Hello listeners. This week. To keep to the deadline, I haven't bothered
changing all the references in the bumpers, et cetera to the original episode being
Underground episode thirty eight Patreon. But so what you know that this what you're
listening to now is a season five, episode eight of Underwooden Finch. So
you won't be confused, will you? No, of course not. You're
smart. You must be. You're listening to this, So over to me
in twenty eighteen. Take it away, Mike, Hello jums, and welcome
back to underwood Flinch. Underground. This is episode thirty eight, and so
gazooks what that means that we're just seven episode short of the forty five episode
total of the original Underwooden Finch novel. So I can confidently predict then that
this story will have more episodes than that, probably by quite a few.
So there you are. This episode is another Lydia episode, and the reason
for that is because her storyline is still a few days behind, you know,
in the timeline, a few days behind the other storylines, and so
it has a bit of catching up to do. Fortunately, the last Lydia
episode, as you know, wasn't that long ago, so you shouldn't have
to strain the old gray matter trying to remember what's been going on with her.
But for those of you like me who can't remember anything unless it's written
down on a sign hanging around your neck, here's a short recap Lydia and
Miguel, as you know, are now vampires. The Bensons aren't. And
in the last episode that featured these characters, Miguel killed Monica, that prostitute
that they'd kidnapped, and then they left Spain for London. After disposing of
her body. Gerald and Cynthia were feeling a bit used and ticked off.
But you know, that's essentially all that you need to know before we begin
this episode. Oh and before we start the episode, just a quick accent
apology in case I do it horribly wrong, and an explanation for people who
are outside the UK and may not be familiar with the accent in question.
In this episode, I attempt to reproduce the London accent that academics call m
l E or Multicultural London English. This is apparently known as grime or road
talk. You know, I read that much online and it's essentially the new
Kockney accent. And it's spoken by working class young people from all ethnic backgrounds
throughout London. I don't try to embellish my character dialogue with authentic slang because
most of you wouldn't know what these words meant, and frankly neither would I,
so I'd probably use them incorrectly, and young Londoners, should any be
listening, would laugh at me, isn't it anyway? So that's everything.
Time now for me to shut my north and South, to use old Cockney
rhyming slang and raise the curtain once again on the Underwood and Flint saga.
Written and read by Mike Bennett. This podcast is intended for an adult audience.
Season eight, episode eight, Well here it is My Home from Home.
From the passenger seat, Lydia pointed ahead to one of the elegant Georgian
houses in the terrace to their left, Gerald, Cynthia and Miguel all followed
her finger. The houses were three story four if you included the basement levels,
and in immaculate condition. They were on Princess Street in the Primrose Hill
district of Camden. It was shortly after one a m and they were driving
in the B m W Series seven saloon Lydia had rented at the airport.
She had wanted a four wheel drive, but since they hadn't booked an advance,
they'd had to settle for something else. She felt the BMW was a
good call, classy without being ostentatious, a nice family car that wouldn't look
out of place in the neighborhood. Gerald was driving. Lydia had convinced him
he should be the first nominated driver, as he'd want to use the car
to get around during daylight hours, something she entirely intended him to do,
whether he wanted to or not. He now looked left and right, searching
for somewhere to park. Ah, looks like all the parking spaces are taken.
Yes, bloody typical, isn't it, said Lydia. Never mind,
If you drop us here, we can bring in the bags while you find
us part in a neighboring street. There's always somewhere nearby. This was a
lie. Finding a parking spot at this hour of the night was as easy
as finding a needle in a haystack. Gerald stopped in the road outside the
house, and Miguel, who shared the back seat with Cynthia, sat forward.
Thrusting his face between the two front seats. Which house is it?
Lydia pointed again to the house which was now beside them. This one,
Oh my, said Cynthia. It's gorgeous, yes, isn't it. Dad
bought it for a song in the seventies he needed a bass for whenever he
was over here on business. The Sex lawyers sorted it all out, but
it is ours or other. Dad left it to me in his will after
much persistent begging on my part. I don't mean to be vulgar, said
Cynthia, but at today's prices it must be worth an absolute fortune. Oh,
yes, it is. Lydia opened her door and got out. Cynthia
and Miguel did the same, following her round to the rear of the car,
where she popped the boot. Cynthia took out her in Gerald's cases,
Miguel his, and Lydia's. In the end, Lydia had only brought a
few outfits. She felt she absolutely had to have everything else that Benson's had
retrieved for her from her homes. She left in their spare bedroom. She
would she told them sort it all out when she got back. Gerald and
Cynthia had been annoyed, but had said nothing, and as Cynthia looked back
to the car from the pavement, she saw from the look on Gerald's face
that he was feeling much the same way. Now see you in a bit,
then, he said, through the open passenger window. Cynthia waved and
gave him a sympathetic smile. We'll put the kettle on. Dear Gerald wound
up the window, but not in time to conceal his harumph as he drove
off. After dropping their bags in their rooms and a brief tour of the
house, they went to the kitchen, where Cynthia, true to her promise,
put the kettle on. Oh not for us, sin said Lydia.
We have to go out and hunt. She directed this remark equally to Miguel,
who was just about to remove his coat. Really, said Cynthia,
standing with tea bags poised over cups. But you already had, Monica.
Imagine she must have been quite feeling since you, you know, had all
of her. Well, yes, we're fine now, but I'm thinking ahead
to breakfast. When we wake up, we won't have fed for twenty four
hours. We'll be famished. I could eat something now, said Miguel.
Yes, I'm sure you can, good, said Lydia. But you need
to learn to rain in your appetite and eat tactically. Miguel shrugged. Sure
I can't do this either. Good, So we'll do it now. There'll
be fewer witnesses around at this time of night than in the early evening.
We can nab someone, bring them back and have them ready to eat when
we wake up. Yeah, but you say there will be fewer witnesses,
won't there also be fewer victims. Oh, we'll find a tramp. I'm
sure that's one thing London can always be relied on. For Miguel grimaced ough
a stinking tramp. I was hoping for a sexy ore. Well, of
course you were. But this is a nice neighborhood, Miguel. We don't
do street walkers, and it's just as well too. Dining on the grimy
bearded neck of a tramp might remind you to hold back when you're feeding.
Miguel's lip curled in disgust, but he nodded, then grunted, Okay.
Then the doorbell sounded. Ah, that'll be gerald, said Lydia. She
looked at her watch, and in only twenty minutes he must have found something
nearby. Nearby, said Cynthia. Twenty minutes is hardly nearby. It is
round here when you're trying to find a parking space at night. They all
went to the door and Lydia opened it four. Gerald laughed, I had
to drive around for bloody ages. Not a space to be found. Anywhere?
Where did you park? Asked Lydia. I don't know. Somewhere on
the road by the park. Almost got lost finding my way back again.
And yet here you are, safe, sound and victorious. Home is the
parking space hunter. Yes, well, next time you can be the bloody
parking space hunter. He looked to Cynthia. Did someone mention tea? Yes?
Through here kettle's just boiled though, it's just us, darling. These
two are off without tramp panting. Oh delightful. But why you ate earlier?
It's for breakfast, Gerald said Lydia, stepping past him and outside.
Don't waite up. Gerald found himself momentarily lost for words as Miguel went out
to join Lydia on the doorstep. It had only been a few hours earlier
that they'd had to dispose of Monica's corpse, and the thought of fresh murder
left him cold. You, he checked his voice, glancing at the houses
around them and dropping it to a whisper. You won't kill this one,
will you. You're going to keep them alive and then let them go.
That's what you said, of course, said Lyddia quietly. The last thing
we want to do in a city like London is murder any one. Gerald
looked at Migul. You understand that too, right, Miguel looked, offended.
What one pame? I have an accident, and now I am the
little kid, of course I understand. All right, Well, I suppose
it will say good night? Then good night, darlings, said Lydia.
Sleep well, and if I need anything tomorrow, I'll leave you note on
the kitchen table. Then she linked Miguel's arm and led him off in the
direction of Primrose Hill. Yes, Gerald murmured under his breath, just loud
enough for Cynthia to hear. I bet you will. Primrose Hill, the
actual hill, as opposed to the surrounding residential district, makes up the northern
section of the Regent's Park. By day, the park can be seen as
one of wide, open green spaces peppered with occasional trees and crisscrossed by pathways,
But at night it is a lake of darkness. The street lights along
the pathways brighten the roots of nighttime joggers and dog walkers, but everywhere else
it is pitch black unless you happen to be a vampire. Lydia and Miguel
entered the park with linked arms to any casual observer, of which there were
none save for those in the infrequent cars that glided past. They might appear
as two lovers out for a night time stroll. The night was cold,
and Lydia huddled close to Miguel. Isn't it amazing? She said? Look
around, you can see everything just as plain as if it were day.
Yes, and you know what I see? What? Nothing? This is
a bad place to haunt, Lydia. We're wasting our time. Let's go
to a night club. We can pick up a drunk girl. Oh you'd
like that, wouldn't you a real challenge. I don't care about the challenge.
I don't want a good time. We can dance, have a few
drinks, have some fun, picking out a chicle boracha, and then boom,
we move in, fascinate her and take her home. Yes, we
could do that, but they'd be witnesses. Drunk girls tend to travel in
packs, as I'm sure you're aware. It's what gives them sense of security
enough to get drunk in the first place. On their own, they'd be
beating off the likes of you with a shitty stick. The old you,
I mean, not the new you. The new you. Well, not
even a shitty stick could save them, could it. Miguel laughed. Ha
ha ah. I know this stick. I've always been good at dodging it.
The trick is not to take no for an answer. Oh how charming.
You're a regular David Niven, aren't you? Who is this Lydia smiled
at his puzzled expression. Oh never mind, just a dead fear. Yes,
we can go to a club if we absolutely have to, But I
feel the need for a walk, don't you. We've been cooped up in
cars and planes all night. Isn't it lovely just to be out in the
fresh air and just feel the night around you. She stepped away from him
to throw her arms wide and turn around on the spot. It's ours,
Miguel, we own the night. Once upon a time I would have been
nervous walking through a park like this at this hour. Worried that there might
be some mugger or rapist lying in wait for me. But now now I
relish it, I can think of nothing I'd like more than some wanker to
come rushing out at me with a hard on and a kitchen knife. She
laughed and called, go on, wankers, come and get me. Miguel
amused, but also seeing an opportunity to labor his earlier point it, looked
around with a searching eye. He shook his head. No, no,
I gnawyeh, Lydia. The only food in this place is the fucking owls.
He turned back, Come on, let's go. But Lydia stood still,
her head cocked towards the path ahead, and a look of concentration on
her face. What said Miguel. She held up a hand sh listen.
Can you hear it? Miguel listened. Voices, distant male voices carried on
the wind that blew in intermittent gusts from the northeast. They were boisterous,
probably drunk. He raised his eyebrows. Maybe it's your ancors. No,
Lydia smiled the mating cry of the common tossa. Let's find out. Jake
Bradley was trying to roll a joint by the glow of his friend Brian Barrett's
phone. This would have been tricky enough when drunk, stoned and standing up,
but to do so in these windy conditions made it considerably more so.
They were sheltering behind a large oak tree, huddled against the trunk and hunched
over their work. That's it, said Jake, crumbling a pinched lump of
heated cannabis resin into the three papers he'd stuck together and held shakily between his
finger and thumb. I got it a fuck. A gust of wind snapped
the paper sideways and the contents vanished. Brian burst out, laughing, not
so much with joy, for he'd wanted the operation to succeed as much as
Jake had, but with surprise. Shit, man, wil fucking waste.
Yeah, it's a fucking waste. And it's not fucking funny either, No,
I know, Brian continued, still laughing. It's just you were like
so careful and so close, and then he blew a raspberry to represent the
moment in replay is gone, isn't it. We should have rolled one before
we come out, said a voice from the other side of the tree.
I told you we should, didn't I This was Kevin Evans, whose eighteenth
birthday was the reason the three were out this late on a Tuesday night.
No, you didn't, said Jake. You said roll another one. You
didn't say, but the fucking journey. He was talking about having that back
at Trickies. Yeah, but if you'd rolled it there and we left,
we'd have it now, wouldn't we. I shut up, man, What
you doing around there anyway? You've been pissing for like half an hour?
Yeah, and I've still got a bit more. No you ain't you just
imagining you do? Put your knubber way, Let's get a move on.
No, I've got more in there. I know it. I wanted to
come out and piss in my pants. The thought of Kevin wetting himself set
Brian off into another fit of laughter. Jake rolled his eye, went around
the other side of the tree and shoved Kevin in the back. Kevin staggered
forwards into the tree trunk and hit his head. Oh fucking hell, Jake,
I could have pistool over my fingers. Yeah, but you didn't because
you ain't pissing in it. Kevin pushed his penis back into his trousers and
turned on Jake with his fingers extended like claws. How do you know you
want to lick it off? Do you? He lunged at Jake and for
a second was able to rub his fingers and hands over Jake's face before Jake
pushed him away. Are you day bustard? He's all right, I didn't
piss on him, Kevin laughed, So fucking what, man, said Jake,
grimacing and wiping his face with his sleeve. You've had your filthy cock
in your hands, and now you've gone to touch my fucking face. What
You're a stranger having a filthy cock in your face, Kevin laughed. You
fucking love it, you slag. Yeah. Jagie Brian joined in Kevin's laughter,
Just another night in the park for you in it outnumbered, Jake surrendered
to the funny side of things. He laughed begrudgingly and gave his face a
last wipe with his sleeves. Yeah, you fucking wish. After exchanging a
few playful punches between them, the three young men continued on their journey home
through the park. Official celebrations for Kevin's eighteenth were planned for the weekend,
but to have not gone out on the night itself would have been unthinkable.
The three lived in the Chilcott's estate on the north side of the park,
where they had grown up together. Jake and Brian had left school at sixteen,
Jake to sign up with the recruitment agency and begin a string of zero
hours contracts, including, amongst other things, turns as a road sweeper,
a factory hand and currently as a worker in hospital laundry, which he hated
with a passion. Brian had joined his dad's plumbing firm as an apprentice,
and Kevin had stayed on in school to do a levels. If he could
get enough good results, he was hoping to study business at Warwick University.
None of them had intended to be out quite so late, or to be
quite so wrecked, but one thing had led to another, and here they
were. Jake and Bryan had arranged to meet a local drug dealer, Tricky,
early on into the pub crawl to buy a gram of cocaine as a
surprise birthday present for Kevin, but Tricky had texted them throughout the course of
the night, repeatedly putting the meeting back until ultimately asking them to come to
his girlfriend Durvler's flat on the southeast side of Primrose Hill Park. This had
resulted in the whole gram of cooke being snorted there by everyone, including Tricky
and Durvler, but none of the three young men had minded, especially since
Durvler, whose rich parents indulged and financed their aspiring modeling career, had plenty
of beers in the fridge, but when their cocaine had run out, so
had their welcome. You guys want to come back to Mind for a last
smoke, said Jake. My old deer will be out for the count,
so as long as we keep it down will be good. No man,
said Brian. I've got to get up in the morning. Picturing the awful
reality of that in his mind made him laugh. The fuck knows how man,
I'm done for the night, ain't you shit? Man? You got
to get up even earlier than me. I fucked that. I ain't going
in. I fucking hate that place. What you gonna pull a SICKI asked
Kevin. Nah, I'm gonna tell them to stick up their fucking asses in
it, fucking shitthole. I can't get the stink of that cleaning shit out
of my nose for hours after work. I can even smell it now just
thinking about it. What's this smell? Ac asked Brian. Your mother's pussy
in it. Jake laughed and raised an arm to ward off a slap from
Brian. You know what that smells like? Man? You down there every
night? That earned him a volley of blows, which he fended off,
laughing, as were they all. Then Kevin said, whoa guys, check
it out. He pointed a head to a bench beneath the street light and
the dark shape stretched out along. It looks like a homeless Jake reacted with
disgust. Ah. Fuck man, I hit them fucking homeless. Ah,
he's fucking begging and shit. It's not a lifestyle choice, said Kevin.
Could happen to anyone, could happen to you even bollocks? Could it?
I work for a living man, Yeah, except when you don't feel like
it, said Brian. Come on, let's get a look at him.
Jake led them over to the bench. Kevin was right. It was a
person bundled up in a sleeping bag. Beneath the sleeper was a large flattened
out cardboard box of the size that might have once contained a washing machine or
similarly sized object. The cardboard extended up onto the back of the bench to
afford some shelter from the wind, and a sleeper whose head was cocooned within
the sleeping bag, lay with their face towards it. Jake turned to the
others with a grin and raised a finger to his lips in a hush gesture.
Then he pulled down the front of his tracksuit bottoms and took out his
penis. He nodded at Brian and Kevin to do the same. Brian looked
puzzled, so Jake moved his hips in a side to side motion to indicate
his intention. Brian stifled a laugh and took out his penis, but Kevin
didn't. Jake frowned at him. I've just been, Kevin whispered. Jake
gave him a sour look and whispered sharply. She said, you had some
more, remember, So he nodded at the sleeper. Now you can get
read, Kevin sighed without enthusiasm. He took out his penis. He disliked
peeing alongside other people at the best of times. He stared straight ahead and
tried to think of a running tap. Then he heard the sound of water
splashing onto fabric. A second stream followed, adding to the spattering. Then
first Jake, then Brian burst into laughter. Kevin looked down to see the
sleeping bag stirring into life. It was dark and glistening with urine. Jake
and Brian had sprayed liberally and wide, the liquid running and rivulets from the
now wet cardboard beneath the sleeper. Kevin hurriedly put his penis back into his
jeans and zipped up. Then came the sound of muffled barking. There was
a dog in the bag with the sleeper, and now both were awake.
The sleeper was on zipping the bag, and through the sound of barking came
a woman's voice. Why the fuck whoa it's a fucking burm man, laughed
Brian as she rolled onto her back and the bag started to open. Jake,
laughing, pissed straight into the opening and the face inside. The woman
screamed and her hands went to her face. Then a small dog, a
wire haired mongrel terrier, wriggled free from the bag, barking furiously. Even
though the animal was far from intimidating. Both Jake and Brian jumped back and
instinctively covered their exposed genitals. Jake cursed as his own urine splashed down onto
his tracksuit bottoms. The dog stood on the woman, guarding her and barking
relentlessly at the attackers. Let's go, all right, said Kevin. He
took a few steps away, hoping the others would follow, but they didn't.
You fucking wankers, shouted the woman. She was in her early twenties,
and from beneath her wooly hat, blonde hair wet with urine framed an
attractive, albeit hostile face. She sat up and gathered the dog to her
as it continued to bark. Fuck off, easy now, girl, said
Jake, you're pretty fit for homeless. You like this. He glanced down
at his penis and began to stroke himself back and forth. You set me
off, and I'll give you a quid for a cup of tea. Now,
fuck off, man, said Brian, now also arousing himself. Do
me. I'll give you two quid. Fuck off, the woman screamed,
clinging to the furious little dog as it struggled to break free, just fuck
off. Then from their right came another woman's voice. My, what a
fine display of manhood. Jake, Brian, and Kevin turned to see Lydia
step into the pool of light. She was looking at Jake and Brian's penises
appraisingly. If she won't, I will. Jake, who was discovering the
difficulty of maintaining an erection when feeling strangely threatened, was unsure how to react.
What you heard me, two fine plump willies for what was it three
pounds? Sounds like a bargain to me. Brian laughed, ha ha,
you serious, girl? You want some of this? Some of it?
Oh no, I want all of it. Jake and Brian turned to each
other and grinned. That was when a second voice, that of a Spanish
man, came from behind them. Oh no, no, no, we
share them between us, one each. They turned and at first saw no
one. Miguel stood beyond the glow of the street light, his black clothes
blending with the night. Then as he walked closer, they saw his eyes
strangely bright, like an animal's. He stepped into the light and stopped,
a smile on his face. Totally unafraid. He pointed to Kevin, and
this guy who gets his dick, perhaps we can share him, said Lydia.
Jake and Brian took a step back, both of them trying to correct
their clothing and get their penises back to safety, which, in Jake's case
was tricky since he'd let his tracksuit bottoms fall to his ankles. He reached
to pull them up as he retreated from Miguel, staggered and fell backwards,
landing on his back side. He howled in pain, swearing and cursing as
he struggled with his tracksuit bottoms. Brian and Kevin went to him. Brian
reached out a hand to help, but Jake swatted it angrily away. Then,
on getting his clothing in order, he got to his feet. You
do a fucking freak's he shouted, pair a fucking emo, perves, How
dare you, said Lydia, feigning affront. I'm not an emo. Then
to Miguel, what is an emo anyway? Miguel shrugged. Come on,
guys, let's go, said Kevin, and without waiting for an answer,
he started walking down the hill. Jake puffed out his chest to Miguel,
nostrils flared and fists clenched at his sides. What you looking at, you
emo bender? Miguel's eyes flicked to Lydia. She gave a single shake of
her head. Brian put her hand to Jake's back. Leave it, brave,
there ain't worth it year. Jake spat on the ground a short way
ahead of Miguel's feet, then nodded, glad to be given permission to back
off. Fucking' rat, they ain't. He pulled up the of his hoodie,
then turned, walking away with Brian in the pimp roll style he favored
when trying to make an impression. Oh no, Lydia pouted after them as
they strutted away. And I thought we were going to have such fun together.
Maybe next time, don't bring your boyfriend, Brian called back over his
shoulder. Jake laughed, then, feeling bolder now they were further away,
added, fuckingymore, bitch. Miguel joined Lydia to watch them go. Jake
and Brian caught up with Kevin, laughing, shoving one another, performing complicated
handshakes, and generally reasserting their indomitable manhood to one another. Too messy,
Lydia, whispered, Miguel, nodded. See. They turned to where the
young woman was now getting out of her sleeping bag. Shit, I can't
sleep in that. Even my fucking cardboard soaked. Her voice was strained,
and she was close to tears. She pulled the wet cardboard from the bench,
throwing it aside in despair and revealing a rucksack beneath the bench. Lydia
saw that urine had pooled against it. God, I am sorry, said
Lydia, but at least it didn't hurt you. Yeah, thanks to you.
Your clothes wet. Yeah. The woman felt around the neck of her
grubby annerak and the sweat as she wore beneath it, and they stink too,
fucking bastard. She slumped down onto the bench, elbows on her knees,
and buried her face in her hands to hide her tears. What am
I going to do? What am I going to do? Her dog came
to her. He put his front paws on her legs and raised himself to
lick a nuzzle at her hands. She picked him up and hugged him to
her. Look, said Lydia, trying to sound as if she had come
to a considered and perhaps foolishly compassionate decision. You can't stay out here like
this. Why don't you come home with us. You can have a hot
shower, and we have a spare room you can use. The woman stopped
crying and looked at them, her eyes weary. I I don't want any
of that. What you were saying to them, you know, sex and
stuff. Oh my god, no, we only said those things to intimidate
them. We're not like that. We were just out for a walk and
we heard your cries after that. We couldn't just walk away, could we.
A lot of people would have yes. Well, thankfully we're not them.
Lydia smiled, and as the woman looked up to meet her eyes,
the thought of fascinating her cross to mind, but instinctively she felt there would
be no need, at least not yet. What about Charlie. The woman
raised the dog's head to her face and he licked at her tears. I
can't go nowhere without Charlie. Oh, don't worry, Charlie can come too.
Lydia said this with a touch of anxiety. She had no idea how
dogs might react to vampires. In movies, they always growled and snarled their
hackles bristling, as if they instinctively understood they were dealing with supernatural creatures.
But so far Charlie had seemed entirely oblivious to them. Maybe that would change
if she came closer. If it did, it would be better to find
out now, with a sensible caution most people would display on approaching an unfamiliar
dog. Lydia came over and reached out a hand to Charlie's head. It's
all right, said the woman. You don't buy. Lydia patted his head
once and drew her hand back. Charlie barely noticed, he was too busy
lapping pee from his mistress's face. Lydia smiled and gave his head a few
more strokes, then scratched him behind the ear. He's such a cutey.
We haven't got any dog food, but I'm sure we can find something for
him. She looked at Miguel, can't we Miguel. Miguel, who was
more of a cat person, managed to conceal his displeasure at the thought of
a stinking dog in the house by turning his grimace into a beaming smile.
Sure we have plenty to eat. Maybe you are hungry too, miss sir.
Oh what is your name? Alice? And yea I am. To
Lydia, she said, are you sure I don't want to be a burden
or nothing? Oh, don't be silly, Alice. We have a big
house. There's plenty of room for one more. Lydia turned to Miguel and
pointed at the rucksack under the bench. Miguel, why don't you give Alice
a hand with her rucksack and sleeping bag. Miguel looked at the wet sleeping
bag, his face a picture of disgust. Oh, for God's sake,
said Lydia, it's only piss, it doesn't burn. Seeing Miguel's face,
Alice said it's all right, I can carry it. She put Charlie down
and picked up her sleeping bag. Lydia shot Migirl a scolding look, then
said to Alice, Oh, don't mind him. He's like that one I
ask him to do anything. He'd loved to help, wouldn't you. Miguel,
Yes, of course, said Miguel, forcing a smile. No,
I saw I've got it. Avoiding their eyes, Alice rolled up her sleeping
bag. Miguel came forward to assist. Please let me help you. No,
Alice held the sleeping bag away from him, as if he were trying
to steal it. She is proud, thought Miguel, or maybe ashamed of
it either way. But if she carry had than me, he pointed to
the rucksack. Well, at least let me carry your bag, please,
Alice. It will be my pleasure, your pleasure to carry a pissy old
rucksack. See, A pleasure and an honor to help you, Senorita.
Despite everything, Alice found herself charmed. She smiled, all right, then,
thanks. She took a key from her pocket and, kneeling, unlocked
the bicycle lock that was passed through the straps of the rucksack and looped around
the rear leg of the bench. Why have you got it locks like that?
Asked Lydia, genuinely puzzled. Do other homeless people try to steal it?
More like than wankers you've just seen, off, said Alice, People
like that nicket just for a laugh. Empty everything out into the street or
the canal. Oh, how awful. Well, at least you won't have
to worry about that anymore. Alice stopped in drawing out her rucksack and looked
at Lydia frowning, what do you mean anymore? Lydia realized her faux pas
and added hastily, I mean your bag. It'll be safe, or at
least it will tonight obviously. After that, well, let's not worry about
that. Now. Let's get you home and cleaned up, shall we.
Alice hesitated. She looked from Lydia to Miguel, evidently still unsure whether or
not she could trust them. But then the northeast wind rose again, whipping
across the open parkland and seeping into her wet clothes to bite her flesh with
teeth of ice. That decided her. She held out the rucksack to Miguel.
Thanks, I really appreciate it. What are your names? I know
you're Miguel, but who you? I'm Lydia, Lydia. Okay, well,
nice to meet you both. Jill far oh, no, not far.
We could be home in no time. Lydia held out a hand,
beckoning Alice to join her. Alice picked up her sleeping bag, then called
to Charlie to come on. Joining Lydia. They started down the hill,
the little dog scampering ahead of them, sniffing in the grass and clearly happy.
To be going somewhere, while Miguel trailed about ten feet behind them,
holding the rucksack at arm's length away from his body as if it were oozing
something fatally contagious. I do love a good Samaritan, don't you, Listeners?
Such a shame that there aren't any around to rescue poor Alice. Join
me next time, my friends, for episode thirty nine of Underwood and Flinch
Underground. The music you're listening to is Ahmad Armor by Farried fajard cavailable to
download from iTunes or Amazon and to stream from Spotify. It comes courtesy of
Tarannay Records and our good friend Fawaz al Malud. This podcast continues after the
break. Welcome back and so listeners. Lastly, before I go, a
quick word about social media. When you're a podcaster or a writer or both,
as is my case, you have to try to promote yourself and your
content wherever you can, and when it comes to the Internet, there's only
one place, really, isn't there, and that's social media. I'm on
things, though I don't use them equally. That's not just a matter of
preference. Although preference obviously plays a part. It's mostly about audience engagement.
Where do my posts get likes, comments and shares? And where are they
ignored? I can only devote so much time every day to this sort of
thing, so I tend to go where my content gets engagement rather than where
it doesn't. So that said, if you'd like to connect with me and
hopefully help spread the word about Underwood and Flinch, here's a list of where
I can be found and how much, if at all, I use the
platforms. Number one is, of course the big one, Facebook, and
obviously I'm there as Mike Bennett Author and as Underwood and Flinch Podcast Vampire Novel.
There's also a Facebook group called the Sect you can join if you like.
I check into all of these quite regularly, monitor them for messages,
etc. Facebook is the place where I get by far the most audienced reaction,
and so it is my most go to place to engage with people.
Number two is Instagram, which I use daily and I try to post pictures
regularly too, So if you want to see what I'm doing when I'm not
doing this, then please follow me at Mike Bennett Author. Now Here,
I'll abandon the whole numbering thing because the rest are just also rans. I'm
on TikTok as a Mike Bennett author. I was posting there for a while,
but then I realized two things. I wasn't picking up much in the
way of new audience, and my content just doesn't fly there. I tried
a few, you know, short videos, but the only thing that worked
was a video I made fifteen years ago of me getting puddle splashed by a
car. Nothing appears like misfortune, does it? Twitter or X as we're
supposed to call it. Now. I'm still there as the Mike Bennett,
but I don't check in often, and I raally tweet. Same with Thread.
I'm there as Mike Bennett author, but I don't say much because when
I do, nobody likes it or retweets it, etc. I know,
we all like to get likes and retweets and so on, and when we
don't, we all get fed up. But when you're a writer and a
podcaster and you're pushing your content there and no one seems bothered with it,
you know, it just kind of looks unloved. It's like a little advert
saying no one's listening. So I don't tend to bother, do you know?
I don't is anyone even reading it? So yeah, YouTube, I'm
there as Mike Bennett author. I don't check in much with the whole audience
engagement side of things, because again I don't tend to get much of it.
I mean, to be fair, it's not really my medium, is
it. I'm more of an audio person, as you may recall. Though,
I did try about a year or so ago to get video content up,
but after a while I check my stats and saw the average view time
for my videos was the seconds or less. I'm not talking about reels or
shorts or whatever. I mean, you know, the long videos, Hardly
anybody was watching them, so I stopped making them. If you'd like to
see that decision reversed, of course, well, then like my stuff and
share it. Why don't you. No performer goes out night after night if
the audience isn't clapping, do they? No? Of course not. And
lastly, Spotify. Now this isn't really social media, but you can leave
comments on individual episodes at Spotify, and I always like it when people do,
unless, of course, the comments are rotten, which thankfully they tend
not to be. I don't seem to be able to reply to those comments.
But I always like and read them and I'm grateful for them. And
so that's it. That's my social media roundup with the honest truth about why
I do or don't use the various platforms. But hey, you can change
that. Follow me on your favorite platform mingham there, like and share my
stuff, and hopefully together we can make Underwood and Flinch a really big success
because it should be, shouldn't it, Yes, of course it should Huzzah
halah. But then that's it. That's all from me now, ladies and
gentlemen. So until the moon rises again over Underwood and Flinch, farewell,