The Morris Dancers' Union

Becoming a morris dancer was one of those life skills which was easy to learn but difficult to master. The country was peppered with teams which between them had kept the peace and fought crime for hundreds of years. The teams has always however been disparate, lone entities serving their locality. It wasn't until 1912 that they had amalgamated into one ring, pioneered by the visionary Cecil Sharp. Part of the duties of the morris dancers was the patrol. They would appear randomly in towns, cities and villages, often without notification, and survey the land. They would frequent the drinking houses and cakeries which were often the scene of disturbances, making their presence felt by demonstrating their combat skills, set to the music of their forefathers. The Shrewsbury side was like many others, ageing. The efficiency with which they dealt with crime had become their greatest curse. As crime was controlled, the civilians had become used to a peaceful way of life. There was...

Thursday night was dance practice. A time looked forward to by all of the dancers, although some more than others. For some, the prospect of dancing for two hours filled them with dread. Back pains, swollen knees, torn muscles. The list of ailments suffered by the team was long and distinguished yet it didn't put them off. They all still turned up with a smile, and a support bandage. "Warm up" was called as Derek walked in, not quite late but not early enough to warrant a few mutters and comments about car trouble. The men and women started walking around in a circle. Some sauntered, some jogged slightly, chatting amongst themselves about the events of the past week. None seemed in a rush to actually 'warm up'. The view through the window was priceless. A few lunges and chicken walks could be seen, odd steps which would have made John Cleese proud. A few skips picked up the pace and they all eventually fell into line, hopping and stepping, arms swinging in ...

Chink, chink, chink. It wasn't possible to discern where the sound was coming from, but it was there. Behind him. Chink, chink, chink. Getting louder, echoing off the mist-damp walls of the alleyway. The man quickened his pace. His breath steamed in the brisk morning air, each little cloud coming quicker. Chink, chink, jingle. The sound filled his head like a cacophony as it filled the alley. He wasn't far from the end, he could see the park which it led onto. His heavy feet were now trying to run but his back wasn't up to it anymore. The sound was all around him, chinks, jingles, a swoosh. Then silence. The man lay on the ground. From a distance he looked like he was sleeping. There were no more clouds of breathe. No more fear.