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Mum told me I wasn’t to speak to him and I never did.

“I bet he’s a spy. He’s been there three days in a row.” Jake knelt on the sofa and stared out of our living room window at the occupied bench by the lake. Jake was thirteen and reading John Le Carre.

“I bet a double agent betrayed him and now he can’t decipher the code he needs to move on to his next assignment,” he told me sagely.

From the back, the man didn’t look like a spy. He didn’t have a trenchcoat, or any sunglasses, just an old torn kagoul and a smudge of grime on his neck. I told Jake as much and he doused me with the full condescension of an older, worldly-wise sibling.

I started to feel a little sorry for the spy. I wondered why someone might betray him. He looked cold and I hadn’t seen him eat any lunch. It must be a demanding job.

The next morning the man was drinking coffee from a paper cup. I saw him trying to glance over the shoulder at the newspaper of the man sitting beside him on the bench. The man was giving him a wide berth and this gave me the start of an idea.

Mum came down and saw me staring. She frowned and sat down beside me on the sofa.

“Lucy, you know this isn’t like a story in a book don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“These people -” she hesitated. “They can be dangerous. You’re not to talk to him, do you understand? He’ll be gone in a day or two I expect.”

She did that thing with her mouth that showed she didn’t like the idea of something - like when the people selling the Big Issue asked if she’d like a copy. I nodded and mum left.

Lunch was tuna sandwiches, which I hated. No one noticed when I slipped one under the table and into a carrier bag I’d brought specially.

When we finished eating, Dad disappeared into his shed and I slipped into his study and grabbed his copy of the Telegraph. Obviously it wouldn’t do as it was, so I hurried up to my room and carefully cut out two round eye holes about half way down. Perfect.

I wasn’t allowed to boil the kettle so I ran the hot tap in the kitchen until it was as hot as I could make it, stirred three teaspoons of dried coffee into a dark soup in a mug, and, when I was sure no one was looking, I slipped out of our front door, across the road into the park.

Looking back, I don’t know what that man must have thought. He took the mug more out of surprise than acceptance. Then I showed him the carefully adapted newspaper that would save his bacon and handed him the soggy half sandwich wrapped in a Waitrose carrier bag. I kept my promise and never spoke one word to him, but tapped my nose, winked, and hurried away, confident that I’d just salvaged his operation single handedly.

I was right. The next day the spy was gone. Dad never worked out what had happened to his paper.

Author’s note: (it would definitely be helpful to read “A More Mysterious Life Part 1” published on these pages in 2023,

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin” said Lavinia Croop shaking her head. “What are we going to do with you?”

Kevin didn’t yet know the answer to this rhetorical question but was about to find out. His fantasy life which had started as a kind of hobby, a distraction from his life as an unremarkable geography teacher in Swindon had got completely out of hand. Croop listed the occasions on which his “meddling” had forced the abandonment of several sensitive operations.

He tried to protest this description of his activity. After all he hadn’t known about the plot to blow up the South bank and had merely been drinking a coffee whilst pretending to meet his made-up girlfriend (the exotic Manuela Di Santiago). Neither had his disguise as a Parisian street artist near the Louvre, had anything to do with the recent Mona Lisa heist. Basically he just liked to imagine himself living a more mysterious life.

Croop, a formidable operator at Mi5 rose, leaned across the table and muttered “You’re a Fucking idiot.”

She paused before continuing. “ Nevertheless we are prepared to waive your many acts of stupidity on this occasion as we have a certain delicate matter to resolve that might require your talents, such as they are.”

And this was how he came a few days later, to be sitting by a lake just outside Vienna, reading Das Bild and eating a tuna sandwich. There was a fake zoom lens camera on the table in front of him and a distinctive spotted umbrella by his side.

He had been excited by his task at first, his years going under the radar, would stand him in good stead, he suggested. “Just spy with your usual aplomb” Croop replied.

He looked around at the scene, the lake was deserted apart from a distant refuse operative cleaning out the bins, the young counter assistant in the café and at a table nearby a very Russian looking man with huge eyebrows and a homburg hat who was looking ostentatiously through a copper telescope at some trees across the lake. It seemed a relatively simple job.

Kevin approached him silently, only tripping once over the leg of a cast iron chair on the way.

“The sunrise was marvellous today” he whispered in the man’s ear.

“A delicious piece of strudel” replied the Russian in a very thick Russian accent, just as Kevin had expected.

Kevin sat down and stared squarely at the agent. If he hadn’t known better he would have said the fellow was more an undergraduate fancy dress version of a Russian spy than “Sputnik5” one of Moscow’s top spooks, his secret recording device was protruding from his pocket and one of his luxuriant eyebrows appeared to be slipping down in the direction of his false-looking nose. No matter, Kevin had his orders and the sooner he succeeded in his mission the sooner he could go home and restart his life.

“Have you got the treacle pudding?” asked Kevin using the codeword he had been taught for a microfiche file he’d been asked to receive.

“Do not play games with me” answered the heavy set Russian “It is you who are bringing ze treacle puddink to me!”

The words of Croop rang in his ear “Do not return without it!”

He marched forward and put his hand in Sputnik’s pockets but at the same moment the portly KGB man was doing exactly the same to him. An amateurish fight ensued which ended with both men rolling down the bank and into the lake. Kevin grabbed his opponent again and looked once more into his face. Both his bushy Russian eyebrows had now fallen off. A moment later a masked man dressed entirely in black stepped from the shadows and pointed a gun at both men.

Having searched both men’s pockets and asked several times where the treacle pudding was this new arrival was disturbed by the screech of car wheels on the gravel, he then shouted in fury to see both the refuse collecter and the counter assistant drive away at breakneck pace.

A moment later Croop stepped out from the cafeteria. Neither Kevin nor Nigel Inglethorpe, an RE teacher from Nuneaton with a predilection for impersonating Russian spies, knew why she seemed so pleased at their evidently botched operation.

But she was, “it all went like clockwork” she declared looking at her dishevelled troops, “and should we ever need some imbecilic decoys again, I ‘ll know just where to come. With you two hamming it up our real agents were able to slip entirely” she paused for a moment before finishing quietly, “under the radar.”

St Wolfgang, Austria, May 30th, 1963.

12:00 Hrs: Logging in - message from G - to meet at landing stage by the lake 13:50hrs. I am to carry copy of today’s Salzberger Nachrichten

I think to myself that the newspaper is an unnecessary touch as he knows what I look like, but far be it from me to argue. I decide to get there early and wait in the small café nearby. First though, my make-up needs touching up and a newly pressed blouse is swapped for the stained, musty rag that I’m wearing. No Hollywood starlet but I’ll do. I leave by the back window.

13:00 Hrs: At lakeside café - clear line of sight to meeting point

I’m in danger of forgetting what I’m here to do. There are very few people about and the view across the lake is hypnotic. The sky is pristine, so blue, the lake a perfect mirror for the mountains around it. My ‘thunfisch brotchen’ is already starting to curl in the heat. Why would I order that by a freshwater lake?

13:30 Hrs: No activity at rendezvous

The paper is telling of cataclysmic world events, of deaths and crime and starvation. I have an itch on the sole of my foot. There seems to be no point to anything that I do. This thought makes my heart palpitate like it was full of hatching maggots, and that thought makes me nauseous. I vomit into a pot of geraniums.

13:47 Hrs: Taking up position at meeting point

Nearly time. I feel that my lipstick must be smeared, and I know that my breath has a gastric reek. I decide to wait by the jetty post near the ferry stop, my legs feel like water and a prop will help. Every person is now a threat; every passing shape causes an adrenaline spike.

13:50 Hrs: No activity at rendezvous

I feel like I’ve become deaf. There is a swathe of heavy silence around my shoulders, pressure like thunder in my head. Where is he! What’s that noise? Just a child playing nearby. The tinny siren on the boy’s toy fire-engine makes me realise I’m not deaf at least. He’s staring at my paper so I tell him to “go away” because the ferry is approaching and G must be on it. I have become death.

13:55 Hrs: No Act……………..

May 31st – Page 2 Salzberger Nachrichten

“Tote Blondine im See gefunden”

Article Trans:

A female British tourist was found drowned in Wolfgangsee in the early afternoon of May 30th. The body was found by the captain of the lake ferry. Local chatter implies that there was a terrible accident as the corpse seems to have sustained disfiguring injuries, having been squashed between the incoming ferry and the jetty post. Police say that identification may take some time but that there are no obvious signs of foul play.

Picture:

The cordoned ferry docked, police cars around. A child’s toy fire engine can be seen toppled on its side next to the jetty post.

Michael’s life, if he thought about it kindly, had passed under the radar. If he thought about it otherwise, the verdict was bordering on the tragic. Who else ate the same lunch every day? Well, plenty of people as it happened, but when he found out that he shared a tuna sandwich habit with Woody Allen it depressed him for weeks. Like most people he loved the early films of course, but it wasn’t easy to ignore what he had become.

Most days in the summer he ate alone by the lake reading the newspaper. Occasionally he struck up a desultory conversation with a duck feeder, most of them blissfully unaware that they were slowly killing the poor creatures with stale sourdough. It was that kind of neighborhood.

He did love his job though. Even after the relentless drive towards digital was complete and some of the subtle arts of the projection booth had been lost forever, Michael found joy in being paid to screen beautiful films. Who, he often wondered, would not relish the chance to sit alone in the dark and lose themselves in the images and strange tales conjured up by the like of Kaurismaki or Almodovar. And to see them multiple times. What a privilege.

On the other hand, there was no doubting his loneliness. It was more than a decade since his last relationship ended. It wasn’t really that sudden. He had felt for a long time that he hadn’t been enough for her. When she finally moved out she had called him obsessive. And, what was it? Blinkered.

When they were first together, she had joined him in the box (as she called it). She had even distracted him enough, once or twice, to make small mistakes. He had longed to be distracted again for what seemed like forever.

People at work were nice enough. They seemed to belong to a different world though. Apart from the occasional work event he didn’t really mix with them socially. They didn’t seem to notice him apart from a nod and a smile as he passed through the building. Better than nothing, he supposed.

He tended to only pet other people’s dogs out of politeness, but this one was very appealing, Michael thought. Definitely a mongrel, but he had a very engaging way of cocking his head as he looked at the sandwich. Did dogs eat tuna he wondered?

‘I’m so sorry’

‘Oh, not at all.’ Michael found himself saying, though he had given away most of his lunch by then.

It was a warm spring and they met most days after that. A few words more each time until eventually the subject of cinema came up. She was a Mike Leigh fan of course.

He wondered if Hard Truths was a bit gloomy especially for a first ‘date’, but she understood perfectly. He wasn’t sure whether to believe her, but she even said that the booth was a magical place.

Almost exactly a year later Michael had found what he had been looking for. He and Ella were married in the only cinema in the UK licensed for the purpose. No guests except Hamish the dog. Tuna sandwiches were served. Well and truly under the radar, which suited them just fine.

OAP. What a hideous 3-legged IKEA stool of an acronym. Admittedly there are more sinister examples: CIA, KGB, PDA and so on ad infinitum. But really, OAP - WTF? How is it possible for a simple group of three letters to be so redolent of the whiff of sour milk, the despair of abandoned dreams, the cruel vista of the care home day room? These thoughts occupy me as I make my way to Roath Park Lake on this momentous morning when I have first received a pension payment from HMG’s DWP – OMG! Once I would have queued in the post office (remember the GPO? Ask Mrs. Thatcher when you see her in hell) and received crisp notes and clinking coins (LSD – no not that one), but now I merely see a new entry on the credit side of my banking app. Thus romance dies.

Does aging have any advantages? There is perhaps one - often seen as a curse, but here re-tooled as a positive. Age brings a certain invisibility which can be markedly useful on occasions when it would be helpful to pass under the radar. For example (EG) just this morning I slipped unknown into the mini-mart and, screened by a posse of vaping teens with loud opinions of no apparent import (LOL), I purloined a tuna sandwich from the large noisy fridge at the rear of the shop. Buying a newspaper as I passed before the proprietor (I’m not an animal BTW) I made off with my ill-gotten snack.

However my motive for this shoddy minor criminal act wasn’t entirely selfish, FYI; I had a lakeside rendezvous to look forward to. This was a casual encounter, no specific ETA, free of the affliction of FOMO. Occupying my favourite memorial bench (Iestyn Prytherch, RIP – I didn’t know him TBH). I idly leaf through the preposterous Western Mail, reminiscing about the lost age of the personal ad (SWF seeks GSOH), inevitably replaced by the stark brutality of the dating app, filled to the binary brim with NSFW communications of the grisliest variety. If it’s not TMI, I’m pleased to say that none of these romantic avenues feature in my daily life, being, as the vernacular has it, ‘spoken for’. Definitively, IIRC.

SMH at my own (age-related?) mental ramblings, I push on towards the morning’s desired outcome. Avoiding the temptations of Mr. Softee, I head past the end of the promenade. Stopping for a moment to share the POV of an elderly pike fisherman, he confesses that he is in fact supposed to be WFH but as his WLAN is down, who could blame him for a little piscatorial peccadillo?

Approaching the mid-way point of the lake, I feel a slight frisson as the object of my quest comes into view, and taking the sandwich from my pocket, tear off morsels of bread and throw them gently to a handsome pair of mallards. Finally turning away, I mutter under my breath ‘TTYL’ and head for home.

‘Did you bring it?’ Jack trembled with excitement.

Jaqueline sighed, produced and sampled a delicious looking Tuna Sandwich.

‘Capers and red onions?’ he queried.

‘On New York style rye!’

He practically swooned. ‘How do you like it?’

‘It's divine, Jack.’ and produced a bunch of blood red grapes. ‘Grape?’

Jack stopped moving. ‘That's not funny. You know I can’t do that anymore.’

Jaqueline giggled delightedly. Weeks had passed without result, she finally found something he cared about. Jack passed through her and settled on a bench pulling out a copy of the London Daily Post, dated November 9th, 1888.

The couple, who had been vigorously exploring each other's tonsils, broke apart and walked off embarrassed.

‘That wasn't nice.’ Jaqueline stood next to the bench.

‘It wasn’t supposed to be nice, jailer.’ That last word was spoken with scorn.

The newspaper flickered and became a scalpel which he deftly slashed across her abdomen.

Nothing happened. Jaqueline took another bite, looking bored. ‘Disappointed?’

‘Quite.’ He looked at her pleadingly. ‘Now, release me. You’ve had your… fun’ the distaste was palpable ‘now return me to my torment.’ He closed his eyes. She finished her sandwich. He opened his eyes.

Tossing the wrapper in the bin, she produced an Ouija board from a pocket. It had more holes than board, a small crystal planchette bounding between the letters W H Y endlessly. If you had looked closely, it would have appeared to be floating just above her open hand.

Jack reached for the board; she grabbed it and smacked it across his face.

The audible slap caused a passing jogger to look.

Jack composed himself, nursing his cheek. His lack of corporeal form had stopped it smarting.

‘You know the deal, Jackie. Tell me why you killed all those women and I will release you to…’ she stopped to consider it. Where did the Ripper end up after dying? Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? Did it really matter? ‘Well, release you.’

He floated out of slapping range. ‘No, you have gotten more than you wanted. The bargain was for whom. I gave you eight names, that is all.’

‘Prick.’

‘Colourful, alas a bargain stands.’

She stood and strolled along the water.

Compelled by unseen chains was pulled along with her. For a while, they strode and floated respectively.

‘Why a lakeside rendezvous?’ She didn't respond, turning on to a small rickety jetty.

At its terminus, Jaqueline stopped and placed the Ouija board on the jetty. Jack floated off her left shoulder, stabbing fruitlessly at her.

Sigh. ‘Is she here?’

Jack stopped. ‘Who she?’

‘I’m not talking to you.’

Unaccustomed still, Jack made an effort to actually see again. At Jacqueline's feet lay eight more Ouija boards, planchettes flittering madly. Y E S, Y E S, Y E S.

‘She is always here.’ said a rough new voice. ‘We are all here.’

Eight spirits floated up through the floor and surrounded Jack. The air started growing thick with static electricity.

The first woman, a battered husk of what had probably been a pretty girl, looked Jaqueline in the eye. ‘Better go, Sister. This won't be pretty.’

Jacqueline nodded and fled. Screams of psychic energy lashed out for minutes before lightning struck, and everything became blissfully quiet.