AIN’T GOT NO STAR 
The Texan sun was just considering settling down at the far reach of 
Interstate 10. The campervan, mobile home or RV carrying the 
English couple trundled along, eating up the miles and drinking the 
petrol, or “gas” as they had to remind themselves it was called here 
whenever they stopped to refuel. 
This was their holiday of a lifetime. East to West across the vastness 
of Texas. It wasn’t the Route 66 on a Harley that he had dreamed of 
but it wasn’t so hard to talk him out of that when they both discovered 
line dancing. And then they both got hooked on country music. That’s 
what really tipped the scales. Country music. Suddenly, Texas called. 
She leaned over her husband’s shoulder. 
‘You’re drifting a bit. You’re tired. Let’s take break.’ 
‘It’s this road. Straight as far as the eye can see.’ 
‘Well, we said we wanted to go West’ she quipped. 
‘I bloody well know we’re going west. I’ve had that sun in my eyes 
for hours so I don’t need a compass to tell me what direction we’re 
going in’ he snapped. 
‘Well, let’s pull over anyway and have a cup of tea.’ 
Grudgingly he nodded in agreement and then added; ‘I’d sooner have 
a beer.’ 
‘Not with the laws in Texas you won’t. Even having a bottle open in 
the cab is an offence.’ 
‘What, even if I haven’t drunk out of it? Come on. You’re having me 
on.’ 
‘Yep.’ She put on her best drawn out Texan drawl. ‘Well. My, oh my, 
what have we here, sir? You know that’s a violation? Why, I could 
have you behind bars in the blink of a gopher’s eye. That’ll leave this 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
1  
little lady all alone with this fine veeheercal.’ She dragged out the 
word “vehicle” as long as she could, just savouring the sound of it. 
‘And there ain’t no town within the best part of thirty miles of here. 
Now, what do you’all think about that, sir?’ 
‘Alright, I’m pulling over. Get us a bit further in off the highway 
before we park. Wouldn’t want to cause an obstruction’ he added 
sarcastically. 
‘How tired are you really?’ 
‘Pretty much zonked and I’ve got one hell of a headache.’ 
‘So, why not park here and I’ll rustle up some supper and we can stay 
here overnight. It’ll be dark soon anyway. We don’t have to keep 
going to find the nearest town and then a camping site and…it won’t 
cost a penny to park here.’ 
‘But this land must be someone’s. Shouldn’t we ask permission? He 
added. 
‘Can you see anyone? Is there a house within sight? Come on, just 
drive off the road a little way. It’ll be fine.’ 
‘What if the Highway Patrol sees us?’ 
‘God, you worry. What are we doing wrong? Better to be able to show 
we’ve common sense enough to know how tired we are. And, if it’s 
technically trespass, we just apologise and, if we have to, we move 
on.’ 
He drives the vehicle off the highway where it bounces a fair bit, 
creates a mini dust cloud. Avoids some holes and finally comes to rest 
parallel to the Interstate 10. 
Sitting outside on their camping chairs they witnessed a glorious 
Texan sunset but all of a sudden there was a loss of heat as the chill of 
the semi desert night closed in. 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
2  
As soon as they were inside he said, ‘Can I have that beer now?’ 
‘Well, we’re not going anywhere tonight. You don’t intend to sit in the 
cab with it do you?’ 
‘No way.’ 
He opens the fridge and brings out the chilled beer and listens with 
satisfaction the whooshing of the gas escaping as he opens two cans. 
‘It’s not like what we drink in the pub, but it hits the spot.’ 
He looks at the can with the word “Light” emblazoned on it. ‘I know 
why the Yanks always buy six packs and it’s not a reference to their 
finely honed stomach muscles either. It’s because most of their beer is 
so weak compared to ours that they need six cans where we would 
only need a couple of pints. Meanwhile I think we’d better turn in. 
Early start in the morning and the sun’ll be behind us. About an hour’s 
drive and we’re bound to find a good old-fashioned diner for a good 
old-fashioned American breakfast. I might need something to work up 
an appetite first though. Help us to get to sleep.’ 
‘Dream on cowboy, dream on.’ 
‘Ben. Ben. Wake up.’ 
‘What is it? I’m not in the mood now. Go back to sleep.’ 
‘Ben.’ She shakes him hard. There’s a sense of urgency. ‘There’s 
someone outside. There are lights. I heard a car coming.’ 
‘For crissake Sarah. Look out the window and tell me what you see. 
It’s the middle of the night.’ 
Sarah kneels on the bed and peers through the curtains as the inside is 
lit up by a vehicle’s headlights. 
‘What do you think he wants?’ Whispers Sarah. 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
3  
‘How the hell would I know?’ Ben whispered back. 
‘Maybe he’ll drive off.’ Said Sarah, more in hope than anything else. 
‘Why don’t we just ask him. Excuse me, but we were just wondering 
if we could help you. Yeah, that should do it. And why the hell are we 
whispering?’ 
‘There’s no need to be so sarcastic all the time.’ 
They both froze as they heard footsteps moving toward the van. Boots 
crunching on sandy gravel followed by knuckles rapping on the door. 
‘Anyone at home?’ That was a genuine drawn-out Texan accent. ‘I 
saw you parked up here and thought I’d pay you a visit. Just being 
kind of neighbourly like.’ 
‘Just a moment’ called out Ben. ‘Where the hell are my jeans?’ 
‘Where you left them, on the floor.’ 
‘I’m not going out in my underpants.’ He whispered. ‘Why are we 
still whispering? He knows we’re in here. I just called out to him. You 
know what Yanks are like. Over friendly. Always need to talk. Maybe 
he is just being neighbourly like he says.’ 
‘You think he’s bringing us a welcome apple pie at this time of night? 
Go and see what he wants. I’ll join you when I’ve put some clothes 
on.’ 
Ben moved hesitantly to the door. He took a deep breath, put on what 
he hoped was a friendly smile and opened the door. 
‘Hello. What can I do for you?’ He eyed their visitor from top to toe. 
He was large. From his white Stetson down to his scuffed Cuban 
heeled boots. His waist, if such a thing was to be found, was 
stretching the stitching of the buttonholes of his plaid shirt to within 
its tested tolerance with dark hairs visibly attempting to reach the air 
from the neck downwards. Not that there was much neck. The 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
4  
visitor’s head gave the appearance of sitting on his shoulders and the 
double, or even treble chins did nothing to dispel the illusion. There 
was the hint of a beard either in the process of being grown or simply 
a manifestation of his forgetfulness or rather loose relationship with 
bodily care and general hygiene. 
The non-existence of his waist was a thing being exhibited with pride. 
A large, very large, gunbelt was wrapped around it and a pearl
handled revolver showed itself, from its home, the extravagantly 
tooled holster. 
Ben shifted his gaze upwards again to the stranger’s face and focussed 
on his eyes which, although they seemed to be wide open, were 
wedged between a pair of bushy eyebrows big enough to be small 
welcome mats above, and twin rolls of fat fuelled cheeks below. 
But the eyes didn’t look threatening and his mouth with strangely 
puckered lips parted in a contrasting effeminate smile were indicators 
of his neighbourly intentions, even if it was the middle of the night. 
Ben slowly became aware of his wife leaning against him and peering 
over his shoulder. 
‘Like I said’ the stranger continued, ‘Just being neighbourly. Say, is 
that your pretty little wife there? I guess I’d better introduce myself 
properly. Always forgetting my manners, that’s my trouble. I am 
Henry Rimstock. Folks just call me “Hank”. And you’ll be…?’ 
‘Erh, I’m Benjamin, that is, Ben, and this is my wife, Sarah. Mr and 
Mrs Sherman that is.’ Ben became aware that he was either beginning 
to stammer or gabble but couldn’t quite work out which. Maybe both. 
‘Well, now,’ said Hank. ‘Ain’t that nice and I’m guessing you ain’t 
from around these parts.’ 
‘No, we’re on holiday. Driving across Texas. We’re from England.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
5  
‘You don’t say. Well, this is my lucky day. I just love your accent. 
Whereabouts in England?’ 
‘London. North London.’ Ben was sure he was developing a stammer 
now. 
‘Well, ain’t that a thing. You being from London and me having a 
cousin there. Say, how about inviting me in and we can talk about this 
and that. Fancy that. London eh.’ 
Neither Ben nor Sarah could think of a way of not allowing their 
caller inside except that it was the middle of the night. There were 
three steps up to the door and while Hank was talking, he had already 
climbed two of them. Ben and Sarah felt themselves forced back 
inside with Hank close behind. In a matter of moments, the three of 
them were seated around the drop-down table with the remaining cans 
of beer. 
Hank started talking, although he’d never really stopped; just paused 
while he ducked his head coming through the door. 
‘Well, well. My, my. London you say. Small world. We got a little bit 
of London not so far from here in Arizona. Yessir, London Bridge.’ 
Ben just couldn’t help himself. 
‘Yes, we know all about that. People said it was a con. Some bloke 
thought he’d bought Tower Bridge when he’d actually bought London 
Bridge.’ He stopped before he could say anything else as Sarah 
stamped savagely on his toes. 
‘You know what?’ Said Hank. ‘We laughed like hell. Wouldn’t have 
happened to a Texan. But London Bridge is London Bridge. Ain’t that 
a fact. The guy built a whole town and a resort around it. That’s the 
kinda thing that makes this land great. God, I do love the way you 
guys talk. Say, do you know my cousin? Stanley Bradford. Works in 
some bank. Some place called Cannery Wharf.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
6  
Sarah leaned forward. 
‘That’ll be Canary Wharf. Nothing like Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. 
Canary Wharf’s the financial centre of London. We’ve never actually 
been there so I’m afraid we haven’t met your cousin.’ 
Looking straight into Hank’s face she could tell that Cannery Row and 
John Steinbeck meant absolutely nothing to him. 
‘But you, Hank. What about you? Where are you from?’ 
‘Me, I’m Texas born and bred from a little town not so far from here. 
Got a good church there with a pastor who can stir your soul. Yessir. 
All good Christian folk.’ 
‘We thought this might be your land.’ Said Sarah. ‘We were worried 
that we might be trespassing.’ 
‘Lord bless you ma’am. Nope. This ain’t my land and if it was then 
you’d be welcome.’ 
Ben chipped in: ‘I wondered if you were the Highway Patrol just 
checking who we were.’ 
What Hank probably thought was a manly guffaw sounded to Ben and 
Sarah more like a nasal whinny which set his whole upper body 
rippling. 
‘Do I look like I’m the law? Why, I ain’t got no badge or a star so I 
can’t be, can I? Now, you just keep right on talking ‘cos I love 
listening to you folks.’ 
‘What would you like us to talk about?’ Asked Ben innocently. 
‘Say what Ben. I ain’t the law and I ain’t the owner of this land so 
there is no way I can order you off. You see what I’m getting at? Now 
that you know me you could just tell me to fuck off in that wonderful 
accent of yours and I’d be gone in a flash.’ 
‘What? You really want to hear me say that?’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
7  
‘Yes Ben. I really, really, really want you to say it. Say it like you 
mean it. Go on.’ 
Sarah looked at Ben. 
‘Well, maybe you’d better say it. Tell you what. We’ll both say it 
together. Nice and loud. On the count of four. One. Two. Three. Four. 
‘FUCK OFF.’ 
They never heard the twin explosions a split second apart. 
Hank blew the smoke from the pearl-handled revolver’s barrel. 
‘I ain’t got no badge and I ain’t got no land but I got this little beauty. 
No one tells me to fuck off. That makes four this year and don’t it feel 
good.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
8  AIN’T GOT NO STAR 
The Texan sun was just considering settling down at the far reach of 
Interstate 10. The campervan, mobile home or RV carrying the 
English couple trundled along, eating up the miles and drinking the 
petrol, or “gas” as they had to remind themselves it was called here 
whenever they stopped to refuel. 
This was their holiday of a lifetime. East to West across the vastness 
of Texas. It wasn’t the Route 66 on a Harley that he had dreamed of 
but it wasn’t so hard to talk him out of that when they both discovered 
line dancing. And then they both got hooked on country music. That’s 
what really tipped the scales. Country music. Suddenly, Texas called. 
She leaned over her husband’s shoulder. 
‘You’re drifting a bit. You’re tired. Let’s take break.’ 
‘It’s this road. Straight as far as the eye can see.’ 
‘Well, we said we wanted to go West’ she quipped. 
‘I bloody well know we’re going west. I’ve had that sun in my eyes 
for hours so I don’t need a compass to tell me what direction we’re 
going in’ he snapped. 
‘Well, let’s pull over anyway and have a cup of tea.’ 
Grudgingly he nodded in agreement and then added; ‘I’d sooner have 
a beer.’ 
‘Not with the laws in Texas you won’t. Even having a bottle open in 
the cab is an offence.’ 
‘What, even if I haven’t drunk out of it? Come on. You’re having me 
on.’ 
‘Yep.’ She put on her best drawn out Texan drawl. ‘Well. My, oh my, 
what have we here, sir? You know that’s a violation? Why, I could 
have you behind bars in the blink of a gopher’s eye. That’ll leave this 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
1  
little lady all alone with this fine veeheercal.’ She dragged out the 
word “vehicle” as long as she could, just savouring the sound of it. 
‘And there ain’t no town within the best part of thirty miles of here. 
Now, what do you’all think about that, sir?’ 
‘Alright, I’m pulling over. Get us a bit further in off the highway 
before we park. Wouldn’t want to cause an obstruction’ he added 
sarcastically. 
‘How tired are you really?’ 
‘Pretty much zonked and I’ve got one hell of a headache.’ 
‘So, why not park here and I’ll rustle up some supper and we can stay 
here overnight. It’ll be dark soon anyway. We don’t have to keep 
going to find the nearest town and then a camping site and…it won’t 
cost a penny to park here.’ 
‘But this land must be someone’s. Shouldn’t we ask permission? He 
added. 
‘Can you see anyone? Is there a house within sight? Come on, just 
drive off the road a little way. It’ll be fine.’ 
‘What if the Highway Patrol sees us?’ 
‘God, you worry. What are we doing wrong? Better to be able to show 
we’ve common sense enough to know how tired we are. And, if it’s 
technically trespass, we just apologise and, if we have to, we move 
on.’ 
He drives the vehicle off the highway where it bounces a fair bit, 
creates a mini dust cloud. Avoids some holes and finally comes to rest 
parallel to the Interstate 10. 
Sitting outside on their camping chairs they witnessed a glorious 
Texan sunset but all of a sudden there was a loss of heat as the chill of 
the semi desert night closed in. 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
2  
As soon as they were inside he said, ‘Can I have that beer now?’ 
‘Well, we’re not going anywhere tonight. You don’t intend to sit in the 
cab with it do you?’ 
‘No way.’ 
He opens the fridge and brings out the chilled beer and listens with 
satisfaction the whooshing of the gas escaping as he opens two cans. 
‘It’s not like what we drink in the pub, but it hits the spot.’ 
He looks at the can with the word “Light” emblazoned on it. ‘I know 
why the Yanks always buy six packs and it’s not a reference to their 
finely honed stomach muscles either. It’s because most of their beer is 
so weak compared to ours that they need six cans where we would 
only need a couple of pints. Meanwhile I think we’d better turn in. 
Early start in the morning and the sun’ll be behind us. About an hour’s 
drive and we’re bound to find a good old-fashioned diner for a good 
old-fashioned American breakfast. I might need something to work up 
an appetite first though. Help us to get to sleep.’ 
‘Dream on cowboy, dream on.’ 
‘Ben. Ben. Wake up.’ 
‘What is it? I’m not in the mood now. Go back to sleep.’ 
‘Ben.’ She shakes him hard. There’s a sense of urgency. ‘There’s 
someone outside. There are lights. I heard a car coming.’ 
‘For crissake Sarah. Look out the window and tell me what you see. 
It’s the middle of the night.’ 
Sarah kneels on the bed and peers through the curtains as the inside is 
lit up by a vehicle’s headlights. 
‘What do you think he wants?’ Whispers Sarah. 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
3  
‘How the hell would I know?’ Ben whispered back. 
‘Maybe he’ll drive off.’ Said Sarah, more in hope than anything else. 
‘Why don’t we just ask him. Excuse me, but we were just wondering 
if we could help you. Yeah, that should do it. And why the hell are we 
whispering?’ 
‘There’s no need to be so sarcastic all the time.’ 
They both froze as they heard footsteps moving toward the van. Boots 
crunching on sandy gravel followed by knuckles rapping on the door. 
‘Anyone at home?’ That was a genuine drawn-out Texan accent. ‘I 
saw you parked up here and thought I’d pay you a visit. Just being 
kind of neighbourly like.’ 
‘Just a moment’ called out Ben. ‘Where the hell are my jeans?’ 
‘Where you left them, on the floor.’ 
‘I’m not going out in my underpants.’ He whispered. ‘Why are we 
still whispering? He knows we’re in here. I just called out to him. You 
know what Yanks are like. Over friendly. Always need to talk. Maybe 
he is just being neighbourly like he says.’ 
‘You think he’s bringing us a welcome apple pie at this time of night? 
Go and see what he wants. I’ll join you when I’ve put some clothes 
on.’ 
Ben moved hesitantly to the door. He took a deep breath, put on what 
he hoped was a friendly smile and opened the door. 
‘Hello. What can I do for you?’ He eyed their visitor from top to toe. 
He was large. From his white Stetson down to his scuffed Cuban 
heeled boots. His waist, if such a thing was to be found, was 
stretching the stitching of the buttonholes of his plaid shirt to within 
its tested tolerance with dark hairs visibly attempting to reach the air 
from the neck downwards. Not that there was much neck. The 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
4  
visitor’s head gave the appearance of sitting on his shoulders and the 
double, or even treble chins did nothing to dispel the illusion. There 
was the hint of a beard either in the process of being grown or simply 
a manifestation of his forgetfulness or rather loose relationship with 
bodily care and general hygiene. 
The non-existence of his waist was a thing being exhibited with pride. 
A large, very large, gunbelt was wrapped around it and a pearl
handled revolver showed itself, from its home, the extravagantly 
tooled holster. 
Ben shifted his gaze upwards again to the stranger’s face and focussed 
on his eyes which, although they seemed to be wide open, were 
wedged between a pair of bushy eyebrows big enough to be small 
welcome mats above, and twin rolls of fat fuelled cheeks below. 
But the eyes didn’t look threatening and his mouth with strangely 
puckered lips parted in a contrasting effeminate smile were indicators 
of his neighbourly intentions, even if it was the middle of the night. 
Ben slowly became aware of his wife leaning against him and peering 
over his shoulder. 
‘Like I said’ the stranger continued, ‘Just being neighbourly. Say, is 
that your pretty little wife there? I guess I’d better introduce myself 
properly. Always forgetting my manners, that’s my trouble. I am 
Henry Rimstock. Folks just call me “Hank”. And you’ll be…?’ 
‘Erh, I’m Benjamin, that is, Ben, and this is my wife, Sarah. Mr and 
Mrs Sherman that is.’ Ben became aware that he was either beginning 
to stammer or gabble but couldn’t quite work out which. Maybe both. 
‘Well, now,’ said Hank. ‘Ain’t that nice and I’m guessing you ain’t 
from around these parts.’ 
‘No, we’re on holiday. Driving across Texas. We’re from England.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
5  
‘You don’t say. Well, this is my lucky day. I just love your accent. 
Whereabouts in England?’ 
‘London. North London.’ Ben was sure he was developing a stammer 
now. 
‘Well, ain’t that a thing. You being from London and me having a 
cousin there. Say, how about inviting me in and we can talk about this 
and that. Fancy that. London eh.’ 
Neither Ben nor Sarah could think of a way of not allowing their 
caller inside except that it was the middle of the night. There were 
three steps up to the door and while Hank was talking, he had already 
climbed two of them. Ben and Sarah felt themselves forced back 
inside with Hank close behind. In a matter of moments, the three of 
them were seated around the drop-down table with the remaining cans 
of beer. 
Hank started talking, although he’d never really stopped; just paused 
while he ducked his head coming through the door. 
‘Well, well. My, my. London you say. Small world. We got a little bit 
of London not so far from here in Arizona. Yessir, London Bridge.’ 
Ben just couldn’t help himself. 
‘Yes, we know all about that. People said it was a con. Some bloke 
thought he’d bought Tower Bridge when he’d actually bought London 
Bridge.’ He stopped before he could say anything else as Sarah 
stamped savagely on his toes. 
‘You know what?’ Said Hank. ‘We laughed like hell. Wouldn’t have 
happened to a Texan. But London Bridge is London Bridge. Ain’t that 
a fact. The guy built a whole town and a resort around it. That’s the 
kinda thing that makes this land great. God, I do love the way you 
guys talk. Say, do you know my cousin? Stanley Bradford. Works in 
some bank. Some place called Cannery Wharf.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
6  
Sarah leaned forward. 
‘That’ll be Canary Wharf. Nothing like Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. 
Canary Wharf’s the financial centre of London. We’ve never actually 
been there so I’m afraid we haven’t met your cousin.’ 
Looking straight into Hank’s face she could tell that Cannery Row and 
John Steinbeck meant absolutely nothing to him. 
‘But you, Hank. What about you? Where are you from?’ 
‘Me, I’m Texas born and bred from a little town not so far from here. 
Got a good church there with a pastor who can stir your soul. Yessir. 
All good Christian folk.’ 
‘We thought this might be your land.’ Said Sarah. ‘We were worried 
that we might be trespassing.’ 
‘Lord bless you ma’am. Nope. This ain’t my land and if it was then 
you’d be welcome.’ 
Ben chipped in: ‘I wondered if you were the Highway Patrol just 
checking who we were.’ 
What Hank probably thought was a manly guffaw sounded to Ben and 
Sarah more like a nasal whinny which set his whole upper body 
rippling. 
‘Do I look like I’m the law? Why, I ain’t got no badge or a star so I 
can’t be, can I? Now, you just keep right on talking ‘cos I love 
listening to you folks.’ 
‘What would you like us to talk about?’ Asked Ben innocently. 
‘Say what Ben. I ain’t the law and I ain’t the owner of this land so 
there is no way I can order you off. You see what I’m getting at? Now 
that you know me you could just tell me to fuck off in that wonderful 
accent of yours and I’d be gone in a flash.’ 
‘What? You really want to hear me say that?’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
7  
‘Yes Ben. I really, really, really want you to say it. Say it like you 
mean it. Go on.’ 
Sarah looked at Ben. 
‘Well, maybe you’d better say it. Tell you what. We’ll both say it 
together. Nice and loud. On the count of four. One. Two. Three. Four. 
‘FUCK OFF.’ 
They never heard the twin explosions a split second apart. 
Hank blew the smoke from the pearl-handled revolver’s barrel. 
‘I ain’t got no badge and I ain’t got no land but I got this little beauty. 
No one tells me to fuck off. That makes four this year and don’t it feel 
good.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
8  AIN’T GOT NO STAR 
The Texan sun was just considering settling down at the far reach of 
Interstate 10. The campervan, mobile home or RV carrying the 
English couple trundled along, eating up the miles and drinking the 
petrol, or “gas” as they had to remind themselves it was called here 
whenever they stopped to refuel. 
This was their holiday of a lifetime. East to West across the vastness 
of Texas. It wasn’t the Route 66 on a Harley that he had dreamed of 
but it wasn’t so hard to talk him out of that when they both discovered 
line dancing. And then they both got hooked on country music. That’s 
what really tipped the scales. Country music. Suddenly, Texas called. 
She leaned over her husband’s shoulder. 
‘You’re drifting a bit. You’re tired. Let’s take break.’ 
‘It’s this road. Straight as far as the eye can see.’ 
‘Well, we said we wanted to go West’ she quipped. 
‘I bloody well know we’re going west. I’ve had that sun in my eyes 
for hours so I don’t need a compass to tell me what direction we’re 
going in’ he snapped. 
‘Well, let’s pull over anyway and have a cup of tea.’ 
Grudgingly he nodded in agreement and then added; ‘I’d sooner have 
a beer.’ 
‘Not with the laws in Texas you won’t. Even having a bottle open in 
the cab is an offence.’ 
‘What, even if I haven’t drunk out of it? Come on. You’re having me 
on.’ 
‘Yep.’ She put on her best drawn out Texan drawl. ‘Well. My, oh my, 
what have we here, sir? You know that’s a violation? Why, I could 
have you behind bars in the blink of a gopher’s eye. That’ll leave this 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
1  
little lady all alone with this fine veeheercal.’ She dragged out the 
word “vehicle” as long as she could, just savouring the sound of it. 
‘And there ain’t no town within the best part of thirty miles of here. 
Now, what do you’all think about that, sir?’ 
‘Alright, I’m pulling over. Get us a bit further in off the highway 
before we park. Wouldn’t want to cause an obstruction’ he added 
sarcastically. 
‘How tired are you really?’ 
‘Pretty much zonked and I’ve got one hell of a headache.’ 
‘So, why not park here and I’ll rustle up some supper and we can stay 
here overnight. It’ll be dark soon anyway. We don’t have to keep 
going to find the nearest town and then a camping site and…it won’t 
cost a penny to park here.’ 
‘But this land must be someone’s. Shouldn’t we ask permission? He 
added. 
‘Can you see anyone? Is there a house within sight? Come on, just 
drive off the road a little way. It’ll be fine.’ 
‘What if the Highway Patrol sees us?’ 
‘God, you worry. What are we doing wrong? Better to be able to show 
we’ve common sense enough to know how tired we are. And, if it’s 
technically trespass, we just apologise and, if we have to, we move 
on.’ 
He drives the vehicle off the highway where it bounces a fair bit, 
creates a mini dust cloud. Avoids some holes and finally comes to rest 
parallel to the Interstate 10. 
Sitting outside on their camping chairs they witnessed a glorious 
Texan sunset but all of a sudden there was a loss of heat as the chill of 
the semi desert night closed in. 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
2  
As soon as they were inside he said, ‘Can I have that beer now?’ 
‘Well, we’re not going anywhere tonight. You don’t intend to sit in the 
cab with it do you?’ 
‘No way.’ 
He opens the fridge and brings out the chilled beer and listens with 
satisfaction the whooshing of the gas escaping as he opens two cans. 
‘It’s not like what we drink in the pub, but it hits the spot.’ 
He looks at the can with the word “Light” emblazoned on it. ‘I know 
why the Yanks always buy six packs and it’s not a reference to their 
finely honed stomach muscles either. It’s because most of their beer is 
so weak compared to ours that they need six cans where we would 
only need a couple of pints. Meanwhile I think we’d better turn in. 
Early start in the morning and the sun’ll be behind us. About an hour’s 
drive and we’re bound to find a good old-fashioned diner for a good 
old-fashioned American breakfast. I might need something to work up 
an appetite first though. Help us to get to sleep.’ 
‘Dream on cowboy, dream on.’ 
‘Ben. Ben. Wake up.’ 
‘What is it? I’m not in the mood now. Go back to sleep.’ 
‘Ben.’ She shakes him hard. There’s a sense of urgency. ‘There’s 
someone outside. There are lights. I heard a car coming.’ 
‘For crissake Sarah. Look out the window and tell me what you see. 
It’s the middle of the night.’ 
Sarah kneels on the bed and peers through the curtains as the inside is 
lit up by a vehicle’s headlights. 
‘What do you think he wants?’ Whispers Sarah. 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
3  
‘How the hell would I know?’ Ben whispered back. 
‘Maybe he’ll drive off.’ Said Sarah, more in hope than anything else. 
‘Why don’t we just ask him. Excuse me, but we were just wondering 
if we could help you. Yeah, that should do it. And why the hell are we 
whispering?’ 
‘There’s no need to be so sarcastic all the time.’ 
They both froze as they heard footsteps moving toward the van. Boots 
crunching on sandy gravel followed by knuckles rapping on the door. 
‘Anyone at home?’ That was a genuine drawn-out Texan accent. ‘I 
saw you parked up here and thought I’d pay you a visit. Just being 
kind of neighbourly like.’ 
‘Just a moment’ called out Ben. ‘Where the hell are my jeans?’ 
‘Where you left them, on the floor.’ 
‘I’m not going out in my underpants.’ He whispered. ‘Why are we 
still whispering? He knows we’re in here. I just called out to him. You 
know what Yanks are like. Over friendly. Always need to talk. Maybe 
he is just being neighbourly like he says.’ 
‘You think he’s bringing us a welcome apple pie at this time of night? 
Go and see what he wants. I’ll join you when I’ve put some clothes 
on.’ 
Ben moved hesitantly to the door. He took a deep breath, put on what 
he hoped was a friendly smile and opened the door. 
‘Hello. What can I do for you?’ He eyed their visitor from top to toe. 
He was large. From his white Stetson down to his scuffed Cuban 
heeled boots. His waist, if such a thing was to be found, was 
stretching the stitching of the buttonholes of his plaid shirt to within 
its tested tolerance with dark hairs visibly attempting to reach the air 
from the neck downwards. Not that there was much neck. The 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
4  
visitor’s head gave the appearance of sitting on his shoulders and the 
double, or even treble chins did nothing to dispel the illusion. There 
was the hint of a beard either in the process of being grown or simply 
a manifestation of his forgetfulness or rather loose relationship with 
bodily care and general hygiene. 
The non-existence of his waist was a thing being exhibited with pride. 
A large, very large, gunbelt was wrapped around it and a pearl
handled revolver showed itself, from its home, the extravagantly 
tooled holster. 
Ben shifted his gaze upwards again to the stranger’s face and focussed 
on his eyes which, although they seemed to be wide open, were 
wedged between a pair of bushy eyebrows big enough to be small 
welcome mats above, and twin rolls of fat fuelled cheeks below. 
But the eyes didn’t look threatening and his mouth with strangely 
puckered lips parted in a contrasting effeminate smile were indicators 
of his neighbourly intentions, even if it was the middle of the night. 
Ben slowly became aware of his wife leaning against him and peering 
over his shoulder. 
‘Like I said’ the stranger continued, ‘Just being neighbourly. Say, is 
that your pretty little wife there? I guess I’d better introduce myself 
properly. Always forgetting my manners, that’s my trouble. I am 
Henry Rimstock. Folks just call me “Hank”. And you’ll be…?’ 
‘Erh, I’m Benjamin, that is, Ben, and this is my wife, Sarah. Mr and 
Mrs Sherman that is.’ Ben became aware that he was either beginning 
to stammer or gabble but couldn’t quite work out which. Maybe both. 
‘Well, now,’ said Hank. ‘Ain’t that nice and I’m guessing you ain’t 
from around these parts.’ 
‘No, we’re on holiday. Driving across Texas. We’re from England.’ 
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5  
‘You don’t say. Well, this is my lucky day. I just love your accent. 
Whereabouts in England?’ 
‘London. North London.’ Ben was sure he was developing a stammer 
now. 
‘Well, ain’t that a thing. You being from London and me having a 
cousin there. Say, how about inviting me in and we can talk about this 
and that. Fancy that. London eh.’ 
Neither Ben nor Sarah could think of a way of not allowing their 
caller inside except that it was the middle of the night. There were 
three steps up to the door and while Hank was talking, he had already 
climbed two of them. Ben and Sarah felt themselves forced back 
inside with Hank close behind. In a matter of moments, the three of 
them were seated around the drop-down table with the remaining cans 
of beer. 
Hank started talking, although he’d never really stopped; just paused 
while he ducked his head coming through the door. 
‘Well, well. My, my. London you say. Small world. We got a little bit 
of London not so far from here in Arizona. Yessir, London Bridge.’ 
Ben just couldn’t help himself. 
‘Yes, we know all about that. People said it was a con. Some bloke 
thought he’d bought Tower Bridge when he’d actually bought London 
Bridge.’ He stopped before he could say anything else as Sarah 
stamped savagely on his toes. 
‘You know what?’ Said Hank. ‘We laughed like hell. Wouldn’t have 
happened to a Texan. But London Bridge is London Bridge. Ain’t that 
a fact. The guy built a whole town and a resort around it. That’s the 
kinda thing that makes this land great. God, I do love the way you 
guys talk. Say, do you know my cousin? Stanley Bradford. Works in 
some bank. Some place called Cannery Wharf.’ 
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6  
Sarah leaned forward. 
‘That’ll be Canary Wharf. Nothing like Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. 
Canary Wharf’s the financial centre of London. We’ve never actually 
been there so I’m afraid we haven’t met your cousin.’ 
Looking straight into Hank’s face she could tell that Cannery Row and 
John Steinbeck meant absolutely nothing to him. 
‘But you, Hank. What about you? Where are you from?’ 
‘Me, I’m Texas born and bred from a little town not so far from here. 
Got a good church there with a pastor who can stir your soul. Yessir. 
All good Christian folk.’ 
‘We thought this might be your land.’ Said Sarah. ‘We were worried 
that we might be trespassing.’ 
‘Lord bless you ma’am. Nope. This ain’t my land and if it was then 
you’d be welcome.’ 
Ben chipped in: ‘I wondered if you were the Highway Patrol just 
checking who we were.’ 
What Hank probably thought was a manly guffaw sounded to Ben and 
Sarah more like a nasal whinny which set his whole upper body 
rippling. 
‘Do I look like I’m the law? Why, I ain’t got no badge or a star so I 
can’t be, can I? Now, you just keep right on talking ‘cos I love 
listening to you folks.’ 
‘What would you like us to talk about?’ Asked Ben innocently. 
‘Say what Ben. I ain’t the law and I ain’t the owner of this land so 
there is no way I can order you off. You see what I’m getting at? Now 
that you know me you could just tell me to fuck off in that wonderful 
accent of yours and I’d be gone in a flash.’ 
‘What? You really want to hear me say that?’ 
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7  
‘Yes Ben. I really, really, really want you to say it. Say it like you 
mean it. Go on.’ 
Sarah looked at Ben. 
‘Well, maybe you’d better say it. Tell you what. We’ll both say it 
together. Nice and loud. On the count of four. One. Two. Three. Four. 
‘FUCK OFF.’ 
They never heard the twin explosions a split second apart. 
Hank blew the smoke from the pearl-handled revolver’s barrel. 
‘I ain’t got no badge and I ain’t got no land but I got this little beauty. 
No one tells me to fuck off. That makes four this year and don’t it feel 
good.’ 
©Ian Robertson 2026 
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