Lewis Jenkins did his level best to ignore the annoying ring tone of the
telephone, which sat on the small solid walnut table beside the sofa in his
comfortable lonely home. He had set the stopwatch function on his mobile
when he had started the Sudoku puzzle in today’s newspaper, as was his
general habit, hoping for a personal best time at the “diabolical” level, but it
was no good. The irksome electronic trill continued, forcing him to abandon
the puzzle and concede defeat, all hope of concentration lost. It was not the
normal hour of his daughter’s daily call to check that he was still alive, which
he always had been. Therefore, by a simple process of elimination, requiring
no Holmesian depths of perception, it was going to be one of life’s time
wasters, put on earth solely to annoy the largely retired section of the
populace who continued to retain an old-fashioned landline as their preferred
means of external communication.
He carefully laid his tidily folded broadsheet newspaper on the coffee
table, followed by his pen, both in a deliberate and unhurried manner, giving
the telephone ample further opportunity to cease its unwanted encroachment
upon his quotidian post-breakfast routine but the trill was insistent and
eventually triumphed over his passive attempts at resisting its demand.
‘Yes?’ he ventured, imbuing this monosyllabic challenge with as much
boredom and disinterest as could be conveyed with a single short word.

The voice that responded spoke with an obvious south Indian accent.
Living in Leicester, as he did, if you took the trouble to get to know people,
you could roughly pinpoint their ethnic origins from their accent and their
choice of phrasing. The easily detectable mini-delay on the line confirmed for
him that the call was indeed from another country – and for Lewis Jenkins that
did not just mean the Cymric side of the Severn Bridge, where his own origins
lay, but somewhere much warmer, with sunshine, palm trees, warm rain and
spicy food; the sort of place to which he and Alys had so much enjoyed
travelling, when they had been able.
‘Am I speaking to Mr Jenkins please?’
‘And who is it that wants to know?’
‘I am very sorry to disturb you Mr Jenkins’, continued the unctuous and
unknown voice, knowing he had homed in on his intended target. ‘My name is
Raj. I am calling from Microsoft HQ. We have detected a fault on our software
and there is a possibility that this could infect your computer. I need you to
allow us to access the application so I can fix the problem and ensure that this
glitch does not cause you any security issues going forward.’
‘You’re not from Microsoft,’ retorted Jenkins impatiently. ‘You’re a
scammer. Why don’t you get yourself a proper job and stop annoying
people?’
‘Sorry. What is a scammer please?’
‘You know exactly what I mean: a fraudster; a con man.’
‘No, please believe me, Mr Jenkins. I really am from Microsoft. I am one of
their engineers dealing with software security problems. If you wish, I can
give you my number and you can call me back to verify the correctness of my

position.’ The voice sounded hurt, rather than affronted at Jenkins’ assertion.
It certainly spoke with a certain confidence but Jenkins was not fooled for a
moment, not this time.
Instead, his displeasure racked up a notch from being mildly annoyed to
becoming rather cross. Not twelve months ago, he had half fallen for a similar
scam and although he cottoned on during the call, he had worried that he may
have been a little late in doing so and had ended up ditching his old computer
and changing all his bank account details and on-line passwords. The
memory of all the hassle this involved when subsequently dealing with on-line
shopping and other web sites, not to mention the cost of the new computer,
only served to fuel his current displeasure.
‘No. I know a scam when I hear one and you sir are a thief and a con artist.
In fact, you are not even a very convincing one. Now please just go away and
annoy someone else.’
‘Please Mr Jenkins, sir. You are very much mistaken. I really am from
Microsoft. I can fully understand your suspicions however, as we face this
sort of response all the time. There are a lot of dishonest people in the world
and I know many people try and pretend they are from our company but I can
assure you with full authority that I am an honest man, trying to carry out my
appointed tasks to my full ability.’
The man’s continued insistence was the last straw. When later asked,
Jenkins freely admitted that there was no logic behind what followed next,
leastwise none that might be understood by anyone whose days were not
interrupted constantly by a plethora of unwanted callers, interfering with the
natural rhythm of their hard-earned retirement. Something just snapped inside

him, the proverbial final straw after too many years of enduring these wannabe
electronic pickpockets.
‘I repeat, you are a fraudster. So please bear with me and say nothing for
the next few seconds and listen very carefully to what I am going to say
instead.’ With no real thought of what he was actually going to say and not
wishing to descend to the level of profanity, which would no doubt be water off
a duck’s back to these sorts of people, he was seized by poetic inspiration.
This Raj chap would not understand Welsh, so he could say anything he
wanted. He arranged a couple of sentences in his head and then began to
chant them into the telephone’s handset, in a manner that drew its inspiration
from Nicol Williamson doing his Merlin thing in “Excalibur”, which he had
watched again recently:
‘Urr-oo-eev-een
Minned eer tav-aan.
Ack-unna-thloo-cock
Buth-av-een um-ol-kee:
Koo-roo! Koo-roo! Koo-roo!’
At least, these were the phonetic sounds heard by a bemused Raj, who
would have had no idea how they were spelt in Jenkins’ native tongue.
‘So Mr Raj, or whatever your real name is, did you hear everything I just
said.’
‘Yes,’ came the bemused reply, ‘I could hear quite clearly but I could not
understand anything. What language is this please?’
‘Don’t worry. You don’t need to understand, only to have heard for it to be
fully effective. I have placed a curse upon you. It is a very strong and ancient

curse of my forefathers. Much evil will now fall upon you and your family and
…’ he added, on a sudden whim, to ram home the full extent of his anger: ‘…
one of your children will die.’
With that, Jenkins replaced the handset back on its base and dismissing
the intrusion from his mind, reached over for his newspaper and pen to
resume his dalliance with the day’s Sudoku grid, rueing that there was now no
point in re-setting the mobile’s timer. He felt quite pleased with himself for the
reaction he had been able to come up with on the spur of the moment and
thought he might reward himself with an extra biscuit with his mid-morning
cup of tea, perhaps even a Kit-Kat.
Alacrity; that was the word. It had formed part of a clue to one of
yesterday’s crossword puzzles: “Moved with alacrity around one drug to
another (5)”. Speed; speed of thought. He still had that, even if other parts of
his gradually declining body were not as fast as they had been back in the
mists and myths of a more athletic past.
The following morning, the telephone rang again, provoking similar
feelings of exasperation.
‘Yes!’ The word was barked in a manner that should leave any cold caller
in no doubt that this was not a convenient time for them to telephone.
‘Hello Mr Jenkins. This is Raj. Do you remember? We spoke yesterday. I
wanted …’
‘Oh! Please just go away you silly little man.’
‘Please wait Mr Jenkins sir. I am very sorry. You were quite right. I am
not really working for Microsoft. Please can you take away your curse sir. I
promise never to call you again.’ Wow! Jenkins had hit a nerve. He punched

the air in delight, as if he had just kicked a last-minute, grand slam winning,
penalty goal for Wales against England. It was time to ram home his
advantage.
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, in a firm authoritative tone, ‘but the curse cannot be
removed by me, only by one with greater powers. I gave you ample
opportunity to cease but you insisted on maintaining your pathetic little
charade. I only have the power to make the curse stronger, which I will if ever
you call me again; ever.’ This repeated last word carried an unmistakeable
emphasis and finality. ‘Now, please learn your lesson and go away.’
The handset was again returned to its base and later that morning, adding
to its very propitious start, an ebullient Lewis Jenkins had the further
satisfaction of a new personal best time for the crossword set by Nestor in that
morning’s newspaper. This he duly recorded in the small notebook in which
he logged such achievements – and thereby the new targets to beat. This was
all part of his grand strategy to ensure that the dreaded dementia never gained
a hold over his mind.
Alys would be proud of him, keeping up his guard against the “Dreaded
D”, as they had called it. He looked longingly at her photograph on the
mantlepiece over the fireplace. He missed her terribly, even after more than
three years since her passing. She had bravely fought her own more
devastating war against the “Big C”, winning the first two battles but mortally
wounded and brought down by the third.
‘I’ve still got it, Alys my love. The old grey matter is still working; I’ll never
allow my mind to forget you.’ He blew her a loving and tender kiss, the way he
always had. She had been his life’s purpose for almost fifty years, the first

consideration in all of life’s decisions. Now the principal purpose of what life
remained to him was that of holding on to their memories, for both their sakes.

+++++

Month followed month, season followed season in the irresistible passing
of time, each day with the same rhythm as that which had preceded it seven
days before and which would pass again, inshallah – as his good neighbour
Ali would say – after another week. Today’s Sudoku had been completed in an
acceptable time and the quick crossword dispatched with contempt. It was
Wednesday, so the cryptic puzzle had been set by Ignomen, who seldom failed
to deliver a proper contest between setter and solver, a true cruciverbal test
match. He reached over to the coffee table in front of him for his mobile, so he
could set its timer in motion but was rudely halted in his progress by the
house telephone.
He snatched it up. ‘Yes.’ He promptly answered without thinking and so
had not had time to adopt his preferred and loaded “cold caller” tone.
‘Hello Mr Jenkins. Perhaps you do not remember me. My name is Raj.’ He
instantly placed the man’s voice. This was the chancer he had sent away with
a flea in his ear. That was ages ago. What on earth did he want now?
‘Oh! I remember you all right. You’re the crook who thought he could get
one over on me a couple of years ago. I sent you packing with your tail
between your legs, if my memory serves me right; and I am pleased to say that
it still does,’ he added, knowing that this was an opponent whose measure he
well and truly had.

‘Please sir. I am very sorry to call but my son is very ill. Your curse is
working. Please, I beg you. Please can you take your curse back so my son
can be well again.’
Jenkins had almost forgotten about the so-called curse but the memory
came back to him now. Once more, he felt a strangely enjoyable sense of
satisfaction and sat back in the sofa to better appreciate the emotion. He had
obviously managed to get right under this Raj fellow’s skin. It served him
right. He had no sympathy for the man, in the same way that this fraudster
would have had no remorse for any of the victims of his scams. He and his ilk
left a sad and growing trail in their callous wake, as was evidenced by daytime
television and radio shows on a regular basis.
As for his son being ill, well children get ill, probably even more so in
countries like Raj’s, wherever that was. India, he supposed but who knew. It
could be anywhere; people moved about so much nowadays. What was
certain was that the boy being ill was nothing to do with him. The “curse” had
just been nonsense.
‘Please Mr Jenkins.’ He thought that he may have detected a sob but was
unmoved.
‘Innocents one, Crooks nil,’ he thought to himself and out loud added a
quotation from the Book of Hosea, for Raj’s later contemplation:
“He who sowed the wind must reap the whirlwind.”
Putting down the handset without feeling the need to add anything more,
Jenkins took up his pen to commence battle with Ignomen, his mind now fully
primed for the contest.

+++++

Nine days later, the house telephone trilled again. This time it was just
gone half past four o’clock in the afternoon. He suspected that it might be
Bronwen calling him a little earlier than usual. She sometimes did if she had
something on after work.
‘Hello,’ he answered.
It was not his daughter.
Between the confused sounds of incoherent babbling, he detected the
voice of Raj and gained the impression he was not altogether sober.
‘Please Mr Jenkins. You have to help me. Please!’
‘For God’s sake, get a grip man! What is it?’
‘Please. You must take away the curse now. One of my children is dead.
Just like your curse said would happen.’ Jenkins did not understand the
emphasis placed by Raj on the word “One”.’
‘Yes, you said your boy was seriously ill,’ said Jenkins, drawing on his old
man-management skills in a half-hearted attempt to convey a certain empathy
which he did not truthfully feel.
‘No. Not my son. He is very ill but I also have a baby daughter. You said
one of my children would die, so I have smothered her in her cot, to complete
your curse and save my son.’
As the words and their unbelievable import slowly sank in, something in
Lewis Jenkins exploded. This disgusting wretch had graduated from petty
fraudster to child killer. ‘You are evil, truly evil,’ he spluttered.
‘Please help me,’ implored the pathetic snivelling voice from thousands of
miles away. ‘What can I do?’

He did not know from where the words came, he simply uttered them in an
uncontrolled blind fury. This despicable man had killed his own innocent
infant daughter! He did not think, instead he commanded: ‘You must go to the
village of your ancestors. There you must destroy yourself with fire; and you
must do it now.’ Raj said nothing. This time it was he who ended the call.

+++++

The following Monday, there was a knock at the door. An Amazon parcel
for Ali or possibly Mrs Kaur on the other side, he thought. Instead, it was a
very young lady policeman. Jenkins instinctively realised the reason for her
visit.
Once seated in the lounge, tea politely declined, PC Molly Cartwright
explained the nature of her call.
‘We’ve received a request sir, from the police in Chennai, India. They’re
dealing with a suicide. A man from Chennai, called Arvind Krishnamurthy,
strode into the centre of a village fifty miles from the city, doused himself with
petrol and ignited it. He died at the scene.’
Jenkins listened in contemplative silence, taking it all in, including the real
name of the man he had, until this minute, known only as Raj. Strangely, he
felt nothing; no remorse, no guilt, only an empty nothingness.
PC Cartwright continued to explain the reason for her ringing his doorbell.
‘One of the things the local police found at his home and for which they had no
explanation, was a piece of paper with nothing other than a long number
written on it. Mrs Krishnamurthy told my Indian colleagues that she didn’t
know what the numbers represented but said that her husband had referred to
this piece of paper with growing anguish over the past few months.

The string “44116” appeared at the start of the number with another seven
digits following. The Chennai officer who took over the enquiry thought it
might be a Leicester telephone number. He has family in Leicester and
recognised the dialling code.’
‘It’s my number,’ confirmed Jenkins and with that, he told the young
constable the whole sorry tale from that first telephone interruption, right up to
his final command.
‘Do I need to come down to the police station to make a formal statement?’
‘I think that will be for the best; but I have a question first. I’m a little
curious, what was the nature of the curse you placed upon him?’
‘There was no curse, not as such. It was just the first load of old nonsense
that came into my head.’
‘So, what did you say to him?’
‘It was in Welsh. I’m from Carmarthen originally. If I remember right, it
was something like:
Yr wyf i’n mynd i’r tafarn
Ac, yn y Llew Coch,
Byddwn ni’n yfed
Cwrw, cwrw, cwrw.’
‘What does that all mean – in English?’
‘Translated, it means: I’m going to the pub and in the Red Lion, we will
drink beer, beer, beer.’
With that, Lewis Jenkins stood up and fetched his coat.