe they’re aliens.”

“Maybe I should clout you around the head. Anyway, Florence told me she—”

Bert shut his ears off and let his eyes drift back to his magazine. The pictures of wiry aliens with egg-shaped heads fascinated him. If he ever met one, he wondered what he’d say. Probably something like, “Welcome, mate. Please don’t poop in the sink.”

A knock at the front door made both of them turn. “Come in,” called Bert, even though it was Olive’s house. “It ain’t locked.”

The door opened straight into the snug lounge. Three people stepped inside, each stopping to wipe their shoes on the Welcome mat: Vicar Bitter in his two-piece black suit and dog collar; Chief Inspector Dobbs in his yellow pullover and baggy trousers with turn-ups; and his wife, Florence, plump and younger-looking than her fifty-something years.

Their faces looked grave, and Bert wondered what he’d done wrong now. The last time they ganged up on him was to accuse him of being a pickpocket. In his youth, he had been, but not these days. These days he worked at the Cloud Estate as a security guard, and despite his brutal appearance, was mostly a model law-abiding citizen.

Olive lifted a pile of blankets and overstuffed cushions from the settee and dumped them on the floor. “Take a seat.”

Florence nodded a greeting, bustled past her into the adjoining dining room, and sat at the table next to Bert. He shifted his bulk to give her room. The others followed and settled on the table's opposite side.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Olive, and headed for the kitchen. “I can’t guess why you’ve come, but from the look of you, it must be something juicy. Don’t start until I get back.”
 
Part 03:
In this post: Bert is more interested in the eclairs than his new devil-worshipping neighbours…
 
With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers on the table and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I think they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”
 
 To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Bert turned the page of his alien invasion magazine and could feel Olive’s impatient eyes burning a hole into the back of his neck. Knowing his fiancé as he did, she had some gossip she wanted to pass on.

“Why do you read that rubbish?” she said.

Bert swung around, causing the chair to creak under his weight. Olive stood with her hands resting on her generous hips, her left foot tapping. “This here,” said Bert, finger jabbing at his magazine, “is intellectual stuff, written by genuine professors about alien invasion and obstruction.

“Do you mean abduction, Bert?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, up-suction. I’m reading it because you don’t like it when I read my Hulk comics or even Popeye. Popeye has a sweetheart called Olive, just like me and you, and when he eats spinach, his muscles grow so big that—”

“Stop it,” screeched Olive.

“Anyhow, these intellectual professors reckon aliens are roaming all over Earth.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yeah, of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading this rubbish, would I.”

Olive’s luscious make-up enhanced features broke into a smile. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Yeah,” Bert closed his magazine and sighed. “Fire away.”

“Have you seen the new neighbours at number three?”

Bert’s house was number one in Flintstone Terrace. Olive’s was the middle house at number two, which is where he now sat eating egg and bacon and studying the fantastic pictures in his magazine. Number three was at the terrace’s other end. “No. What about them?”

“They’re weird, spooky.”

“Maybe they’re aliens.”

“Maybe I should clout you around the head. Anyway, Florence told me she—”

Bert shut his ears off and let his eyes drift back to his magazine. The pictures of wiry aliens with egg-shaped heads fascinated him. If he ever met one, he wondered what he’d say. Probably something like, “Welcome, mate. Please don’t poop in the sink.”
 
Part 02:
In this post: Bert wonders what he's accused of…
 
A knock at the front door made both of them turn. “Come in,” called Bert, even though it was Olive’s house. “It ain’t locked.”

The door opened straight into the snug lounge. Three people stepped inside, each stopping to wipe their shoes on the Welcome mat: Vicar Bitter in his two-piece black suit and dog collar; Chief Inspector Dobbs in his yellow pullover and baggy trousers with turn-ups; and his wife, Florence, plump and younger-looking than her fifty-something years.

Their faces looked grave, and Bert wondered what he’d done wrong now. The last time they ganged up on him was to accuse him of being a pickpocket. In his youth, he had been, but not these days. These days he worked at the Cloud Estate as a security guard, and despite his brutal appearance, was mostly a model law-abiding citizen.

Olive lifted a pile of blankets and overstuffed cushions from the settee and dumped them on the floor. “Take a seat.”

Florence nodded a greeting, bustled past her into the adjoining dining room, and sat at the table next to Bert. He shifted his bulk to give her room. The others followed and settled on the table's opposite side.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Olive, and headed for the kitchen. “I can’t guess why you’ve come, but from the look of you, it must be something serious. Don’t start until I get back.”
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Welcome to the start of a wacky new series.
 
Part 01:
In this post: Bert wonders, do aliens live among us?
 
Bert turned the page of his alien invasion magazine and could feel Olive’s impatient eyes burning a hole into the back of his neck. Knowing his fiancé as he did, she had some gossip she wanted to pass on.

“Why do you read that rubbish?” she said.

Bert swung around, causing the chair to creak under his weight. Olive stood with her hands resting on her generous hips, her left foot tapping. “This here,” said Bert, finger jabbing at his magazine, “is intellectual stuff, written by genuine professors about alien invasion and obstruction.

“Do you mean abduction, Bert?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, up-suction. I’m reading it because you don’t like it when I read my Hulk comics or even Popeye. Popeye has a sweetheart called Olive, just like me and you, and when he eats spinach, his muscles grow so big that—”

“Stop it,” screeched Olive.

“Anyhow, these intellectual professors reckon aliens are roaming all over Earth.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yeah, of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be reading this rubbish, would I.”

Olive’s luscious make-up enhanced features broke into a smile. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Yeah,” Bert closed his magazine and sighed. “Fire away.”

“Have you seen the new neighbours at number three?”

Bert’s house was number one in Flintstone Terrace. Olive’s was the middle house at number two, which is where he now sat eating egg and bacon and studying the fantastic pictures in his magazine. Number three was at the terrace’s other end. “No. What about them?”

“They’re weird, spooky.”

“Maybe they’re aliens.”

“Maybe I should clout you around the head. Anyway, Florence told me she—”

Bert shut his ears off and let his eyes drift back to his magazine. The pictures of wiry aliens with egg-shaped heads fascinated him. If he ever met one, he wondered what he’d say. Probably something like, “Welcome, mate. Please don’t poop in the sink.”

To be continued...

The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
"Right you are, my little darling. I'm your man."

But the hotel was no longer an aspiring place for Alf. He'd stomached enough of upper-class lifestyle and wouldn't enjoy it in the long run. The idea of wealth without fighting for it, and loosing his freedom in exchange for a nagging wife, filled him with dread: especially if he had to live with a woman like the marriage sick widow. Heaven forbid he ended as deceased husband number five. Dear oh dear.

He drifted to the window, peered out at the moon and stars, and then turned to face Madam Styles. She was checking her dress and fussing with her hair in a long mirror. Alf opened his mouth and made a loud show of yawning. "Excuse me," he mumbled, rubbing his face and eyes. "Let's get some kip, both of us. We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Are we agreed, then? You and I, partners?"

"Partners and lovers. Till death do us part."

Madam Styles drew a few deep breaths, savouring the moment, and then smoothed the front of Alf's jacket. "Goodnight. Sleep well." She closed her eyes and puckered her thin lips.

Alf tweaked her cheek, gave her a final peck, and escaped to his own suite.
He waited until the early hours, and then he opened the window quietly and hopped out. His room was on the second floor, three metres up. Nimble as a cat, he landed safely on the soft grass. A quick check with his adapted third eye told him nobody was about.

A fresh morning chill had replaced the evening's balmy warmth, and Alf shivered. He found Madam Styles suite and stopped outside her window. Having made sure it was off the latch earlier and had no alarm, he now slid it open. Once in her rooms, he eased on a pair of thin white gloves and made for the vault.

He'd watched Madam Styles open it the night before, and although she'd kept the lock hidden from him, he'd easily seen the vault's combination and alarm codes with his improved third eye. He'd also seen a pile of gold bars stacked inside.

He stuffed his wad of banknotes back into his jacket's breast pocket, where it belonged. The gold bars were heavy and awkward, but he only needed four of them. Leaving everything tidy, he returned to the window, climbed out, and closed it behind him.

"Goodbye, my love. Hope you don't miss your Lord too much." He laughed silently and would have waved his bowler-hat if it hadn't been for the gold in his hands. He found his way back to the deserted barn in the woods where he'd spent the night before his adventure. There he changed into his old clothes and folded the suit into a bundle. It might come in handy again one day.

Then he snuggled down into the straw and gave a contented sigh. In the morning, he'd stroll to The Stables and have an early chat with Styles and his lawyer. And with these thoughts, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Five hours later, just as the sun cleared the rooftops and spread its warmth, Alf sat in Styles office at The Stables and waited for the fireworks to fly. He'd dressed in his comfortable white T-shirt and blue jeans, both clean. Apart from Styles and him, the lawyer, Vicar Bitter, and Chief Inspector Dobbs were present. All of them to serve as witnesses.

At ten-o'clock, Madam Styles and her two bodyguards arrived. She also had her own lawyer with her, a man with a hook nose and deep-set crater grey eyes. Her mood was top; she even gave her older brother a quick kiss on the cheek.

Then she saw Chief Inspector Dobbs and after a moment of studying him, a glimmer of recognition crossed her face. "Inspector Dobbs. How pleasant to see you again. No hard feelings, I hope. It's good to have the law here to monitor procedures."

"Chief Inspector Dobbs," he said, and gave her one of his piercing stares until she turned away.

"And a priest," she said. "My word, you are covering yourselves."

"I'm a vicar, and my name is Bitter."

"Pleased to meet you. I don't expect we'll see much of each other when I take control of this place. You might say it's going over the opposition."

Vicar Bitter crossed himself and gazed up into heaven.

"Ah, there you are," she said when she sighted Alf and blew him a kiss. "I fancied you'd be here, ready to launch your new life right from the start."

"I'm gambling on it," said Alf.

Madam Style's lawyer opened his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He lowered his chin to look down his nose at all present. "Let's get down to business," he said. "We're here today to witness Madam Style's right to claim a fifty-one percent share of Ye Olde Inn. Shall we proceed?"

"By all means," said Mr Style's lawyer, a playful grin on his jowls. "But there is another clause you haven't mentioned."

"You mean Mr Style's right to buy Madam Style's share at market value?"

"Precisely."

The lawyer leafed through his papers and found the survey papers. "Six million and eight-hundred thousand pounds. You agree?"

"Yes."

"And to pay off Madam Styles you need three million, four-hundred thousand pounds. Do you have such funds?"

"Oh, yes. Most certainly."

Madam Styles's face dropped. "What?" she screeched. "How?"

The lawyer leaned back in his chair and looked Madam Styles straight in the eye. "Mr Styles has secured funds from influential friends."

"Who?"

"I'm not prepared to disclose such information. None present, apart from Mr Styles and I, know the benefactor's identity." He swung his gaze back to her lawyer and aped the same haughty tone. "Shall we proceed?"

All lawyers are born liars, thought Alf. He'd told all of them the full story of his adventure. Chief Inspector Dobbs had refused to listen but had sat through the entire tale fighting not to smile. Vicar Bitter had kept a straight face and prayed to God for forgiveness. But they were all excellent poker players and revealed nothing to Madam Styles and her lawyer.

Madam Styles breathed fire, and Alf feared the top of her head might blow off.
 
Part 47:
In this post: Gamblers who cheat seldom lose …

“How will you transfer these funds?” asked Madam Styles’s lawyer in a last-ditch attempt to save the calamity. “We require payment right now.”

Mr Styles opened a briefcase by his feet and lifted four gold bars onto the table. “These will cover all costs easily.”

At the sight of the gold, Madam Style’s face brightened again. Little did she suspect it was her own bullion.

“Indeed, it will.” Madam Styles’s lawyer rubbed his hands and jotted down the bar’s serial numbers. He rummaged in his briefcase, found a small, chunky horseshoe magnet, and held it to the bar. It didn’t stick. “Just a precaution.”

“Now let’s sign the papers and finish this scandal,” said Styles. He sat back, folded his arms across his chest, and clenched his jaw.

With the papers signed, Alf winked at Madam Styles. “Gamblers who cheat seldom lose.”

She flayed him with her gaze and stalked away in a huff.

Alf laughed aloud. He would love to see her face when she opened her safe and learned the truth. Making a fuss would mean exposing her own illicit business, and she would never do that. As for his own destiny, he’d stashed his winnings aside in his cosy Gate House Cottage and had absorbed enough excitement to keep him content for the near future.
 
The end
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Alf placed a hand against his breastbone. "No, I swear Your brother didn't get me to come here. He told me about you and your plans for taking control of Ye Olde Inn, but I came here to play poker and win some money. Nothing else."

"Hmm." She drew back slightly and stared at Alf for an over-long moment. "Yes, you're in your element here, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm a crook at heart. A straight life is boring."

"And now you want to marry me and share my wealth?"

Alf wasn't sure how he should answer. She had sussed his plan but didn't seem upset. He held his tongue, but tilted his head from side to side, weighing his choices.

"I like you," she said and slid her hands over his muscular arms. "Why waste your life in that boring, underpaid job you now have? Marry me and you can share in all I have."

Alf still had a problem to answer. He bit his lip. "Well—"

"Of course, you don't have to marry me, but then you'll be leaving here in a coffin. You know too much of my affairs."

Her threat brought Alf to his senses and he knew then what he should do. The tension dropped from him. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and then placed a hand on his heart. "My love. Is it true? Do you honestly want us to wed, even now you know who I really am?"

Madam Styles moved closer. Her eyes shone, glossed over, and softened. "Oh yes, Alf. You and I will make a great team. Tomorrow at noon I take control of Ye Olde Inn at The Stables, and I'll need a good man to manage it. Someone I can trust. That man could be you."

"Right you are, my little darling. I'm your man."

But the hotel was no longer an aspiring place. He'd stomached enough of upper-class lifestyle and wouldn't enjoy it in the long run. The idea of wealth without fighting for it, and loosing his freedom in exchange for a nagging wife, filled him with dread: especially if he had to live with a woman like the marriage sick widow. Heaven forbid he ended as deceased husband number five. Dear oh dear.

He drifted to the window, peered out at the moon and stars, and then turned to face Madam Styles. She was checking her dress and fussing with her hair in a long mirror. Alf opened his mouth and made a loud show of yawning. "Excuse me," he mumbled, rubbing his face and eyes. "Let's get some kip, both of us. We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Are we agreed, then? You and I, partners?"

"Partners and lovers. Till death do us part."

Madam Styles drew a few deep breaths, savouring the moment, and then smoothed the front of Alf's jacket. "Goodnight. Sleep well." She closed her eyes and puckered her thin lips.

Alf tweaked her cheek, gave her a final peck, and escaped to his own suite.
He waited until the early hours, and then he opened the window quietly and hopped out. His room was on the second floor, three metres up. Nimble as a cat, he landed safely on the soft grass. A quick check with his adapted third eye told him nobody was about.

A fresh morning chill had replaced the evening's balmy warmth, and Alf shivered. He found Madam Styles suite and stopped outside her window. Having made sure it was off the latch earlier and had no alarm, he now slid it open. Once in her rooms, he eased on a pair of thin white gloves and made for the vault.

He'd watched Madam Styles open it the night before, and although she'd kept the lock hidden from him, he'd easily seen the vault's combination and alarm code with his improved third eye. He'd also seen a pile of gold bars stacked inside.

He stuffed his wad of banknotes back into his jacket's breast pocket, where it belonged. The gold bars were heavy and awkward, but he only needed four of them. Leaving everything tidy, he returned to the window, climbed out, and closed it behind him.

"Goodbye, my love. Hope you don't miss your Lord too much." He laughed silently and would have waved his bowler-hat if it hadn't been for the gold in his hands. He found his way back to the deserted barn in the woods where he'd spent the night before his adventure. There he changed into his old clothes and folded the suit into a bundle. It might come in handy again one day.

Then he snuggled down into the straw and gave a contented sigh. In the morning, he'd stroll to The Stables and have an early chat with Styles and his lawyer. And with these thoughts, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Five hours later, just as the sun cleared the rooftops and spread its warmth, Alf sat in Styles office at The Stables and waited for the fireworks to fly. He'd dressed in his comfortable white T-shirt and blue jeans, both clean. Apart from Styles and him, the lawyer, Vicar Bitter, and Chief Inspector Dobbs were present. All of them to serve as witnesses.

At ten-o'clock, Madam Styles and her two bodyguards arrived. She also had her own lawyer with her, a man with a hook nose and deep-set crater grey eyes. Her mood was top; she even gave her older brother a quick kiss on the cheek.

Then she saw Chief Inspector Dobbs and after a moment of studying him, a glimmer of recognition crossed her face. "Inspector Dobbs. How pleasant to see you again. No hard feelings, I hope. It's good to have the law here to monitor procedures."

"Chief Inspector Dobbs," he said, and gave her one of his piercing stares until she turned away.

"And a priest," she said. "My word, you are covering yourselves."

"I'm a vicar, and my name is Bitter."

"Pleased to meet you. I don't expect we'll see much of each other when I take control of this place. You might say it's going over the opposition."

Vicar Bitter crossed himself and gazed up into heaven.

"Ah, there you are," she said when she sighted Alf and blew him a kiss. "I fancied you'd be here, ready to launch your new life right from the start."

"I'm gambling on it," said Alf.
 
Part 46:
In this post: Alf feared the top of Madam Styles head might blow off…
 
Madam Style's lawyer opened his briefcase and withdrew a wad of papers. He lowered his chin to look down his nose at all present. "Let's get down to business," he said. "We're here today to witness Madam Style's right to claim a fifty-one percent share of Ye Olde Inn. Shall we proceed?"

"By all means," said Mr Style's lawyer, a playful grin on his jowls. "But there is another clause you haven't mentioned."

"You mean Mr Style's right to buy Madam Style's share at market value?"

"Precisely."

The lawyer leafed through his papers and found the survey papers. "Six million and eight-hundred thousand pounds. You agree?"

"Yes."

"And to pay off Madam Styles you need three million, four-hundred thousand pounds. Do you have such funds?"

"Oh, yes. Most certainly."

Madam Styles's face dropped. "What?" she screeched. "How?"

The lawyer leaned back in his chair and looked Madam Styles straight in the eye. "Mr Styles has secured funds from influential friends."

"Who?"

"I'm not prepared to disclose such information. None present, apart from Mr Styles and I, know the benefactor's identity." He swung his gaze back to her lawyer and aped the same haughty tone. "Shall we proceed?"

All lawyers are born liars, thought Alf. He'd told all of them the full story of his adventure. Chief Inspector Dobbs had refused to listen but had sat through the entire tale fighting not to smile. Vicar Bitter had kept a straight face and prayed to God for forgiveness. But they were all excellent poker players and revealed nothing to Madam Styles and her lawyer.

Madam Styles breathed fire, and Alf feared the top of her head might blow off.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
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If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
"I've known your true identity since the moment I set eyes on you. You are not a Lord, but a pauper named Alf, a security guard on the Cloud Estate, and England's champion bare-knuckle fighter. I lost a fortune on one of your fights."

Alf jerked his head back as if she'd punched him on the nose. Madam Styles proved more cunning and dangerous than he'd given her credit for. He dropped his posh accent. "Blimey, who did you bet on?"

"A friend of mine named Pest said he had a certain winner called Crusher."

Crusher! Alf remembered that battle all right. He'd almost lost, not only the fight but his life too. If his best mate, Bert, hadn't set his two Alsatians to drag Crusher off him, Crusher would have ripped his head off.

Crusher now worked with him on the Cloud Estate, and they'd become friends and allies. Nobody knew that little secret, except his partner, Bert, and the Cloud brothers. His bosses, the Cloud brothers, had been strict about never letting Crusher leave the estate. "Did you know Crusher is a robot?" She did or she didn't, would believe him or not, either way, he needed to know.

"Yes. That's why he was a certain winner."

"But that's cheating."

She shrugged. "Gamblers who cheat seldom lose."

"You did that time..."

"Why are you here?" Her voice turned sharp, all trace of drunkenness and merriment vanished. "My brother sent you, didn't he?"

Alf placed a hand against his breastbone. "No, I swear he didn't. He told me about you and your plans for taking control of Ye Olde Inn, but I came here to play poker and win some money. Nothing else."

"Hmm." She drew back slightly and stared at Alf for an over-long moment.

"Yes, you're in your element here, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm a crook at heart. A straight life is boring."

"And now you want to marry me and share my wealth?"

Alf wasn't sure how he should answer. She had sussed his plan but didn't seem upset. He held his tongue, but tilted his head from side to side, weighing his choices.

"I like you," she said and slid her hands over his muscular arms. "Why waste your life in that boring, underpaid job you now have? Marry me and you can share in all I have."

Alf still had a problem to answer. He bit his lip. "Well—"

"Of course, you don't have to marry me, but then you'll be leaving here in a coffin. You know too much of my affairs."

Her threat brought Alf to his senses and he knew then what he should do. The tension dropped from him. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and then placed a hand on his heart. "My love. Is it true? Do you honestly want us to wed, even now you know who I really am?"

Madam Styles moved closer. Her eyes shone, glossed over, and softened. "Oh yes, Alf. You and I will make a great team. Tomorrow at noon I take control of Ye Olde Inn at The Stables, and I'll need a good man to manage it. Someone I can trust. That man could be you."

"Right you are, my little darling. I'm your man."

But the hotel was no longer an aspiring place. He'd stomached enough of upper-class lifestyle and wouldn't enjoy it in the long run. The idea of wealth without fighting for it, and loosing his freedom in exchange for a nagging wife, filled him with dread: especially if he had to live with a woman like the marriage sick widow. Heaven forbid he ended as deceased husband number five. Dear oh dear.

He drifted to the window, peered out at the moon and stars, and then turned to face Madam Styles. She was checking her dress and fussing with her hair in a long mirror. Alf opened his mouth and made a loud show of yawning. "Excuse me," he mumbled, rubbing his face and eyes. "Let's get some kip, both of us. We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Are we agreed, then? You and I, partners?"

"Partners and lovers. To death do us part."

Madam Styles drew a few deep breaths, savouring the moment, and then smoothed the front of Alf's jacket. "Goodnight. Sleep well." She closed her eyes and puckered her thin lips.

Alf tweaked her cheek, gave her a final peck, and escaped to his own suite.
He waited until the early hours, and then he opened the window quietly and hopped out. His room was on the second floor, three metres up. Nimble as a cat, he landed safely on the soft grass. A quick check with his adapted third eye told him nobody was about.

A fresh morning chill had replaced the evening's balmy warmth, and Alf shivered. He found Madam Styles suite and stopped outside her window. Having made sure it was off the latch earlier and had no alarm, he now slid it open. Once in her rooms, he eased on a pair of thin white gloves and made for the vault.

He'd watched Madam Styles open it the night before, and although she'd kept the lock hidden from him, he'd easily seen the vault's combination and alarm code with his improved third eye. He'd also seen a pile of gold bars stacked inside.

He stuffed his wad of banknotes back into his jacket's breast pocket, where it belonged. The gold bars were heavy and awkward, but he only needed four of them. Leaving everything tidy, he returned to the window, climbed out, and closed it behind him.

"Goodbye, my love. Hope you don't miss your Lord too much." He laughed silently and would have waved his bowler-hat if it hadn't been for the gold in his hands. He found his way back to the deserted barn in the woods where he'd spent the night before his adventure. There he changed into his old clothes and folded the suit into a bundle. It might come in handy again one day.

Then he snuggled down into the straw and gave a contented sigh. In the morning, he'd stroll to The Stables and have an early chat with Styles and his lawyer. And with these thoughts, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.
 
Part 45:
In this post: Ye Olde Inn is ready for the opposition…
 
Five hours later, just as the sun cleared the rooftops and spread its warmth, Alf sat in Styles office at The Stables and waited for the fireworks to fly. He'd dressed in his comfortable white T-shirt and blue jeans, both clean. Apart from Styles and him, the lawyer, Vicar Bitter, and Chief Inspector Dobbs were present. All of them to serve as witnesses.

At ten-o'clock, Madam Styles and her two bodyguards arrived. She also had her own lawyer with her, a man with a hook nose and deep-set crater grey eyes. Her mood was top; she even gave her older brother a quick kiss on the chin.

Then she saw Chief Inspector Dobbs and after a moment of studying him, a glimmer of recognition crossed her face. "Inspector Dobbs. How pleasant to see you again. No hard feelings, I hope. It's good to have the law here to monitor procedures."

"Chief Inspector Dobbs," he said, and gave her one of his piercing stares until she turned away.

"And a priest," she said. "My word, you are covering yourselves."

"I'm a vicar, and my name is Bitter."

"Pleased to meet you. I don't expect we'll see much of each other when I take control of this place. You might say it's going over the opposition."

Vicar Bitter crossed himself and gazed up into heaven.

"Ah, there you are," she said when she sighted Alf and blew him a kiss. "I fancied you'd be here, ready to launch your new life right from the start."

"I'm gambling on it," said Alf.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-