The world is full of con-people, and
sometimes you can never be sure who to trust. For this year’s blogging I am
posting some pieces called Cautionary Tales, partly because I’m not sure where I
can send them for publication. They are all quirky, a touch whimsical in
places, and, with meagre moralistic stance, contain little message.
Each is around 500 words long, and
flash fiction – if nothing else – is an excellent discipline for a writer. The
initial prompt was the call for submissions to the Antisocial Writer’s annual
zine. This month’s Tale was published in the Circus Antizine, along with the
title-story of this set. It is about a sweet old dear called Melinda who turned
out to be a con-woman with a flaw. But she had the last laugh.
Or did she?
from
Charlotte & The Charlatan
– and other
cautionary tales
Melinda
the Launderer
Millie laundered money. She quarrelled with
the cashpoint, fiddled and diddled the lottery, and haggled with the
hole-in-the-wall.
I asked for two-hundred, not twenty;
no, I haven’t forgotten my PIN; I want a statement – service unavailable? I
want five quid, not ten.
She
terrorised the checkout staff by placing fewer, not less, than ten items in her
trolley, then queuing in the baskets-only line.
The
she argued and debated with the self-service tills.
That is not an unexpected item in
the bagging area: it’s my bag – I put it there; no I don’t need your approval,
and I don’t have a Nectar Card at all. Not at all – no – not even a little bit.
She
never checked her change at the Post Office Counter; mistakes could always be
rectified; and when the bus instructed her ‘Exact change required’ in the
absence of a conductor she simply threw in exactly what change she had.
I’ve paid my fare; it’s not enough?
That’s unfair – okay, I’ll get off one stop early.
No-one
ever challenged her, or asked for proof of purchase.
I’ve got my goods, what more proof
do you need?
And
if she ever needed a refund, you can be sure the product never came in its
original packaging, so why should she return it in the condition that she
bought it?
It came that way, that was how it
was in the shop; this shop? Of course; it was ex-display! What do you mean, you
don’t even sell it; are you accusing me; how dare you; who’d have thought it!
She
became a friend of Paypal, travelled East with Western Union, and docked her
ship in E-Bay; kept her pocket-money in a sock, and phished the internet for
plastic cash. She cracked more codes than an enigma, learned more passwords
than a Russian Spy; cyphered and deciphered those illegible spam-filters
quicker than a coffee pot can percolate a caffeinated scam.
Melinda
was a con-woman, a fiddler, a daylight-robber; a launderette, and a scamstress.
At eighty-four, she thought was above suspicion – well sort of – more or less.
There
was one thing Millie hadn’t bargained for: that her brain might let her down in
the end. She had a good mind for figures; knowledge of numbers, an unquenchable
thirst for ready cash.
But
when she got home with her stash, she could never be sure of the street-name,
let alone the colour of her front door. Every day Colin the Constable found her
trying every lock; more often than not on a different street.
He’d
take her home, never suspecting the millionaire granny was anything other than
sweet.
I’ll remember you in my will, dear –
no I’ll not forget.
And
she didn’t.
But
sadly for Colin the Constable, she pulled off her greatest con-trick. All the
money she left him was hookie, and he, being bent as a ten-bob note, himself ended
up in the nick.
