Jerry,

It's a lovely idea to have a thread with writing such as this in it. I'm sure that there are many folks out there who would contribute, but August is kinda quiet....perhaps when the evenings draw in a bit there might be more contributions.....

Perhaps some-one might know how this story ended...I've been stuck for a while now!

Regrets? Oh yes, I've had a few. Mainly the regrets that come from having a short temper. So I've learned to keep my temper in check. More or less. But sitting in that parish council meeting I could feel my dander rising. I loved the quaint expression, but was never quite sure what a dander was. So I looked it up. Angry passion. Yes, that's what I felt. Angry passion. The parish councillors were holding a public session to hear the villagers' views on vandalism. The local police sergeant was there and what he was saying, when all the flummery of political language was shaved away, was, "Sorry guys but there's only six of us."

So my dander was up. But I sat quiet and listened. I'm getting better at it. Some folks say about time too.

The trouble always came overnight. We would wake up to windows broken, a car scratched, swings cut through with bolt cutters; the list seemed endless. No-one knew why, no-one knew who it was and everyone thought someone else should be doing something about it.

So when I went out into the night I was cross. Everyone knew it was a village where things happened at night, but no-one wanted to venture out into the night to see for themselves. Especially now most of the street lamps had had a make-over. I went home and changed. Black T-shirt, black trousers, black coat and a black bobble hat that one of the kids had bought me last winter. Wear something white at night. It would be just my luck to be run over by a truck! My luck held as I walked in the darkest shadows with ears straining to hear the slightest sound.

My village was very still. You could hear the occasional car on the main road about a quarter of a mile away. I stood under a tree in a dark corner of the churchyard and waited. Not a sound. After returning my heart to its usual spot following an unexpected visit from a village cat and cursing myself for having an overactive imagination, I was just about to give up and go home when I heard voices. I waited. The voices got nearer and heard the sound of bike tyres and the unmistakable noise the chain makes. I waited. I edged towards the sound of breaking glass. The telephone box was suffering. The light inside was one of the last things they broke. The Marsh Twins. I now had the culprits, but what was I to do? If I used my phone, they'd hear me, besides I didn't have a lot of confidence in the police. I could walk up to them and punch them I suppose, but that's best left to TV and film. They'd probably vandalize me as well.

It was then that my eye was caught by a glint by the churchyard gate. The moon had come from behind its blanket of cloud to have a look around before going back for a nap. On its way it reflected off the chrome on the bike lying in the gateway. Being careful not to make a noise I eased over to the bike, picked it up and wheeled it back through the gate and round behind the dark bulk of the church. As I stood in the darkness a plan began to form.

Best wishes,

Peter