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‘The story is very unique and interesting, and I like it especially because it doesn't deal with big city cops/detectives with some typical crime. This crime story goes beyond its genre to illustrate a dramatic view of life and the people in the story. It is engaging and keeps us guessing with multiple possibilities on the crime even if Dixon clearly seems the prime suspect.'...Ujjwal Dey, Editor of Freedom Fiction

When the whole world needs a hero to believe in, one comes along in the shape of police sergeant, Bert Dalton. Dalton makes his debut in the short tale, ‘You should have closed the door,’ Dalton, through his strong values and no nonsense approach to police work, successfully endeavours to challenge criminals in an ever changing and politically correct society.

“…the sergeant smashed his ham fist into the jaw of the struggling figure. The punch was solid, enough to pacify Brian, and he was quickly handcuffed before being bundled into the back of a police car…”

“Dalton didn’t flinch; his nerve stood as steady as a rock. ‘I’ll ignore that remark… but just the once.’”

I’m presently working on a second Bert Dalton story; it has a working title of ‘The Ultimate Ride.’ Join Dalton in his favourite café when he comes across a strange character that would lead him into a case that would even test the guile of our brave and intrepid police officer.

____________________ ____________________

As a graduate in literature, I am fascinated by the storytelling of the Victorian wordsmiths - especially the female writers such as the Brontes.

The short story,“Jane Eyre... Don't You Dare!” (2004) was written by A D Dawson and included in ‘A kick in the Nuts’ anthology (Raw Dog Screaming Press)

With a swish of my cane I am unfortunately upon them once more - class 3B that is. Every Monday morning, and straight after assembly, is when I have the misfortune to teach them at their English Literature. This term we are reading Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte (1847). As you may very well know, Dear Reader, it is a tiresome text, which comes around for examination purposes almost every other year. Why we should teach our young such drivel I should never know - what is wrong with the classics for Gus' sake?

***

There is much sniggering and stifled guffawing when I open the door and enter the class - what a shower these boys are. They are supposed to be our future - they... they will be bankers, captains of industry and even the teachers of our children... er hem... Jesse help them.

"Books out. Chapter 12. The meeting with Rochester," I bellow out in order to keep them on their toes - no place is this for any niceties.

Pause

"I always pause at this point of the lesson - it gives some half-wit the chance to say: Sirrr, I've forgotten my book. It is Smithe, as usual. I broke my cane over his father's back to get him to toe the line and I won't falter to do the same to his pathetic offspring either!

Whack

Er… hem... prey let me continue. Chapter 12, for those of you who have never read Bronte's abysmal text, tells the meeting of Jane Eyre - the heroine, and Mr. Rochester - the hero.

"Now, you boy, Trenton, have you read the said chapter?" "Why of course, Sir," He replies. "Well don't just sit there like a girl pleased with her knitting, let on," I yell out rudely. "For me, Sir, the chapter finds Rochester [who has fallen from his horse] to be looking for the support of Jane as his needs must at the very end of the text also."

I hate d____d smart Alecs... but he's right, Rochester does need Jane's support again at the closing. As I look about the room every boy drops their head to the wood lest they should meet my gaze and be asked to comment too. I march up and down the rows but still no one dares to lift up their face. What's that? I can hear sobbing. No boy should dare to cry like a lass in my class - I'll flog the little b____d! I step back in astonishment, it is A.D. - and he the captain of the rugby fifteen. By the virgin Maisie, what is occurring here?

"Stand and explain yourself, boy!" I shout out so loud that I nearly fall into a paroxysm.

A.D. reluctantly stands and tearfully states. "It is Chapter 12, Sir, my first meeting with Rochester, it always brings about my tears as this."

"Your meeting with Rochester... what are you talking about, boy?" "Why I am Jane Eyre, pedagogue... or rather, I was once."

I am lost for words... "How can this be so?" I somehow manage after a rude silence, "For you are a strapping boy of the now and she... was...is... a fictional pasty faced girl character from a book!" "You are not a believer in reincarnation then...."

...Before he can finish his nonsensical babblings, I let loose with a piece of chalk in his direction. However, my arm is not right and the chalk bounces back from the edge of his desk and catches me straight into the eyes. I stumble backwards in blind agony. I fear that I am about to fall to the floor but a stout arm grasps my elbow and leads me back to my desk. I am able to sit down with the same willing support.

"Do not worry, Sir, for I am at your arm,"

I recognise the voice; it is A.D. I am so d____d angry at his antics that I would flog him to a standstill if only I could see his whereabouts.

"I am fine, boy, now go back to your desk so as we may continue the lesson." I say. "Of course, Sir." He retorts correctly for the first time this morning.

I tell the boys to read the next chapter – hopefully my temporary blindness will be at an end by the time they finish and I will be able to see myself about the class once more. However, notwithstanding that they are still at their reading for upward of 40 minutes, I still cannot see a jot when their books are put down to the wood. There is only one thing to do; I must carry on as if I was still sighted. I well know my way around the classroom – for I have taught here for 20 years. I’m sure it is twelve steps to the bookcase and another seven to back to the blackboard. I stand and totter, unsure of myself, towards the bookshelf – as is my usual movement at this time. To my horror I have misjudged the distance and in my panic bring the bookshelf crashing right down onto myself. My right arm is pinned undernesath the heavy construction and the books have bounced right off my person – I am in terrible pain and call out for much needed assistance.

Pause

I hear a curious snigger… I pledge whoever let that out will regret their folly. I am just about to shout out for order when a heavy boot is sent crashing into my nether region.

Aaaaagh!

“Who… who h… has dealt that foul act?” I let out after an extreme period of suffering. “It is I, husband,” returns a familiar voice, “The mad woman of the attic from chapter 25… don’t you recall my bloodshot eyes?”

Read on class. ..............