Brian Lister meets Jacqui Winn

Brian Lister and his family, having already planned a holiday in Sydney, Australia, were delighted to realise that Jacqui Winn, the winner of Biscuit's 2007 Flash Fiction competition, lived only 200 miles north of Sydney: a short distance by Australian standards.

Brian and wife Anne were able to drive up the Pacific Highway one day, through national park regions and the Hunter Valley, and meet Jacqui and her husband Brian at their home in Possum Brush (only in Australia!), and present Jacqui personally with her winner's cheque of value £1,000 converted to a bankers draft for over $A.2,400 dollars!

The picture shows Jacqui Winn (pictured by Brian Lister) on the front verandah of her home, high on a hillside overlooking the deep valley with the ocean in the near distance.

Jacqui won Biscuit's 2007 Flash Fiction competition with her short short story, Nothing Happens.

Nothing Happens

Each night, from the moment he leaves the house, nothing happens. She's certain of that, even before he's gone. After all, she's his mother and she should know.

Just before eleven, the back door slams. She looks up from the late night cops and robbers. Then listens until his footsteps have disappeared along the gravel path before fixing her gaze once more on the television.

She's tired and aches for bed. But if she turns off the television too soon, she'll start wondering where he's gone, what he's up to. And then it's a sleepless night for sure.

Her daughter tells her over and over that it's way beyond a joke. He's pushing forty, for goodness sake, and still sponging. Except when he's away, as she likes to put it. Then, the minute they let him out again, he's back on her doorstep and she's pleased as all get up to see her boy come home. She starts in with the roast dinners and ironing his shirts. He's full of promises, full of intentions to repay her. One day. And that's when she knows he's got a heart. He's a good boy for all that. And that'll carry her through when things start going missing again.

Only last week, her mother's gold bracelet was gone and she cried for hours. But the day after, he turned up with a handful of gold chains and spread them out on her bed. She knows it's not the same, but he's trying. That's what she'll tell her daughter when she finds out. That goes to prove it, she'll say. Deep down, he's a good boy.

The television is still blaring when she wakes at the sound of the door, just a quiet click this time. Her neck is stiff and her right arm is numb from where she's been slumped in her chair. She listens to his footsteps down the hall, the raw sound of him pissing in the toilet bowl and the creak of his bedroom door. And then she knows she can go to bed.

Daylight has barely touched the curtains when she hears a banging on the front door. She scrambles out of bed, stumbles into her slippers and drags her arms into her dressing gown. She's slow to open the door, wondering for a moment if he's awake. Then she puts a hand to the lock and pulls the door open just a crack. Enough to see the police officers she knew would be there. Enough to hear them ask the usual.

One of them begins to speak when he hears what she hears. A window sliding. The thud of landing feet. Both officers take off around the back of the house.

She waits in the open doorway. The usual routine. They'll come back round the front in a minute or two. Empty-handed or otherwise. Either way, she'll tell them the same thing. She'll tell them, as God is her witness, he's a good boy at heart. He's been home with her all night. Nothing happened.

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