 
Imagine There's No Heaven

A Novel by P M Harrison

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Copyright 2014 by P M Harrison.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hill Farm house, 44b Wappenham Road, Helmdon, Brackley, Northants, NN13 5QA

 Published by PM Publishing 2014. For further information visit PMHarrison.com

Acknowledgements

As an author I'm constantly amazed by the people around me who help me to keep writing, to keep creating new ideas, and to keep finding inspiration. I'd like to thank Kim Sheard for her help on Imagine There's No Heaven, for keeping me writing when my motivations were lacking, and for making sure my writing was on point. I'd also like to thank Jean Karlsen, my muse and constant source of inspiration.

Finally, a huge thank you to all the men and women who fight to keep us all free. You are all heroes and my heart goes out to you all.

# A Fire Through The Night Sky

"This is Private First Class Johnson. We're taking heavy fire. Falling back to—" Johnon's voice was silenced as a blast erupted from beneath the jeep. The vehicle was tossed through the air. Time seemed to slow its galloping pace as the vehicle spun in midair. Daniels' neck cracked against the window. Blood burst over his shirt. Was it his own blood? He couldn't even tell.

With a thundering crash the roof of the jeep impacted on the ground. An orgy of metal tore through the air. Daniel's body was pounded into crippling agony. He found himself lying on his back on the hard sand. "Are you okay?" He spat out blood. No one answered.

Daniels tried to move, but his body was dead weight. He could see the shadows sweeping over the sand as the enemy approached. The shadows crawled over him like a vulture. He waited, knowing he was out of options. A sharp weight stabbed into his chest and a foreign voice yelled a command.

Base would soon know Daniels' squad had been taken. Johnson's message had been cut off. That meant one thing to whoever was listening: Either the entire squad had been killed, or they had been captured.

Being a soldier meant your every move was tracked, analysed and interpreted. Within minutes, news of Daniels' capture would be spread. And not just through the base. The news would be leaked; on the internet, on the news, spread by journalists sitting at computers, waiting to turn this tragedy into a story for mass consumption. And what would become of Daniels? As with all soldiers, he knew his life now hinged on the verdict of an official sitting at some office desk thousands of miles away. He muttered a prayer beneath his breath as two enemy soldiers grasped him about the torso. A fist hammered his head. All fell to black.

* * *

Thousands of miles away, Imogen Cormun's back was burning as she completed her fiftieth pull-up in the basement of her suburban home. Her trapezius glimmered with sweat. Her black tank top was drenched. Her mind was in full-on military mode. She thought of herself like Jekyll and Hyde, only without the evil and murder. Part of her brain was all military. The other part was all family. Trying to merge or even balance the two was impossible.

"Just a couple more," she urged herself, pulling every ounce of energy from her body.

A news reporter could be heard from the TV in the background. ". . . from what we hear, the attack occurred just a couple of hours ago," the reporter was saying. "No news yet regarding the welfare of the squad, led by one Lieutenant Daniels."

Imogen let go of the pull-up bar and dropped gracefully to her feet, turning to watch the TV.

"In a press statement, General Swanson called this an unprovoked attack on our soldiers. It is, 'An inexcusable act of war,' said Swanson, who was quick to add that the army will 'Do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety of the troops.' Precisely what Lieutenant Swanson meant by this, we have yet to discover. And now over to sports, it's been a big day for. . ."

Imogen eyed her phone as it rang. She knew who it was.

"Cormun," she voiced in cool, metallic tones. Usually she spoke softly, effeminately; that was the voice of Imogen, but the voice of Major Cormun was strong, crisp, precise and always to the point.

"It's Swanson," the deep, resonant voice of the general boomed through the earpiece. "You've heard the news?"

"You're sending troops in?"

"Immediately."

"And you want me in?" She knew the drill all too well.

"Damn it, Cormun, you know I don't want you in. If I had any other—"

"If you had any other choice you'd send someone else... I guess you're all out of choices, then. When?"

"We need you at the base right away."

"On my way."

She hung up then immediately dialled another number. "It's Imogen," she said.

"Oh god, Imogen, Swanson isn't calling you in on this one, is he?" It was Roy, her closest and oldest friend. "Does Jerry know?"

"He will soon. Listen, Roy, I need a ride."

"I'll be right over."

It was amazing how quickly and absolutely her life could be turned upside down. Two minutes ago she had been Imogen Cormun, wife and mother of one, a regular woman—well, except for the fact that she was doing pull-ups at twelve thirty at night. Now, she was once again Major Cormun, a soldier deployed to fight for her country. Two minutes. Two utterly life changing minutes. She sighed. This is what you signed up for, Imogen. Pull it together, she ordered herself.

It was with a heavy heart that Imogen marched up the stairs and entered her bedroom, where Jerry sat on the bed, dressed only in a pair of white briefs. His head was in one hand, a glass of water in the other. His downturned expression made clear that he had already heard the news.

"Why couldn't you just say no, damn it, Imogen," he muttered weakly.

"You know why," she said.

"Because Guy deserves to grow up in a world where people will fight for each other, where freedom is protected—yeah, yeah, I know the rhetoric, Imogen. But they could have sent someone else."

"They chose me. It's my duty to go."

"Your duty is to Guy. Your duty is to this family."

"And to my country. Lietenant Daniels and his men could be murdered, Jerry. If I can do anything to help them then I must."

"You're not a one woman army, Imogen. You're a mother, for god's sake, a mother; a mother of a three year old child."

"Jerry, for God's sake, you're one of us. You're a soldier too. You know the deal."

"Yeah, but I'm not a mother," Jerry barked. "Your son needs you."

"Jerry, I'll probably be back in a few weeks."

"Don't you dare, Imogen. Don't you dare give me that rose-tinted glasses bullshit." He tossed his hands in the air in defeat. He knew she was going. He knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He was fully aware of how utterly irrelevant he was in this picture. And, if he was honest, he knew it wasn't Imogen's fault. He knew she had no choice. He just hated it. "When are you going?"

"Roy is on his way right now."

"Now?!" Jerry gasped. He scrunched his hair up in anger, leapt up and paced up and down the room in desperation. "I'm calling Swanson. I'm telling him you can't go. I'm telling him they've no right to send the mother of a three year old child, that—"

"Jerry, stop," Imogen said, wrapping her arms around Jerry. "You know I have to go. You know this is the life I signed up for. There isn't a choice, Jerry. I'm sorry." She held him closer. "Listen, baby, I love you so much; so very, very much..." Sshe kissed him on the lips.

Jerry couldn't speak. He just nodded his head. Reluctantly, Imogen turned from him. "I love you."

Making sure the door didn't squeak, Imogen tip-toed into her three year old son's bedroom. She nearly collapsed when she saw him lying there, so blissfully unaware with his thumb in his mouth.

Her heart was beating harder than it ever had in her life. She couldn't believe she was saying goodbye. When would she see him again? She could not possibly know for certain. Either way, it would not, could not, be soon enough.

She leant over the bed. Guy was sound asleep. His soft, round face was clearly far away in some fairyland. Imogen wished she could share with him the innocence, safety and wonder of whatever little dreamland he was floating in, but her duty wasn't to share, it was to protect. Somewhere between the pain in her face and the joy in his lay a twisted threshold between two realities, held together by a bridge she was not sure would take her weight. Her throat was tightening as she fought to hold back the tears. She realised she wouldn't be able to look at him as long as she would like. She couldn't risk crying and waking him and she was already on the brink. What would happen were she to let all the emotions come streaming out? She'd be certain to wake Guy; then he would start crying; she would pick him up, cradle him in her arms and rock him back to sleep, but once she was holding him she would never be able to let go.

Knowing she had to be quick, she reached around her neck and removed a set of dog tags. She didn't know why she was giving them to him. It just felt right. They were the same ones her father had given her when she was young, and she had thought about him every time she put them on. They were like an eternal bond. It was with hope that Guy would think of her and know how loved he was every day that she wrapped them around his neck. She couldn't help but wonder whether Guy, like his two parents and Imogen's mother and father before them, would eventually find himself in the occupation so dominant in the family.

'Look after daddy for me, hey, my little soldier?' She kissed him on the forehead and stroked his hair. How long would it be before they met again, she wondered? And his face, how much older would it be? How much would she miss? What adventures, what accidents, what laughs, what cries, what days, what hours, what stories? A tear rose in her eyes and fell on Guy's thin yellow blanket that he always cuddled in bed. 'I love you,' she stated simply before mustering all her might to turn and march out of the room.

She hurried down the stairs and out the front door, where her old friend Roy sat waiting for her in his truck. He had a cigar in his mouth, as always, and his face, which looked far older than it was, was wearing the same reassuring smile as ever.

'They'll be fine,' said Roy in his thick, low voice. Imogen couldn't respond. Roy tapped her on the leg sympathetically before hitting the throttle. The truck sped her away from home.

# Never Forgotten

Guy awoke in a cold sweat. He'd been dreaming about the day his mother had left, yet again. Fifteen years he'd dreamt about it, but never with such realism as the past few months. His nightmares had grown worse and worse. They had been so bad lately that he had insomnia from fear of getting to sleep. His head felt so heavy he could barely lift it. He wondered if he should go to a doctor, but he wouldn't risk having his father find out. Jerry was bound to know what the issue was and wouldn't tolerate being reminded of Imogen and the mistakes of the past. Guy's burden was his to bear alone, of that he felt certain. He lived with the pain every day.

He'd left his letter in bed with him, he realised. It was dangling over the edge. He slapped himself on the forehead in frustration. Can't I even look after her letter? Guy chastised himself. It was his most cherished possession. It had been sent from Imogen years ago, but his father had only given it to him when he turned fourteen, as his mother had instructed. He read it every night, as one read a prayer. Thank God it wasn't damaged; he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. He picked it up, kissed it at the top, folded it carefully and filed it in a shoebox on a shelf above his bed.

The alarm clock was still buzzing like mad. He hadn't heard it in his sleep. It was a quarter past eight. He'd woken half an hour late.

'Oh for...' he hissed as he sat up in a hurry. His abs were burning with pain. He lifted his shirt. Despite the sadistic levels of exercise and the countless reps he'd done with the weights over recent months, there was still a little pillow of fat at the bottom of his stomach. The rest might have been ripped, but that tiny bundle of fat meant he still wasn't good enough. Imogen had been completely ripped. He had to try harder. He massaged his abs firmly, promising himself to work out more intensely next time. Everyone at school said his physique was sick, but if that was the case why wasn't he perfectly chiselled? They all said he looked like a Mixed Martial Arts fighter, but he liked to think that his shaved head made him look more military than that; his attitude was pure military, of that he was sure. He never let himself rest, was always sharp and on the point, never backing down, never thinking twice, a true combatant. That was what Imogen had been, that was what he would be; only not for the government; no, not for them. He had his own cause.

His computer beeped, telling him he'd received a new email. He sat up, took a gulp from a tall glass of water, moved to the stool by his desk and clicked through to his messages. The most recent one had been sent from 'www.warnomore.net'. It read,

As requested, here are the travel times for today's protest. We hope to see you there.

'Shit,' he said, leaping up so quickly he nearly tripped over his feet. He only had forty minutes before the next train left. He kicked his way through a pillar of clothes strewn on the floor and grabbed a pair of jeans and a hoodie as he headed out of the room. He sniffed at his armpit and grimaced; it reeked. Still, he didn't possibly have time to wash, that'd have to wait; he had to be there before the organisers began the march. He hurried to grab his large green rucksack, along with his copy of Tommy Franks' American Soldier, and dashed out the room, down the stairs, and into the street.

The train was busy and bustling as businessmen hurried along to their nine-to-fives. Hearing them talk of numbers and figures as though maths were some critical issue repulsed Guy. He wondered if they'd ever faced a true problem in their lives, one that couldn't be solved with a calculator. One of them looked him up and down scornfully as though he didn't belong. Clearly they felt the same way about him as he did about them. Guy eyed the man threateningly; the man lowered his head timidly and returned to crunching whatever numbers he had been buried in. Guy laughed mockingly under his breath. He didn't mind the man's cowardice; what he minded was the gall of the man to judge him then back down so weakly.

Not about to endure the burden of the chatter of phone calls and the disparaging grimaces he attracted all the way to the city, Guy chose a seat in the train's quiet zone, next to an old man who was silently asleep, his jaw hanging open as though he'd been sedated. He was probably the smartest one aboard, Guy thought, to not be concerned with the superfluities of day to day life.

He was glad he had chosen the quiet zone; the journey was a peaceful one. The only sounds were the whirring of the train itself and the constant tapping of fingers on keyboards. The only view for miles and miles was a singularly coloured green canvas of fields, broken up every few hundred metres by tall billboards advertising phone plans, movies, concerts and anything else that involved flashing lights or noise. It was a bizarre combination of empty land and ultra commercialism. Bored, Guy hummed a little tune to himself, scratched at a burn mark on his hand and reached for his copy of American Soldier. He sank into the book, wondering to what degree the truths it spoke had affected his own family.

It seemed ridiculous that the words of a famous American, whom he had never even seen in person, could reveal to him truths of his own family, but that was the nature of things these days. Had it always been the nature of things? Guy wondered. Was there ever a time when the order of life wasn't handled by the government? Was there ever a time without war? Had life always been about struggling to get by? His head grew heavy again as the thoughts came. He closed his eyes and faded into a doze, only aware of where he was by the tapping of keys, the slow and steady snores of the man next to him and a thought at the back of his mind that all was not quite as it should be. Wait, he thought. It wasn't a feeling at the back of his mind. It was a voice, a woman's voice. He recognised it. He had to listen very intently but he just managed to discern the words, 'Get off the ship or...'

The voice vanished as Guy felt a heavy finger tapping at his leg. The train had come to a stop.

'Excuse me, sir, but this is the last stop,' said the train inspector.

'What?' Guy muttered beneath his breath in surprise. He opened his eyes to find himself in a hustling, bustling city centre. 'Oh, sorry.' He threw his rucksack over his shoulder and left.

It was a quick walk to the meeting point, or rather it would have been were it not for the constant weaving in and out of people, the absurdly long wait at every set of traffic lights and a lady who had said she recognised Guy only to later proceed into a survey about life insurance. This shit is mad, Guy thought. The buildings and roads were finely organised into rows and columns yet the people were randomly bumping into one another, driving the wrong way down one-way streets or sitting in the middle of the pavement begging; there was no order, just architectural lines.

Guy always found the city alien. The shoppers and businessmen were completely wrapped up in their own little bubbles, deluded into believing the whole world was in their phone or laptops. No one had time for one another, so it seemed. Were it not for his personal motive, he would very rarely bother to venture to the city centre at all, but whilst he might not have had much love for the people or the concrete and glass, he couldn't deny that the city centre was the place to be for anyone wishing to spread a message¯ unless, that was, they could afford one of the billboards that decorated the train tracks. And boy did he yearn to spread a message. Unfortunately, getting people to listen was always an uphill battle and his army was pathetically few in number: just a few protesters scattered here and there, all too easily drowned out by the hustle and bustle of city life.

Some of their faces were painted, some of them black, some of them white, some happy, sad, angry; some held signs, some held children, some were silent, some were singing, some were strangers, some were friends, but all were passionate. The energy of the protestors felt like a pulse racing through the body; it worked its way up Guy's spine, igniting every muscle with life. Guy felt his muscles tightening the way they did when he was in a fight. He felt raw and masculine. To Guy, a protest was a moment of release when the pain, anger and anxiety came pouring out. He was looking for someone to share the feelings with when a most welcome voice called through the crowd.

'Hey, Guy.' It was a deep, booming voice that Guy had grown most fond of over his years. He turned to find one of the dearest men in the world to him; middle-aged now, with a thick, bushy white beard. He was standing beside an old, clapped-out van. The poor vehicle looked like it might collapse at any moment. The man opened his arms lovingly and his huge mouth rose into a broad grin.

'You got room for one more?' said Guy, peering into Roy's big brown eyes. Roy held his hand out. Guy shook it with much pride and vigour.

'Strong as ever, I see,' said Roy.

'Pah,' Guy spat, 'aint nothing yet.'

Roy eyed the dog tags around Guy's neck; his eyes flicked with sadness momentarily. There were stories in those big pearly eyes that Guy would love to hear; stories of his family; stories of protests; stories of Roy himself, who had become a surrogate uncle to Guy. If only he could sit for hours and listen to Roy just chatting away, perhaps then he'd have answers, but this day was not about Guy and his family. Sooner or later, his day would come, he believed, but not yet: he had his duty to perform.

Roy clapped two giant palms together and laughed with joy. 'Come, give me your pack.' Guy handed him the rucksack. 'There's water and snacks in the van if you want anything.' Guy shook his head.

Looking about the city centre, Guy couldn't help but feel disappointed. 'Where is everyone?'

'Well, you might well ask,' said Roy, leaning out of the van with a couple of cookies in hand. He offered one to Guy. Guy shook his head. Roy smiled, 'More for me.' He bit indulgently into his cookie as though it were the most exquisite treat. 'Anyway,' Roy continued through a mouth full of food, 'I guess now that the initial hype about this war has died down people are getting on with their lives.' He coughed into his hand¯ he'd had a bad cough for as long as Guy could remember. 'Who can blame them, ay?'

Guy grunted beneath his breath and took a look around. It was amazing to him how contrasting the faces of the protesters were to everyone else. The protesters stood erect, looking lively with a spark in their eyes that he guessed was the result of truly believing they could change things. Everyone else looked consumed, defeated, as though they believed they could change nothing but their own thoughts, which he guessed was why they were all so self obsessed.

'Hello there,' called the southern accent of a middle aged woman who had walked over and was now leaning against the van, causing it to tilt to one side. She was a rather large woman, wearing a floral dress that Guy found to be particularly unsuitable for the occasion. Still, she certainly had the spark of life in her eyes.

'Ah, Guy, it's been a long time since you've seen Julia,' said Roy.

Julia gave a little bow, which Guy returned. She was a very sweet looking lady. She had her blond hair in a beehive, held in place with a very humble white hair band. Two long silver earrings dangled down past two very plump cheeks to lips heavily coated in a rose lipstick. She was certainly not a typical protester. She reminded Guy of one of his old school teachers; the kind and caring type whom he couldn't anger even if he tried, which he often had.

'Julia hasn't been able to make the last few protests,' Roy continued. 'She's recently recovered from a broken leg.' Roy shook his head mockingly at his wife. 'Well, if you will go mountaineering, I don't know.'

'Mountaineering,' Julia repeated, laughing hysterically. Guy chuckled politely. He always hoped that he came across well to Roy's wife, if only as a matter of respect for Roy himself. 'I guess I must be making mountains out of molehills then.' She poked Guy playfully in the side with her elbow. Guy didn't know what he ought to say and so just smiled.

'Right; are we all set?' Roy asked, checking the scene. He ducked his head into the van and came out holding a tray of coke cans. 'Anyone?'

Julia and Guy shook their heads.

A metallic drumbeat sounded up ahead as one of the protest organisers smashed two trashcan lids together.

'No more war,' a woman screeched.

'Ah, here we are then,' said Julia as the procession began to march.

'Hey, Roy,' Guy called over the noise. 'I'm going to go up ahead for a while.'

Guy pushed his way to the centre of the protest, where he could feel the energy most. His view was all of feet marching and signs bouncing up and down, and his ears were filled with voices chanting, 'Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home.' They were too quiet though, he could sense that. They needed more: more volume, more energy and more passion. They had to fight, Guy thought; fight their way through the bullshit of everyday life that civilians were caught up in until the energy of their message ignited the core of the passersby. It was like fighting a guy in the ring. You wear him down. Jab, jab, dodge and weave, let them come to you. Jab, jab. Wear him down. And eventually he starts to rock. Finally he loses control and then BANG! You deliver the blow, the blow that ends the fight and changes the course of history. Right now, the protest was just a big softy. The people on the street just kept walking right on by, blissfully unaware. Guy clenched his fist in anger. 'They're not even paying attention for God's sake, look at them.'

A young woman stood next to Guy turned and gave him a knowing smile. 'The sign of a good protest,' she chimed in.

Guy looked at her questioningly. She didn't get it. Guy could tell she'd never been touched by war herself, unlike him. War hadn't torn her life apart and robbed her of a home. She didn't even look emotional. He'd show her. 'Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home,' Guy yelled at the top of his lungs. The girl covered her ears. 'Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home.' He hurled his voice into the air with all his might, yearning with every fibre of his being to get some recognition, some sign that the people realised the importance of the message. Every moment that passed without a reaction made his blood boil more. He felt the tension in his eyes that came when he lost control of his emotions; it was the same possession that came over him when he found himself in the clutches of the boxing ring, the haven where he unleashed all the pain he had been keeping pent up inside. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it. It was raw, uncontrollable aggression. Without thinking, he grabbed one of the signs above him out of its owner's hands and started thrusting it in the air. 'Bring our boys home. Bring our boys home.'

Guy stopped in his tracks when he felt a small object hit him on the side of the head. He felt in his hair. There was nothing there. Again something hit him. He turned.

Two drunkards were standing outside a bar at the side of the street, taunting the protesters.

'Go home,' they jeered.

One of the men picked some peanuts out of a bag and hurled them at Guy. 'Na-wan gives a shit 'bout yer damn war. Fuck off!' he laughed. He picked up a bowl to throw.

Guy jumped out of the crowd, nearly decapitating many of his fellow protesters with the sign in his hand. The men at the bar continued to taunt. The taller of the two men, who also happened to be very muscular—not that that concerned Guy—stepped forward and thrust his chest out, preparing for a fight. Guy held the sign he was carrying against the side of the road. His foot slammed down on it, holding it in place as he tore the placard off, leaving the wooden stake exposed. He held it like a club above his head, ready to strike.

'Come on, you drunken twat. Come on! I'll take you and that fat shit heap of a mate of yours. Come on!'

'Guy, get back here,' Guy heard Roy calling from a distance. Guy ignored him and continued to advance on the drunkard. He pulled his fist back, ready to attack when Roy yelled at him in desperation.

'What would your mother think?'

Guy instantly stopped in his tracks as though transfixed. Roy ran up and grasped the sign out of his hands. He held it with the stake lowered safely toward the ground. He placed a hand around Guy's shoulder and pulled him away from the drunkards, who spat a slur of insults and laughed mockingly at them.

'Just ignore them,' Roy ordered, pulling Guy away, but even Roy froze momentarily when the two drunkards threw an empty glass bowl at them. It just missed, smashing on the ground, shattering into a million shards that tinkled as they settled on the road. Roy took a deep breath and fought the urge to turn around and face his assailants. 'Come on,' he insisted, forcing his own fighting instinct out of his system. 'Let's get you out of here.' He held his hand wrapped tightly around Guy— lest his young friend do something he might regret—and led him away from the bar.

Roy had taken Guy to the train station's coffee shop to sit quietly for a while in the hope of calming him down. The voice on the speakers boomed a time of departure as a whole horde of monitors scrolled through data. Guy's train would be leaving in fifteen minutes.

Guy was still breathing shallowly from anger and his big, muscular arms were flexed tight, but he was over the worst. The demonic glare in his eyes had subsided to a much calmer gaze. It was just a matter of time now before he fully regained his composure, and besides, it was hardly the first time Roy had seen him angry. He had seen Guy in his bad times and, though all too rare, he had seen him in good times too; Roy only hoped he might help Guy make those good times more frequent and help him see the good in his life.

Guy's cup of coffee was nearly empty. He looked across to the waitress. She was an insanely hot Hispanic girl. Her legs were long, thin and toned; her hair smooth and jet black; she looked cute as anything in her little black blouse and she had a torch-like fire in her green eyes that was as enticing as it was intimidating. Any other man would go crazy trying to impress her, but not Guy. To Guy she was just another nine-to-five zombie.

'Can I get you another?' the waitress asked in overtly sultry tones, hoping to grab Guy's desire for more than just a coffee.

'No thank you,' Guy answered resolutely, not wanting to enter into any playfulness. The waitress was slightly taken aback by Guy's aloofness. She took a moment to eye him over as though she were evaluating him, then grinned presumptuously before turning to Roy and asking, 'And you, sir?'

'I'm fine, thanks.'

She took a pen from her pocket and began writing something on a napkin. She folded it up, handed it to Guy and left. Roy looked at it inquisitively.

'It's her phone number,' said Guy, not needing to actually look at the napkin to know the deal; no good looking woman could resist a man that flat-out ignored her. Guy might not have had much time for women, but that didn't mean he didn't know what pushed their buttons. 'And no, I won't take it.' He leant back in his chair and eyed the waitress with narrow eyes. He shook his head as though he were quite offended at her presumptuousness, not because he was, just because he thought she could do with a little humbling; arrogance was not on the list of traits he liked. He was sure it was the first time she had gotten such a reaction. To ignore her as part of the game was one thing, but to clearly state that he was not only not interested but offended too was a move that confused her as much as it offended her.

'You sure you're feeling all right, kid?' asked Roy.

'I'm not interested.'

'Guy,' Roy said resolutely, placing his elbows on the table and locking eyes with his young friend. 'You have got to start to live a little. Go and say something to her, huh?' Guy eyed him dubiously. 'Why not?'

'I can't.'

'What do you mean, you can't?'

'I just can't. I've no right to.'

Roy groaned disappointedly, then placed a heavy hand on Guy's shoulder and said, 'Kid, everyone has a right to live and to think of themselves now and then.'

'She didn't.'

Roy swallowed hard. He felt so much pain for Guy. He would do anything to help him. Even if he were not Imogen's son, Roy would care a great deal about Guy, mostly for his fighting spirit and strong heart, but being of the Cormun family effectively made Guy a relative to him. 'Guy, you have to understand something,' he advised. 'What your mother did, she did because she wanted to. She went because she believed in a cause, because—'

'Because no matter what happened to her it made a good statement, is that it?'

'It was her job.' Roy slapped his hand on the table in exclamation.

'Yeah, it was her job and it was dad's job too. And she went and he stayed.' Guy knew Roy would like to slap some sense into him, for his own good. He couldn't blame him, but he couldn't change history either, nor could he change how he felt about that history.

Roy placed a hand over Guy's on the table. He wanted Guy to feel him, to know he was there. 'Your parents did what they believed was best for you,' he said, 'both of them. Besides, Imogen would never allow your father to—'

'Allow?' Guy interrupted. 'What do you mean "allow"? He's the man. He should have done something.'

'Should have done what? Forced her to go against what she believed was right?'

'He should have been a man.'

'He was a man. He is a man.'

'Yeah, well I never would have let her go.'

'Yeah, well you don't know—' Roy bit his tongue.

'I don't know who?' Guy begged. His hand was scratching at the table. His teeth were grinding. Anger had gripped him once more. 'Who?' A tear rose in his eye. 'Say it,' he demanded.

'Guy, I love you. For God's sake, I love you like you were my own son.' Roy took a deep breath, hoping to buy some time through which to allow the tone to settle. 'I'm telling you, with God as my witness, that your father would have done anything to go in her place.'

'Then why didn't he?' Guy wiped his eyes and laughed bitterly to himself. It was all he could do, to laugh; to laugh at the impossibility of his situation.

'Guy, he simply couldn't.' Roy eyed the sky as though seeking some divine help. 'He did what he could. He couldn't stop them sending the summons, nor could he stop your mother from leaving. He did everything he could; it just wasn't—' he wanted to say it wasn't enough, but he knew that would just make Guy even more bitter. He breathed deeply and fingered his pack of cigars on the table. How he wished the bloody smoking laws hadn't changed. 'Do you know how much your father fought with her to make her stay? He asked if he could go in her place, nearly grovelled, but—' he paused, rubbed at his face, bit his tongue and took a moment before continuing '—your mother was stubborn. Hell, she could be stubborn as a mule.' Guy eyed him a caution. 'I'm sorry Guy, but it's the truth,' Roy insisted. 'Think about it. Do you really think your mother would ever change her mind? She was given the summons, not him. He begged her to stay, but whilst she was thinking like Major Cormun, there was no way he could change her mind.' He took a final gulp of coffee and pushed his cup aside. 'I pity him; caught between a woman with determination and a government with an agenda.'

After a few moments, Guy grabbed his rucksack, stood up and swung it across his shoulder. Roy eyed him as though he were about to speak but fell silent. Guy wished he could thank Roy, wished he could tell Roy how good a friend he was, wished he could open up, but he was too tired. The life was drained from him. Unable to speak, he stood, indicated to the station platform with his head and left. All Roy could do was let him go.

Julia came in soon after that. She had realised they were chatting personally and waited outside. Once Guy had left she came and took a seat with her husband in the booth. She wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek.

'He'll be okay,' she said. 'He'll be okay.'

# Crashing The Party

Gina's garden was set for a small party. The barbecue was spewing smoke into the air, along with the delightful rustic scent of char-grilled meat. This mixed with the prim and proper tones of Gina's fellow school teachers and friends and the chirps of birds in the background to create a picturesque spring day.

The table was laid with bottles of wine, bowls of salad and plates of meat. Gina knew how to make her guests feel welcome, that was for certain. She came skipping into the garden carrying an iPod and two speakers. These she set up at the side of the table. 'Sorry, it took a while to find and download Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings in C major for you, Philip,' she said. Kevin raised an eyebrow dubiously. 'Don't worry, Kevin, there's plenty of Guns & Roses on here too.' She laughed.

'Sounds great,' said Philip. 'Would you like a hand with that?'

'Oh no,' said Gina, connecting the speakers. 'It won't take a moment.'

Philip nodded his giant head of thick brown hair before returning to his bottle of lager.

Gina hit the play button and turned to Sally. Sally was the newest of the teachers, who at five-foot-two was completely dwarfed by the others. She was particularly sensitive about her height and always wore the tallest heels possible to compensate, but there just weren't heels tall enough. Gina always felt bad looking down on her, especially from her six-foot frame. She slumped in her chair subtly to make herself shorter. 'But yes, I wanted to say....' Gina was cut off when an overly enthusiastic violin note came blaring out of the speaker. Sally squirmed and ducked her head in a panic.

'Oh, I thought it was a wasp.' She twisted her thin brown hair and smiled shyly as everyone broke into laughter.

Gina turned the speakers down, melting Sally's wasp into a slow and melancholy elegance of sound that rather hovered in the air like a butterfly. 'But yes, I wanted to say,' Gina began, 'it isn't really like I've had these two weeks off. I might not have as many exams to mark, but I am busy as anything preparing next term's work.'

Sally took a sip of wine and nodded. 'Oh it must take an awful lot of preparation, working with students like that,' she agreed sympathetically. 'And then you have to wonder if it ever goes in. I mean, they never listen.' She humbly lowered her brown eyes. She used to work with troubled students herself, and Gina knew well enough that she had not had a good time of it.

'Oh, you can get through to them,' said Gina. 'It's just very different.' The entire table was listening to her now. Her students were always a very popular subject, no matter what one might think of them. She raised her voice. 'Often it isn't even the teaching material that they pick up. It's much more personal than that.' Her cool grey eyes clouded over as though she were lost in deep thought. 'They just need encouragement, that's all.' She lifted her head and smiled confidently. Most teachers, and indeed parents, looked down on her students and couldn't understand why she was so fiercely proud and protective of them. She believed in them in a way no one else did, and they loved her for it. Kevin strode over to the table, laughing sarcastically. Gina covered her face with a hand to hide her embarrassment. She knew too well what he was going to say. 'Oh yeah, they need encouragement all right,' he jested. 'Encouragement to leave their weapons at the metal detectors and their—'

'Drugs in the car,' Gina finished. 'Yes, very good, Kevin.'

Sally and Kevin laughed heartily, but Gina was less than pleased. She hated that Kevin didn't take her work seriously or respect her students. Philip didn't look too impressed either. He glared at Kevin admonishingly for a moment but soon let his emotions calm and smiled politely.

'I don't know why you can't respect them.' Gina thrust her chin forward in annoyance, resting her head on her hand with an elbow on the table. 'It's not their fault they've been through a rough time in life.'

'Well, I'm sorry, but you have to recognise the facts.' Kevin eyed their guests for signs of agreement; most hummed approvingly.

'Oh please, please, inform me of the facts,' Gina scoffed.

'Well, for instance, what about the story of that kid¯ if you can call him that¯ that murdered that poor girl just a few months back.' He jabbed his finger into the table as though he were making an irrefutable point of which he was particularly proud.

'That was one isolated case, hundreds of miles away,' Gina pointed out. 'You can't take that to speak for every troubled student. Besides, it's a failure of society, not some freak incident.' She ran her fingers through her shoulder length thick blond hair, trying to distract herself, though she knew Kevin wouldn't let up; he was almost as opinionated as she was.

'Yes, I have to agree with that.' Surprised to find anyone other than Kevin speaking, Gina's eyes darted along the table, searching for the voice which had agreed with her. Impressed at what she found, she smiled and said, 'Thank you, Philip.'

'Well, now, I don't know,' said Sally. 'I mean of course society can help to remedy troubled students, but you surely have to recognise that their behaviour is at fault.'

Gina was surprised at this. She glared at Sally sceptically, momentarily forgetting she was a guest. 'At fault?' said Gina.

'Gina, let it go,' Kevin warned, his voice having become far more sincere.

'Oh, goodness, Kevin, I'm not about to start an argument,' Gina scoffed, oblivious to the changing moods of those around her. 'Now, let me give you an example of what you call being "at fault".'

'I don't wish to cause an argument, Gina,' Sally pleaded, holding her hands out as though to ask for peace.

'We're just having a discussion, but now, please, if I may. Let me give you an example.' She pointed with a finger the same way she did when she wanted to make a point at school. 'There's this one student of mine, Guy Cormun, who lost his mother to war when he was three.'

'My goodness, Gina,' Kevin implored. 'I swear; if I hear you speak of this Guy any more I shall be quite jealous.'

Kevin, Sally and Philip all laughed, but Gina still held the same sincerity in her expression. No surprise. After all, it was that resolute sincerity that made her so good at her job. 'Anyway,' she continued, 'he lost his mother to war, and naturally that has affected him greatly. He's spent his life feeling alone and insecure, and obviously that sets him apart from other students. So you tell me; when he gets angry at others at school, when he can't just call a joke a joke, when he, heaven forbid, hits someone because they have quite genuinely hurt him on an emotional level, whose fault is that? Is it his fault or the result of a war that left him motherless?'

After a moment's silence, Philip said, 'Well, it's both. You have to recognise the societal cause but you certainly cannot ignore the behaviour of the individual.'

'I agree absolutely, Philip,' said Gina. 'And that is why we have to work from both ends. We have to work with the student emotionally, on a personal level, and also on the more traditional educational level. When one has been removed from society, for whatever reason, you have to bring them back together from both ends, but you can't treat them differently. You can't make them feel like an outsider. No, they must be brought closer to society, not further away.'

'Gina, he hits people,' Kevin sombrely pointed out. The guests eyed him questioningly. Sensing their disapproval, he massaged his chin in thought, shook his head and said, 'Well it's one thing to help him out, certainly, but why on earth should he be at a school where he is a threat to other students?'

Gina shook her head. She wished Kevin could get it, but where she placed blame on society, he placed it on the individual, and sometimes, bringing those two worlds together seemed impossible. The intellectual, philosophical war was why there were still 'special groups,' why Gina herself was never quite seen as a traditional teacher and why young and troubled people like Guy still felt alone. And she couldn't help but wonder what hope she had of changing things when she couldn't even bring those opposing forces of individualism and collectivism to peace in her own home. 'Excuse me,' she said, grabbing a few dirty plates from the table for an excuse to retreat to the house.

#

# A Flower in the Rough

The school bell echoed throughout the hallway. Doors flung open and a stream of students flowed out like a tide, instantly filling the hall with noise. It was like a mini city. There were the academic rich, with iPods and laptops in hand; the emos, checking themselves in mirrors, oblivious to their surroundings; the geeks, shy and stumbling nervously; the jocks, the poor kids, the posh, an entire society of students. Then there was Yasmin. She was a bit of everything: confident but compassionate, intelligent but fun loving and less than wealthy in reality but with more than enough style to cover for it. That was why she was so popular; that and her good looks. She was petite, with long brown hair and a pretty face, and always wore an enrapturing smile. Put simply, it was hard not to like her, a factor which unfortunately brought with it a great deal of attention from boys, whom she generally tried to politely ignore; her popularity allowed her to be picky. She must have said 'Hi' to a dozen passersby within a few minutes of entering the corridor. All smiled in return. She knew she was lucky. Her popularity granted her a great sense of security that many students would kill for.

'Whoa,' she suddenly screeched. A football flew past her face, kicked by one of two jocks running down the hall. She nearly dropped her books in fright.

'Sorry, babe,' the boy called.

'No problem, babe,' she jokingly called back. Her voice was firm but light and melodic, like a flute. It was yet another of her charms. She brushed her hair back behind her face, straightened her top back to perfection and proceeded to the end of the hall.

The door at the far end of the hall led to the school library. Yasmin entered.

It was a very humble library; only a few isles of books to cover all the school's subjects, and its decor was less than impressive, just wooden shelves, a childish light blue wallpaper and the help desk off to one side, manned by Tina, a young woman in her early twenties whom Yasmin knew personally and who had recently graduated with a degree in English.

Yasmin dashed out of sight when she heard the gruff voices of the very muscular, arrogant and aggressive Naz and his sidekick, the heavily overweight and obnoxious Mikey, coming down the hall. They were regarded as two of the school's absolute worst bullies; a title they wore with pride. Much to Yasmin's displeasure, she had gained a great deal of Naz's attention after nursing wounds he had suffered in one of his very frequent fights. She darted over to the help desk to keep out of sight and handed her books to the librarian. She soon felt guilty though, for a weak, pleading voice confirmed that the attention Naz could have been giving her was instead being focussed on terrifying the hell out of a boy, probably one of the younger, nerdy kids. Knowing Naz, the boy would be frightened out of his wits for weeks.

Gina rubbed her notes off the blackboard, lay the chalk in its tray and turned to her students.

'So, just try to read the chapter I assigned before our next class, please.'

She counted heads. Some twenty-five were focussed on her, the remaining students being busy doodling in their notebooks, chatting to one another, fiddling with their phones or just gazing into thin air as though they were hallucinating, which Gina realised was perhaps not as unlikely as it sounded. Still, she had the attention of perhaps three-quarters of her students, which was a good result at any rate.

The bell rang. 'Not yet,' she ordered, banging a ruler on the table so she was heard over the noise. 'Not yet.' She picked up a textbook from her desk and held it high for all to see. 'Chapter seven by Monday, yes?'

The class mumbled a vague understanding before thirty or so chairs made a hellacious choral scrape and all but one of the students dashed out into the hall. Guy remained slumped over in his seat in the centre of the classroom, all by himself. His eyes wore dark bags as though he had just woken up from a long sleep. Where all other students were desperate to leave, he appeared desperate to stay, or at least to not move. He picked his legs up and draped them over his table. His head lay still on his chest as though it were dead weight.

He was fingering the dog tags around his neck. The almost inaudibly quiet tinkle of metal on metal sounded more like an alarm bell to Gina. She had come to recognise that when Guy was preoccupied with his dog tags he was invariably thinking painful thoughts about his family. That meant she needed to be patient and strong. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to relax completely, to allow all thoughts of lessons to subside.

Finally, Guy stood and rather dawdled over to Gina, a discouraged look on his face. He was a rather bizarre creature at that moment. His chiselled physique, that seemed to have the strength and energy for mountain climbing, bumbled over as though he were as weak as a toddler. Gina eyed him sceptically.

'Everything all right?' she asked. He didn't respond. 'Did you have a good break?' He lifted his tired eyes to face her. 'I haven't seen you for a while, what have you been up to?'

Guy remained silent. He was half asleep.

'Hello,' Gina called. 'Guy?' Guy nodded his head so slowly Gina couldn't be sure if he was responding or drifting off. Most likely he was fishing for attention, even though she always gave it freely. 'Okay, Guy, you have my attention. How can I help you?' Guy grunted something beneath his breath. Gina sighed in frustration. 'You know, a conversation is a lot easier if you say something too.'

She knew that Guy knew she had a soft spot for him and for his story and often were the times he used that to his advantage. She would allow it no more. 'Well, if you're just going to stand here quietly for a change then perhaps I might finally be able to talk to you about your grades,' she boomed, feigning an anger she did not feel. She leaned over her desk. Her thin waist pulled at her shirt, accentuating her form. Guy took a quick peek and bit his lip. He pretended to be looking elsewhere when Gina took a sheet of paper from a file and turned to face him. 'Your grades are slipping, Guy.' She tapped her pencil on the page, 'And I don't understand why. You're a bright kid.'

'Thanks,' Guy sarcastically retorted. He didn't believe her.

Gina set her pencil down and rubbed heavily at her eyes. Sometimes it upset her so much to not know how to help Guy. And at times he could be cruel. At times he would play upon her pity, feeding his own sense of worthlessness. It were as though he were frozen in time. He simply would not allow himself to move on, to become the successful and gentlemanly young man she knew he could be.

'Well, anyway,' Gina said, changing the tone. She brushed her hair behind her face. That grabbed his attention, at least to a degree. 'What did you do this week? I missed you,' she offered sweetly.

Guy's eyes lit up a little. He wasn't sure how he felt about her but he did love to know she was thinking of him.

'Oh, nothing much,' Guy finally muttered. Trying to get him to open up was like pushing smoke uphill.

'Well, did you study?'

Guy snorted and shook his head. 'Nah.'

'Guy, come on,' Gina pleaded. 'You know you are capable of so much more. And to be honest, if you don't start working now, you're not going to pass the course.' He didn't respond. 'I think I deserve a break here, Guy,' she snapped, momentarily losing her cool, something no other student could make her do.

'So take one,' was his all too quick retort.

She knew he was just trying to make her emotional. He needed the emotional advantage in order to make himself feel equal. And she had to maintain authority, even if sometimes she didn't want to. The back and forth battle created a tension that made both teacher and student feel more alive. And if Gina were honest, she enjoyed it, but she knew she could not allow it. 'You know, there was a report of vandalism at the bus depot last night,' she reluctantly stated, stamping her authority into the conversation.

'You're suggesting I did it?' Guy begged. Gina held his gaze resolutely. 'You doubt me?'

'It's just a question, Guy.'

Guy was taken aback. Gina never put the blame on him. She must have been changing her strategy. He tried to remain silent, but the idea of Gina blaming him for something was infuriating. She was the one person who had always had faith in him. Still she was eyeing him questioningly, even demandingly. His face grew red and his lips started to twitch as they did when he felt put-on-the-spot. 'Well?' she ordered.

'What?' Guy spat. 'I didn't do shit.'

Gina jumped in her skin at Guy's anger, but soon calmed. She trusted him. His aggression was really just a defence mechanism to keep him from getting hurt; she knew that; she was one of very few people who did know that. That was largely why it was hard for Guy to talk to others on a personal level, because whether or not he intended to, he inevitably ended up threatening them. She moved to the other side of the desk and took a seat, if only to put space between them and let him cool off.

'Gina, I'm sorry,' he offered sincerely. His eyes were held low in shame.

'It's okay, Guy, but I do need to know if you were involved.'

'No,' he said, shaking his head, but his blue eyes flared with a tension that was worrying to her. 'I wasn't there,' he pleaded, noticing her doubt. 'I had a fight.'

'You mean a fight or a fight?' Gina asked nervously, gripping the edge of the table for support. She eyed him sternly, letting him know she wasn't going to be pushed over.

'A real fight; at the gym,' he said, wrapping an arm about his shoulder and massaging the muscle as he tried to stop his anger from rising.

Gina nodded a cautious understanding, lent back in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair as she thought of the best response. She didn't entirely agree with boxing, but it was certainly better than fighting in the streets. 'I have another fight this weekend if you want to come,' Guy offered.

'Really, Guy, I don't think I should.'

'Why not, you've been before?' He rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck to the side. He wondered if she were changing. He always worried Gina would end up thinking the worst of him, like almost everyone else. He couldn't understand why she wouldn't watch him fight anymore. She used to and she had enjoyed it. Her support had pushed him to get stronger. Gina pursed her lips and nodded her head slowly as she fought for the right words. 'Yes, and I'm glad, but it wasn't the right thing to do.'

He gazed at her quizzically. 'What do you mean, "right"?' He clenched his fist. 'It's a boxing match, a sport, for God's sake. Jees, what happened? You lose your soul over the break?'

Gina folded her arms across her chest and eyed him warningly; she wasn't about to allow him to speak offensively to her, even if he was upset. 'No, Guy, but I have a responsibility here at the school.'

'The fight's out of school.'

She smiled. 'You know, if you would argue about history the way you argue about everything else, I don't think we'd have much of an issue with your exams.' She picked a pen up and began tapping it lightly on the table. 'Now, let's return to our actual work, shall we?' she pleaded. Guy held the palm of his hand up as though to say Proceed.

'In ten weeks time you have to retake your Vietnam exam and finish your American History dissertation.' She paused. 'Guy, what is it that keeps you coming back to school?'

Guy fingered his dog tags. Gina swallowed unconsciously.

'I want my mother to....' His voice died out as his throat thickened. 'I mean, if she were here. Well....'

'It's okay, Guy,' Gina relieved him. 'What I mean is....' She paused as her chest thumped, the same way it always did when she thought of Guy succeeding with his work. That one little triumph for her as a teacher and— more importantly even to her—to Guy as a young man instantly sparked all her passion and hope. She bit down hard on her emotions. 'You can pass these exams, Guy, I know you can. You can succeed, but you have to realise that these exams are important. In ten weeks time, do you want to be proud of what you have accomplished or disappointed in yourself?'

Guy thought for a moment before whispering, 'I want to feel good about it all, but....' His breathing became short. He took a moment to steady himself, cleared his throat, nodded and said, 'Yeah, I want to feel good, but I'm just not a scholar. I'm a fighter, born and bred.' He ran his finger down his dog tags. 'I'm a fighter, like her.'

'She fought because she had to,' Gina blurted out. She hid her gaze as she suddenly panicked; she rarely spoke directly of Guy's mother, but something was grabbing at her and she couldn't stop herself. She wanted so badly to help him come to terms with things. Besides, she wasn't saying anything he didn't already know. 'She was a medic. She only became a medic through studying, Guy. You have to see that there was so much more to her than war; so much more to every—'

'Shut up,' Guy yelled. He paced up to Gina at the desk, his finger pointing down at her venomously.

'Guy,' Gina warned. She felt his intense glare upon her like a weight around her neck. She had to fight with all her might to hold her strength and maintain her authority.

'Shut the fuck up.' He hurled his fist down hard into the table.

Gina gasped in horror; not because of Guy's anger, but because he didn't even feel the pain in his fist. Was he so accustomed to pain he didn't even notice it anymore? She bit her lip and forced herself to calm down.

'Gina, 'I'm so sorry.' Guy pleaded. His tone and expression had suddenly flicked to sympathy and sorrow as he noticed how upset he was making her. 'I can't help it.'

The two of them stood still and silent for several minutes before Gina took a deep breath, sat upright in her chair and said, 'How about we go over some work?'

Guy nodded. 'Okay, that sounds good.'

Thank God, Gina thought, an easy subject. 'Right,' she clapped her hands together, regaining her composure. 'Here's what I suggest. I'm going to give you one unit, just one, okay?' Guy nodded. 'We'll go over it now then you revise it, ask me if you are stuck on anything, and then we'll see how you're doing next week, okay?' He nodded again. There was a light in his eyes now, as though the argument had energised him. She didn't know whether to be glad or upset, but either way, she wasn't about to waste Guy's seeming willingness to get some work done. 'I know you can do this, Guy. Prove it to yourself. Then—' she paused for thought but finally resolved '—if you do this, I'll come watch you win your fight on Friday. Is that a deal?'

Guy beamed the most sincere smile he had shown in weeks, and Lord knew it meant the world to Gina. It affirmed to her that she was on the right track, no matter how beaten the path might have been.

'Gina, Kevin is outside.' Gina turned to see Mrs Haines bent double over her bag, holding a hand to the small of her spine. She was arthritic and suffering from old wounds. 'He says he needs to talk to you about tonight.'

Mrs Haines did a double-take when she saw Guy. She looked at the clock then at Gina suspiciously but said nothing. Gina's eyes glared with concern.

'Okay, Guy,' she said, trying her best not to stutter. 'You understand what you have to do?' She nodded suggestively to Guy. Why did it have to be Mrs Haines? She was such a dragon. Gina could easily gain a reputation if Mrs Haines got the wrong idea about her being in a class alone with Guy. Thankfully, Guy was present to the danger.

'Chapter seven by next class, right?' he broke in.

'Yes, that's right, Guy.' Thank you, she silently whispered.

'Okay, thank you, Mrs Green,' said Guy, impersonating the bored but aware tones of what Mrs Haines would deem to be better behaved students; the sort she was more likely to accept being alone with a teacher in the classroom. Mrs Haines eyed the textbook on Gina's table; a rather old and battered text about Vietnam. She stood nodding her head for a few moments, as though involved in a silent conversation with herself, then turned and left. Guy waited a few moments before allowing his good boy smile to fall back into a more sincere frown.

'Go running to your man,' he muttered bitterly beneath his breath.

'Pardon?' Gina spat in surprise.

'Nothing,' Guy said, grabbing his bag and marching off. He stopped just inside the door. 'Hey, Gina,' he said, approaching her once more, a new found optimism about him. 'Will you tell me about yourself sometime? You said about your father....' He pretended to stutter a little for emotional effect. He sure could be a player when the mood struck him, which was very rarely. 'I know I shouldn't really ask but, well, I think it might help to have someone to talk to about emotional stuff, you know?' He gazed at her with eyes half puppy-dog half boxer. It was a very peculiar and alluring mixture.

Gina took her time in answering, trying to remain as professional as possible. 'You know I have commitments to keep here, Guy,' she reasoned. 'I can't just spend all my time with you, much as I might like to. I have obligations. '

'You'd like to?' he repeated cockily.

'Oh no,' Gina implored, 'I didn't mean that. I meant....' Guy was grinning wildly. Gina opened her desk draw and busied herself with papers. 'I really must be getting on with work,' she implored. 'I have commitments to keep.'

'Well, if it is easier for you, we don't have to discuss things here, we could—'

'I'm very busy, Guy,' Gina hurried to interrupt. For all she new, Mrs Haines could still have been within ear shot.

'I just want you to help me feel good in ten weeks, like you said.'

Gina froze. She was as angry as she was excited. It was clearly against school rules to meet up with a student out of hours, but if it would truly help him to regain his life she knew she would do it. After a moment, Gina took a quick glance out the door to check no one was approaching and said, 'Look, I can't promise anything, but—' she took one last moment to consider the consequences of her actions '—come see me in a couple of days. We'll discuss things.'

Guy was feeling a rare sense of pride when he left Gina's classroom and headed into the hall. Not only had he felt a strong connection to Gina¯even stronger than usual¯but he believed he could pass his exams, a confidence he had not felt in months. And if he could just make himself get the work done this week then he'd have Gina all to himself after his boxing match. He bit his lip. He wasn't supposed to feel as he did about a teacher, he knew that, but Gina was different. She spoke to him like no one else ever had.

'Boss,' Guy heard a too familiar gruff voice bark like a dog. Naz was standing by his locker. Guy pretended he hadn't heard him. He prayed Naz would just let him pass. For once he actually wanted to do some work, if only to impress Gina. He turned to face the other way and kept walking.

Naz slammed his locker closed so loudly Guy couldn't possibly pretend to have not heard. 'Sup boss?' he called again. Guy turned to face him. It was better to keep Naz as a friend than risk him becoming an enemy.

'Hey man, wassup?' Guy responded.

'Boss, you hitting up the town tonight?' Naz's shark-like pearly eyes seemed to gaze right into Guy's soul.

Guy huffed. Already he could sense a war coming. 'Nah, not tonight man. I can't. You know how it is.'

'Say what?' Naz eyed him disbelievingly. He sniffed his nose heavily and swallowed. 'Boy, come out, what da fuck?'

'Sorry bro.'

'Yo don't be calling me bro, man, not less you be coming out, aint it?'

'I've got shit to do.'

'What shit?' Naz demanded. He liked to pretend he owned everyone else's business and was less than pleased when he met any resistance.

'Work,' Guy said sternly. Naz could stamp his feet all he wanted but Guy would never let him walk over him. He was probably the one boy in school who stood his ground against Naz.

'Work, is it?' Naz spat. He began to fiddle with the large chain necklace he was wearing and looked Guy up and down condescendingly. 'Boy, what's your problem?'

Guy laughed. 'Chill out, Naz, blud. I'll be out at the weekend, yeah?'

'Whatever, boss.' Naz's eyes flicked with anger. He held his hand up and turned away dismissively. 'Nah, man. I aint listening.' He must have presumed Guy was going to submit and apologise, even though Guy hadn't budged an inch.

Naz swaggered down the hallway, stopping next to a good looking girl dressed overtly sexually in a short skirt and a white shirt that tightly hugged her breasts. She eyed Naz inquisitively. Naz whispered something to her. She looked less than impressed with him and stormed off in a huff. Naz turned on Guy, his face scrunched up from anger to a point where he was almost dribbling. 'Twat.'

Guy blinked in surprise. 'Yo, what did you just say, blud?'

Naz shook his head in anger and stormed off.

'Shit,' Guy bit beneath his breath. He might not have been concerned about Naz, but Naz had friends, friends who would do whatever he asked, not to mention his family. 'Shit,' he yelled out loud this time, kicking a huge dent in a nearby locker.

'What's the matter?'

Guy hadn't realised it, but Yasmin had been standing just a few feet away, listening in.

'Fuck sake,' Guy mouthed to himself. Why did Yasmin have to witness his battles? He hated the idea of her being around the likes of Naz. She was such a precious and innocent little thing.

'Nothing, Yasmin, everything's fine,' he assured.

'Don't give me that, Guy.' She came and laid her bag at his feet. She wasn't going to go away until she knew he was okay.

'It's just the same old things, you know.' He sighed and shook his head.

'Want to talk about it over a coffee?'

'I can't right now. I have to get some work done.'

Yasmin raised an eyebrow. 'Work?'

'Oh my God,' Guy laughed. 'Why is everyone so interested in my work?'

'Maybe because I've never heard you talk of work before. Good for you.' She brushed her long brown hair back behind her head. 'Well, how about we go for a drink tonight? I mean once your work is done, of course.'

'You've never seen me work. It's not a quick process.' He grimaced.

'Well, I'd better at least see you on Thursday, soldier.'

'What?' Guy snapped. Yasmin froze. 'What the hell did you just say?' She didn't respond. '"Soldier"? Is that supposed to be funny?' He peered scoldingly into her downturned eyes. 'You know what, Yasmin, maybe you should mind your own business once in a while, yeah?'

Yasmin held a hand to her mouth in shock. 'Guy, you....' She pursed her lips and shook with sadness. 'You've never spoken to me like that before. What's going on?'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' Guy pleaded, turning his gaze away and massaging his forehead. 'It's just... mum,' he whispered.

The two stood gazing at each other for several moments before Yasmin broke the silence. 'It's okay, Guy, I understand,' she said, taking his hand. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.'

Guy was amazed. 'You understand?' Yasmin nodded. She squeezed his hand. It was warm, reassuring. It was human, truly human. He didn't feel alone. 'Talk to me about it sometime, okay?'

Guy measured her sincerity. She truly was better than the rest. He smiled. 'Yeah, that would be good. I will, sometime.'

# Shattered Families

Kevin turned the cold tap on in the bathroom of the Green's home and splashed water across his face. In the mirror his reflection appeared blurred, though that could have been an effect of the drinking he'd partaken of that night. They'd been out for the evening for one of Kevin's work colleagues' birthdays and he'd lost count of his drink. Gina didn't mind; she'd spent half the night laughing at him. She found his colleagues stuffy anyway and seeing him act like a lunatic around them had provided her hours of entertainment. He only hoped his boss felt the same way.

He took his tie off and unbuttoned his black shirt, folding it across the bathroom door. His foot slipped on a wet patch on the floor and he nearly ended up on his ass but managed to hold himself up by the doorknob. He laughed heartily at himself. Few were the times he was drunk, at least that was what he thought; he had deluded himself into believing he was much better at handling his drink than the average man. 'That James is a real lightweight, hey, darling?' he called to Gina. She murmured a response. She was already lying in bed in the next room. 'I've no clue why, but you put a couple drinks in his system and he's a whole other man.' He squeezed some facial scrub out the tube, massaged it in his hands and washed his face. 'I mean really, how can he think stories about writing a nine instead of a six on a colleague's ledger are funny?' he continued through the foamy soap. He splashed his face clean and rubbed it dry with a towel. 'Really, some people's sense of humour just does not age properly.'

'Yes, darling,' Gina called back. She sounded tired, or bored, it was hard to tell which, at least when drunk. Kevin tut-tutted. 'Tired already? And I thought we might have a little fun.'

Gina muttered something to herself. He couldn't hear what, but it didn't sound as exciting as he would have liked. Never mind, he thought; he'd probably had too much to drink anyway.

'And then there's Jo!' he said, giving up on his optimism. He turned his electric toothbrush on and began brushing his teeth. 'I know you like Jo,' he spluttered, 'but really, does she ever talk about anything except her family? I mean, how many brothers and sisters does she have?' He laughed and spat out the toothpaste. 'And do we really need to see photos of every single building they have ever seen on their never ending journey to wherever the hell they are now?'

'Darling, please be quiet and come to bed,' Gina pleaded.

'Well now, no need to be like that,' Kevin said, passing through to the bedroom whilst taking his trousers off. He chucked them straight into the laundry basket. 'Anyway, I suppose you....' He froze when he saw that Gina was lying in bed with tears in her eyes. 'Oh, babe.' He hurried over and held her in his arms.

'Who cares if Jo's family are a little nuts and only see life through the camera lens? At least her family isn't literally falling apart at the seams.' She held up the torn and tattered pages of the photo album that she had been looking through. She stopped on a picture of an elderly lady sitting in an old rocking chair, only you couldn't see the lady, her image was too faded; only the chair remained.

'This is the wine talking, darling,' Kevin assured. 'Try not to think on it.'

Gina wiped at her eyes. Kevin reached for a tissue from a box at the end of the bed and handed it to her. She dried her eyes. 'Maybe it is the wine letting these thoughts out,' she admitted. It had been the first time she'd gotten tipsy in several weeks and the first time she'd gotten upset for about the same period. Then again, Guy and her other students had been relatively quiet the past few days, permitting her an all too rare opportunity to think about herself. Besides, it wasn't the first time she'd thought with sadness about her past, only she usually didn't have the time to dwell on it. 'No,' she concluded, 'they're the same thoughts I repress every day. I mean look'—she tenderly stroked the edge of a beaten page of the photo album—'it's falling apart, and this book is all I've got. The stories in it are the only ones I'll ever have. That's it,' she sobbed. 'Though, hell, it's not like I've any family left to call me up on it if I make up a few more.'

Kevin took the photo album from Gina, closed it delicately and placed it on the bedside table. 'I know this isn't much consolation,' he said with loving tenderness, 'but you can tell as many embarrassing stories about me as you like.' He squeezed her tightly. 'And besides, it won't be long until we're thinking about starting our own little family, and then we'll get a new story every day.' She stroked his thick brown hair and kissed him on the cheek. 'What would I do without you, Kev?'

Kevin got into bed and placed her head on his chest. She hugged him like a child would a favourite old teddy, trusting in him and allowing his strength to give her rest. At times she could forget just exactly how supportive he was. At times she took him for granted, but when she felt upset there was no man in the world more loving. Gazing into his eyes, all the pain and longing seemed to melt into nothingness. She felt completely supported with his arms wrapped tightly about her. The edge of his wedding ring was digging in lightly just below her shoulder. She wondered whether it would age through the years, like her and Kevin, or whether it would always feel so new, so promising and so fresh with the memories of their wedding day.

It had been a simple wedding¯which was precisely what she had wanted¯ at a church near where Kevin's family lived, with just the two of them, Kevin's family and a few fellow teachers and friends. It had been the perfect day, she realised: simple and pure in spirit, exactly what she wanted from her marriage. The only thing missing had been her own family.

She wouldn't see her family again, she knew that much. It hurt to think about it; she tried not to, but whenever she thought about her future she thought about her past too. She yearned with all her heart for a family. She yearned for the same absolute, unwavering love she had felt for her brother. He was gone, of course, and Kevin was her family now; Kevin and her students; Kevin and Guy. What she wouldn't give to have those two family members to come together. She hoped they would in time. For now, though, it was her and Kevin, and though she wished she could give all of herself to Kevin and to their future together she just couldn't manage to move on without looking back in sorrow. The very idea of living for herself made her feel guilty about her past. So it was that she was stuck; not coming or going, just waiting.

'I just wish I had loved ones I could talk to, about us, about school, about all the little things too. Sometimes I get lonely, that's all,' Gina explained.

Kevin's hold on her loosened. He leaned over and eyed the photo album before turning to Gina and saying, 'Well then, how about you come with me to my parents this weekend?' He knew what she was thinking. 'I'm sure everyone will be fine without you, it is only for one weekend.' Gina's fingernails pinched into Kevin's back in nervous excitement; so few were the times she left home for anything but school, colleagues or students. 'Hell, you've got a phone and a car, what's the worst that could happen?' Kevin encouraged.

Gina closed her eyes and fought to fight back the images of her family that came to mind when she thought of her future and of Kevin's own family, who were so peaceful and cohesive it made her feel ashamed by comparison. She forced the word 'Okay' out of her mouth in a nervous whisper. It felt good. 'Okay, let's do it.'

'Are you sure?' Kevin asked. He had felt certain she would decline like usual and must have heard the doubt in her voice. 'I'll call mum in the morning, she'll be ever so happy,' he hurried to say, hoping he could seal the deal before Gina's concerns got the better of her.

'Sounds wonderful,' Gina whispered. There was tension in her voice. She was fighting back the painful images flooding her mind.

'It will be great, darling, I promise,' Kevin assured. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. She smiled. 'And you know my parents love you.'

Gina nodded agreeably. 'Sounds great.' She turned away from him, deep in thought, and rolled out of bed. 'I'll be back in a minute.' She took a sweater out the closet, put it on and left the room.

# Presumed Dead

Through Guy's dreaming eyes he heard the distant sound of a man sobbing. The same man had been crying for years, Guy realised, but he had blocked out the sound. He had blocked out everything; all his thoughts and visions, all his own tears, even the memories. And now it was all catching up to him. The tears were banging on his door, demanding him to answer. Demanding him to¯

He sat up in a panic. His eyes shot open, or half open at least. They were veiled by heavy sleep. He picked the crust out of his eyes and fought to regain his vision. He must have been in a very heavy sleep. His head felt heavy, clouded over with dreams; he couldn't remember what he had been doing. His throat was dry and something was itching at his skin. He took a large gulp of water and cleared his throat.

Beside him lay the text book on Vietnam Gina had asked him to read. Next to it sat a pen. He must have fallen asleep whilst working. He leant over to see his pad of notes on the floor. He picked it up and put it with the pen and paper on the desk. It was the work that had made him fall asleep, he realised; not from boredom, but rather because every time he read a book on war it brought imaginings of his mother to mind. I've never heard you talk of work before, he heard Yasmin saying in his head. Shit, he thought, he'd completely forgotten he was supposed to meet her. He eyed the clock; it was a quarter past ten: too late. He was about to curse himself when he heard his father crying downstairs. What's he doing? Guy wondered. More worrying still was the fact that Jerry had either gone mad and was speaking to himself or he had someone over late at night. Who? Jerry never invited anyone over. Guy needed answers.

'Shit,' he spat as he leapt out of bed and once again nearly fell flat on his back. I've really got to sort this mess out one day, he thought. He cautiously pulled the door open, so as to not make a sound, and stepped out.

Guy's father was continuing to chat to himself as Guy gradually crept downstairs; he didn't want to be heard, he wanted to know what was going on, who his father could possibly have over at this hour.

'It's not the same,' his father was muttering through tears. 'I could never look after him as well as you did.' Guy heard a bottle being placed on a surface. No doubt his dad was drunk again. He'd fallen for the bottle after Imogen had left. Struggling with the pain of memories every day, it was too easy for him to give in to drink. 'No... I... he really misses you. He needs a mother.' Who the hell is he talking to? Guy begged to know. He stopped in his tracks when Jerry suddenly gasped in surprise. Was he in trouble? Guy listened. 'I know, I know,' he sobbed. 'Yes, I know. I should forgive myself. You're right, I think, but that isn't how he sees it.' He was weeping out loud now.

Mum? Guy whispered to himself. It couldn't be. She'd been gone fifteen years. Guy froze in fright when his father said, 'Imogen, I can't cope without you,' and began to weep. Guy nearly collapsed. He hadn't even realised his father was carrying so much pain with him. He cursed himself. How could he be so hurtful? How many nights had his father sat alone for hours whispering to the memory of his mother? How blind had he been? He turned his face away in shame. He felt he'd no right to look, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop listening.

'You see,' Jerry continued, 'I only ever thought of what was best for us, not you, not my darling.' He fell silent for a moment. 'Bandages?' he quizzed. 'He never fell off again.'

Guy was half angry, half sad. He wanted to be there for his father, but a part of him felt his father had no right to cry. It had been his fault, after all, hadn't it? He began creeping down the stairs once more. He felt he had to see his dad, to see the sincerity of his emotions. He couldn't turn away. He crept closer to the door and peered through the gap.

'Do you think he would be okay with that?' Jerry continued. He took a tissue from the table and silently blew his nose. 'I know you do, and I shall always remember you, my darling. I just wish we could have had some closure, that we could have seen you one last time.' Closure? Guy repeated, wonderingly. 'I mean to not know....' Guy's skin turned cold as though he'd seen a ghost. 'To question whether you were truly gone.' Guy jumped in horror and ran up the stairs.

Jerry had obviously heard movement as he weakly called, 'Who's there?' Hearing no answer he fell back into his chair and wept.

Guy moved straight for the shoebox above his head and emptied the contents, frantically looking for one letter in particular, one his dad had no idea he had taken. His heart skipped a beat when he found the envelope with the governmental seal. He was terrified of the letter. He'd never actually read it. He'd never dared to, but now there was no choice.

Mr. Cormun

The Secretary of Defence expresses his deep regret that your wife, Major Imogen Cormun, has been reported missing in action since 16th August over....

The name of the area she had been serving in was illegible. It was the one part of the letter to be damaged. The letter finished,

Please rest assured that we are doing all we can in our power to discover the whereabouts of Major Imogen Cormun. If further details or other information is received you shall be promptly notified.

Sincerely Yours,

H.I Manson Abj.Gen.

That was all? Guy read the letter again. Secretary of Defence... Imogen Cormun... Missing.... What did they mean she was missing? She was dead. How was dead missing? Dead wasn't missing. Clearly the two were not the same. He bit his tongue. What had happened? Dear God, what had happened? His eyes were staring in terror at the word 'Missing.'

Suddenly consumed by fierce determination, Guy threw the door open, ran downstairs to the kitchen, where his father was taking a glass of water, slammed the letter on the table and yelled, 'Read it. Read it.' He was breathing shallowly. His face was red. His father looked at him in fright. He didn't say anything, but just stood there gawking at him. Guy shoved him aside, grabbed his black hoodie and marched out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Guy couldn't see through the night sky, but thankfully he knew all too well where he was heading. He was heading to his crutch.

The bus station depot was pitch black when he entered. He could only make out the giant brick-like black blocks of buses. He knew Naz and Mikey would be in one of them. He stormed straight through the centre of the depot. He didn't even care that the light was on in the security office. The old security man wasn't about to stop him anyway.

Naz and Mikey were on the top floor of a double decker bus when Guy found them. Naz had a knife in hand and was slashing apart the fabric of one of the chairs. At seeing Guy he jested, 'So, Guy, you finally made it into Mrs Green's pants yet?'

Guy ignored him. 'I need a hit,' he ordered.

'Oh you a big man now, eh?' Naz spat back.

'Naz, just give me a hit. I'll pay you whatever you want. Just give it to me.'

Even Naz wasn't about to argue with Guy this time. Guy's face was venomous, transfixed.

'Yah, yah, okay, whatever you want, boss,' Naz said, passing over a spliff. Guy inhaled deeply.

'What's going on, blud?' Naz asked. His face was about as concerned as Guy had ever seen it. He was still angry and bitter, but somewhere in the mesh of hatred was a glimmer of genuine care.

'Nothing man.'

'Sit down, man. Come. Smoke. Smoke.' Naz was about to sit when the security search light switched on and a door squeaked open.

'Fuck, the guard, what does he want?' Naz yelled, jumping up and running down to the lower level of the bus. Guy and Mikey followed behind.

By the time Guy reached the lower level, the security guard was virtually at the bus. They couldn't possibly make a run for it. They only had two choices: physically stop the old man from dobbing or end up at the station. Guy didn't have to question which option Naz would take.

'Come on then, old man,' Naz jeered, stepping off the bus and advancing on the security guard with his arms wide open, begging the old man to hit him. He laughed menacingly. 'Look at this old cripple. What the fuck are you gonna do, eh, old man?' His eyes were wide with lust for his prey. If there was one thing Naz loved, it was inspiring fear in others.

Realising he was outnumbered and in no physical condition to defend himself, the old man tried to back away, but Naz wasn't about to let him off so easy.

'Nah, nah, don't be running, boy,' Naz heckled. 'You want a piece of me, huh?'

'He doesn't want a piece of you, Naz, it's all cool,' Guy pleaded in as cool a voice as he could muster.

'You got an issue with me, boy?' Naz continued. He always thought everyone had an issue with him. Guy knew what that felt like. When you were as full of self hatred as Naz was, it seemed everyone was your enemy; your own hate for yourself spilled over onto everyone else, and if you were Naz that meant you had to bring them down with force. 'Come on, old man. I don't bite,' he mocked.

Guy stepped closer to Naz. 'Dude, what the fuck?' he spat. 'Back off him.'

The gleam in Naz's eyes had twisted into a frenzied, focused hatred. Anger had possessed him. He flicked his knife out and stabbed it towards the old man, not hitting him, just scaring him.

'Naz, get the fuck off him,' Guy ordered. 'He aint done shit.'

The guard was cowering in fear, holding a pair of shaking hands up to his wrinkled and saggy face in an attempt to protect himself. Naz snapped the old man's arms aside and punched him right in the jaw. He fell down in a pathetic heap, landing in a puddle on the ground. As he impacted, the rain water leapt up off the ground, splashing onto Guy. The ground shuddered, emitting a guttural rumble. Guy planted his feet firmly on the ground against what felt like an earthquake. Then a huge torrent of water suddenly exploded out of the puddle, creating a pillar. It reached high into the sky, a great wave licking the clouds. Then, to Guy's horror and wonder, he saw that there was a figure in the centre of the wave; a human figure, standing at ground level and facing him. Guy wondered for a moment just what exactly he had been smoking. His face was drenched in sweat. He blinked several times, trying to regain his sense of reality, but the vision of the figure in the water remained. Not only that, but it stepped forward. A leg stepped right out of the torrent of water. It was dressed in military slacks and thick black boots, and judging by its size it belonged to a woman.

The figure stepped forward again, this time revealing its chest. It was thin but athletic and clearly female, for the top curved outwards in two breasts, the left of which was adorned with various medals.

Finally, the lady's face was revealed. It was soaking wet, her hair stuck heavily to her head. Her face was pale but strong looking. Two very bright green eyes were glaring directly at Guy. He gulped in fear.

'Mum?' he begged. He collapsed onto one knee. 'Mum?' His face was screwed up in a combination of terror and awe.

Imogen took a step forward and leant over Guy. Her face was the most beautiful he had ever seen. He was mesmerised by it. Was it really her? Finally she spoke.

'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself.' Her voice lacked all love; it was firm, harsh, militant and terrifying.

Guy gasped. His face was growing wet as water splashed from Imogen onto him. He could not find it in himself to move.

'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself,' she boomed once more.

Imogen waited for a moment, standing erect and towering over Guy as though he were a small child. Then she resolutely turned to the side, pulled an old pistol from her belt and pointed it directly at Guy's head, so close that all he could see was the barrel. As she pulled the trigger, Guy leapt up and ran at Naz. He had lost his mind. He was incensed. He punched Naz straight in the face, knocking him to the ground.

Naz spat blood out of his mouth and eyed Guy as though he would kill him right there and then, not that Guy cared.

Naz wiped some blood onto his finger and slowly licked it as though he were testing it. With a wobble he rose back to his feet. He raised his finger, pointing at Guy. 'You,' he whispered with such hatred it were as though he had been possessed by some demon, 'you'll get yours. You are dead. You understand? Dead.' He turned and ran off, Mikey following slowly behind him.

The old man was still down on the ground, clutching at his face. He had cut his eye when he had fallen and his breathing was quick and shallow.

'Are you okay?' Guy said, kneeling down beside the old man. He looked up for any sign of aid only to find that Imogen was now knelt down several metres in front of him, mirroring his pose, and she, in turn, was holding a hand to a downed man. Guy couldn't see his face but he was dressed in uniform. Imogen was applying a bandage to his neck.

In the background, Guy could hear gunshots and explosions. He had no clue what was going on, whether it was the result of what he had smoked or whether he had just gone mad with it all. He turned back to the old man. He would deal with the visions later.

'What should I do?' Guy humbly asked the old man. He gave him the once over. His legs looked as though they had been hit by a bus, they were draping lifelessly across the ground. His grey hair was covered in sweat and the top of his jacket was coated with blood. A badge on his chest read, 'Security Officer: Mick Trent.'

'Well,' Mick coughed into his hand. 'You might want to sort your social life out,' he laughed, wheezing heavily. 'Come on, get me up off this bloody concrete. I need a damn good cup of tea and then some, I reckon.'

Guy laughed politely, though he was scared to death for the old security guard. 'No, really, do you want me to call a doctor?' He put an arm around Mick and helped him to his feet.

'Don't you worry about me,' Mick wheezed. 'You'd be surprised how strong we oldies really are.'

Guy nodded, not wanting to offend the old man. 'You want to go in there,' he said, pointing to the security office.

'I suppose I'd better, yes, though it seems I'm not really cut out for this job anymore.'

Guy didn't respond, but took the old man's weight and carried him back to the office.

'Why do you associate yourself with such bastards?' Mick bluntly asked. Guy didn't know how to answer. 'You've no respect, that's what it is.'

Guy stopped in his tracks. 'I have no respect?' he repeated in shock.

'You, them, hell, pretty much the whole youth of today, no bloody respect,' Mick sighed. The door to the security office had banged shut and was locked. 'Take the key from my belt,' Mick wheezed.

Guy detached a large ring of keys from Mick's belt and began rifling through them.

'It's the red one,' Mick said, pointing with a knobbly finger to one of the smaller keys. Guy shuffled the keys around and popped out the one Mick had indicated. With a bit of a fight, the door clicked and Guy yanked it open.

'Light's on the left there.'

The room was dusty and dank when Guy switched on the lights. The corner of the door was covered in a cobweb. 'You have to work here?' he said, brushing the cobweb aside with his hand.

'Oh yeah, this is fine. Fine for me, this is,' Mick stated with pride, as though he were making a point. He indicated to an old office chair in front of a monitor on which various views of the bus station were flashing on and off. Guy helped him hobble over and sit down.

'Where's the kettle?' Guy asked.

'Just at the back there and there are clean mugs in the cupboard at the top.'

Guy set to making the tea. The kettle was so old its silver polish had virtually turned black with burn marks, and there wasn't any sugar.

'This is no place for you to be working,' Guy muttered, more to himself than the old man, though he got a response anyway.

'This?' The old man laughed. 'Good Lord, you really have no clue, do you? This is luxury compared to some places I've worked in, let me tell you. Even served in the war, did I.' He slapped his hand down on the table with pride for his work space.

Guy's eyes had suddenly lit up at the mention of war and the possibility that the old man might be willing to share his stories. 'Did you see combat?'

'Yes, yes, I saw my fair share and shan't ever forget it, mark my words. Terrible thing is a war; terrible thing.' The old man lowered his head as though praying. Guy turned away respectfully.

On a counter beside the sink sat a photo of Mick in younger days. He was fishing from a small boat on a large lake. He looked like he had worked out. He wasn't ripped or particularly big, but he was certainly fit looking.

'Wasn't always so old,' Mick muttered melancholically.

Guy brought the tea over and handed it to him.

'Thank you.' The old man took a sip and smiled. 'That's a good cup of tea, that.'

'How come you have to work here if you fought in the war?' Guy asked.

'Are you kidding?' Mick rubbed at his chin in confusion and eyed Guy as though he were mad. 'I have to make a living, don't I?'

Guy eyed him quizzically. 'You don't have a pension?'

'A pension?' the old man spat. 'Yeah I got a bloody pension, and I suppose you think I could live off of such pittance, ay? That would be a luxury, let me tell you; bloody life of Riley that would be, wouldn't it? Holy shit, son.' He spluttered a sardonic laugh and slurped his tea. 'You're off in fairyland. We get next to nothing for our years of service. I tell you, the government treats us no better than that friend of yours just did outside.'

'Oh, he is no friend of mine.'

'Ay, well, you say that now,' the old man pointed a finger, 'but you came here with him, didn't you?'

Guy knew there was no answer to that. He reluctantly nodded his head.

'Exactly; you're all here, no bloody respect, smashing up these buses. It's a disgrace. You've no sense of honour, that's your problem.'

'Oh, I have honour,' Guy argued.

'Oh really? Then how come you come here and smash up my buses?' he barked angrily. His mouth was hanging open. His tongue was curled over as though it were damaged and he was dribbling a little on his chin. 'How come you're with those other two? Look, look,' he pointed to his cut eye. It pained Guy to look. His frail skin had been completely torn apart. Guy felt sick in the pit of his stomach. 'I fought in the war for kids like you and this is the thanks I get.'

'You're not the only one,' Guy muttered beneath his breath. He looked into the eyes of the old man, hoping to see signs of camaraderie. 'I lost family to war.'

'Right, then,' the man said, jabbing his finger at Guy, 'you should know better than that, cause we're all the same, we soldiers.'

'What do you mean?'

'We're one, we soldiers. That's the fighter's mentality: all one. That bastard you're here with hits me...?' He pointed to the ground outside where Naz had attacked him. His chin was thrust forward, letting Guy know he wasn't afraid to get hurt to stand up for what he believed in. 'Well, he might as well have hit your family members too. It's the same bloody thing.'

Guy remembered the vision. Maybe that's what it had meant, that though Naz was hitting the old man, he was really hitting Imogen too and everything she stood for.

'Yeah, you had better think on that, my son,' the old man pointed out, noticing the change in Guy's mood. 'I tell ya, behaviour like that is a God damn insult to everything your family stood for.' The old man shuffled back in his chair nervously. 'Oh, now you're gonna hit me, are ya?' He pointed to his chin. 'Go on then, hit me. I aint scared of you.'

Guy hadn't realised it, but he had clenched his fist in anger. 'No, I'm not...' he stuttered. He started tapping his fingers in irritation. 'It's not you I want to hit,' he barked, slamming his hand down on the table.

'What?' the old man drooled in confusion. Then his eyes flicked with recognition and he relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief. 'Oh, I see. Well, don't you go getting yourself into trouble, son.'

'My name's Guy.' He offered the old man his hand. His face was wrought with guilt. 'I'm sorry for everything.'

The old man shook his hand. 'These things happen, Guy.'

'Yeah, well they shouldn't.'

Mick sighed then coughed feebly into his hand. 'Who's going to stop it? You?'

'I can stop him,' Guy stated arrogantly. 'Don't you doubt that, I'd kick his ass.' He'd gotten his back up. His chest was raised, his arms flexed. He wanted to prove himself.

'You can't get through to people like that,' the old man explained.

'I can,' Guy insisted.

'You'll just get yourself in trouble is all.' The old man fell silent when Guy leapt up and stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

'Naz,' Guy yelled to the upstairs window of a small council house. 'Hey, Naz, get out here.' He picked up a small stone and threw it at the window. It tapped on the glass. 'Get out here, now,' Guy roared.

The bedroom light turned on. Naz stood topless, gazing like a crazed man out the window. He knew what Guy had come for. He threw the window open and leaned out.

'Get your ass down here right now,' Guy ordered. He flung his foot through a large puddle on the road, pretending it was Naz's head, and gave a 'come-here' gesture with his hands. Naz vanished.

A few moments later, the front door of the house banged opened. Naz stepped out, still topless but for a heavy chain necklace that fell down past his pecs. He was ripped, but skinny. He would be no match for Guy.

Guy's heart thumped so loud he thought it would burst. A pair of large army boots followed Naz out of the house. It was Seth. His giant shaven head sat like an anvil on top of a colossal torso. He was one of those obsessive weight-training types, so large he had to walk by rocking from side to side as though his legs were two pistons. He had a large tattoo of an eagle on his arm, beneath which stood the silhouettes of four soldiers. He wasn't a soldier himself, he just believed in the Hollywood image of one, the super violent, living only for fighting type. It was little surprise that he was grinning with delight at this scene of conflict.

Naz smiled as he took a measure of Guy's expression. Guy was afraid.

'What you come here for, son?' Naz asked threateningly, feeding off of Guy's fear. He strolled to just a few metres away from Guy. Seth came to stand in front of him. Guy scoffed.

'Can't you fight your own battles, Naz?' Guy mocked.

Seth's anvil-head lowered slowly. He ran his thumb over the tip of his lower lip as though moving food away. He had a reputation for being an animal. He loved nothing more than fighting. A mighty crack sounded as he clenched his fists. He held his right fist up to show a large spiked ring on his middle finger. Guy knew the ring's history all too well, the amount of blood it had spilt.

Naz laughed. 'What are you doing, Guy? Man, you've changed.' He hawked a loogie and spat on the road. 'We used to be blood. Now, you're looking out for some old man instead of watching your boy's backs? I aint down wi' 'at, blud. Nah, I aint down.' Naz patted his brother on the back. 'Fuck him up.' Naz moved to one side and stood watching lustfully.

Seth advanced on Guy. Guy held his hands in front of his face to protect himself. Seth threw a right hand. It felt like it nearly broke Guy's knuckles. Guy rocked backwards to avoid another punch and threw one himself that connected to Seth's side, but Seth hardly seemed to notice, he just kept on coming. He was far too big for Guy. The blow had hurt Guy's hand more than it had hurt Seth. Guy's neck snapped back as he took a punch to his right eye. Seth grabbed him about the scruff of the neck and punched him right in the jaw. The ring tore through Guy's flesh. He fell down in anguish.

'Hold him,' Naz ordered. Seth pushed his boot down into Guy's back, pinning him in place. Naz ran up and flung his foot into Guy's chest. Guy coughed a mouth full of blood onto the road.

'Man, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing,' Naz barked. He knelt down and grabbed Guy by the head, bending his neck back. Guy gasped for breath. 'You used to be the one, Guy. Last year, before that bitch Gina came, you would have been the one to out that old man on the ground. You were the dog,' he spat with anger. To Naz, Guy had betrayed his faith. 'Now, you're just a bitch.' He let Guy's head go. It bounced off the concrete.

Guy's entire body was pounding in agony as he heard Naz and Seth laughing. He prayed to Christ they were done. He couldn't take any more. When he heard the front door of Naz's house slam shut he allowed his eyes to close and neither saw nor heard a thing. He was alone again, struggling for breath on the street. It was rock bottom.

After several minutes, Guy reached down into a chest that was crippled with agony and forced up his last reserve of energy. It was just enough to allow him to pull himself onto his knees and shuffle along to sit on the curb.

It wasn't the first time he'd been hit. God, he'd been hit and hit and hit again for years. It had never felt like this though. It was like Seth had punched him from reality to some dark, distant and lonely world. It was the loneliest he had ever felt. He looked down at the road. Yet another puddle was at his feet. It showed a warped reflection of his face in muddy brown-green. Something in the puddle caught his eye. There was a broken silver chain lying in the water. He picked it out. It was an old Saint Christopher. He wiped it clean on the sleeve of his hoodie and put it around his neck, next to the dog tags. He leant his head against his chest and closed his eyes.

He must have passed out, for when he came-to he couldn't remember what had happened. He remembered being hit and meeting an old man and Naz yelling at him and¯

Footsteps. He heard footsteps running down the road. They were charging at him, he thought. Yes, they were running right for him. Who is that? he begged through a clouded mind. He tried to remember if he had taken pills. He didn't think so.

'Who's there?' he struggled to whisper. His jaw was killing.

Off in the distance the shadow of a figure was approaching, only he couldn't see the actual person; it was just a black stain on the houses and the road, gliding towards him, coming nearer. What was it? It was coming. It was all. What? Oh. That's right, he thought. It's all coming down now. His head was clouding over again. And what the hell's the black bit? What the¯

He had drifted off once more. It took several minutes for him to come around again. He had to yank at his eyes just to open them a slit.

'Shit,' he yelled in fear. Right in front of him was a terrifying dark figure. He couldn't make out any features. He couldn't even work out if it were male or female, or if it were an animal. He pushed at it. His hand passed right through its midsection.

He leaped to his feet in a panic and ran as fast as he could. He sprinted so fast his lungs nearly burst. His legs were struggling to keep up with the rest of his body. The wind whistled in his ears. His bloody jaw was aching like crazy. He nearly fell flat on his face when he ran straight through a puddle. The water raised up his leg right to his crotch. He felt like he'd pissed himself. His head sweated in a hot flush. He wiped it away and kept running.

He had no clue where he was going. He just felt he had to run. Where? It didn't matter. All that mattered was escape. His heart thumped like a timpani in his chest, drumming out the fear in his mind. His legs felt like jelly. The air whistling past his ears was all he heard, the cantering of two feet on concrete all he saw and the blood in his mouth his only taste.

He passed down a dark alley, accidentally kicking over a garbage can as he did so. It crashed to the ground. He passed through the alley and back out the other side into the centre of the suburb.

Guy screamed. A whole host of the homeless and drunkards, all dressed in tattered and torn brown jackets, grey trousers and green gloves, stood around the centre. They were holding books and singing some kind of hymn. Guy glared about maniacally. He was scared out of his wits. One of the homeless men turned to face him. His big black eyes seemed hypnotic. He mouthed some word Guy couldn't distinguish through a mouth empty of teeth. Terrified of the old man, Guy did the one thing he knew how to do. He ran at him and punched him in the face. The man didn't even move, he just stood there, frozen like a statue. Slowly he opened his jacket and took out a large antique rifle. He pushed it into Guy's stomach and pulled the trigger. Guy's eyes snapped shut. He waited for the sting of the bullet but nothing came.

Guy opened his eyes once more. The street was empty but for one homeless man sat quietly in the corner of the lane eyeing him in disbelief.

'And I thought I had issues,' the man mumbled through a giant white beard.

Guy ignored him. He had to get home, right now; in another moment he might lose it completely and collapse or... well, he didn't know what. Oh shit, Guy, what the fuck is wrong with you? he begged. He didn't know how to answer; he just knew that he desperately needed to get home, go to bed and hope to hell that when he woke he'd have at least some slither of sanity. Praying for his life, he turned and ran.

Guy nearly broke his hand shoving the door open when he got home. His dad was passed out in the lounge next to a tall bottle of whisky and a woman in knee length black boots. Guy froze momentarily. 'Twat,' he muttered beneath his breath. The woman looked like a slut. What the fuck is going on? His head stormed. He didn't know what his dad was doing, he didn't know what he himself was doing, all he knew was that he desperately needed to be somewhere he could be alone. He ran upstairs, traipsing mud all over the house, and headed into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Two alien red eyes glared back at him when he looked in the mirror. He had blood right down his T-shirt. His lips were bust to pieces, like some volcano had exploded in his mouth. Was this what he had become: a beaten, damaged man? He'd had so much pain for so many years. What happened to the days when he could play; the days when the colours seemed so fresh and real, like fruit, and throughout his body was a warmth telling him he was always safe, and his eyes looked outwards, not inwards, and he'd run around every corner just to see what was there, and he never questioned, just went from A to B to C from 1 to 2 to 3? How had those moments turned into the man in the mirror, chewed up and spat out like trash?

Guy ran his finger down the reflection in the mirror. He didn't know why. He guessed he just wanted to know that he existed in the real world, outside of his head. If he could deposit himself into the real world, perhaps life would pick him back up. He couldn't do it himself. He didn't know how, and he... he just couldn't. No, he just couldn't. Because. Because. Because the whole idea of success, happiness, even life itself, wasn't just out of reach, it wasn't anywhere on the map. He didn't even know what peace, joy, love and all those other crazy, made-up but childishly beautiful emotions were. He fell to the floor and wept.

The floodgates caved in. Tears poured out. Part of him didn't even know why. It was just wrong.

Everything was wrong. He didn't belong here. This wasn't the world he knew. Where the hell was he? There was no rhyme and reason to it all. Life was just wrong. Then out the blue, 'Shut the fuck up,' a voice called feebly at the back of his mind. Shut the fuck up. It got louder. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. As it grew, he felt excited. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up. Finally it screamed. Shut the fuck up! Then Guy joined it and yelled at himself, 'Shut the fuck up!' He laughed like a lunatic. He didn't even know what was going on in his own head. And that was funny. Yes, that was funny to him; hysterically funny. He ran to the mirror and looked at the man once more. Who the hell was he? What had he done with the little boy called Guy? What had he done to those memories of mummy? 'Fuck you,' he yelled at his reflection. 'Fuck you.' He punched the mirror in anger. It shattered over his hand. Glass fell to the floor. It carried his reflection as though he were being laid to rest. He knelt down and picked up a shard of glass.

As the glass tore horizontally across his wrist he felt free. He didn't even feel pain. He felt numb. He held his wrist up to his face and watched it bleed.

A guttural rumble erupted from the bathtub. Guy shuffled on his ass to the back of the room and cowered in fear.

The ceramic tub groaned as though it had indigestion. Guy covered his ears. A crack appeared down the centre of the tub and a stream of water trickled out. Another groan. More water spewed out the tub and the crack grew. The water crawled along the floor to Guy's foot. It was freezing cold. He held his legs up. Another groan, this time much louder, shook the room. The bath burst.

The centre of the bath began to crumble then exploded outwards as though it were vomiting water. It flooded over Guy, raising him up. The bathroom floor sank. Before long he was floating in the centre of an ocean in his bathroom, treading water to hold himself up.

Guy couldn't see through the salt water in his eyes but from somewhere nearby came the sound of a strangely familiar female voice. 'What do you think you are doing, Guy?' He closed his eyes. It's not you, he whispered to himself. It's not you. It can't be. 'Look at me, Guy,' the woman's voice ordered. Guy squirmed like a child. 'Are you a soldier or aren't you?' his mother boomed. 'Open your eyes.'

Guy took a moment to compose himself then forced away the fear and yanked his eyes open. He was at sea. He was treading water in the middle of an ocean. It bubbled up into his mouth. He sputtered and spat it out. It took all his strength to keep himself afloat.

In front of him was a great metal military ship, the sort that would have been used for a landing. It had been cleaved in two down the middle. Guy was now floating where the forecastle should have been. At least some of its debris was floating just a few feet from him. He swam over and leant his weight on it. The quarterdeck of the boat opened out onto a beach. Guy couldn't see where the beach was; it was covered in mist. He could hear the fire of gunshots and explosions on all sides, but he couldn't see the guns or the people firing them. All he could see was the ruined ship and the towering woman standing in the middle of it, and she he couldn't bring himself to look upon.

'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself,' his mother ordered. Guy scrunched his face up to try and drown out the sound, but it had already infected him and was now repeating over and over inside his head. Get off the boat. Get off the boat. Get off the boat. Guy couldn't fight it. The voice had power over him. Like a servant to their master's call, Guy lifted his head against his own will and eyed his mother. She stood towering over him as though she were a giant. Her face was covered in a shadow that turned her green eyes black. Guy pushed himself backwards in the water, away from her. He felt ashamed. His wrist was still pouring blood into the water; the blood she had given him. He couldn't bear to let her see what he had done to himself. It wasn't just his wrist, it was everything. He was pathetic compared to her. He didn't even have a right to be in her presence. He pushed his wrist deep into the water, trying to hide it, but the blood rose to the surface and soon he was surrounded by a rosy ring of water.

Imogen marched towards him, standing at the very edge of the ship. 'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself,' she repeated. Guy still didn't respond. He couldn't speak. He barely managed to turn his eyes to her and when he did he screamed. She was holding an old rifle directly at his chest. Her face was dead of all emotion even as her finger squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out. Guy screamed.

'Op¯now, Gu¯' a male voice was calling from outside. Guy couldn't hear properly through the water in his ears. He desperately flapped his arms to keep himself afloat. 'Guy, open the...' the voice continued. Guy tried to call out through a mouth full of water but his voice came out gargled and nonsensical. With a fierce battle against the tide he just managed to lift his head high enough to hear his father yelling, 'Guy, open the door, now.'

'Help,' Guy screamed. He heard feet running outside then a mighty thud as the bathroom door barged open.

'What the hell is going on?' his dad ordered. He stomped into the room angrily. 'I've told you a million....' Jerry froze. 'What the hell?' he whispered, seeing Guy's bloody wrist. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed the blood all over the floor. Guy's wrist was still bleeding badly as he lay virtually passed out against the wall. 'Oh my God,' Jerry trembled. 'Guy, what have you done?' He grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it tightly around Guy's wrist. The towel's white soon turned red.

'Oh shit,' a female voice screamed from the doorway. Jerry turned to see the girl he had been with stood in the doorway with her head buried in her hands. 'I'll call an ambulance,' she said, taking a phone from her pocket.

'Just leave us,' Jerry shouted.

'I think he¯'

'I think I know what my own family need,' Jerry barked. He took Guy in his arms, still squeezing the towel tightly. 'Oh my God, you stupid little asshole,' he voiced with equal parts anger, shock and love. 'Why would you do this? Why?'

Guy coughed then wheezed out the words, 'I saw her.'

'Don't you give me that shit, Guy. Don't you dare. Don't you dare.' Jerry hugged Guy close to him. 'It wasn't my fault, Guy. It wasn't my fault.' Jerry wept. 'I tried. I tried, Guy.' Jerry didn't know why, but he couldn't hold his words in. He needed Guy to know the truth. He couldn't live with the blame any longer. 'I fought with her, Guy. I begged her to stay. She wouldn't. She wouldn't stay. She wanted to fight, Guy, to fight for you. I tried, Guy. Oh God, I tried so hard.' He turned to the girl in the doorway. 'Get me a glass of water,' he ordered. 'Please, please just get some water.'

'Okay, I'm going,' she assured. She ran down the stairs.

Jerry took a wash cloth from the cupboard, wet it with tap water and wiped blood stains from Guy's arms. He took another and wiped Guy's brow. The girl returned a moment later and handed a glass of water to Jerry. He leant Guy's head back and poured the water down his throat, supporting Guy's head and gently holding the glass against his lips to help him drink.

Guy took a gulp then whispered, 'I'm so sorry, dad.'

'No, no,' Jerry insisted, 'I'm sorry. I should never have let her go. I should have fought her more, but I was weak. And she was so strong, Guy. Your mum was so strong. God I miss her.' He hugged Guy.

'I'll find out what happened,' Guy whispered.

'What?' Jerry gasped.

'I'll find out what happened to mum.'

'Guy, your mother died. She died fifteen years ago.'

Guy shook his head. 'I have to know. I have to know.'

The doorbell rang. Jerry turned to look at the girl.

'I'll go,' she said, nodding and heading back down the stairs.

Jerry and Guy fell silent, both exhausted, covered in blood and nearly passed out against the bathroom wall. It was the closest they had been in years.

# On The Rocks

Kevin was slumped over in his seat; legs spread wide, hands in pockets, sighing in annoyance. Gina had been unable to sleep with the thoughts of her family flooding her mind. They had given up and returned downstairs. Kevin picked his whisky up from the table, rolled it around in his tumbler, sloshing it from side to side. 'I think it's time you and I started to worry about, well, you and I, no?' he probed. He took a swig of his drink and set the glass on the table. 'I know you want to be there for Guy and the rest of them, darling, but you can't just go from issue to issue. I mean, look at what you've been through in your life.' He shook his head sympathetically. 'Well, anyway, no point getting into that again.' He stood up and strolled up and down the lounge. 'Suffice to say, you've had your own trouble and have gotten through it. You've got to work for yourself now, look out for number one; you've earned that right, earned it more than anyone else I know.' Gina lowered her gaze in timidity. She knew he was right, in theory, but she couldn't change her character. She couldn't just pretend to not care about people. 'These are the years that will shape your life,' Kevin proclaimed, holding his arms out wide as if to indicate the whole world. 'We're building our future now, you and I, our future together, and we owe it to ourselves to create as good a home as possible, for our security and for our future family.'

'So what,' Gina prodded, 'I should just abandon my past so I can live my future?'

'No, not abandon, of course not.' He was rubbing his thumb and finger together, sucking on his lip and gazing into nowhere as he meditated on his thoughts. 'You have to remember the hardships you yourself have endured and realise that you deserve some sort of a break yourself,' he proclaimed. 'You know you could make more money elsewhere for a lot less work and stress. That school isn't taking you anywhere.'

'So I should just abandon the school?' Gina scoffed. Her face was wide with disbelief. She wondered if Kevin really understood her at all.

'Gina, you are the one talking of abandonment,' Kevin pointed out.

'Right,' Gina dismissed. He'd set her off. Her emotions were pouring out and nothing would stop them coming. 'Can't you even see that if anyone deserves a break it's those students, not me?'

'There was a time when you were one of them,' Kevin interjected.

'Uh, no, no there wasn't,' Gina stated condescendingly. 'Now you're just clutching at straws.'

'Well, okay, maybe you weren't exactly the same, but you had no easier a time growing up. So if kids like that deserve a break, why don't you?' He grinned deep down. He knew she hadn't considered that point of view before and, indeed, the suggestion had caught her off guard. Her eyes darted from random object to random object, searching for an answer. She didn't have a good one, but that alone wouldn't make her change her belief. 'It's not about me, it's about them. I got my break. I've had it already. I'm lucky to be able to work in a place like that, where I truly matter. And how can it get easier for anyone if people don't share their experiences?' She took a glass from the cabinet and hurried to fill it with a red wine. She played with her hair irritably and gulped at her drink. 'This wine is gross.' She held the glass up to examine it.

'Yes, I expect it is, and you deserve a better one,' Kevin quipped. 'Besides, there's always going to be grief in this world, Gina. You can't change that; it's just the way things are.'

'Does that mean I shouldn't even try?'

'Oh, God damn it, Gina, you are impossible sometimes.' He hurried to refill his glass with whisky. 'How the hell is it fair to you, having been through the struggle you have in your life, to live the rest of your days for the troubles of others?' He paused for a moment and reluctantly stated, 'You're not ridding the world of grief, Gina, you are simply transferring it to yourself, and if you ask me, that just isn't right.'

'This isn't about being right or¯

'Anyway, you always say it made you stronger,' Kevin butted-in, unable to hold his tongue, though he quickly wished he had. He knew he'd gone one step too far. Gina might have been an incredibly strong woman, but even she could be quick to anger when discussing the burdens of her past. Silence gripped the room; a very loud silence, the kind that says more than words ever could. Finally, Gina broke its spell.

'Yes, it made me stronger, but that doesn't mean I'm glad I never had a childhood,' she hissed regrettably. Her tone had changed now; she delivered her words deliberately slowly and with venomous precision. 'Life is a struggle to be happy. It is our duty to each other to do what we can to make one another happy: you, me, the school, Guy... and hopefully by helping others we will in turn be helping ourselves too. At the moment, Guy is the one who needs help—' She paused as Kevin cleared his throat. He was about to interrupt but Gina held her hand up in a stop sign, lifted her voice and continued. 'I'm sorry you don't understand that, but Guy might not get through it alone.' She shook her head. Her grey eyes glared at Kevin reproachfully. How dare he suggest that Guy, or any other member of her class, was not worth her personal sacrifice? 'He's barely hanging on, can't you see that?' she pleaded, hoping for some sign of recognition. 'He is so mixed up, so vulnerable, no matter how much he refuses to admit it.'

'Yeah, well, he has a father. He is not your child, Gina,' Kevin lectured.

'He's not anyone's child, for God's sake, he's eighteen. He's an adult, though quite what that has to do with anything, I don't know. The point is he's alone and he needs help and regardless of anything else, I will be there for him.'

Gina knew she'd said too much. Kevin caught her hesitancy. He paused to think for a moment; then it hit him. 'This is why you changed your mind about the weekend, isn't it?' He forced his eyes shut as though trying to hide from the truth. Gina hid her gaze shyly. Kevin began to bang his fist on the couch in anger. 'Jesus, Gina, what on earth?' He shook his head in disbelief. 'You're going to do this again. Again you're going to let him get between you and I.' He waited for an answer but none came. 'That little shit,' Kevin barked. 'All this just because he's too pathetic to stand up for himself.' He was lost in his anger. 'He needs to sort his bloody act out, the little twerp. He's eighteen, damn it; his mum passed away years ago.'

'So what?' Gina snapped. 'So she passed away years ago so he should have come to terms with it by now, right? You can be downright ignorant sometimes, Kevin.' She held her emotions as she laid the glass on the table; it was not safe in her hands when her eyes, alone, could kill; by the look on Kevin's face, they already were. 'Let me guess, if he's eighteen he doesn't need anyone to support him?' She took a deep breath and attempted to calm herself, but her passion was too strong. 'Do you actually understand at all?' she mocked, looking down at Kevin as though he were a petulant child. 'Where do you think you would be without your mother and father, the teachers and the professionals you respected and everyone else who ever helped you?'

'I didn't need them at eighteen.'

'Oh, come off it,' Gina scoffed. 'Are you seriously suggesting that at eighteen you paid for your own home, your food and everything else? Right. The mighty Kevin needed no one,' she proclaimed sarcastically. 'And Lord knows you didn't need anyone to tell you that you were doing the right thing or to encourage you in any way, hey?' Tears rose in her eyes. She held a hand to her chest. She felt Guy with her. She felt as though he were right there in the room and she were protecting him. 'Why can't you feel for anyone else? You can be downright cruel sometimes, Kevin. You know....' She paused to hold a bitter tongue; she didn't want to say the wrong thing in a heated moment. She tried to calm herself but couldn't stop her anger. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Memories were washing through her mind, pulling her this way and that. The words forced themselves out of her. 'If you can't feel for my bro—' she bit her tongue.

'What?' Kevin muttered, suddenly caught for words.

'I didn't mean that.'

'You were going to say "brother",' Kevin insisted, his tone suddenly changed to one of fright. Surely she couldn't be likening Guy to her brother. She couldn't have gotten herself that mixed up over a student, could she?

'No,' Gina barked, sensing what Kevin was thinking.

'That is what you were going to say, Gina. You were saying "brother",' Kevin demanded.

'I meant Guy, for God's sake. Guy. Guy. If you can't understand how hellacious it is for Guy, if you can't care about someone in that sort of personal turmoil, then maybe you're not the man I—'

'Gina, Guy is not your brother,' Kevin deliberately interrupted. The anger had bled from him. Suddenly he felt himself to be genuinely concerned for Gina's mental wellbeing. If she likened Guy to her brother, no wonder she was so passionate and emotionally involved. Still, he wasn't about to allow her to carry such an emotional burden on her shoulders. He cursed himself for having been so blind and not realising what was going on; and what else might she be feeling? God only knew. 'Gina, this is serious,' Kevin warned. His big brown eyes glimmered with tender compassion. His voice was hush and urgent. 'You cannot imagine that Guy, or any of your other students, can ever replace your brother.'

'I know that,' Gina barked in urgency. She waved her hand in front of her face like a fan. 'What are you going on about? This has nothing to do with my brother, I'm talking about Guy.'

'Are you sure?' Kevin asked nervously. He held his hands to his hips, peered deep into her eyes and shook his head in concern. The situation had shown itself to be far more serious than he had thought.

Gina leaned back, away from his piercing glare and began twiddling with her hair anxiously. 'You know what, Kevin?' she spat in anger, desperate to silence him; she couldn't face what he was saying. 'Maybe you just aren't the man I thought you were, if you can't even understand—'

'Oh, here it comes. Gina thinks she's above everyone else; a supremacist of morality,' Kevin butted-in, angry at her for turning the argument around on him. 'Don't preach to me, Gina, not when I'm—' so concerned for your wellbeing, he was about to say, but Gina cut him off.

'I'm not preaching. Christ, why do you have to act this way?'

'What way?'  
'As though it's all a competition; as though we've all got to look out for number one.'

'Perhaps because I consider our future to be worth fighting for,' he snapped. He stood up and began pacing about the room, his finger tapping on the lip of his glass in frustration. 'Besides, if you're not living for yourself, who are you living for?' he baited her. He knew the answer. My brother, was the answer Gina knew to be right, and he wished he could get her to admit it, but instead she turned her face away and hid her feelings, holding a hand to her cheek protectively and biting on her lips to stop them quivering. Kevin held his hand out in apology.

'Look, Gina, I know you feel you've—' he paused sympathetically and lowered his voice '—I know you think you've a responsibility because of what happened back then and I don't want to upset you. God knows, I don't want to upset you, darling. I just wish you could realise that the time has come for us to take control of our own lives and do what is right for us, for our future, for the family we hope to have. If you valued your brother's life¯God forgive me for bringing this up¯but if you really valued his life then you should value your own and make of it what you can, because that is what he would want for you.'

She knew he was right. Honouring her brother meant honouring herself, but that was no mean feat. She didn't feel ready to let her brother go. 'In time I will live for myself,' she promised.

'Just not this weekend, right?' Kevin griped. It had been so long since Gina had truly lived for herself and her marriage that he couldn't help but get worked-up over it. He chewed on his gum in frustration and started breathing heavily through his nostrils.

'I'm sorry, Kevin,' Gina pleaded. 'I've wanted to come to your parents for so long, and I still do, but I cannot this weekend. Someone has to be there just in case something happens to Guy. I cannot leave him alone. Oh, I'm sorry baby, truly I am.' She closed the gap between them and rubbed him on the shoulder tenderly.

Kevin shrugged her off angrily. 'Gina, this isn't even about Guy, don't you see that?'

Gina froze. 'What?' she whispered fearfully. She moved away from Kevin and held a hand to her heart. 'What do you mean?'

'Gina, the reason you care so much about Guy is because you think by getting him through you'll be saving—'

The doorbell rang. Kevin stamped a foot down fiercely into the ground and tossed his hands up in the air in defeat. 'Oh this is a god damn joke. Who the hell is calling at this time of night?' he spat as he marched off and swung the door open.

'Do you realise what time it—' Kevin stopped midsentence. A teenage girl stood at the front door, dressed as though she were on a night out, in a long dark elegant skirt and a white T shirt, but her eyes were wide with concern and she was out of breath and sweating at the brow a little, as though she had run to the house.

'I am so sorry to disturb you, Mr Green,' she wheezed, out of breath.

'What's the matter?' Kevin exclaimed; he didn't recognise her but she clearly must have been a student of Gina's. He held a hand to her shoulder and gazed into her eyes in concern. It seemed something terrible had happened.

'I actually need to speak to Gina.'

'Oh,' Kevin stumbled. 'I'm not sure if this is really the right time.' He pretended to stretch and held his arm casually across the door, suggesting there was to be no entry. Gina wasn't in any state to be listening to the troubles of others; she had more than enough problems of her own to deal with.

The girl planted her feet firmly on the ground. 'I'll wait,' he stated resolutely. Kevin was perplexed. Quite what the urgency could be he'd no idea. 'I'm sorry, I really must speak with Gina.'

'Look, I am terribly sorry, but this simply is not the right—'

'Who is that, Kev'?' Kevin was surprised to hear Gina calling from upstairs. Yasmin's eyes rose optimistically as an upstairs window opened and Gina poked her head out. 'Oh, hi Yasmin,' Gina called. 'Kevin, let her in. I'll be down in a minute.'

Kevin cursed beneath his breath. He'd been hoping to save his wife from at least some small part of the turmoil she had been caught up in lately. He shook his head bitterly and strolled back into the lounge, leaving the door open for Yasmin to let herself in— which, he thought, was rather like what had happened anyway—but feeling rude he turned and asked, 'Would you like a drink?'

He peered up the stairs. There was no sign of Gina. She surely would have been in the washroom tidying herself up. Lord knew that was likely to take a while. 'Weren't you panicking just a moment ago?' he asked in confusion as he saw that Yasmin had calmed herself completely. She looked a different person than the one who had knocked at the door. 'Oh,' she said, tidying her hair, 'I was just worried you and Gina might be in bed. Knowing she's available is a real relief.' She took a hand-mirror from her pocket and checked herself over.

'You look wonderful,' Kevin said, subtly checking her out. 'I'm sorry, it's....'

'Yasmin.'

They shook hands. Her skin felt as soft as a baby's in his hands. There was something vital about it, something life affirming. He couldn't help but notice how much more fresh and alive it felt than Gina's. It had been a long time since a touch had made him feel so new. He smiled at her. She returned the pleasantry. Her eyes were ripe with life. He wished he could read her thoughts. She seemed so vital, so present. It was a truly alluring quality.

Aware that he had quite forgotten himself since Yasmin had entered the home, Kevin shook his head out the clouds and snapped his hand out of Yasmin's. He looked up the stairs with concern. There was no sign of Gina. He breathed a slow, calming breath and shook his head. When the hell was Gina going to start thinking about him? He loved her to bits but when she offered him so little affection—well, he was a man, after all. He needed attention. He needed Gina and her bloody students were keeping her from him. It made him sick. How he wished he and Gina were Yasmin's age, with all the time in the world to indulge in one another, to be excited every day. How stale it had all become. He turned away from Yasmin. 'She'll be down in a minute,' he said dismissively, plonking himself on the couch.

A moment later, Kevin spluttered in shock. 'Can you please not smoke in the house, darling?' he gasped. Gina tossed her head dismissively at him. He stood still, wondering just what the hell had happened. 'Excuse me?' She ignored him.

'Yasmin, come through to the garden,' Gina requested, opening the back door and strolling out.

The outside security light came on. The grass was damp. It itched Gina's feet. She skipped over to the bench at the far side and sat. Yasmin followed.

'Are you all right, Mrs Green?' Yasmin asked. She watched Gina inhale another puff of smoke and let it out in slow indulgence.

'Yes, yes, I'm quite all right.' She ran her eyes over Yasmin as though she were puzzled. 'You're not in my class...?'

'No, Mrs Green.'

'Gina.'

'No, Gina. I'm here about Guy.'

Gina leaned back and wrapped one leg over the other. She hugged her arms close to her body, closing Yasmin off. 'I see. Well, what's the matter?'

Yasmin gave Gina space. She knew she didn't really have a right to come to a teacher's house after hours, or indeed ever, and Gina wasn't even her teacher. She gulped as she realised how presumptuous she was being; still, it was urgent. 'Guy and I were supposed to meet at Rams tonight. He didn't show.'

'Rams the nightclub?' Yasmin nodded. 'I can't blame him,' Gina jested. 'Not because of you, but you have to admit, that place is a dump.' Yasmin laughed awkwardly. 'So, what does this have to do with me?'

'Well. I thought everything was fine. Or rather, that Guy had just blown me off. That was until I saw Naz.'

'Naz Rashid?' Gina lowered her gaze to hide her shame and took a drag on her cigarette. She knew she shouldn't, but she felt responsible for not having paid enough attention to Guy over the past few days. She felt at blame.

'Yeah, that's him. Well, he looked at me....' She froze. Her skin trembled in disgust as she thought of Naz. 'He just gave me an impression. I think he might have had a fight with Guy.'

Gina began to tap her foot on the path in anxiety whilst Yasmin twiddled nervously with her hair. They looked each other up and down, silently sharing a mutual compassion. 'Did you go around to Guy's?' Gina asked.

Yasmin shrugged. 'He wouldn't come to the door. Some woman, and not a very nice one by the look of it'—she raised her eyebrows and puffed out her cheeks as though she were disturbed at the memory of the woman—'came to the door and told me he was busy.' Gina raised an eyebrow dubiously. 'Anyway, that isn't the point,' Yasmin insisted, knowing full well what Gina was thinking. 'He hasn't been acting himself lately. I know something is badly up with him. And, well, I'm scared for him, to be honest.' Gina nodded understandingly; she knew all too well what Yasmin was feeling. Still, she couldn't help but feel annoyed; it felt like her life was being pulled out of her own hands. Yasmin must have noticed Gina's frustration for she stood up and began shaking her head apologetically. 'Look, I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry.' She lowered her head sorrowfully. Her long brown hair draped down her chest. She brushed it behind her head and eyed the sky as though seeking some divine inspiration.

'Oh, no, you did the right thing,' Gina reassured her. She grabbed Yasmin's hand and squeezed it compassionately. 'I'm glad you came.'

'It's just that I know he thinks very highly of you,' Yasmin explained, regaining her confidence. 'I was wondering whether you might be able to check that everything is fine.'

Kevin appeared in the doorway at the back of the house. He looked over with concern. Gina noticed and sighed. 'I don't really think it's my place, Yasmin,' she reluctantly concluded. 'Maybe you should call the police.'

'He'd never forgive me. No, I can't do that.' Yasmin answered sincerely, though Gina had hardly even heard her. She was gazing at Kevin meditatively, questioning where her place was and what the right course of action might be. She couldn't possibly leave now, she thought, not so soon after such an emotional argument with Kevin, but she also couldn't feel good about letting Yasmin and Guy down. 'It's not my place,' she said, struggling to force a dismissive tone into her voice. She stood up and began to scurry off towards Kevin.

'Well then whose place is it?' Yasmin begged, gripping Gina by the wrist.

'I don't want to interfere, Yasmin,' Gina insisted, yanking herself free.

'He told me you were different.' Gina stopped in her tracks. 'He said you truly cared, that you weren't like the others, but you're just another nine-to-fiver, aren't you?'

'No, I am not,' Gina bellowed. She was furious, with Kevin, with Yasmin, with herself; hell, a part of her was even furious with Guy and he wasn't even there. How dare everyone force her into a hole? She had a right to do what she thought was right, but what was that? She didn't even know. She needed time. Sorrowfully, she concluded, 'I think it's time for you to leave, Yasmin.'

Yasmin scoffed and barged passed Gina. 'Well you damn sure look like a nine-to-fiver right now, let me tell you.' Kevin moved out of Yasmin's way as she stormed passed.

Gina bit her lip then slammed a foot to the ground, held her arms out wide and begged to the stars. What the hell? she screamed in her head. She pinched her eyes closed and shook her head in defeat. 'Yasmin, wait,' she called. She turned to Kevin in a hurry, 'I'm sorry,' she pleaded. He didn't respond but just gazed at the ground in sadness and bitterness. She couldn't blame him, but she also couldn't refuse Guy help. 'Look, you're right,' she offered in compensation. 'I do feel responsible and it is because of my past and I promise I will sort it out. I swear to you, Kev', but I must be there for Guy, just for now. I'm so sorry,' she begged whilst hurrying into the house, running after a student that wasn't even hers. 'Yasmin, wait. I'm coming.'

Yasmin had stopped by the front door when Gina came running. She grinned as much from a sense of pride in Gina as relief that Guy would be getting help. Gina grabbed her phone out of her pocket and started drumming numbers into the keypad. She grabbed her set of car keys from the holder and dashed out of the door.

Guy was lying in bed when Gina came to the house. He heard her knocking and his dad letting her into the home. He guessed Yasmin must have told her; he wished she hadn't, but he didn't blame her. She must have panicked when he hadn't shown at the club; after all, she knew what Naz was like and that the two of them had been arguing lately. He hadn't heard Yasmin enter with Gina, but that wasn't surprising; she must have been worried he would blame her for causing trouble.

Guy tossed the sheets off of his body and lay out flat on the bed. He felt as though he were baring his soul. He couldn't go on pretending that he was strong any more. He felt he had to admit to himself and to everyone else just exactly who and what he was. He had to admit what he had done. He would let Gina see his wrist. Maybe once the truth came out he would be able to start to move on.

He panicked when his door swung open and Gina stepped in. Even despite his battered and bruised face and his black eye, it was the bandaged wrist that she eyed first. She tried her best not to squirm, but her face screwed up in horror and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying. Guy gasped in fear, terrified what Gina might think of him, and immediately went for the bottle of vodka on the counter. He grabbed a glass that he had conveniently left lying about and filled it to the brim.

He was about to slosh his vodka back when Gina yelled at him. 'You idiot,' she snapped. She ran up and grabbed the drink out of his hand. 'You can't drink now....' She was shaking with fright. She couldn't bring herself to talk of his self-inflicted wound and so pointed at it instead. She grabbed the glass out of his hand and set it on the table. 'God damn it, Guy.'

Guy eyed her apologetically, unable to find the right words. He reached over and picked a pack of Marlboro up from the floor, holding a hand around his back and grimacing as he did so; the ache in his muscles was unforgiving. He cleared his throat, took a Zippo lighter off the table and lit his smoke.

'Give me one,' Gina ordered. His face screwed up in confusion and he muttered something over his cigarette. Gina held her hand to her ear. 'Sorry,' Guy said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. 'You smoke?'

Gina laughed. 'Yes, Guy, I smoke.' He eyed her as though she'd gone mad. 'Guy, I'm only your teacher 'til the bell rings. You wanted me to be real, right? You wanted to know the real me? Well, the real me would like a cigarette, please, and I think both the real me and the teacher have earned one.'

'Yes, Mrs Green,' Guy mocked, handing a smoke over. He felt dirty when he lit it, but a good kind of dirty. It was then he realised he had Gina sat on his bed. He grabbed his blankets and covered himself up. 'I'm cold,' he muttered nervously. Gina froze awkwardly and remained silent.

'So,' Guy muttered.

'So,' Gina repeated with no more composure. She shook her head in sadness as her eyes examined the damage on his face that Seth had inflicted. Guy's lip was fat and swollen and a purple black bruise surrounded his right eye. 'Naz did this?'

'Naz?' Guy laughed mockingly. 'Naz didn't do shit, he's a pussy. His brother, Seth, did this.'

Gina glared at him in disgust; she knew Seth was several years older than Guy; he could have ended up in jail if someone informed the police. She opened her mouth as though to speak but fell silent. She wished she could call the authorities, but with Guy's self-inflicted wound they'd be bound to ask questions and she knew he would not want that. That didn't help her position, though. If she didn't call the police and somehow someone found out she had been at Guy's house at such an hour she would be fired for certain. At least if the authorities came she would have a legitimate excuse. She put her head in her hands as she realised how dire her situation was, but soon shook off her fear as Guy looked at her in concern.

'Are you okay?' he asked. Gina nodded and smiled politely. 'You know, I really didn't think that when I saw you out of school I would be in bed with a bloody wrist and face and you would be smoking.'

'No, nor did I,' Gina mumbled.

Guy's face flushed red. 'I don't know what to say,' he conceded.

Gina inhaled on her smoke. 'Well, if you don't want to start by telling me about this'—she indicated his wrist—'then you might as well ask me something. You said you wanted to know me, right?' He nodded. 'So ask away.'

'All right, let's see.' He bit on his lip. He couldn't believe he was actually happy. He shook his head out of the clouds, amazed that he was able to see some good in the night he had had; still, his positive emotions made no less sense than the negative ones, and they damn sure came as a pleasant change. 'I want to know why you want me to get through this so much, and I want to know how I'm going to turn this around, and...' he was practically vomiting the words out. He coughed into his hands. Gina held the palm of her hand up in a Stop sign.

'Guy, I'm not going anywhere. You have enough time to ask me all you want,' Gina reasoned, unable to keep up with Guy's frantic mind. 'Let's start from the beginning. The reason why I want you to get through this is because I know what it's like.'

Guy didn't like that answer much. There was no way Gina could possibly know what he had been through, and to pretend just to comfort him was patronising. He inhaled deeply on his smoke, rolled it around in his mouth, breathed it out and flicked the ash. Gina could read his disbelief. 'Oh, it's true, whether you believe it or not.' She sat up erect, closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.

'I was fifteen when I lost my father. He died on Valentine's Day 1996, not that he was much use to us at that point anyway. He was a complete alcoholic that didn't give a damn about me or anyone else in the family. He made my mum earn every penny that was spent on us; me and my brother, that is. My brother was....' She sighed deeply and inhaled on her cigarette. She'd never told her story to a student. She'd hardly told it to anyone at all. She weighed Guy up. He was sincere, and she knew enough about him to write a book. More than anything, though, she knew he respected her and would never do anything against her. She trusted him in a way she trusted very few people. 'My brother was different,' she continued. 'In my father's eyes he was broken. He was younger than me. He died when I was thirteen. My Mum couldn't handle it after that and turned to alcohol too, so I had to get a job if I wanted to continue my education.' She took a deep breath and continued, figuring it was best to just get her story over with. 'I worked most nights and had classes every day as well. I was not going to let them hold me back. I was going to live a real life, not an alcohol induced blur.' Guy eyed the bottle of vodka on the table nervously. 'Oh, for goodness sake, Guy. I'm not saying I don't drink at all. It's all about moderation.' She gazed in wonder at the bottle of clear liquid sitting innocently on the table. It was amazing how much power a simple drink could have. 'I needed to prove that it was possible to get away from drink and live a normal, successful life.'

Guy sat up. He was listening intently, as though the words really resonated with him. Gina was glad. It felt as though she were coming to terms with things herself by talking about her past with Guy. 'I worked my butt off,' she continued. 'I had to. I had to earn every penny I needed to get myself into college and I did, in the end. Then I got my degree and, finally, made it here to teach you.' She smiled with pride, then shrugged and started playing with her hair nervously.

'That's great, Gina.' Guy said, folding his arms across his chest and turning his gaze to the ceiling in exasperation, 'but you're a lot smarter than I am.'

Gina scoffed. 'Come off it, Guy.' She folded her arms across her chest, intentionally matching his stance. 'This is it now, Guy. From now on you and I are on a zero bullshit policy, okay?' Guy nodded his head in sincerity. His eyes were focussed on her with determination, a look she had only ever seen on him when he was boxing. She was glad. 'I passed my grades and ended up going to college simply because I worked my ass off on it, and so can you. You can succeed. I mean sure, I didn't have a criminal record, which probably made it easier for me than it would be for you, but that's not the point. The point is that no matter where you might be right now, if you work hard enough at it and truly believe in yourself then you can succeed.'

'But why do you even care?' Guy groaned. 'God, you care more than I do. Really, I mean that.'

'Right now, yes, perhaps I do. Sometimes you need others to believe in you before you can believe in yourself. And I believe because I know that deep down you're a good guy, regardless of anything else. I know that. I also know how hard it is when you are coming from where you're coming from, but it is possible, Guy, and you will make it. The only thing you have to do is to decide for yourself, right now—' she tapped him on the leg to check that he was listening. He sat up. 'Right now, you have to decide that you want to succeed. The answers will come with time, but it all starts with that decision, Guy. You have hit rock bottom—' she indicated his bloodied wrist '—and you have survived. And you are still fighting. And all you have to do right now is to say to yourself that you will succeed. Just say it.'

'Man, that's hard.' Guy coughed into his hand. He took another Marlboro out and lit it.

'Guy, you know deep down that you can succeed.' She eyed his chest and squeezed her fists as though she were trying to extract some essence of life from him. 'Do you not feel that part of yourself that says, "To hell with it all; you can throw at me whatever you want; you can hurt me however you want, but I will keep on kicking"?'

Guy did a double-take. He sat up erect and alert. 'Yeah,' he said excitedly, 'Yeah, I do feel that. It's small and quiet but it is there.'

'So why don't you listen to it? Maybe then you will start to feel that way more often.'

'You been smoking something?' Guy mocked. 'You sound like Oprah or one of them other fuddy-duddy spiritual freaks.'

Gina laughed. 'Well, unfortunately I don't have that much money, Guy.'

'Yeah, and you're better looking.'

'Thank you, Guy, but I am also a teacher,' she warned. 'Anyway, look,' she pointed to the walls of Guy's room, which were adorned with great fighters: Muhammad Ali, Joe Calzaghe, BJ Penn, Chuck Lidell, Bruce Lee and more. 'What makes them good fighters?'

'Well, 'cause they're strong,' Guy rifled off an answer. 'No, they're well trained, like educated. And they're fast.' His finger was tapping on his leg. His eyes were squinting in thought. 'Oh God, Gina, I don't know.'

'Well, can I tell you what I think? I think it's because their whole being moves in one direction, like a bullet. They are focused on one thing: winning; that is all they know. You, you're trying to move every which way. I don't blame you. Lord knows I don't blame you. You've been emulating a hero figure for so long you have never even thought about what your passion is.' Guy leant forward and examined her eyes as though she were going crazy. 'Don't look at me like that. I'm for real. When you start to listen to you, the real you, deep down, then you'll start to find answers. None of this external drama will matter. You'll have a vision, a focus. Do you understand?' He nodded his head uncertainly. 'So you can spend your life bouncing around from drama to drama or you can decide, right now, to find out what is at the centre of you, what you're really all about, your passion; then maybe you'll spend less time walking in the footsteps of guys like Naz and more time walking in the footsteps of great men like Bruce Lee.' Guy fingered his dog tags and eyed the posters on the wall. They empowered him. His jaw stiffened. 'Do you trust me?' Gina asked.

Guy sat up straight and turned to Gina with complete focus in his eyes. 'More than anyone I know.'

'Good, because you may well find this stupid, but there's something I want you to try for me, okay? It's important to me.' Guy nodded. 'I want you to try to meditate.'

Guy scrunched his face up in disbelief. 'You for real?'

'You bet your ass I am for real. All of those fighters did,' she pointed to the posters once more. 'In fact, you can even do the Bruce Lee meditations if that makes you feel better about it, if that makes it cool for you, Mr Smooth.'

Guy's eyes narrowed. 'Bruce Lee had his own meditations?' Gina nodded. 'How could I not have known that?'

'Probably because you never listened,' Gina pointed out honestly. 'Bruce Lee's meditation would be great for you, actually. It's often called qigong, or chi kung. It involves working with the life force.'

'Like Star Wars?'

Gina laughed. 'Yes, actually, Star Wars is pretty much based around the life force. Anyway, it basically involves you doing slow, graceful movements as you focus on your breathing. It's really good as a beginner's meditation and it will probably even help with your boxing.' To Gina's surprise, Guy was nodding his head slowly but surely as though he liked the idea. She pointed to his computer. 'You can look these things up. There's a ton of websites about meditation. You should probably start easy, though. Just start by closing your eyes and focussing absolutely on your breath, and no matter what thoughts arise, return your focus to your breath.'

'I can do that,' Guy boasted as though Gina were talking child's play.

'Well, it might not be as easy as you expect, but yes, I know you can do it,' she stated confidently. She stubbed her cigarette out. 'I guess I should be going.'

'You can stay,' Guy offered half jokingly, though he wished she would. Gina eyed him in caution. He smirked. 'Thanks, Gina.' He closed his eyes for a moment then thought. 'Gina?'

'Yeah?'

'You know I would always be there for you if you needed me, right?' He waited eagerly for a response.

'Yeah; yeah, I know, Guy.' She stood up and move to the door. 'You take it easy, okay?'

# Letters from the dead

Sometimes, silence is absolute. That night, Guy found silence for the first time. He had been beaten and battered to a point where he could hardly move, he had fallen to a depth of emotional pain he had never experienced, he had embraced his father, had had Gina sit alone with him on his bed for the first time and tell him her own story, and now he sat flat on the floor, his legs crossed, eyes closed, listening. He was listening to the very pit of himself, the absolute deepest energy he held. Were he able to sleep he would have passed out hours ago. Now, at half past four in the morning, he was beyond sleep, he was beyond consciousness, he was adrift in an infinite world behind closed eyes.

Somewhere amongst the fields of blackness he felt a breeze on his face and in his hair. It was as the purest breath of life. It washed over his body, cooling him. A light rose in his eyes. It was the whitest light he had ever seen. He sank into it. It embraced him like water. Then a pulse struck him and he felt alive; alive to the world beneath the illusion of day to day life. It was then that his purpose hit him. It had always been there. It was the purpose that had carried him to that day, only he had never seen it. He had to find the truth, his own personal truth. He had to find out what had happened to his mother.

His eyes flicked open to a new world. Suddenly, he was in control. No longer was he at the mercy of the elements. He had power; the power of awareness. Somewhere out there lay the missing pieces of his mother's story and he would not rest until he put them together. From now on, he realised, he could only rest in the light of the truth. He eyed the clock. It was half past four. What difference did that make? No matter what the time, his mission was the same. No matter what the time, the truth of his mother's story lay out there, and he was going to find it. He forced himself to rise to his feet, despite the ache all through his body. He ignored it. The urgency of his need to find the truth numbed the pain. He was aware of it, but he could work through it. He picked up a hoodie that he had left strewn on the floor. He didn't check if it was clean; it probably wasn't, but he didn't care. It was a wrestle to put it on as he couldn't bend his back over properly, but one arm at a time he forced himself in. Thankfully the hoodie was long enough to cover his wrist and baggy enough to leave room for the bandages. His face was another matter. His father had washed it as best he could, but it wasn't like he could hide the damage, he would just have to cover it as best he could with the hood of his top. He closed his eyes for a moment, felt the change inside him, the sense of knowing that the time to act had arrived. He mouthed a prayer in silence to his mother and slowly but surely marched out of the room.

When Guy entered the train station he hardly noticed the few businessmen stood downing coffee in the foyer. Though it was five o'clock in the morning, he was wide awake. He was beyond awake. He was at that point where sleep seems an illusion, something that happens only to other people. He felt he would never rest till he finished the one mission that now consumed his life: to discover the truth about his family. He marched straight over to the ticket desk.

'When is the next departure from platform 3B?' he asked the lady at the booth. She lazily lifted her head, rubbed her eyes and glared at him as though to say, Look, kid, we're open, but no one is actually supposed to be here at this time. Bugger off. Still, at least she hadn't noticed his injuries; either the hoodie was doing its job or she was too tired to notice. She eyed the clock, yawned and said, 'Twenty-five minutes.' She turned to her newspaper as though she had forgotten he was there, then looked up and said, 'You want a ticket?' Guy shook his head.

He waited until the lady at the booth had fully lost herself in the newspaper, and then rushed up the stairs to the barricade before the platforms. There was only one security guard; a young guy wearing a yellow hat. He was fiddling with a cell phone, probably thinking no one would come up at such an hour.

Guy waited at the top of the stairs until he heard the train approaching the platform. When the hissing of the breaks fell to silence he stood up, sneaked over to the barricade, jumped over and ran down to platform 3B. Once he made the platform he looked up to check he had gotten away with his crime. The guard looked at him, shook his head but then shrugged. He probably thought his boss wouldn't notice Guy hopping on the train for free so there was no reason for him to care. About time I had some luck, Guy thought.

The same waitress was working in the coffee shop when Guy left the train. Guy tipped his head to her as she eyed him. He might not have time for picking up women, but he wasn't going to be disrespectful either. She tilted her head to the side, pointed and mouthed the words, 'Do I know you?' Guy chuckled to himself.

It was seven in the morning when Guy reached Roy's home. It was a moderately sized house for a downtown location. Roy did all right. He wasn't loaded but he made damn sure to look after his family. Good for him. He deserved it, Guy thought.

Guy tapped the knocker twice quietly, just in case Julia was still in bed. He leant his face to the door and peered through the peephole. Roy was in the kitchen talking to someone Guy presumed must have been Julia. He put a tea-towel down on the counter and came to the door.

'Guy, what are you doing here?' he said, standing in the doorway.

'Hi, Roy,' Guy said awkwardly. He had only just realised how bizarre his appearance must have looked, especially given his condition. He put his hood down and eyed Roy shyly. 'What the hell happened to your face?'

'It's nothing, just a scratch.' Guy wrapped a hand around his wrist, worried his self-inflicted wound might reveal itself somehow. A punch was one thing, but he couldn't let Roy know what he had done to himself.

'That's a bit more than a bloody scratch, Guy. Does your father know?'

'Yes, he knows, Roy.' Guy huffed before realising quite how presumptuous and inconsiderate he was being. 'Look, Roy, I'm sorry I'm here at such a time but—'

'Nonsense,' Roy waved Guy's concern away. 'It's not like I've got work or anything at the moment. Come in, come in.' He stood aside and welcomed Guy to his home.

'You lost your job?' Guy asked.

'Ahhh pish, sod 'em. I needed a better one anyway.' Guy nodded his understanding. 'What can I do you for?'

Roy led Guy into the lounge. It was a rather humble lounge; just two settees, a small television set and one heck of a lot of books, mostly on politics and history. Guy wondered whether he might be able to find out something about his mother by reading those books, but then, why would he need to? He had Roy. He laid his rucksack beside the door and took one of the settees. 'I want to ask you about my mum.'

Roy's eyes widened with consternation. He folded his hands across his chest. 'Not for me to say, Guy,' he disputed. 'That's for your father.'

'You know I can't talk to him,' Guy insisted, pleading to the wall Roy had put up.

Roy shrugged dismissively. 'Maybe you should make more of an effort.'

'Roy, come off it. You know my dad thinks the less I know the better off I will be.'

'And maybe he's right.'

Guy leapt up from his seat and stamped his foot down into the floor. 'Oh no,' he insisted. 'No, don't you say that too.' He looked like he was about to trash the place in anger until he suddenly caught himself, leant over to one side and eyed Roy knowingly, having seen the chink in Roy's armour. 'Wait,' he halted. What am I thinking? You don't believe that. You, the one person more desperate to make the truth known than anyone else in the world, couldn't possibly believe that bullshit. You know I need to know the truth. You know how important the truth is. And you're the one who can tell me.'

Roy scrunched up his face as though he were tasting bitter medicine. Finally he swallowed. 'You want a tea?'

Guy took a steadying breath; the idea that Roy might finally discuss his mother with him came like the ringing of the bell in boxing. It signalled for him to prepare himself, to be ready to fight. He was ready, and he thanked God for the opportunity. He cautiously lifted his aching lips into a smile. 'Two sugars, please.'

'Sit yourself down. I'll be back in a minute.'

Roy was deliberately slow in moving to the kitchen; Guy figured he was buying himself time to consider what he might say, if indeed he was going to speak of Imogen. Guy sat back on the settee and stretched out wide and indulgently. Finally he'd a right to relax, if only a little. He had finally plucked up the courage to take his first step on his true path. Soon he would know the truth. He stiffened in fright. Was he ready to hear the truth? He hadn't considered how knowing the truth might affect him, he'd just felt certain that not knowing wasn't helping. He let his eyes dart about the room, searching for something to focus on to calm his beating heart.

Guy hadn't been to Roy's since he was very young, when he had visited with his father. He had completely forgotten what the house was like. For years he had only met Roy at protests, after which they would go for drinks and a meal in the city centre. He looked about the room. Photos of Roy and Julia sat in frames on tables and across the walls. The bookcases were overflowing, mostly with very old books that were starting to fall apart at the seams. A large cross hung on one of the walls, and opposite it, rather incongruously, hung a giant fish which Guy guessed Roy must have caught himself. A placard gave a date of 1988. Wow, old fish, Guy thought.

'I've got some biscuits here, too,' said Roy, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits into the room. 'I was considering having bacon and eggs though, if you want some.'

Guy shook his head. 'Nice fish,' he said, pointing to the wall-piece.

'Ha ha. Old bugger he is. Gave me a right good fight did he.' Roy fidgeted with his hands and his eyes flicked with excitement as he remembered the day he'd bagged his prize catch. Then his eyes lowered and he asked, 'By the way, how on earth do you know my address?'

'You've not moved in fifteen years, Roy. I found my mum's old address book. Found it years ago, before dad hid everything.'

'Why?'

'Because he's an idiot...?' Guy offered jokingly.

'No,' Roy laughed politely. He reached his hands out wide. 'Why have you decided to ask about her? I told you, you have to let her go.'

'I can't,' Guy resolutely stated. 'I won't. I have to know what happened to her, and dad won't tell me a thing.'

'And what makes you think I will?' Roy sipped at his tea. He was wearing the same expression he always did when he was testing Guy. The first time had come when he was 12, at his first protest. He'd asked Guy why he thought a protest was important. 'To hear,' Guy had said. 'To hear what?' Roy challenged. 'To hear the voice of the people.' Roy had clapped with pride and joy. Back then, Guy had known the answer from listening to his father, and Roy had been impressed. Now he was alone and being asked to impress Roy again, to prove himself. Guy didn't mind. Roy's caution came only out of concern for Guy himself. Roy couldn't just give him answers. He had to know that the place Guy was coming from was sincere, mature, and ready to hear the truth.

'Why do I think you will tell me?' Guy repeated. 'There are lots of reasons. First off, you're my mum's oldest friend and I know you would do anything for her.' Roy nodded an agreement; whether Imogen were alive or not, their friendship and her memory were still present. 'You're my friend, and I know you would do anything for me. More than that, though, you live for the truth. To deny me my own truth would be to go against everything you have ever stood for.' He didn't need to check Roy's reaction. He knew he was right. He sipped at his tea.

'Have you considered why your father won't tell you?' asked Roy. That was a harder question. Part of Guy felt his father wouldn't tell him just because he was too weak to bring up the painful memories, but that wasn't fair. Another part thought it was because his father was in some way guilty, that he had coaxed her into going, but he knew that was absurd. Then there was the possibility that his mother had made Jerry promise not to say anything in order to protect Guy. That couldn't be right either; had his mum even considered there to be the slightest chance of her being lost in her mission she would never have gone, not after having Guy. 'Because he wants me to live for myself, for my life, not for the past,' he settled on. 'What he fails to realise, however, is that my life is and always has been all about this history and I cannot focus on my future until this story is over.' This time he did watch Roy's reaction, and he was impressed. He raised his chin and nodded slowly.

'And what if I don't say what you want to hear?'

Guy tried to read into Roy's eyes. Did he have bad news? Was that why no one had wanted Guy to know, because they were afraid he might not be able to handle the truth? Roy was too good at keeping a poker-face. Still, how could things be any worse? 'Whatever you say will be better than not knowing. At least that way I can move on.'

Roy eyed the cross on the wall unconsciously. He closed his eyes softly, just for a moment, and mouthed words Guy couldn't distinguish. 'Okay, I'll tell you what I know.' Guy leant forward, listening intently.

'Your mother was called in when you were three years old. It was one month after your birthday. She didn't speak to me much of how she felt about it; she just wanted me there for support.

'As you know, there was a lack of medics in the field at that time, not that that was anything unusual, our forces had been short of medics for years, that's largely how your parents were so successful, and why they were so needed. And your mother knew that. As patriotic as she was, she was always ready to answer the call. And she did. Fifteen years ago she was called upon by one General Swanson to undertake a most unique mission to rescue one Lieutenant Daniels. It was a dangerous mission, Swanson knew that. Hell, it was hard enough getting the soldiers to feel confident about it, let alone a medic. He knew your mother was not of the typical mould; hell, we all knew that. So it was that she picked up the bill. It was all very quiet. I was there at the press conference, though to call it a conference is a joke. We weren't told anything.

'It was all the same old bullshit. They had decked out a great hall for this press conference— of course, I was working for the Tribune at the time. Anyway, it was all the glamour, cameras flashing, big wigs and power players dressed to the nines. They made it seem some spectacular event, as they always do. Yet when it came down to it we were given nothing; no information whatsoever.

'Of course, I did what I could to uncover the story. I called in some contacts, but all I could get out of that was that this Daniels chap was a relative of a very highly ranked General. They weren't going to lose him without a fight. He had been taken by the enemy and, it was suspected, was being held up in a prisoner of war camp. They knew they were running out of time. There's no man can survive in one of those prisons for long. Oh, Daniels was strong, but not that strong. No, they had to get in immediately, find him, and if he was pent up in one those prisons, well, they'd have to take the building by force in one swoop, get to Daniels and see to him there and then. That was all I knew. Everything else came after.'

* * *

Imogen stood stiff in the corner of General Swanson's office, dressed in her tight fitting grey-blue medic's uniform. General Swanson was sat at the only table in the room, rifling through a thick file. Imogen couldn't make out the pages, but he turned to one, ran his finger down the page, grumbled beneath his breath and sipped at a plastic mug of coffee.

Swanson was a real colossus of a man. His head looked like a great stone, with thick rubbery skin. He was old. Heavy lines cracked through his face and his grey hair was thin and wiry. He had an entire catalogue of medals pinned to his jacket, all of different colours. He looked like a toy soldier with a million big bright buttons on his chest. Imogen would love to be able to press them, if for no other reason than to see his reaction. He laid the folder down and turned to her.

His sharp, grey-blue eyes focussed on her like an eagle. 'Cormun,' he nodded. 'I would like to personally thank you for volunteering for this assignment. You are a true soldier.' A smile cracked like a chasm across his face. 'I understand you have a son and a husband at home. Rest assured, we will strive to give you a safe return as soon as this mission is complete. This contribution to our great country shall not be overlooked. You've a medal headed your way, Cormun.'

'Thank you, sir,' Imogen acknowledged, bowing to her superior.

'As you know, one of our Panavia Tornado ERCs was hit and brought down just south of the target, ten kilometres due north-west of the stream. We'll be sending you in on a Lynx Mk 7 at o-four hundred hours tomorrow morning. I will introduce you to your convoy at o-two hundred hours, that's—' he snapped his wrist up to his face and eyed his watch '—eight hours from now. I suggest you get some food and then take a rest. The plan is to get you in and out over the next forty-eight hours; you'll be back at home for church on Sunday.' He slapped the file shut and sipped at his coffee. 'You know, I have always had the utmost confidence in you, Cormun,' he mumbled lowly, sounding like a car engine ticking-over. 'If more of our soldiers were of your mould, well—'

'Don't,' Imogen insisted, holding her hand out to stop him. She didn't want emotion; she wanted to be a machine until the job was done. Get in, get out and go home, that was her plan. Swanson nodded his understanding.

'I'll see you at o-two hundred hours. Dismissed.' He saluted. Imogen stood to attention and returned the salute. She marched out the office.

That night, Imogen lay alone in her private room. There was nothing to take her mind off of Guy and the risk she was taking. The room was bare, just a wooden table, a wooden bed and four plain white walls. A TV sat on the table but there was nothing worth watching. She had taken her notebook and a fountain pen out and scrawled letter after letter after letter, trying to find the right words to write to Guy. She was certain the return wouldn't be as swift as General Swanson had suggested. She probably wouldn't see Guy for months. Then again, there was a very slim chance that she might not return home at all. Though, in truth, there was little reason to think so drastically, she always preferred to have every base covered. So it was that she had written a letter to Guy just in case the unthinkable happened.

'To my little Guy,' it began. She floated the pen over the paper. How was she supposed to know how to write a letter just in case—well, never mind; she rubbed at her forehead. What could she write? She tapped the pen on the table in irritation. Finally she shrugged and decided to just be completely honest.

'To my little Guy; I don't know what to say, how about that!' She looked up the page. She had already written the section for Jerry. 'Jerry, I am due to leave on a rescue mission this morning. Now I'm thinking I should have refused. Ha! You're always right and I never see it! Guess I'm just too stubborn. They say I should be back by Sunday. That seems extremely unlikely, but I'm sure it won't be too long so please don't worry. Just in case the worst happens... well, you know; it's not the first time I've written a note for Guy. Please read it to him when he is old enough to understand.' She hurried to write the sentences. The odds on Jerry actually having to ever read the note to Guy were so slim there was little sense wrestling over the words. The words to Guy were different, though; they were as much for Imogen herself as for him; they helped her to realise why she did what she did, helped her to find the motivation and focus to perform her duty. She returned to the section for Guy.

'I want you to understand, when you grow up, why I've decided to risk myself for this mission. I love you, you know that. You are the most precious thing I have ever known. All I ever wanted was for you to be brought up with hope, love, and more hope... and a little more love.' She sighed. 'When you grow up, I don't want there to be any wars or hate. Sometimes we must give up what we—' she crossed the line out. It wasn't right. She continued, 'You know, the chief reason for failure and unhappiness is sacrificing what we want most for what we want in the moment. At this moment I want to be there with you. I'm sacrificing that for the hope that you grow up to know what love is, to know what duty is, to know how to act for more than yourself; for your family and for everything you love. That is what I want most. I want you to have respect and love for every man. How can you have that if I am prepared to let this soldier die?' She looked over the letter. It was right. It felt right. She finished, 'Love, Mum.'

* * *

Guy held the letter tenderly, as though it were his mother's hand and he a little boy once more.

'Your father gave me that letter,' said Roy. He sat silent for many minutes, giving Guy time to read over the letter, to consider what it meant for him personally. The chief reason for failure and unhappiness is sacrificing what we want most for what we want in the moment... grow up to know what love is, to know what duty is, to know how to act for more than yourself; for your family and for everything you love. That meant he was on the right path, didn't it? He wasn't just seeking the truth for his own sake, but for his mother, for his father, for Roy, even for people he didn't know and would never meet. His heart beat hard in his chest as he realised his truth. He was fighting because the life and memory of each and every person was worth fighting for, no matter who he had to fight: his father, his government, whoever. A person's life and memory were worth that much. We're all the same, we fighters, the old security guard had said to him, and that was what Gina believed too. That was what he believed. He'd never seen it before, but that was it. They were all one. He was no different to other students, they no different to him; his mother, the security guard, he and his father, all one. That was his belief, the passion Gina had told him to find, and not only did it fill a hole in his heart but it empowered him in his fight. A cool tear fell from his eye and settled on his leg. It felt so alive, like the freshest fountain; it had pushed its way through the staled and dried young man he had been and presented itself to him as though to say: you are still alive, you are still young, and today is the day you move on and begin life anew.

Seeing him cry, Roy bit his lip anxiously, lowered his head and said, 'Your father didn't want you to come across that letter one day by accident. He didn't want to face what had happened.'

The tears continued to fall from Guy's eyes but he smiled and nodded his understanding. 'That was his fight,' Guy quietly whispered. Roy lifted his head and eyed his questioningly and with optimism. 'His fight was to protect me,' Guy now realised. 'All this time he has been keeping his own truth to himself, fighting his own battle, for me.' His face lit up and the tears came quicker and more easily. He had thought crying was a weakness. Now he saw it could be a terrific strength. He let a tear drop onto the tip of his forefinger, looked at it and felt it. He'd always tried to ignore the tears before. Now he embraced them, acknowledging the message they were giving him: that he was alive.

'Let me get you another tea,' Roy said, deciding to give Guy some time alone and to allow himself time to think.

Guy ran over Roy's story in his head. Lieutenant Daniels, maybe he knows more, he thought. Part of him wanted to tear Daniels a new asshole, whoever he was. It was for him that his mother had been lost, but another part wanted to shake the man's hand, for no matter the consequence, he had fought the same battle his mother had fought and shared the same belief and passion. Where could he find him? He folded the letter up, put it in his pocket and stormed out of the room, through the hallway and out the house.

'Guy. Guy,' Roy called after him in a panic. He set the cups down and dashed over to the phone. Could he call Jerry? Would that be moving against Guy or for him? He set the phone back on the receiver. He tapped his fingers on his hips anxiously then darted over to the computer. He began typing an email frantically. He swallowed hard. He didn't know what was right: to get involved in Guy's business or not to. With his eyes closed, praying he had done what Imogen would deem to be the right thing, he clicked 'Send.'

# Hunting the truth

Guy had spent all afternoon looking online for the name Lieutenant Daniels. He had searched through reams of information on the war, on various people named Daniels, though never the right one, and on General Swanson, about whom he had learned much, but sadly the General had died three years ago, aged sixty-eight. There was nothing that could help. Finally, he had given up for the day, realising he needed a sounder strategy. He turned to his email, hoping to take his mind off his mother if only for a few hours, only to find a new message from Roy. His eyes ignited with excitement. He was so frantically darting for the Open button that he deleted the email by mistake. Thank God for recycle bins. He restored it and read.

Guy; I don't have a great deal of information on either General Swanson— that's the man who briefed your mother— or Lieutenant Daniels, but I can tell you that the man who led the press conference that day was one General Heuer. He was a pretty big shot at the time. I'm sure you can dig up some information on him. No idea where he is now though, sorry. Oh, one more thing. You probably know this, but I haven't told your dad a thing. It's up to you whether or not you want to get him involved. That's none of my business. I wish you the best of luck. And remember, I am always here for you, Guy.

Take care.

Roy.

Guy burst into life. If General Heuer was a big name in the army at that time, there was bound to be information about him online. He ran for Google and typed 'General Heuer'. There was an entire biography on him. Son of a politician and a psychologist, he had enlisted at age nineteen. His entire life had been about the army. Never married. Died at seventy-five— which would have been two years ago. There was a big entry on him on a website dedicated to listing the leaders of the forces. Then there was a smaller entry on a website writing about post traumatic stress disorder. How could he link this to his mother? How could he go from the name of a general to an account of the loss of his mother— if indeed she had been lost for good? He had no idea. He lit a cigarette and left his room and the house.

Guy headed straight for the central library. It was like a whole world of books compared to the tiny corner that was his library at school. The central library was one of the city's proudest landmarks. It had been built centuries ago; a huge domed building adorned with stone statues. The inside was like a great crypt of information. He hadn't been in the central library before— he had hardly been in the school library. He wished he hadn't just outright dismissed it as being too geeky for him. It was a beautiful building, not that that was of importance to Guy. What was of importance was the sense that somewhere in the thousands and thousands of books the library stored might be a single nugget of information that would lead him to discovering the truth about his mother. He headed for the information desk.

'Can I help you?' a frail looking old lady asked. She leant over her desk, pulled down her glasses and examined guy. He clearly wasn't what she was used to.

'Yeah, do you have a section on war?'

The lady giggled in sympathy as she realised how lost a young man like Guy must have felt in the library. She smiled kindly. 'We have rather a lot of books on war. Was it a specific period you were looking for?'

'Yeah, fifteen years ago.'

'Wow, that is rather specific,' the lady said. 'Follow me.'

The librarian led Guy to the far side of the library. She fingered through the shelves knowingly, as though she had read every single book in the place several times over. 'Here we are,' she said, pointing to a shelf about halfway up. To Guy, it looked exactly the same as every other shelf in the building. He wondered how anyone was supposed to find anything. Or were they just supposed to have a schematic of the library logged in their mind when they entered?

Guy spent several hours looking through the books in the library. Among them he found several interesting and rather disturbing subjects. One book dedicated hundreds of pages to detailed explanations of the treatment of prisoners of war in various countries. Guy had thought he was beyond shock, but the methods of torture shown in the book convinced him otherwise and he prayed to Christ that his mother had not met such a fate. Another book disgusted him yet further. It showed a picture of a crying girl beneath the title 'Sexual Violence: An Invisible Crime.' He couldn't think that his mother might have been put through anything approaching that kind of treatment. Though images rose in his head, he fought with all his strength to keep them out of mind and kept reading. He read for hours, through every book that seemed relevant; searching and searching and searching. The hours bled into one as his search carried onward, seemingly forever.

# Better Left Unheard

Gina stood waiting tiredly. It was a lazy afternoon. The students slowly slid out of the room like a slug. Gina chewed on her lower lip in concern. Guy hadn't attended the class, of course. Not only had that made the lesson dull—as it always was without the exciting threat of the spark Guy always carried in him—but she couldn't focus on her work for fear that he might have done himself or someone else harm. She gathered her papers on her desk and began to sort them into a file. She tucked the file in her desk draw.

'Hi.'

Gina turned round to find Kevin standing in the doorway holding a small but thick book. He was wearing a black tailored suit, having come from work. He looked particularly handsome, with just a little stubble showing and his hair slicked back. What most took Gina's breath, though, was the excitement in his eyes, which he was trying to keep secret. She knew he had done something sweet for her.

'Oh, hi, honey. What's going on?' She shuffled over to his side.

'I thought you could use a new photo album,' he said, holding the book high. It was a gorgeous looking album in a pink floral design. Kevin normally messed up completely when it came to design— he had an acute flavour for the garish— but he had chosen perfectly here. Gina's face lit-up in delight.

'Oh my goodness, honey, that's so thoughtful of you.' She kissed him on the cheek, grinning from ear to ear. She opened the album and began to flick through. He had completely transferred all her old photos to the new album. She was so excited she didn't consider how strange it was for Kevin to give her a present at work. He was relieved; she wouldn't have been pleased if he'd had to explain that he wanted to remind her that even at school her family was her family and that no student could ever replace them.

'Look here,' he said, holding her focus on the album by flicking to a page that held a portrait of Gina's father as a boy. It was the original photo, some sixty years old.

'You fixed it?' Gina beamed. She held a hand to her mouth and ran a finger softly over the image. It was in perfect condition. 'I love you. My goodness, you are such a sweet, loving man, Kev'. God I adore you.' She kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Then her eyes widened with concern and she checked the vicinity to confirm they were alone. There was no one in sight.

'All right, all right,' he laughed. 'I guess we should both get back to work. We can go through the album later.'

'You keep it for now,' Gina said, handing the album over. 'I'm terrified I shall lose it. I couldn't possibly.'

'Sure.' He tucked the album under his arm and kissed Gina on the forehead. 'I'll see you later.'

Gina was still showering Kevin with affection later that evening. They sat on the couch together, flicking through the album. Kevin listened intently as Gina told him the stories of every photo. He pretended it was the first time he had heard them.

'This is one of the sweetest things you've ever done for me,' Gina said. 'You know, these photos mean so much to me.'

'I was hoping to start a trend,' said Kevin. 'Think how many photos we'll have when we start a family.'

Gina gazed into his eyes. They were so beautiful: soft, brown and reassuring. She leant over and kissed him. He lay back and held her in his arms. She felt a tenderness she hadn't felt in months. She felt as though she were a teenager again, as though they'd just gotten back from a romantic meal. His soft, loving words had returned her dreams to her. Once more she was caught up in the intoxicating idea that he could whisk her away; the idea that they could set out together and create a beautiful future, as though time and troubles didn't exist. His skin looked brand new. It was alive. She yearned to be suffocated in his flesh. She nibbled on the tough skin of his neck and began to finger at his shirt.

'Shit,' Kevin spat as the doorbell rang. 'Come on, give me a bloody break.'

Gina looked towards the hallway and bit her lip nervously.

'Ignore it,' Kevin pleaded. 'Just ignore it.'

He knew she couldn't ignore it. She was too worried it might be urgent. Paranoid was the word Kevin would use, but no matter what word described her behaviour, she stood up, checked herself over and scurried to the door. She peered through the peephole. It was Guy. She prayed he wouldn't need long. She owed Kevin some attention. Reluctantly, she opened the door.

'Hi, Guy,' she slurred in a hurry. 'Is everything okay?' His face was white as a ghost. Still, she could hope.

'I found someone who knows her.'

'What?' Gina gulped. Someone who knows who? He couldn't possibly mean who she thought he meant. That was impossible. She gave him the once-over. He was shaking. His face was pale. His breathing was short. 'Found who?' she asked, unable to believe what he was saying.

'I've found someone who knows the truth about my mum.'

Kevin was still sat on the couch with his shirt half undone, a tuft of hair poking out the top. Guy turned away.

'Kev', darling,' Gina nervously called.

'I heard,' he acknowledged. Gina thanked him silently for not shouting, though she wouldn't have blamed him if he had. To say the least, things had been crazy as of late; she would hardly blame him if he thought of leaving her, not that he ever would. Praying that soon some resolve would be found for Guy and she would be able to move on, she grabbed the keys from the hanger and left.

Gina backed out the driveway in her SUV as Guy was explaining the story to her.

'Roy— he's close friends with me, my mum and my dad— he finally opened up and told me what he knew,' Guy said. Gina muttered an acknowledgement. She was fully focussed on the road. It was a dark night and the streets were busy with football fans heading home after a game. 'He said mum was sent on a rescue mission and gave me some names: General Swanson, General Heuer and Lieutenant Daniels. I spent all day searching at the library— that's why I wasn't in class, sorry.'

'Hell, you were at a library; that's more than good enough for me,' Gina muttered. She reached over and took a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment, handed one to Guy and lit her own. An old banger in front was slowing her down. She sighed, looked in the rear view mirror and brushed her hair back.

'The lady at the library said they had loads of newspapers from years ago,' Guy continued. 'I was there for hours reading them when I finally found something: a story about a soldier who had suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. His name: Daniels. That was what started it. I got the address and everything, and that led me to yet more information. Eventually I went right back to newspapers from when mum had left. Most of them didn't say anything much, but this one reporter for the Post somehow knew more than the rest. He'd documented the whole story, or at least most of it. This is what he said....'

* * *

The whirring of the propeller blades rumbled in her head, despite the ear-defenders she was wearing. Imogen shuffled in her seat. Her ass felt stiff. She couldn't wait to stretch her legs, no matter how unwelcoming the surroundings might be when they landed.

She allowed her eyes to dart quickly about the cabin: eight men, two pilots, one woman and one helicopter; all the soldiers in the cabin had their eyes turned downward, silently praying, whilst Imogen was surveying their surroundings meditatively. All was black but for the flashing lights of the vehicle's instruments. The sky outside was a deep-ocean blue. A block of grey sat on the desert floor, a building of some sort. She couldn't make it out through the dark.

Through the wall of darkness, little firecrackers of gunfire broke out. Were they firing at the helicopter? Imogen couldn't tell; they were firing in all directions. It was like a bullet highway at night, burning red amber lights darting to unknown destinations.

A few minutes later they were over the city. Collections of grey stone buildings stood like blocks of Lego in the sand. To the south, a large fire rose into the night. Its red blaze burnt a hole through the sky. Imogen swallowed hard. Stupid girl, she yelled at herself in her head. Somehow she always presumed everything would be all right; no matter how much of a lesson life gave her she'd still happily agree to missions from the comfort of her home, blissfully unaware, certain everything would be fine. Yeah Imogen, nice one, she thought, She was in the depth of hell and all of her own—

'Shit,' she screamed through her ear-defenders. She slammed her eyes shut in fright as some unseen object punched right through the windshield. It smashed to pieces. A terrifying radiant glow lit up the cockpit, completely engulfing the co-pilot and bleeding over onto half of the pilot's body. Shards of metal and plastic exploded everywhere. One of the soldiers jerked as a piece of glass shot right into his stomach. His uniform was soon covered in blood. Imogen tucked her head into her hands and bent over, making herself compact. Shrapnel rained down upon her, cutting into her uniform. It slit her shoulder.

Suddenly, the whirring of the engines stopped. Smoke rose throughout the craft. They started spinning and plummeting to earth. Imogen wrestled with her body to assume a crash position. The air howled fiercely through the broken windscreen. She knew it was coming. She knew it was coming. Hold on, Imogen. Please, dear God, just hold on, she prayed to herself.

Impact. The ground shuddered. The helicopter leapt upwards in rebellion. Parts of instruments exploded into the air. Imogen held on to her head; if she could feel her head she knew she was alive. She could feel it. Oh God, was this actually happening? Was she dead?

Gunshots fired outside the craft.

'Get out. Get out,' one of the soldiers screamed. Imogen unbuckled her belt. The soldier grabbed her by her arm and helped her out of the vehicle. Her head was spinning. She was aware that her body was in crippling agony but couldn't tell where the pain was coming from. She saw stone walls and shadows of men. Were they friend or enemy? She couldn't tell.

'Take cover,' a soldier yelled. Where the hell was she supposed to take cover? Gun shots were raining everywhere. Shadows leapt through the night and struck at them. Her head.

Her head.

All was black.

Her tummy rumbled. Her head hurt. Shit, it hurt like hell. Where was she? The rumbling of her stomach grew. She was painfully hungry. Her stomach growled louder and louder and louder until it was clear that the rumbling she was hearing could not have been coming from her; no, it was coming from the wheels of a car. She was driving Guy to see Nan and Granddad. Why the hell did her head hurt so much? There was smoke and fog all around. Was she dreaming? And why were people shouting in some foreign tongue?

'Get off me,' she mumbled. Someone was jabbing something into her side. Was she dreaming? Smoke and fog outside. She drifted off.

'You, up.'

'I'll get up in a moment,' she grumbled.

'Now.'

'Oh, chill out,' she spat unconsciously.

Somebody punched her in the arm. She grabbed at it in pain. The foreign tongues yelled again. What the hell was going on? She peeled her eyes open a little. It was grey. The area was covered in sand. Wheels whirred. Her head felt heavy. It had something over it. Helmet, she said to herself. Helicopter helmet. Helicopter? she asked herself. Imogen wake up. Wake up now. Now. NOW. She yanked her eyes open.

She was in a truck, bouncing over rocky terrain. Four foreigners sat in the front of the truck, all dressed in black and wearing headbands. The only part of their body visible through the clothing was their eyes; they were dark and glaring; watchful like a hawk. The men were talking to each other in a language Imogen didn't understand. Two of them held guns pointed at two of the soldiers Imogen had been travelling with. They were shouting at them. One of the soldiers kept lowering his head from exhaustion— or pain, Imogen couldn't be sure—  
and every time he did so the foreign guy guarding him would jab his gun into the soldier's chest and yell at him. The foreigner caught her looking at him. He held her gaze lifelessly. They looked at her no differently than they did the male soldiers; they had not realised she was a woman. Her face was completely covered in her helmet, visor and microphone and the few areas of skin visible were coated with sand and dust. Without moving, the foreigner yelled something at her. She turned away, praying that they didn't find out she was female; she trembled at the idea of what would happen if they did.

Up ahead a bunker stuck out of the sand. The truck turned down a path towards it. Imogen shut her eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

When Imogen came around, the truck had stopped. They were parked outside a yellow concrete block of a building, with two holes for doors and another large square hole serving as a window. The two foreigners stabbed their guns into the soldier's chests and indicated for them to step out. It was then Imogen realised they had been handcuffed, and so had she. She hadn't felt the tight metal piercing into her skin on the journey; she had been too out of it. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but it must have been several hours for the sun was already rising and it was getting hot. The two soldiers shuffled from side to side and eventually made it out of the truck. One of the foreigners then turned to Imogen.

'You, out,' he barked. He prodded Imogen's helmet and indicated with his gun for her to step out. She wobbled her bum up to the door and slowly lowered her legs to the ground.

The foreigner at the front called something to his comrades and they were escorted into the building.

The building was divided into three parts, each not much bigger than Imogen's barracks at headquarters. All were bare but for one table, a bench that served as a make-shift bed and a couple of worn chairs.

The foreigners pushed Imogen and her two comrades onto the floor. There were seven men stood against a wall wearing a uniform Imogen didn't recognise. All were silent but for one, whom Imogen took to be the leader of the group. He was a rather short man, covered in facial hair, holding an AK-47. He stepped out of the group and began pacing up and down the room and speaking in very rough English.

'Who are you?' he ordered. Imogen and her two comrades remained silent.

'What are you doing here?' Again, no answer.

He signalled something with his hand to one of the men against the wall. The other man was far larger than the leader. He looked like a complete brute: muscle-clad with long, unclean black hair and a very nasty looking knife attached to his hip. He lunged forward, picked Imogen up by the neck and threw her into the gang. Punches and kicks rained down on her in a flurry of assault as all the gang members tore into her. Then one of the men grabbed at her helmet and yanked it off her head. Her long blond hair came raining down and her feminine face was revealed. Shocked, the gang broke out into a slur of curses. They had mistaken her for a man. Uncertain what to do, all arms let her go. She collapsed on the floor, panting for breath. The leader of the gang barked orders like a dog. The gang came and lifted her and her companions up and escorted them back out of the building.

The truck they had transferred Imogen and her comrades to was stacked full of crates, though Imogen couldn't see what was inside them. She was cordoned off from the rest of the truck by a large canopy. Her section of the vehicle housed just Imogen herself and a guard, who was holding her at gunpoint. He was covered in so much hair Imogen could hardly see his face. He smelt bitter, as though his clothes were drenched in alcohol. He took a cigar out of his trouser pocket and lit it with a match.

Realising she was watching him, the man turned and smiled menacingly at her. He reached his hand over and began to massage her shoulder sensually. She squirmed and shut her eyes, praying that somehow she would be magicked back home. She felt the metal of the man's gun, hot under the burning sun, run down her face, followed by two large, bitter tasting lips that kissed at her mouth. She fought to keep her mouth shut. He began to kiss around her neck and chest. Then his hands were at her jacket. He unbuttoned her top. Her breasts were exposed. He stroked his finger down them, whispering something to her that she was glad she couldn't understand.

To Imogen's surprise, her molester's hands fell suddenly and he cursed in fright. The canopy sectioning him and Imogen off from the rest of the truck flapped open and another foreigner entered. Seeing the man molesting Imogen he ran up, yelled and slapped her attacker across the face. He then turned to Imogen, eyes wide with both fear and hatred, and began to spew unintelligible words at her. She didn't know what he was saying but he sounded apologetic. Or was she imagining that? To her great surprise, he buttoned her jacket back up and bowed his head to her in apology.

The truck screeched to a halt and several of the foreigners jumped out. They came up to where Imogen was sitting and grabbed by the neck the man who had been molesting her. He shouted a protest but to no avail. One of his comrades took out his gun and whipped it across his head. He fell to the floor only to have the remainder of his comrades stamp into him repeatedly. Then they stopped, picked him up once more and escorted him to the front of the truck, replacing him with a different guard in Imogen's section. Imogen eyed her new guard in terror, but he showed her the palms of his hands in assurance that he would not harm her. He sat down a few feet away from her so as to give her room and though he still held his gun aimed at her chest, Imogen thanked the Lord for his mercy that her new guard kept his hands off her.

After about an hour, a large building came into view. Imogen presumed it was where they were heading. It looked ominous, if not terrifying. Each corner of the square perimeter was guarded by a tall watch tower. Imogen studied the one closest to them. It was manned by a single sniper; she could see the tip of his rifle sticking out a hole in the stone. The towers connected to concrete walls that were crowned with flesh-eating barbed wire. The only break in the walls was at the front and centre, where two sentry posts were surrounded by men wielding weapons. Three guards came to the front of the truck and spoke to the driver. He showed them papers and they passed through, stopping just before the entrance to the building. The man sitting next to Imogen took out a blindfold from his knapsack and indicated for Imogen to turn around. She did so. Her eyes fell to black.

It felt like several hours had passed when Imogen's blindfold was finally removed. She wished it hadn't been. She was crammed in a cell hardly big enough for a single person, in which stood some eight others. All were silent, with dead eyes that spoke of a thousand sorrows and an emptiness about their demeanour that no man could look at without feeling pain in the depths of their soul. All had scars in various places on their bodies. Many were moaning beneath their breath as though praying to God for the end. They were tortured. Imogen couldn't even scream. She wasn't ready to accept what had happened. She was bizarrely peaceful inside. She guessed it was a natural defence mechanism to keep her from completely losing her mind.

Time passed at a rate Imogen couldn't determine. Either days had passed or minutes, she couldn't tell, but eventually a guard came to the cell and opened the door. An arm reached in and grabbed Imogen by the shoulder, literally tearing her out of the cell. She didn't fight him; what was the point? She just felt her mind leaving her body in terror as she was escorted to a different room.

Imogen would never say what happened to her in that room. She would have no one know. She felt a pain there beyond words. She felt as though her body had been cleaved in two. Her mind was in no better shape. It fell into horrific hallucinations that would be burnt into her memory forever. It seemed as though she were in that room for an eternity. When finally she was thrown back out of the room and into her cell, she felt as though she had been born again, into a new world of pain and torture. She couldn't cry, though she wanted to. Emotion was beyond her.

Sometime later in life, or it may just have been days— hell it may have been hours, she'd no clue— but at some point, a fly came buzzing into the cell. Its black, raisin-like, pathetic little body contained what to Imogen was a profound beauty. It licked the cell bars and buzzed about happily, as though the cell were a good home. One of the male prisoners picked up the fly between thumb and finger and almost hypnotically began to move it in and out of the cell. In and out. In and out. In and out. Finally he let the fly go and it was free. It buzzed off like a Harley Davidson out the room. The image of it so lazily floating away repeated over and over in Imogen's mind, passing time with it in some unknown quantity.

Imogen didn't know how she hadn't seen him before, but when she awoke— if she had been dreaming, that is, for she could no longer distinguish between the pains of her waking and dreaming states— there was a man sitting on the floor wearing an army uniform. He would have been a handsome man were it not for his beaten face and green eyes that had been raped of all life. He looked up at Imogen then flinched and closed his eyes as though he were afraid of her.

Later, a tall man in the cell with a dirty, scraggly beard and lips that were dry and cracked as old plaster leant over and touched her on the shoulder. He ran his finger down her arm and grabbed her hand. He whispered something into her ear, though Imogen was so tired all she heard was empty air. Then he kissed her on the cheek and began to massage her breasts. She didn't even notice. Her body was not her own, she had been made aware of that so, she thought, it wasn't like the man was actually touching her. She had no body. She was nothing. Fingers groped. They groped at what felt to Imogen to be no more than thin air; an empty shell. They leached onto her. More hands came. They all touched her. Most hands came like desperate creatures grasping for the mercy of Imogen's soft skin, but amongst them was one hand that lashed out at the others in rebellion. It hurled itself at them like a snake whipping itself at prey. Why was it hitting them? She followed the hand along an arm, up a neck to a young face that somehow still had in it an air of life. Was he a friend? Imogen wondered. She tried to read his eyes but his face grimaced and fell away to the back of the cell as someone hit him.

Suddenly a fight broke out. The cell was exploding, being ripped apart from the inside. Imogen didn't see what it was, but something smashed into her left temple, sending her sprawling to the floor, unconscious again.

* * *

'I am so sorry,' Gina whispered through tears as Guy finished telling his mother's story.

'Don't say that,' he demanded. 'Don't apologise. They're just stories from old newspapers and books, they're not the truth. They cannot be the truth.' He was begging desperately, but the look on his face—twisted with grief almost out of recognition—made clear he believed what he had read.

Gina didn't know what to say. The only respectful sound was silence. Guy observed it too.

After several minutes, Gina reached over and tapped Guy on the knee sympathetically. 'Well let's see what this Lieutenant Daniels has to say for himself. Now Guy,' she muttered nervously, 'you have to remember—'

'I know,' he interrupted with confidence, 'it wasn't his fault. Don't worry; I'm not looking for a fight anymore. I just want to know.'

# Cold Hard Light

Gina slowed the car half regrettably, half hopefully as they entered the veterans centre car park. She had fought so hard for Guy. He didn't know how much she had sacrificed for him. She prayed with all her heart that he would hear whatever it was he needed to hear to bring closure, to allow him to move on with his life. Hopefully he would move on with a positive sense of his mother. He had been fingering his dog tags for the entire drive. She hoped that by morning they would hold less a sense of loss and more a sense of promise.

Flags adorned the walls of the hall as they entered, together with photos of soldiers, medals, newspaper cuttings and more; the entire room was like a museum of national pride, and in a distant hall, a group of old men were huddled around an antiquated television set watching the news.

A middle-aged lady was standing at the reception desk. Gina rushed over.

'Excuse me,' she said in a hurry. 'I'm looking for Adam Daniels. Apparently he is here tonight.'

The receptionist nodded. 'Oh, Adam, yes, yes, he's often here; he helps set up for our guest speakers.' She turned to her computer and started searching through the database. 'Oh, yes, he's here right now. Let me see if I can find him for you.' She stood and strode purposefully over to the hallway at the end.

'Are you okay?' Gina asked, turning to Guy. He was leant over the reception desk with his head in his hands. He nodded. 'Do you need anything?' He shook his head. Gina gave him space. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself. 'Are you ready to do this, Guy?'

'Yes,' he answered determinedly, 'I'm ready.'

'You know there is no guarantee that this man knew your mother?' Gina cautioned. 'He may have been the one she was looking for, but that doesn't—'

'He knows. I know he does. I can feel it.' Guy was nodding his head repeatedly and bobbing up and down on his feet in anxiety.

'I hope you are right,' said Gina. She rubbed his back in support. 'Just try not to be too hurt if—' she fell silent as the receptionist returned. Following her was a tall thin man wearing one of the friendliest smiles Guy had ever seen. His receded grey hair and weathered skin spoke of a life well lived. He offered his hand to Guy. 'Adam Daniels.'

'Hi,' Guy muttered in a fluster. 'I'm Guy Cormun.'

Daniel's looked Guy up and down as though he were evaluating him. 'Imogen's boy?' he asked.

Guy slumped over, clutching at his chest. Gina wrapped her arm about his shoulder. Daniel's looked away shyly, not quite sure what to do to help. 'Let's go somewhere quieter,' he offered. Gina nodded and held Guy's hand as they followed Daniels through the home.

* * *

Imogen had no clue how long she had been locked up in the cell. It felt like an eternity. She had come to think that she would never see the light of day again, but one night, through the blackest black, light exploded back into her life.

'What was that?' a man shouted in a panic at the sound of a deafening explosion.

'They're bombing us,' said another. The sound of gunshots rang out in the distance, but they could see nothing in the pitch black of the prison.

'Stay still,' Imogen ordered, bursting into life. Her training had worked. She had hardly been conscious till the explosion, but the sounds of conflict had trigged her instincts and fired her into action.

Footsteps were heard, though where they were coming from Imogen couldn't be certain. Then a door banged open and a corridor at the end of the hall suddenly burst into a million tiny flares as gunshots were fired.

Imogen stood in pitch black, praying for the right side to win though she couldn't even tell which side was which. She begged for time to pass by, for the last gunshot to be fired, not because she was afraid of being hit, simply because she was so desperate to know who had burst into the prison and what they would do with her. Good or bad, it couldn't be worse than the torture she had been subjected to already.

After a whole symphony of combat in the dark, a squadron of men entered the hall. Imogen closed her eyes and prayed to God with all the strength she had left. She felt some divinity with her then, whether it be called God or the life force or simply inner strength; something took her by the hand and led her away from the prison, somewhere silent with solitude and hope, somewhere calm as she waited for one piece of news to either tell her she was free or she was finished. Either there was light after darkness or there was not. Either way, the truth was upon her.

'Help, we're in here. Help,' several of the prisoners called. Imogen remained silent. She held her dog tags in her hand. Guy was by her side in those moments. She could feel his tiny little hands holding on to her. She wished she could save herself, but her life was out of her hands. Guy was out of her hands.

A flashlight lit the hall like gospel. Its radius widened. A man in a mask, dressed all in black with a machine gun in his hand, stood on the other side of the cell.

'We're here to help,' he said. Every single person in the cell fell to the ground in relief. They had felt the very depths of hell and they had seen light.

'We're going to need medics, stat,' the man called, realising the extent of injury and the complete deprivation the prisoners had been subjected to. Several of the prisoners clawed at him desperately.

'Remain still. Remain still,' he ordered, holding his gun to one prisoner.

Other soldiers burst into the hall and ran over. One of them held a cutting torch. He lit it. Sparks flew as he began to work on the lock. It ripped apart and fell to the floor, the door squeaking open at last. Medics ran into the cell, kneeling down by the most injured prisoners and immediately administering to them. Gradually they allowed the prisoners out of the cell.

'Let me help,' Imogen pleaded to one of the masked men.

'Who are you?'

'Major Imogen Cormun.' She raised her hand into a salute. Her legs were like jelly. She was so starved of energy. She slipped and fell to the floor. Daniels rushed over and held her in his arms as she blacked out.

Imogen's mind had faded. The next thing she knew she was lying in a hospital bed with wires attached to her. She couldn't recall how she had gotten there, how long she had been there or even what age she was. She thought she was old. She felt old. She felt like she'd seen all the life and action she could handle, like she was at the end of her days. She closed her eyes. A dead tone rang in her ears.

* * *

Daniels paused. The story was playing in his eyes. He was sweating, as though he had been reliving the events right there in the veterans' home. Guy wondered how many people's lives that one mission had touched, how many different stories there were to tell of it. Daniels clearly had his own story. Guy wondered if he would ever hear it. He wondered exactly how close Daniels had been to his mother.

'She was a good woman. A great woman,' Daniels said. He smiled proudly. 'Before I continue, I want you to know that she was a true hero, one of the best.' Guy nodded, unable to speak. He found himself outside of his body. He felt like he was hovering above the room. 'What brought you to me?' Daniels' voice echoed in his ears.

Guy took his time before answering. 'The last I heard of her was what she wrote in this letter.' He took his mother's letter out of his pocket. Daniels held his hand out to take it. Guy hesitated but eventually handed it over, eyeing Daniels a caution as he did. Daniels glanced over it. 'It says she—' Guy took a moment to compose himself. There were tears welling in his eyes. He forced them down. He hadn't come this far to turn away now. 'It says she was missing so, I mean, I didn't know if she had died or if she was still alive.' He felt a tremendous surge of relief across his body at voicing his fears so openly. 'A friend of mine told me that you were the one she was sent to rescue; her and the others, I mean.' He looked to Gina for support. She nodded reassuringly. 'I searched your name in every place I could think of. Eventually I found an old newspaper article that said you were helping out here. I knew you would have met her. If she was sent to find you then she damn sure would have found you, I know that much.'

'She did,' Daniels confirmed. His wrinkled face lowered in sorrow and he began to massage his knee and chew on his lip anxiously. 'I wish I could have done more,' Daniels whispered to himself, remembering his own story. He ran his fingers through thin grey hair and shook his head. 'Knowing she was in there because of me and seeing the things she—'

'What things?' Guy demanded.

'I did what I could for her,' Daniels whispered. He closed his eyes and held his hands in prayer position for the briefest moment. Before he could speak, Gina interrupted.

'So she really is...?' She rolled her hand over suggestively. Daniels eyed her as though disgusted. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'it's just that Guy has spent his whole life with the uncertainty, with his only knowledge being that she had gone missing.'

Daniels tensed. He closed his eyes and nodded his head. 'Yes, she passed away.'

Guy's head dropped to his lap. Gina wrapped an arm about him. He shoved it aside. Gina and Daniels sat in silence as Guy began to shake. He started to tap his hand on the arm of the chair. His taps got harder and harder until he was pounding the chair with his fist.

'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself.'

Guy's eyes shot open, ignited with bitter anger.

'What did you just say?' he demanded Gina to tell him.

'Guy, I didn't say anything.'

'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself.'

'Shut up,' Guy yelled. Gina nervously backed away from him, eyes wide with fear.

'Get off the boat or I will kill you myself.'

Guy closed his eyes and started to rock back and forth in his chair. He felt sick. He was drenched in sweat, so much sweat. His entire body was soaking.

'Get off the boat, son.'

He didn't move. He was too terrified. He just sat there shaking. He could hear bullets ringing out around him but he didn't care. He had lost her. It was over.

'Guy, please get off the boat,' Imogen begged. 'Get off the boat.' Still Guy sat shaking with his eyes closed.

'Guy,' Imogen said so softly she was near angelic. 'Guy, I love you. Please step off the boat.'

Guy squirmed and prayed and through more fear then he had ever felt, fought his eyes open.

He was sitting on a boat at the seashore. He was alone. Imogen was nowhere to be seen. On the beach lay a downed and seemingly empty helicopter. He could hear bullets ringing out around him. A red dot appeared on his chest. He dived for cover as bullets sprayed the water, sending little geysers up over the boat. He clung on for dear life, hoping against hope that the bullets would suddenly stop. They did, but only at the boom of an explosion that launched the boat Guy was laid in high into the sky. Guy tumbled out like a pebble and splashed into the sea. He fought for breath as the water pulled at him. He threw his arms through the surface and swam with all his might for the shore.

His arm was killing. He had injured it when he impacted on the water. Smoke rose over the sea. He couldn't make out his mother. He looked all around. In the background was the downed and abandoned helicopter. He swam towards it.

'Here, Guy,' he heard his mother calling. He followed her voice through the smoke.

By the time he reached the shore he was out of breath and aching like hell. He crawled over to the helicopter. It was veiled in smoke. A crippled body crawled out from the wreckage. It coughed and spluttered and collapsed on the beach. Guy took the body in his arms. He fought to remove the head gear.

Blond hair rained down upon a soft feminine face. Imogen was struggling for breath. Guy helped her sit up and wrapped his arms about her.

'You found me,' she wheezed.

Guy searched for the right words to say, but there were none. He stroked her hair. It smelt of the almond shampoo they shared in the bathtub. He would have given anything to hold on to that scent.

'Dad told me not to come,' Guy muttered, though he wasn't sure why. He felt as though he were in a dream.

'Yeah, he said the same thing to me. He always has to be right.' Imogen laughed weakly. 'I didn't listen to him either, poor sweetheart that he is.' She ran a finger down Guy's face. Her bright green eyes were vacant as though she were remembering Guy even as she lay in his arms. She raised her head a little, focussed on him and fought against the pain in her face to lift her mouth into a smile. 'Funny the things we do for love.'

They both sat there silently, Guy watching the waves coming and going as Imogen lay in his arms. They were still sitting there at sunset. A beautiful red sky broke, its splendour carrying Guy's pain and sorrow away, empting his soul into the lapping waves. For once he stopped fighting and accepted the truth; his truth and Imogen's. The waves reflected the sun and lulled him to dream. It was almost without effort that he lifted his mother's head and softly laid her down beside him.

Guy allowed himself to rest beside his mother until he felt peace. He knew she had gone. He lifted her silent, lifeless body into the sea, kissed her on the forehead, removed the dog tags from her neck and put them on. Finally, he let go of her and she was at peace.

* * *

'Guy, can you hear me? Guy?'

Guy opened his eyes wearily to find that he was lying in a hospital bed. His father was standing over him, holding his hand tenderly. Guy gazed up at him and squeezed his father's hand. Jerry squeezed back and let out a cry of relief. The cold metal of the dog tags tinkled at Guy's neck. He closed his eyes and whispered something to himself, then removed the necklace and handed it over to his father. Jerry protested, feeling unworthy of carrying the most precious memory of Imogen, but Guy nodded and said, 'She wants you to have them.' Jerry nodded an understanding, bowed his head over and once more married with Imogen.

# Life... resumed

'You knew it last night, you know it now,' Yasmin assured. She felt so safe with Guy's arm around her shoulder. He'd managed to relax and enjoy his time with her recently; he'd even let her help him with his studies.

'Damn, I'm actually worried about this,' Guy laughed as they headed down the school corridor to the exam hall.

'Good,' Yasmin acknowledged. 'It's about time you took work seriously.' She laughed and patted him on the tummy, which had grown a little podgier of late, though he was still one of the fittest boys in school.

Guy felt through his things: pencil, rubber, pen, extra ink cartridges. 'Have I got everything I need?'

'Oh my goodness, yes, will you stop worrying?'

'When's your next one?'

'In about an hour: History; it's my last.'

'Good subject,' Guy smiled. 'Think I might do history at university.'

'Just you make sure you pass this exam, Mr,' Yasmin jested. 'I'll see you at three, okay?'

'Sure.' He kissed her on the lips. Finally things were going his way. 'You know what? I'm going to pass this.'

'I know.' Yasmin looked at her watch. 'I've got to get a move on. I'll see you later.'

The students were all in varying moods as Guy strolled down the hallway. Some were excited, some nervous, some barely even awake. He looked out the window. Naz was sat on a rock in the garden, smoking a cigarette. Guy remembered the fight. Part of him hated Naz, but another part forgave and another part still even felt sorry for him; he had his own battle going on and he had to find his way just as Guy had. He wasn't sure whether he should knock him out or help him out and so just walked on by.

A long queue of students stood waiting outside the school hall. A teacher came out and opened the door. They filed in. Guy gulped. You've got this, he told himself as he entered the exam.

Afterwards, Guy had no clue how well the exam had gone. He had been forced to cram so hard that he felt he either knew everything or nothing. Either way, it was done, and he had people to thank for that.

'How did it go?' Gina hurried to ask as Guy entered her classroom. She had been sitting alone at her desk, nervously rolling her pen around in her hands. She leapt up at seeing him.

'Too easy,' he boasted with a grin. 'So, Mrs Green, do you fancy a drink tonight? I figure I owe you one.'

'One?'

'Maybe a couple hundred; we best get started now.'

Gina smiled. 'Sadly, not all of us have finished our work quite yet,' she said, tapping her pen on a pile of papers on her desk. 'Tonight, on the other hand....' Guy eyed her expectantly. 'Sure, let's go. Bring Yasmin.'

'Are you going to bring Kevin?' Gina gave him a warning glance. 'No, seriously, bring him. I probably owe him even more than I owe you.' Gina's grey eyes narrowed questioningly. 'Things have changed,' he answered, 'thanks to you.'

'Stop it,' Gina pleaded, grinning broadly and holding a hand to her face to check her emotions.

Guy sat on a desk and stretched his legs out to relax. Gina looked him up and down and nodded proudly at how much he had managed to relax and let go in such a short time 'You know; Daniels is coming to visit. He says I can talk about mum all day if I like.'

Gina grinned. 'Just you take it easy on him, you big bully.'

A slew of voices sounded outside the window as a congregation of students came pouring into the garden, some loud and joyous, others burying their heads in their hands in fear. Guy couldn't remember ever paying attention to the weather, but it was a nice sunny day outside. It beckoned him to leave the school, though in many ways he felt he had only just started. He felt he had been given a new lease on life, and this one was his to own.

'Gina,' Guy said formally, changing his tone. 'You know, I never will be able to thank you enough for everything you have done for me. You've gotten me through.' She waved his complement away shyly. 'No, really, I mean it. I would never have done this without you. You're the most caring person I have ever known.'

'All right, all right, stop it,' she said, her face turning red. 'How's your dad?'

'He's good. Hell I even talked to him the other day,' he joked. He fell silent and let his eyes drop as though deep in thought before confidently saying, 'You know what? I think he and I are going to be just fine.'

'Well, just so long as someone is around to look out for you, hey?'

'That's what I've got you for.'

Gina's face flicked with sadness for a moment. She stood and walked over to Guy's side. 'Kevin has suggested that we travel for a bit. I think I am going to take him up on it. I need to take some time for me, and after all that has happened recently I figure now is as good a time as any.'

Guy's confidence fell to concern momentarily, but he soon shook his head out of the clouds and nodded happily. 'Good,' he said. 'You deserve a break. I'll miss you though.'

'It's not forever,' she assured, 'just for a few months. I will be back once I've regained my sanity.'

***

Guy couldn't remember a time he had felt more positive as he sat on the park bench with Daniels. He'd wanted to speak about his mother for years, but as he sat down with Daniels it was his own life and his own future that were on his mind. The park was a picturesque break from the concrete of the city. A large lake sat in the middle, with geese and ducks wobbling around it. Two heavily overweight women were following a very muscular fitness instructor around the footpath. He blew his whistle. They lay down and began doing press-ups. Guy grinned at the sight and thought how similar they were to him and to everyone else, with their own issues that they themselves, as Gina had said to him, must decide, right now, that they want to conquer. As it turned out, that decision was everything. Deciding to succeed had taken fifteen years; the act of succeeding had taken just a few weeks. The representation of Guy's success now sat right beside him; he had only spoken to Daniels for an hour and already the old soldier had endeared himself to Guy.

'Dad says mum used to run around here every morning,' said Guy. 'She was so mental; six in the morning, running around a lake.'

'Do you run?' Daniels asked in his thick baritone voice.

'A bit,' Guy answered. 'My instructor makes me. He says it's good training.'

'Good training for what?'

'Boxing.'

Daniels held the palm of his hand up. 'Give me your best shot.' Guy raised an eyebrow dubiously. 'Come on, let's have it.' Guy purposefully hit him with little strength. 'Oh, Christ, hit me for real already.' Daniels taunted. Guy tilted his head then flung his fist into Daniels' hand. Daniels shook the pain off. 'All right, all right, not bad. My turn,' he said. Guy held his hand up. Daniels hit him.

'Damn,' Guy said, surprised by the strength of the blow. 'You're good.'

'Ha; not as good as I used to be.' Daniels' gaze followed the footpath through the park into fields in the distance. 'How long is this path?'

'About five kilometres,' Guy answered. 'Come on, let's get moving.' He stood up, cracked his neck to the side, stretched and began jogging around the path, Daniels following close behind.

* * *

Gina entered her bedroom quietly and placed her bag down on the floor. She crawled into bed beside Kevin and reached an arm around him. He stirred and looked up at her.

'How did he do?'

'Good, I hope,' Gina nodded. 'Hell, he tried, that's the most important thing. He'll be all right.'

'And have you thought about that vacation I mentioned?'

Gina paused, took a deep breath, looked to a future with Kevin by her side and said, 'Let's do it.'

* * *

Guy entered the kitchen, where his father and Daniels were stood drinking coffee and chatting. A worn letter lay on the table. Guy wondered if any letter had ever been read more than that one. He wondered if the time would come when he didn't read it every night before bed.

Daniels nodded respectfully as Guy entered the room. Guy returned the gesture. 'I think that might have to be our last race for a while,' said Daniels. He looked at the clock. It was five-fifteen. 'I should really be getting back. The vets must be asking after me by now.'

'Thank you, Adam.' Jerry's face glowed with the sincerest appreciation. He offered his hand. Daniels shook it.

'You don't need to thank me,' Daniels said. He wanted to tell them that he would always do anything for Imogen's family, but he didn't want to risk dampening the mood.

Guy eyed him questioningly. 'I'll see you again, right?' he asked with concern.

'Definitely,' Daniels assured. 'Perhaps you and your father can come spend some time down my neck of the woods next time. Anyway, I should probably be going back to the hotel, my train leaves soon and I still have to pack.'

Daniels clapped a hand on Guy's arm and the other on Jerry's shoulder before moving to the door, turning and saluting them. He left. Guy and his father were alone again. Neither knew what to say, yet both felt an understanding that had been missing nearly all Guy's life. He felt love for his father, and respect, and he knew his father felt the same way too.

That night, Guy and Yasmin lay huddled up together on Guy's bed. They had sat in meditative silence for hours. Yasmin rested her head on Guy's lap and closed her eyes. He waited for her to fall asleep then gently lifted her off his lap and kissed her on the forehead.

His mother's letter was lying on the bedside table. He picked it up, kissed it at the top corner and put it back in its shoebox. Then he lay down, wrapped his arm around Yasmin and drifted off into a world of peace, dreaming of the future he now recognised.

About The Author

Paul Harrison is a writer, journalist and actor. His great passion is to spark the imagination of his readers, to inspire people both to dream and to achieve their dreams. To find out more about Paul Harrison, please visit his website http://PMHarrison.com or find him on facebook at http://www.facebook.com/Paul.M.Harrison.

