MEMORIES

Jared Adamsom comes to town, singing The Way We Were, making people forget each other

Jonny, Lonny, and Ronnie Parkhurst were strolling down Howard Street, Glen Hartwell in early June 2025, when they saw the Scruffy old man in a long, black derelict's coat. As he approached, they could hear him singing:
"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?

"Memories
"May be beautiful and yet
"What's too painful to remember
"We simply choose to forget."
"Hey, old scrote," said Jonny Parkhurst, at nineteen the oldest, dumbest, and most ruthless of the three tall, raven-haired brothers. "What's that screeching you're doing?"
Without stopping, the old man, Jared Adamson, touched each of the Parkhurst brothers gently upon the neck while singing:
"So it's the laughter
"We will remember
"Whenever we remember
"The way we were
"The way we were
"Hmmmmm hmmmmm ...."
"What the Hell, did ..." began Lonny, usually the least irrational of the Parkhurst brothers. Seeing Jonny and Ronnie, he demanded, "who the fuck are you two geeks."
"Don't call me a geek, you freak!" said Ronnie.
He pulled a pearl-handled flick knife from his coat pocket and started waving it toward the other two teenagers.
"Two can play at that game, Bozzo," said Jonny.
He pulled a rusty-looking home-made Bowie knife from a scabbard, concealed under his dirty, grey jacket.
"Oh, a tough guy!" said Lonny. He pulled a half-metre length of steel pipe from his belt. Thrusting it around like a sword, he demanded, "Which one of you homos wants to die first."
"You're the homo," said Jonny, tossing his Bowie knife at Lonny.
Unfortunately for Jonny, the Bowie knife hit Lonny in the chest, handle first. Hurting the eighteen-year-old, but not enough to stop him from running forward to swing his steel pipe down hard upon his oldest brother's head.
"Gotcha, sissy boy!" cried Lonny proudly.
Until Ronnie lunged forward and stabbed him in the back with his pearl-handled flick knife.
"Jesus!" cried Lonny.
Spinning round, he whacked the pipe down upon Ronnie's right hand, crushing it, then whacked him in the throat with the pipe, shattering his Adam's apple, killing him from asphyxiation.
"Not so tough ..." began Lonny.
Before falling dead to the bitumen footpath, beside Johnny and Ronnie.
Not far away, Jared Adamson, the scruffy old man, was still singing:
"Memories
"Light the corners of my mind
"Misty water-coloured memories
"Of the way we were

"Scattered pictures
"Of the smiles we left behind
"Smiles we gave to one another
"For the way we were

"Can it be that it was all so simple then?
"Or has time rewritten every line?
"If we had the chance to do it all again
"Tell me, would we?
"Could we?"
As he walked further and further away from the dead Parkhurst brothers.

Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale, in the Victorian countryside, they were sitting down to one of Deidre Morton's magnificent lunches.
"What's for lunch today, Mrs. M.?" asked Sheila Bennett. A tall, athletic Goth chick with black-and-orange striped hair, the second in command of the local police force, Sheila was in her mid-thirties and was Deidre Morton's favourite member of her extended family.
"Bouillabaisse since you all loved it so much last time," said Deidre, a short, plump sixty-something woman, the owner of the Yellow house, so named since it was painted and decorated in yellow inside and out. "Then for dessert, some raspberry Pavlova."
"Oh, I love Pavlova," said Freddy Kingston, a tall, stocky, balding retiree. "The dessert that is, not the opera singer it was named after."
"Personally, I love both kinds of Pavlova," said Terri Scott. A tall, beautiful ash blonde in her thirties, Terri was the top cop of the area and was engaged to Colin.
"That's right, you are a bit of an opera nut," said Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman. After working as a top London crime reporter, Colin was now a constable for the Glen Hartwell Police Department.
"That's right, she dragged you two saps off to see The Flight of the Valkyries at the Playbox Theatre," said Tommy Turner before laughing. A short, chubby blond retiree, Tommy was a reluctantly reforming alcoholic.
"Playhouse Theatre, not Playbox," corrected Natasha Lipzing, a tall, thin, seventy-one-year-old lady. "And it's Ride of the Valkyries, not the flight ...."
"No one likes a smart Aleck," said Tommy.
"And didn't they solve that case due to Terri dragging Colin and Sheila along to the opera?" asked Leo Laxman, a tall, thin nurse at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. [See my story, 'Ride of the Valkyries'.]
"Who asked you, smartarse?" said Tommy.
"Language, please, Mr. Turner!" said Deidre Morton. "I won't have swearing at my dinner table."
"That's right, Mrs. M., you tell him off," teased Sheila, loving to see Tommy squirming.
"I hope there's a generous amount of brandy in the Pav?" demanded Tommy.
"No, there is no brandy in the Pavlova," corrected Deidre. "Most of my extended family are not chronic alcoholics."
"I'm not a chronic alcoholic, either!" said Tommy. "I just like a drink."
"He really doesn't know, does he?" asked Freddy.
"Doesn't seem like it," agreed Leo.


Later, while they are investigating the killing, the old man touches Sheila gently while singing.
When they return to Lexus, to the Goth chick's surprise, Colin gets in behind the steering wheel.
"Hey, Col, whatcha doing?" asked Sheila.
"Sorry, who are you?" asked Colin. "And how did you know my name?"
"Very funny, Col, now shift across so I can drive."
Terri and Suzette Cummings climb out of the back seat.
"I'm sorry, but who are you?" demands Terri.
"I'm Sheila!" states an amazed Goth chick. "Your best friend and second in command."
"Firstly, I've never met you, and secondly, my second in command is Leslie Harrison is my second in command.
As she spoke, a short, wiry black-haired policeman, aged in his forties, climbed out of the rear of the police-blue Lexus GX.
Startled to see him in uniform, Sheila asked, "Les, when did you come out of retirement?"
Terri, Suzette, and Leslie exchanged puzzled looks.
"I've never been in retirement," said the policeman. "I've still got over forty years to go to reach retirement age."
"But you took early retirement under the stress of the BeauLarkin Slaughter House, two years ago," reminded Sheila.
"I remember the BeauLarkin Slaughter House case, with seventy-odd bodies," admitted Leslie. "It was quite a shock to my system. But I certainly did not take early retirement over it!"
"Yes, you did!" said Sheila, almost crying from the need to have them remember her.
"I think I would know if I had taken early retirement."
"And he couldn't be my second in command if he had retired," pointed out Terri.
"Tezza, surely you remember me?"
"I've always hated the nickname Tezza."
"So you remember me calling you Tezza?"
"No, I remember Totty Rampling and a few others calling me Tezza, until I threatened to arrest them unless they stopped."
"But you must remember me, we went to kinda together, then primary school, then the Glen Hartwell High School. I used to copy off you during exams. And I beat up boys who got too cheeky to you."
"Well, you certainly look tough enough to beat up boys, or men for that matter," said Terri, staring at the bodybuilder, "but I'm certain we have never met."
"But we have," insisted Sheila. "If this is a joke, please stop!"
"It's not a joke, we've never met."
"But we live together at Mrs. Morton's boarding house."
"Colin, Leslie, and I all live at the Yellow House," said Terri, "but I've never seen you there."
"But you have! I'm Mrs. M.'s favourite of her extended family members."
After considering for a moment, Terri said, "Get in the front of the car, next to Colin. We'll take you around to see if Deidre knows you."
Sheila raced around to sit in the front passenger seat, still half hoping this was some kind of bizarre joke the others were playing upon her.




THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia