

### AWAKENING

By Edward O'Kane

Copyright © 2017 Edward O'Kane

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Epigraph

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part II

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

_Go lovely dream_

Fly from my mind

Now have you set me

Such awakening unkind

# Chapter 1

April 2nd. 2012.

The man stood studying the grey empty street which seemed to belong to another time... another age. It appeared strangely familiar; he'd arrived a moment earlier and had no clue whatsoever about his own identity or how he'd got to this place.

All was silent. No living thing had lived here for a long, long time. He could sense pain and suffering in the air he was breathing; it was either pain to come or pain that had been, but there was something else: evil lurked somewhere in the murky streets up ahead of him and he would have to face some terrible trial, some...

A silent gust of wind came from his right sending a sharp shuddering blast of cold through his naked body. He went down into a squatting position, rubbing his hands vigorously against his chest to try and get some heat circulating; he needed something to cover his body in the next few minutes.

Looking behind he saw he was standing in front of a shop with ornate gold lettering, ' _Daniel Graham, Apothecary'_ , painted on a small window over the door. Shivering violently he tried the large brass handle. To his surprise it turned but resisted his first feeble push; in desperation he gathered his shaking, cold-ridden body for a second attempt with all the strength he could muster.

It gave with a loud rasping sound accompanied by tinkling of bells hung from the back. He virtually fell inside the shop but managed to pull himself up just in time to stop crashing into a large mahogany counter facing the door. Leaning on the counter he looked around to find something, anything, to wrap around his tortured body. Peering around as his eyes became accustomed to the poor light he spotted some strange outfit draped carefully over a chair in the corner to the counter's left.

It was the complete attire for a gentleman about to meet a lady, attend a function, the opera, or some such pursuit. What happened to the gentleman? Where had he rushed off to? He had no time to dwell on such things; snatching one item after another, grunting and grumbling as he struggled with the unfamiliar garments, he eventually found himself fully dressed a-la-mode for some period in time unknown to him. Sitting in one of the chairs he just waited for some warmth to creep back before deciding on what to do next.

As he sat there looking round he was suddenly startled to see a pale, bowler-hatted stranger staring intently at him from the front of a glass cabinet opposite.

'What the...' he stuttered, jumping up, before realizing he was looking at his own reflection.

Going over to the cabinets and looking at the bottles, jars of 'remedyes', mortar and pestle and various other tools of the apothecaries' trade from times long past, he tried to picture the typical person who would have entered the shop. His thoughts were interrupted by a very low, almost inaudible sound. He paused and listened...

Going to the door he looked out. There were faint sounds coming from way up the street to his right; what sort of gathering did these light murmurings presage - a small group of friendly carousers slightly tipsy on mead, or a veritable horde with singular aim and ominous intent. He would know soon enough.

It started with a small grey shape appearing, then another...

As the shapes drew nearer and became more distinct he could now see that all were women. They were dressed uniformly in grey bras and knickers of an extremely coarse material which looked as if it had been beaten into shape in some primitive cave with large beating stones for scissors; the rough sandpapered look was accentuated by breakaway threads which hung down to the womens' ankles.

They drew near. They were marching in unison, breaking into a deafening roar or chant at intervals. He could now see the faces; all were as grey as the clothes, a spectral surrealistic shade that chilled him to the bone as one woman looked over directly at him and started glaring...leering...he wasn't sure.

The throng drew level on the street outside.

Then an unexpected thing happened.

A woman, possibly the same woman who had leered at him before, was right in front of him. She was not moving. Looking out over her shoulder he could see that all had stopped moving. She moved her face right up to his; a foetid rank odour of the most ghastly decay filled his nostrils; the face in front began contorting in a grotesque and hideous fashion, it was the face of some unearthly demon, so ugly as to be almost beyond imagination...

He felt faint...reached...

A deafening roar brought him awake with a jolt. He was lying on the floor just inside the door. In an instant he had total recall of what had had happened before; still shaken he used a chair behind for support to get up and immediately went to close the door, not daring to look at any person, any face in the now howling, braying crowd outside. Fear and panic were setting in. He had to try and collect his thoughts to make sense of all this.

Above the loud roars and wailing a new sound reached his ears; it stood out from the general hubbub. He listened carefully. It was the earthy thump of feet on cobble moving at speed. Gingerly he approached the door, trying to see what he could through the dust and grime-laden windows; it was no good as he could only make out vague shapes bobbing past.

'The hell with it', he muttered as, throwing caution to the winds, he boldly opened the door and stood in the opening.

The surrealistic grey of the street, the women and even the sky seemed very much more intense than before as if dusk was approaching. He had no idea what time of day it was but instinct told him the darkening was too sudden for onset of dusk; there had to be a reason - but what? The women were no longer marching in unison; they were rushing pell-mell past him as if escaping some terrible being or frightening disaster. He could sense their fear as they rushed past just inches away from him.

Splatt.

A wet woolly object landed at his feet. Glancing down he could see what it was.

Splatt.

Splatt.

Splatt.

The items kept raining down near his feet.

Looking back at the women he could see them tearing and wrenching bras and knickers off as if the items were becoming painful as burning oil or molten metal on bare skin. They threw them in all directions but he saw these same items arc upwards and shoot towards his feet as if controlled by some unseen force. The pile at his feet grew larger, spreading outwards halfway into the street and upwards; in no time at all it seemed it had risen about fifteen feet in the air. How many women were there and how long would this performance go on? He looked at individuals amongst the crowd. The ghostly pallor of their shapely naked figures gave them the appearance of goddesses; he could sense a powerful erotic charge and felt his stiffness growing involuntarily as if his soul was locked in sympathy with them; they seemed to be a mixture of warlike Athena and sorceress Hecate but for the moment all they could do was flee. Of one thing he was sure: sorceress or warrior, should they ask him right now he'd flee with them and let the devil take the hindmost.

In a second the tempo changed. The women stopped, whirled round slowly - very, very slowly - as if willing this action to last forever.

They stopped. He was taken completely unawares as the slow mesmerising turn had numbed his brain; he'd been watching a slow-moving pantomime, a pageant, caught up in vivid orgiastic fantasy and was not ready for it all to stop so abruptly.

They now faced him. He could see the eyes of countless grey spectres looking at him, through him, as if wishing to wrench out his very soul.

Whish.

Whish.

Whish.

Woollen garments were slicing through the air from the pile and landing on the women. These were changing shape and form during the short trajectory and had now become metal \- and something else...

What now faced him was a truly Boadicean army; the ragtag, gipsy mob from before now sat on splendid white horses in precise ranks, with shiny breastplates and glistening chain mail covering their bodies from head to toe. All carried spears with cruelly pointed tips designed for instant and deadly killing. Clinking of armour and stamping of hooves seemed a signal for one tall powerful woman, possibly the leader, and standing no more than sixteen feet from him, who started to pull her hand and arm back.

The spear that thudded into the door behind him was followed by another, then another until the sky itself seemed blotted out by a mass of hurtling spears, and his ears became filled with the terrifying sound of spear on wood. In panic he thought his time had come; he felt real fear and found he could neither duck nor run but stand there rooted to the spot and powerless to withstand any horrible pain and suffering, or even death, they might wish to inflict on him.

Miraculously none landed; he was not their target - or not yet, at any rate.

At some point it all stopped. The leader signalled to his left with her spear; the women turned en masse in the direction indicated and seemed to await further instructions. She then gestured to him with her spear, indicating left with three short sharp jabs as if beckoning him to go where she indicated. He was confused; he couldn't work out what she wanted and even if he knew could he now trust sufficiently to put his fate in her hands?

The ground trembled as if hit by an earthquake. The bells in the shop door started tinkling non-stop and objects within fell off shelves, clattering and crashing to the floor. The leader made one last majestic gesture with her spear, tapped her horse sharply and set off instantly at a gallop, followed by the others. He just stood in the doorway watching and trembling.

The ground trembled again. Looking over the fleeing army he saw a large black shadow begin to form somewhere off to the right of the street. Some violent force of Nature or monstrous beast of evil was approaching; he could feel it and so could the fleeing figures on horseback. A gust of hot, dry air came from his left; looking that way he saw the leading women disappear into red mist, a ring...

Behind, the ground trembled with almighty force; he ducked inside as slates started falling off the roof into the street and bricks flew past the door as if slung from some giant catapult or huge inhuman all-powerful hand. Just at that moment he heard a crash from the room behind. Numbed with fear and panic he stumbled across the room to have a look; just as he reached the door to what had been a small workroom he saw a scene of utter devastation with a ceiling collapsed, visibility almost non-existent and dust so thick it stung his nostrils, A massive boulder crashed down from somewhere above, missing him by mere inches. A sharp creaking followed. He did not wait for the avalanche to follow but ran...ran as fast as his legs could carry him...

The ground felt like a trampoline as he ran across the street, dodging the stampede of escaping cavalry. Stopping in a doorway he looked back - the shop he'd stood in moments before was crumbling before his eyes, the roof seemed to buckle and sway then fall down in a sort of arc followed by the house front and floors - then nothing remained but swirling dust. The last rider passed him.

Looking back he saw a massive paw beat down on the ground. The force knocked him off balance and he fell forward. Instinctively he put his hands out and broke his fall, landing on some broken masonry. The ground shook again. He dared not look back. He didn't want to see.

Looking down the road in the direction taken by the women on horseback he wondered what to do. Trembling and shaken he looked up in front at the disappearing horses and riders. He tried to run but found his legs did not work. Collapsing on the ground he decided to try and crawl inside a building; he had to get off the street. Slithering along in snail fashion he reached a doorway and edged himself in.

Just then he heard galloping. Never before had he been so glad to hear a particular sound; it might not do him any good but would give him hope...such sweet hope. Looking out he saw a woman returning at full speed on her horse. As she drew level to his doorway he just managed to crawl out. Would she be able to see him? He shouted...nothing came from his mouth...he'd lost the power of speech. He saw a large box about six feet to his left. If he could only crawl up that a bit and wave.

The next few minutes were a complete blur but he remembered the woman arriving, dismounting and grabbing him. He was still unable to speak and she didn't want to talk. He recognised her as the leader from before.

The ground trembled massively again. Walls started to fall.

She helped him get up and lean against the horse. With some effort she eased him up an on to the animal's back, indicating he hold on to its withers. Leaping up behind with feline grace she took the reins and promptly galloped off, with her charge holding on for dear life. As they rode he glanced to the side; the shadow he'd seen before seemed to be stretching out before them; something behind was catching up fast and there was nothing they could do about it. The ground trembled one last time...

He felt a sudden jolt as they shot up from the ground for a second or two; all feeling from before seemed blissfully suspended for an instant until the horse landed, a mass of shuddering bone and muscle, going into a long skid then straightening up and galloping on. Just then he noticed the shadow drifting away...in front...the thing causing it must have passed them...he looked up.

What he saw made him jump back causing the woman to lose balance. She slipped down the side of the horse and was holding on to the reins for dear life; he grabbed the top of the reins nearest him and pulled...pulled hard. After what seemed an age the horse slowed down and came to a full stop. He looked at the woman as if to speak; she put her finger to her mouth as a signal, a warning to keep silent, before leaping up and setting off without any further ado.

Fearfully he looked up again. A foul-smelling monstrous creature, the Satan from some hell, with multiple heads, enormous bat-like body and wings, was moving ahead in the sky above. As the awful being flapped its wings he could feel an icy wind cut through the air as if trying to freeze solid all in its path. He shivered and noticed small ice particles blow out from the panting horse's nostrils. A cold went through his body accompanied by intense pain as if he'd been struck by lightning; it was gone in a second as though it had never been, like the hell creature vaporizing into nothingness way up in front.

They rode on but now he noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere; it was getting warmer with a slight smell of sulphur coming from somewhere up ahead. Peering intently he could detect a faint glowing near the end of the long street. As they rode it got steadily warmer and the glowing became redder; it looked like they were heading towards a furnace or large fire. They had to stop. Looking behind he used his hand to signal his intention to the woman. She remained impassive and so they rode on.

He grabbed the reins in front of him and started to pull...

Things happened so fast in the next few seconds he could barely recollect the order in which they happened. One minute he remembered starting to pull on the reins, then in a flash the woman climbed over and pushed him back behind her; he now found himself clinging on to her shoulders for support as they charged faster than ever towards the terrifying furnace and what seemed certain death.

In desperation he tried to reach over and grab the reins; she whirled round and faced him, and in what appeared slow motion, she stared intently at him, her face gradually forming the grotesque and hideous expression he remembered from earlier. The foetid and wretched odour of decay now came, not from her, but from all around. She leered and looked as if about to laugh. However she seemed as unwilling to laugh as talk. She gurned and contorted her face in all sorts of strange ways so that he saw countless devils and demons each more hideous than the one before as she scrunched and screwed her face muscles. Finally turning round she carried on riding full speed towards apparent oblivion for them both.

The air was now so hot he struggled to breathe. As sweat dropped into his eyes and stung them mercilessly he saw ahead what looked like a massive entrance to some enormous building or warehouse. No objects would ever be stored in this place. As they moved through magnificent portals he was almost blinded by the intense light within; he didn't dare look but buried his head in his captor's shoulders and wept. She was making the decisions from now on. He could only hope for some miracle. They moved now into the centre of a huge fire or inferno. A strange bent shape ahead beckoned them on.

Flame was everywhere, inches from his face, and he could just make out the last few of the Boadiceans a short distance in front. They were on fire, burning like beacons from the bottom of the horses' fetlocks to the top of the riders' hair. The stench of burning flesh was mixed with the horrible odours of decay he'd experienced earlier. Strangely there were no sounds, no cries for help or apparent efforts to escape; they seemed quietly resigned to this immolation, this sacrifice of themselves for some greater good or, in this case, evil; there could be nothing cathartic or purifying in the outcome.

The woman switched round and sat facing him for what was to be the last time. She looked hideously disfigured; he was looking at a skeletal face with eyes in their sockets and blackened nose and mouth the only remnants of the full face from minutes earlier. He knew it would be useless to talk; in any case he was in no condition to do much talking as he could barely breathe and felt excruciating pain spreading throughout his body.

She reached over and put out her hand. Was this going to be a farewell, he wondered, as he glanced down at the hand now resting on his shoulder; all that remained were black skeletal bones - mere ruined fragments of a previously sound body part. He looked back at her face. The muscles twitched and strained painfully as if trying to express something. He wondered what she was trying to tell him. He didn't have long to wait for an answer. With almost superhuman effort she got what remained of her now sulphurous visage to break into a loud and mocking leer before shoving him off the horse with all her might.

He landed with a thud, losing his trousers as they caught in the harness, and watched woman and horse disappear into the flames. As he lay there he smelt burning flesh; this was a new smell with none of the pervading nausea-inducing stench. He had to get up. After what seemed an age he managed to stand up; breathing was coming in short gasps; this couldn't go on for much longer. He looked down at his legs; flesh was bubbling and beginning to ignite before dropping off in burning blobs. His bowler hat was next to catch fire; he grabbed it with one hand and threw it off, wincing at the searing pain it caused.

He had only seconds to live. Thoughts seemed to tumble over one another, cascading riotously down inside his head. What, he wondered, had he done to deserve an ending such as this; he could no longer think clearly for more than a second or two at a time before pain brought him back with a jerk. One moment he was trying to reason or think logically only to be consumed with sheer terror a second or two later. If he only knew who he was or what he had done he might start to pray, beg forgiveness or do whatever seemed most likely to grant him pardon and escape from this.

The strange, bent shape was approaching out of the flames; it was now right in front of him - vague, indistinct and mocking. He looked up; the pain from that small movement made him gasp. No one would hear or worry about his torment. As he looked towards the shape - hoping, seeking something, anything - it vanished. He was on his own; no answers would be forthcoming now.

He struggled to breathe. Gasping he had to think, to cling on to some hope, some chance that all this could pass away. He thought of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane praying about his cup of suffering and wishing it would pass. Jesus was suffering for the world but that didn't make this personal agony any easier to bear. The man whose jacket he now wore possibly knew it was better to forsake some night of pleasure at the opera in order to escape this. That jacket was now on fire. He started to shout. No words came...

* * * * *

'Jack. Jack. Wake up... Jack. Anybody there?

The voice cut through his dream like sudden shaft of sunlight in a dark cellar or dungeon. He needed a second or two to wake up properly; the vague blurry outline over his bed was metamorphosing slowly but cleanly into the concerned and cheerful face of Liz Geary, ward sister, Room D15 Bruneigh General Hospital.

'Was it a good one?'

'Definitely not. Prefer to forget it if you don't mind. No offence intended.'

'None taken. Now can you roll up your sleeves so I can take your blood pressure and let you get back to sleep? You look pale and shaken - definitely a bit of a tremble there. Are you in any pain or is something bothering you?'

'Just a helluva bad dream episode. I'll be okay.'

'Fine. But use that buzzer if you need me. I'll check in on you later - just to be sure.'

Sometime later, feeling sleepless he sat up. Ever since coming out of severe concussion he had found himself awake at times when all others in the room were fast asleep; he'd even begun to recognise their different snoring and breathing sounds - a night awake and listening to a ward full of blissful sleepers and snorers drove him mad with frustration and anger at his inability to join them. It was a time when nothing happened in ward or hospital; a patient getting out of bed to go to the toilet or the visit of a nurse to the ward were like big events on a typical night.

He felt he was turning into the stereotypical grumpy old git; he knew he should be grateful for the many good things in his life but at the moment he was miserable and by god he'd go on being so until he was released from hospital.

His thoughts turned to the more pleasant prospect of his wife Tina's visit the following morning. If all went well with his neurological consultant, Miss Sameena Gulati, sometime around 11.00 am he expected to be given the all-clear to return home. He had already got Tina to make arrangements for them to attend an organ recital at Bruneigh cathedral at 1.00 in the afternoon.

As he was opening the small drawer at the side of his bed to check details of the recital he heard a hoarse whisper from a bed across the room,

'Could you... get... nurse, please? Not well.'

'Hang in there, buddy. I'm on it.'

Jack pressed the buzzer on his bed and waited. The elderly man started coughing painfully; he was in obvious distress so Jack got carefully out of bed - he wasn't about to take any risks of doing himself injury - and went across to help.

The man pointed to a paper bowl used for human waste which was lying out of reach on a trolley. Jack picked it up and passed it to the suffering patient, supporting him by the back as he did so. A nurse arrived and took control of proceedings.

'I rang for him nurse. He asked me to. Hope you don't mind.'

'That's fine.'

She eventually got the man sorted, checked his pulse and temperature before making some notes on his chart and departing with a promise to look in on him later. She looked worried. After she left, Jack felt an emptiness or loneliness as he resumed his solitary role of sleepless watcher of the ward. The man soon fell asleep and Jack found himself thinking again of what the morning might bring.

The man woke up again and immediately broke into a fit of prolonged painful coughing. Jack looked at his watch. 1.20 am. In the dim light he could see the man weakly wave to him. Getting out of bed for the second time that night he went over to look and see what he could do to help. The man was trying to get his breath between strangulated fits of coughing. Jack pressed the buzzer for the nurse.

She appeared in a minute or so, looked at the man, then ordered Jack in a sharpish tone to get into his own bed. He sensed something was up but obediently did as she asked.

The events of the next quarter of an hour were most disquieting. There was no coughing, spluttering or any sound whatsoever from the man. The nurse pulled the curtains round his bed and rushed off. She returned after about five minutes with a doctor; they both went behind the curtains and whispered to each other for some time before re-emerging and walking off up the corridor. After about fifteen minutes she returned accompanied by a male orderly or porter who silently wheeled a neatly made up hospital bed in front of him. They both went behind the elderly man's curtains; he could hear much whispering, squeaking sounds, then they came out wheeling a different, more untidy-looking bed, pulling the curtains closed behind them.

What had gone on? Something was different. Something had happened. What?

Curiosity getting the better of him he decided to have a look at the old man. Gingerly crossing the room on tiptoe, so as not to wake anyone, he got up to the bed and poked his head through the curtains. The bed was empty. The old man had gone. To his Maker?

At 6 am the tea trolley could be heard dully rumbling down the corridor towards the ward; a new day had started and in a few minutes the present peace and tranquillity would be replaced by total noise and bustle as the serious business of the day got under way.

At 10.30 Miss Gulati entered the ward accompanied by her usual retinue of junior doctors and senior nursing sister Amanda Bateman. They went to the nurses' office to introduce themselves and get things moving. He'd seen consultant rounds a few times and never ceased to be somewhat in awe of not only the consultants themselves, but also the ritual; the round had all the seriousness of a religious ceremony if maybe less pomp. He'd seen a senior consultant, resplendent in bow tie and quite the dandy, enter the ward one particular day as if he'd just dropped in on his way to Covent Garden; the patients lapped it up - the performance was theatrical and definitely deserved an encore.

They emerged with Ward Sister, Mary Dearden, who started proceedings by going up to the first bed and introducing them to its occupant. It could take some time; three of the patients in the room were under Miss Gulati's care and he was last on the list. He was not impatient but boredom, monotonous ward routines, hospital food and lack of privacy were starting to wear him down even though he got on well with all the staff and other patients.

In what seemed a very short space of time indeed he saw her approaching his bed. As the party drew near he couldn't help a slight gasp of admiration as he looked at the shapely, trim figure of his forty-something year old consultant. He hadn't time to dwell on such things. Before he knew it she had dealt with him; a brief friendly hello, short discourse with Amanda and Mary, quick glance at some medical notes, before he found himself immediately discharged with arrangements in place for an outpatient appointment a month or so later on. After giving some last-minute instructions to Mary Dearden they all left the ward.

Sometime later, after getting his discharge sheet, he left also and went to the departure lounge area of the hospital to wait for Tina.

As he sat looking at the constant stream of people leaving by car and taxi, his thoughts wandered again to the dream he'd had the night before. Something in his slumbers had disturbed him; a palpable sense of danger to someone - someone he must warn - but who and why?

His thoughts were cut off at the welcoming sight of his wife bursting through the revolving doors. Water dropped off her Haglof in a steady trail as she made her way, waving wildly and spraying yet more droplets on everyone and everything in her path, to where he sat. His spirits lifted and his thoughts shot back, like they did quite often, to the day he first met her; ever since that day he'd felt a great sense of gratitude to some unknown force or fate for bringing them together.

'Boy, and don't you just look awful,' was her greeting as, grinning hugely, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and sat down, pulling off her jacket and depositing it unceremoniously on the floor in front of her chair along with her rucksack. She didn't do handbags.

'And you look like something the cat...,' he was just beginning,

'Don't bother. Here. Look after this stuff and make yourself useful. I'm parched. Tea? Coffee?'

'Tea will be fine. Thanks.'

As she rushed off Jack thought again of their first meeting thirty-five years earlier. He'd just that year got the job of history teacher at Bruneigh High and was chatting to Jane Madley, school secretary, about the house he'd just bought in the _Old Belchers_ estate. He'd been feeling elated about his purchase and joked that all he now needed to fill his cup was a good woman whereupon Jane joked back that he'd get no woman sat on his arse in an empty house in _Old Belchers_. She mentioned a small rock festival taking place that Saturday on spare ground beside the school; she'd been with her husband the year before and everyone had a good time as all the bands were local.

On the Saturday he took himself off to the venue. He wondered why on earth he had promised Jane he'd go, for rock music was most certainly not his scene, but now he was here he'd make the best of it; for today he'd sway with the breeze and to hell with common sense and reason. Just as well he thought when he considered his slight build and core interests of choral music and amateur dramatics; looking at the bulging tattooed muscles of some giants beside him with huge arms round waists of slim girlfriends he felt he'd indeed stumbled into some strange and alien world.

Wandering round the area he decided to add himself to the periphery of a crowd gathering before the large, newly-erected stage and wait for the show to begin.

It began with a deafening sound of drums, guitars and vocals which filled the air and made him want to rush for the hills; this effect was compounded by a gradual and sustained roaring and screaming from the crowd as they tried to sing along with the band. He decided to move further back where it was less deafening; he was now being crushed and so turned round, pushing carefully towards the outside edge.

Just as he was about to emerge from the seething ruck he stumbled and fell forward, bumping into some demented shrieking demon of a woman and nearly knocking her over. Their eyes met. In an instant he knew he wanted this wild thing in front of him, this full-on leather-clad bare midriff rock chick, like nothing he'd ever wanted before in his life. Before he knew properly what he was doing, before she could deliver the crushing blow or punch he knew he deserved, he found he'd grabbed her round the back of the head and was kissing her for all he was worth. As he finally released her she took one look down at the slightly built unlikely looking squirt, a full inch and a half short, who had just given her the snog of her life; should she crash his miserable little jaw in? Instead, smiling, she held out her hand...and that was that.

Later she took him on her Harley for a short 'spin'- a demonic high-octane rush through narrow, twisting country lanes where he found himself virtually kissing the road surface as they bent round innumerable sharp corners, straightening up, then doing the same thing over and over, faster and faster each time - until she came to a sudden, shuddering halt twenty miles from where they set off. They were in front of an inn, _Shepherd's Rest_ , perched on top of a hill with a view over the surrounding countryside which seemed to go on forever. They drank into the afternoon, had some tea, then drank up to supper-time, had some supper, drank some more, the Harley was forgotten, one of them booked a room...he only thought he'd lived up to that point in time...that day...that night...

She returned with the teas and sat down, kicking her rucksack out clear to one side.

'Jill just rang before I set off. She's coming round later and wants to ask both of us for a favour. Are you okay with that, ducks?'

'No problem. Just wonder what it could be. She's been having a worrying time of it lately with this Ofsted thing looming.'

'I've a feeling it's something to do with that cantankerous husband of hers, to be honest.'

They were referring to Jill Ponsonby, headmistress of Bruneigh High, and the latter's husband Hilary who were both going through a patch according to rumour.

'Anyway. Are you ready for the off now, O husband of mine? I'm dreaming hot paninis and double shot espressos at the moment. Mmm... Should be able to squeeze those beauties in before the start of that dreadful dirge and wailing you've got me to endure. How long does it go on for anyway?'

'Be over before you even know it's started, darling. And you're a real hero for putting up with me full stop.'

'For once I agree. Let's go.'

An hour or so later, replete with paninis and strong coffee, they found themselves sat in a row of pews near the front of the nave in Bruneigh cathedral waiting for the organist to appear. The organ console had been moved to the left of the chancel, the choir were stood in the choir stalls on the right-hand side with music sheets in front of them as they faced the conductor whilst a cathedral verger rushed round looking very busy. As Jack looked about him he guessed about fifty or so had turned up for the recital; there was a general hush broken by an occasional cough or splutter as people cleared their throats in readiness for the absolute silence expected during such proceedings which were due to start at any moment. Sound in a cathedral on occasions like this had always had that special resonance or timbre. At this moment he knew a single envelope falling to the ground would most likely be heard clearly and its sound hated by everyone; senses heightened by the wide space, vaulted ceiling, special acoustics and anticipation of refined sounds to follow would consider the merest whisper or other minor sound as unbidden intrusion and total abomination.

The organist appeared, bowed courteously to the expectant gathering and proceeded to give them an outline of the short programme of music they were about to hear. With no further ado after some quiet words to his assistant / sheet music turner he began.

It was over all too soon for Jack; from the soft beginnings of the Faure Introit to the rousing Widor toccata at the end he seemed to have lost all sense of time, recent troubles, where he was, or awareness of people around him. With the last organ notes fading away, he longed to stay in this very private and safe place a little bit longer, keep the precious moments with the music alive...

'God. I'm bloody damn stiff. Right then let's be off. Alright with you, O invalided one?'

'That's fine. And thanks again. I could murder a nice cup of tea...' from Jack before being cut off,

'We'll have to go straight home. I'm not sure when Jill said she was setting off.'

'Give her a ring then.'

'No. She sounded a bit worried. We'll be home in a jiffy anyway, so let's get to the car and I'll put pedal to the metal. So there.'

Shortly after as he watched his wife's confident driving he thought of the regular ribbing he received from colleagues about their odd appearance as a couple - she being six feet tall and ever so slightly masculine in appearance whilst he was noticeably shorter and very slim in build. Before her present job as Education Officer with Bruneigh Borough District Council she had worked for thirty years as an engineer for the local electricity board and would still be working there but for an unfortunate snag - a totally unexpected diagnosis of diabetes a week after visiting her GP to discuss recent feelings of fatigue and impaired, slightly blurred vision. Results of the blood and eye tests carried out the day of her visit confirmed the diagnosis. On advice from her doctor that her present job was much too demanding physically - she was part of a small team who regularly climbed pylons to test and repair equipment - she had reluctantly decided to call it a day and hand in her notice. A boisterous farewell party arranged by her colleagues for their popular workmate that lasted well into the night was some consolation for her but even now after six years or so she still missed the particular camaraderie and blokeish banter that had been an integral part of the daily routine. She got her present job about four months later.

'Look, there's a car going up our drive,' from Tina as they drove along a tree-lined avenue near their house. Slowing the car she left the avenue and inched forward very carefully over the familiar loose stone path that went on for two hundred yards or so, hearing rough pebble-sized stones grind noisily under the tyres or shoot out as individual missiles, as they crept along it. A final smart swerve and they were in front of the house right behind the other car.

The two-storey building, Gurnings, was about sixty feet wide with three chimneys and a roof which sagged between them in two distinct bows; the house front was covered in lime whitewash that had seen brighter days whilst the sash windows and farmhouse-style Dutch door looked like they belonged in a very different age and place. Trees from a wood at the back of the house towered over and drooped down over the roof as if trying to snatch the dwelling to some dark nether region.

'Hello, the two of you. Sorry for the intrusion. How did the recital go?'

The speaker, Jill Ponsonby, née Rasmussen, walked towards them, remotely locking her car doors with one hand while holding a mountain of stuff in the other - books, folders, briefcase, satchel, laptop - all these and more, precariously balanced, looked likely to drop to the ground in an instant as their bearer swayed and bent with each step she took. To Jack at that moment, with her long blonde hair blowing wildly in the gathering wind, statuesque shapely five foot six inch figure and strong chiselled features, she brought to mind the fabulous Norse goddess Nanna blown about by some cruel fate.

'He liked it Jill. And don't ask...Here let me give you a hand with some of that bloody lot.'

As Tina rushed over and carefully removed some items, Jack walked up to open the front door, a Dutch farmhouse-style one with leaded glass windows in the top half. The house had recently been given to the couple as a gift from Tina's widowed eighty year old father who now lived with a young fifty year old. As it had been five years since his wife's death from cancer and the large house was too much for him to manage, it seemed to him that moving into his girlfriend Cheryl's house was good common sense. 'Randy old goat,' was Tina's grinning and only comment after hearing about her father's decision; she loved him and respected his decision as she knew the sheer pain he suffered just after her mother's death.

'Glad you're back in harness, so to speak, Jack. I need as many hands on board as possible at the moment. The Ofsted inspection is due sometime around the beginning of June so there's a lot still to be done. However that may be, it's your health that's the priority right now.'

They were sat shortly after round the large oak kitchen table with mugs of tea before them.

'Don't worry about me. I've got Tina here keeping an eye on me.'

You sounded worried earlier, Jill. It wouldn't happen to be Hilary, would it?' from the latter as she looked at her watch. She needed to call the office in half an hour.

'I'm afraid so. We had a blazing row after I got home from school yesterday. I was just wondering if I could stay here for a few days to let the dust settle.

'No problems. Your usual room?' from Tina.

'God yes. I feel dreadful about this.'

'Don't even think like that. You know you're always welcome.'

A good half hour later the two women walked along the upstairs landing that ran the length of the house facing the large garden at the back. Jill remembered the first time she had seen the room...

* * * * *

After checking out some rooms Jill had plumped for a dark, oak-panelled bedroom at the far end of the landing. A big oak wardrobe sat along the wall to the right of the window, a very large antique four poster bed (sans mattress) was placed facing into the room from the opposite wall and a mahogany dressing table with three mirrors had been put on the wall facing, to the right of the window. As they left the room Jill looked at her friend and noticed tears begin to run down her face.

'What's the matter?'

'I'll be right...just...'

Instinctively grabbing the now quietly sobbing woman to her in a warm affectionate hug, Jill waited for the trembling to stop, caressing and whispering soothing words all the while. She wouldn't ask questions or pry but just hoped she could help; she'd got to know Tina through Jack just weeks ago but even in that short space of time a strong sisterly bond had developed between them.

'I'm okay now Jill. This was my parents' room. Sylvia, my mother, had the panelling done and chose the furniture you saw; she was a housewife by profession but had great taste and a genuine feeling for furniture and objects from an older period.'

'God I'm really sorry...I mean...are you sure? I'd feel happier with a room that doesn't bring back memories, dear memories they might be but...'

'Don't be daft. I couldn't think of anyone I'd sooner have in that room. It's yours and I don't want any more arguments about it. Right!'

'Fine. And thank you Tina. I'll not forget this and, by the way, I'm glad to have my old friend Tina back again. Your mother had superb taste.'

* * * * *

Just as they were about to turn downstairs Jill noticed a familiar wooden shape just visible behind some trees at the back of the garden.

'Tina.'

'What?'

'That tree house. Could I be an absolute pest and ask you to show me round inside? I've always been in a rush when I've stayed over with you and Jack and never seemed to get around to having a look although Jack mentioned it quite often.'

'Consider it done.'

As they came down the stairs they met Jack coming from the lounge.

'All settled in then?'

'We're going over to the tree house. Jill's never seen it. I'll just pop to the kitchen first.'

'I'll see both of you later. It's nice to have you on board Jill.'

As they approached the trees Jill could see the structure clearly for the first time. A complete wooden hut sat way up supported by four oak trees with decking arranged around and reached by an open tread staircase with banisters, spindles and newel posts fitted to the whole deck and staircase.

'Wow! I didn't expect this. Looks like you could live in it. Unbelievable.'

'Right then. Shall we go up and see the thing properly?'

'Fine by me. Lead on Cap'n.'

Following her friend on to the decking platform Jill took a quick look down and around.

'What do you think so far?'

'Amazing. Coming up the stairs I had a strange feeling about something; maybe it was seeing the trees from high up or just being so near branches and leaves and doing something entirely out of the ordinary.'

'What sort of feeling?'

'Déjà vu. My first camping trip with my parents to the Lake District, aged twelve. We'd just broken up for the summer hols at the local grammar school, and my parents had decided to go straight to Keswick the day after.'

'How exactly does the tree house remind you of Keswick?'

'By its closeness to nature; the strange feeling right now of being inside the tree canopy. That first night after my parents had put up the tent and we settled down in it for the first time I really felt close to it all; too damn close in the end, as things turned out - I didn't sleep a wink that night.'

'I take it the camping wasn't a big success.'

'No. On the contrary, after that first night I went about all day like a zombie on uber tranquillisers but slept the following night so soundly I could hardly get up in the morning. I slept well in the tent every night after that; walking round the fells all day dispelled any notions of insomnia.'

'And now for the piece de resistance. Ready Jill?'

With that Tina flung open the wooden door to the 8 ft x 10 ft 'house' and, with an elaborate sweeping arm motion, directed her guest to enter.

'Wow. I could happily stay in here and never come out. Swear I could.'

A rich wood smell hit her nostrils as she stepped through the door; the simple interior of bare wood walls and slanted roof with one small window on the wall facing the door was furnished with just four objects: a modern wood-burning stove with chimney against the right-hand side wall, a six-foot long wooden bench in front of the wall opposite and to finish off, a small table and two chairs placed in front of the window. Looking behind her she noticed for the first time that her companion was carrying a small rucksack.

'I'll swear I must be seeing things Tina for that bag you're carrying completely escaped my attention until now. Did....'

Her question died on her lips as Tina signalled her to silence with finger to lip.

'Sit down Jill.'

With that Tina herself sat down on one of the chairs and leaned down to unzip her rucksack, take out carefully two Bordeaux wine glasses, put them on the table and finally dig back down into the rucksack before producing a full bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and fancy corkscrew.

'I've a small confession to make. I brought the bag over earlier as I thought we could have a small quiet drink and break the ice. So you'd have been seeing the tree house anyway.'

'Thanks Tina. I'm grateful for what you and Jack are doing for me and feel a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can really concentrate on what needs to be done at work without having to return home to a war zone each and every evening.'

'Let's make a toast. What do you suggest?'

'Let's see now...let me think...something fresh...some awakening. Yes. How about raising our glasses to that?'

With that Tina uncorked the bottle with all the slow movement and careful attention of a surgeon making the first incision until it popped and picking up a glass, poured the wine slowly, lovingly, before offering it with a solemn flourish to Jill.

'Handled like a true sommelier there, Tina.'

After the second one was poured and the glasses raised and clinked together, the less solemn, but far more serious, business of drinking began.

Before that could happen wind began to howl through the open window as a storm started brewing up outside; leaning up to close it Tina shivered as a cold gust hit her.

'Whew. That's an arctic air outside. I'll get the fire going.'

With that she moved over to the stove and opened the small glass viewing door; inside all wood and firelighters were already in place so she had only to strike a match to set it all alight. In seconds the lighters were blazing brightly and soon the wood blocks caught on sending shadows dancing on the walls opposite. She sat down and both of them looked at the fire for a short time basking in the warm glow and sipping abstractedly, lost in their own thoughts.

'There was one thing bugging me Jill. Hope you don't mind me being personal, and feel free to tell me to mind my own business if the question upsets you.'

'Now what in heavens' name could you say that would be likely to upset me?'

'Well it's this. Hilary seems to have said nothing or had any complaints until fairly recently. Why? I mean did he vehemently oppose you taking the job at Bruneigh five years ago?'

'No. I wouldn't say he liked me taking the job but we'd both agreed that if I felt I really wanted it then I should take it. I think what's been really getting to him of late is the sheer amount of time I have to put in. About two months or so ago it all started to escalate as I pulled out all the stops for the upcoming Ofsted inspection.'

'I see...just hope it all works out for you soon. I hate seeing you unhappy. Anyway, on a brighter note. Ready for another?'

'You bet I am.'

As Tina refilled the glasses Jill stood up and looked out of the window. The clouds had a definitely angry look; a very dark cloud moved across the sky just above the bright horizon, above that clouds of different shades moving in frothing motion seemed like they were building up energy for some storm or deluge.

'Storm coming I think, Tina.'

As they both looked out small droplets began to gently hit the window.

'Hold here Jill. I'll be back in a minute.'

With that she was off down the staircase.

In seconds it came; first a few isolated sharp splats, then a sudden relentless battering as countless hailstones exploded against the window, streaming down the outside as tiny rivers. As she watched and waited for the storm to abate time seemed to stand still; she was looking, thinking of nothing but the fury against the window, her mind was empty, then as from some place far, far away she saw Tina dash across from the house holding a large umbrella.

Clambering up the steps she threw the closed umbrella across the floor before shutting the door. Taking off a rucksack Jill hadn't spotted until that moment, she placed it carefully on the floor, unzipped it and pulled out a bottle.

'No bloody weather's going to stop serious toasting. Whatya say, O drinking one?'

'Great. I can feel the effects of that first one, but are you sure? Shouldn't we invite Jack? Or is it too early for him after his...'

'Oh don't worry about him. This is the works do and only girls are invited.'

'Oh Tina...no. You really should...'

'Only joking. I bumped into him when I was going down to the cellar for the bottles. I mentioned something about housewarming celebrations and asked him if he felt up to joining a couple of females stranded up a tree. He took one look at me and said to count him in as it was a fact universally known that females drinking up trees needed a strong male hand to guide and protect them. He said though that he'd finish the serious business of listening through the Faure Requiem for a half hour or so in order that we prattle our little hearts out before he gets here to lend some much needed gravitas.'

'Chauvinist pig. I've a good mind to go down there myself....', from Jill before catching a glimpse of her friend doubling up laughing with tears running down her face as she collapsed sideways on the bench. It was contagious and before she knew it she was sitting on the floor wailing like a banshee, trying to talk but only managing monosyllables then further peals of laughter that took all breath from her body. The hollers from both women rang out over the garden and way beyond for what seemed an age before sheer exhaustion stopped them.

'Okay then. I'll just top up the stove with a couple of logs,' from Tina as she struggled up from the bench and stumbled across to where a prostrate Jill lay beside the neat little stack of chopped timber.

'Oh God, Tina, don't make me laugh please.'

'Don't worry. I'll just get this job done.'

With that she opened a small box beside the stove, picked out a poker and proceeded to open the little glass door and poke around inside to agitate the dying embers. Selecting a pair of tongs from the box she grabbed a log from the timber pile and offered it through the fire door, repeating the action until the stove chamber was full. The wood began to crackle anew and would soon warm the room; it seemed a precious heat to the two women listening to the angry elements outside.

'Shall I refill ma'am's glass?'

'Oh yes please. What I've had already is warming me up nicely...so relaxing...just sitting here...looking at that lovely little fire...the resin smell...that branch outside...I just want to stay here forever...melt into it.'

'Well girl come over here and watch another miracle.'

'Oh...just keep on pouring. I love that glug glug...in ancient times they liked a good drink...ambrosia...or was that the food...not sure.'

'Never mind all that. Grab this...carefully now...good. I'll just pour mine and then we're sorted.'

A full hour later and both women were very happy indeed.

'What we need now is poundish...yeah...and guinnesshh...to be shhuure...now, ' from Jill with a definite twinkle in her eye.

'You can't possibly be sloshed already. And what in heaven's name is the first absolute requirement you mentioned.

' Poundies. Hilary went on about it one day after hearing from one of his customers, an Irishman, who swore by its nutritional, medicinal and even spiritual properties.'

'Did you manage to get a recipe for this wonder food or elixir, by any chance?'

'Yes. We tried it out and now swear by it ourselves. I'll give it to you if you want.'

'Yes sure. But for now let's...,' her words trailed away as footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. She dashed to the door letting a huge waft of cold air stream in as the footsteps came nearer and she rushed out to help her husband.

'And how's it going Jill? I trust Tina's been looking after you', from a smiling Jack who entered first, followed by Tina, now busy shaking his umbrella before shutting the door.

'Oh. She's been an angel Jack.'

'Good...good?', from Jack as he made his way to one of the chairs near the table.

'I'm not sure you should be coming out in this cold, ducks. You know what that Gulati woman said about being careful. Did you know Jill that his consultant looks so young she could be mistaken for a sixteen year old. She looks stunning also'

'Really? Maybe we're just getting to be old codgers ourselves. They do say that its time to start worrying when all policeman look like boys. And do you fancy this Gulati woman Jack? '

'What I fancy right now is a glass of house red. How about it then, wenches?'

Tina poured a glass and returned to sit beside Jill on the bench.

'He does have a secret fancy, Jill.'

'Really. The Gulati? Young boys? Spill.'

'No. I think Tina could only be referring to one thing - the Bruneigh Players.'

'You told me about the first. They're putting on a production of The Mousetrap sometime later on in the year and you had vague hopes of getting the lead part of policeman. Correct so far?'

'Sadly no. The production team preferred a younger man. I've been offered the part of Major Metcalf and am quite happy about it. They made the correct choice as I think I'll handle the part of the major more comfortably.'

'All this talk is making me thirsty. More wine innkeeper. Bring hither victuals.'

At the window as she poured drinks for all three of them Tina noticed the storm abating and had an idea. She'd wait a while though as she didn't want to disturb the pleasant comfortable ambience within the cabin.

'Jill, did you once say you're family originate from Norway, Sweden or somewhere Baltic way on?'

'That's right. My grandfather came from a small village near Trondheim. There wasn't much work there so he joined up as deckhand for a shipping company. Going ashore regularly in Newcastle where his ship made monthly cargo drops he fell in love with the place, and after many refusals, finally got a job in the Tyne docks. The rest, I suppose, is history.'

'So you might be descended from Viking plunderers and looters. We'll have to watch you,' from Jack.

'You could be right. I've got my eye on you Saxon boy. You haven't seen my axe yet; you'd make a good captive for a Norse warrior maiden. What do you say Tina. Shall I capture him, deflower him whatever?

'He's all yours. Must dash. Be back in a jiffy.'

'I'll join you if you don't mind. That wine really goes through one.'

As they walked to the house Tina confided to her friend that she had a surprise up her sleeve for both of them when they got back to the tree house. As Jill rushed to relieve herself her companion went in the library, flicked her forefinger along the edge of some well-dusted volumes before taking out a small weather-beaten item, looking briefly inside, before going over to the desk before picking up a plastic folder and rushing to the kitchen, book in one hand and folder in the other. Rummaging in a drawer she pulled out a small plastic carrier bag and quickly dropped book and folder inside just as the hallway loo flushed loudly and Jill emerged humming some tune or other. Seeing Tina standing at the back door beside the toilet holding a bag and obviously ready to go immediately she started to excuse herself for apparently holding up proceedings when curiosity got the better of her.

'The surprise no doubt. May I ask what's in the bag?'

'No. Surprise for both of you remember? Ready?'

'Fine. Sorry.'

Following her tight-lipped friend they made their way back up to the tree house; the rain, hail, sleet had stopped completely and only a stiff breeze remained of the tempest earlier. On entering the cabin Tina put her bag down, withdrew the book and folder before placing the latter on the floor beside Jack and gaily waving the little book in front of him.

'What's this? from the latter giving his wife a piercing questioning look.

'Right now, let's hear it. I want to hear you do your Major Metcalf for Jill here. I'll be various characters. Let's see...'

As she flicked through the pages of her little book of the _Mousetrap_ she let out a yelp.

'This will do fine. I'll be the dastardly complaining Mrs.Boyle. Now let's see you do your stuff, O husband of mine.'

'Gawd...whatever did I do to deserve this', from said husband in mock horror with a twinkle in his eye as he opened the folder containing all the Major's spoken parts; he was going to enjoy this.

As the small show came to a close with much cheering and handclapping from the audience - one appreciative, tearful Jill - the three friends talked on and wined into the early hours basking in the warmth of close friendship. Round the cosy little fire they thought of pleasant things, of good times to come, goals to be attained, obstacles overturned, positive things, the desire to do good deeds and achieve, come what may.

Little did they realise that, even as they spoke, an evil lurked outside, quite near, that would bring fear and pain to all of them and terrible danger to one. It would require all their best efforts and acumen to find and fight this evil; but they had to discover the source of it first...save the one in peril...would they be in time?

As they chatted, toasted, laughed and teased one another in mild bacchanalian banter the present was all that mattered; all was snug within and the future with all its possible troubles and worries was firmly blotted out.

# Chapter 2

April 9th.2012.

It was ringing loudly...insistently.

'Damn.'

The woman searched frantically for the hidden phone.

An endless pile of letters, books, photos and maps were strewn across the desk; one solitary paperweight seemed to beg for attention as it sat atop a massive stack of miscellanea. The woman was busy, very busy, not apparently in the least concerned about trivial muddle; she would get around to sorting out all she saw in due course but for the moment this irritating sound had to be dealt with. Rummaging around, she found its source behind a large doll that someone had left on the desk earlier, and grabbed the shiny black handset.

'Hello, Jill Ponsonby here. How may I help you?'

'Ah bonjour ma cherie. I hope I have not put you to any trouble. I...,' the welcome voice of Madeleine Duval came down the line. As they talked Jill thought of the first time their paths had crossed...

...Shortly after being installed as headmistress of Bruneigh High, both she and Hilary had been discussing holidays; he fancied taking the car for two weeks in France, stopping off wherever and whenever they fancied, on condition that he did all the driving. She eagerly accepted his proposal and conditions as she was quite happy to sit and take in the scenery en route without all the physical and mental demands of driving; he, on the contrary, loved being at the wheel and found it positively therapeutic. Thus they set off across the channel and, after a pleasant uneventful journey, booked themselves into a charming hotel in Rue Houdon in the Montmartre district of Paris where they had a very enjoyable three course meal washed down with a fine balanced vin de table.

Afterwards they made their way along to the Place Pigalle and meandered slowly along picturesque streets on their way to Sacre Coeur cathedral, stopping now and again as they looked in windows or took photographs. On the way up the hundred or so steps to the basilica watching the tourists, many with cameras strapped on their shoulders sitting on the steps, pointing and talking animatedly in different languages or simply walking alone quietly observing all around, Jill thought of the first time she had visited the capital as a student. The fine buildings, architecture, museums, culture surfeit and general bustle had touched something in her, a longing or ache to absorb some of this rich artistic heritage so she could feel fulfilled in a deeply spiritual level; she felt it now and knew that Paris would always have this effect on her, a feeling she might always be inadequate, always have to strive - this place with its eternal beauty was a mistress she would never satisfy.

Setting off next day after breakfast in a small sidewalk café near the hotel, consisting of fresh orange juice, croissants and two large café crèmes, they decided to head due south-west towards Poitiers in the Poitou-Charentes region and book in to an hotel for the night before moving on after breakfast the following day. As early evening drew near on this second day, they decided to stop at the next town or village they came upon and so a sign - _Chataigniers 7Km -_ looked very promising. It was just 3.56 pm and they would have time to do some sightseeing before turning in provided they could find a suitable hotel and get booked in without too much fuss.

By 4.30 pm they had booked in, parked the car at the hotel, and were walking down a busy street with shops all down one side and a large school, _Lyc_ ée _Briot_ , on the other. That side of the road, chock-full of cars parked bumper-to-bumper, went up in a line from the elegant stone arch gated entrance and along a steep, curving drive before ending in a large car park in front of the school building. People milled around at the open gates as others made their way up the drive, indicating some sort of open day to be in progress.

'Shall we be really nosy and have a gander, see what all the fuss is about?' Jill suggested, as she looked at the busy scene around the entrance.

'Suppose we might as well. Don't take too long though, darling. I want to have a bit of a look at the town. Don't forget we've ordered an evening meal.'

'Fine dear. We'll get out of here very soon and be back in time for a wash before the meal. Then the rest of the evening is free. Okay?'

'Yes. Let's follow this lot. Pardon monsieur...'

Hilary apologised after bumping into someone. Reaching the car park at the top, some of the crowd milled round past the school entrance and made a beeline for the edge of a running track, whilst others meandered over towards a large marquee serving refreshments. A sports day was about to begin and contestants in vests and running shorts were just starting to appear from a pavilion at the far end of the field.

'Fancy a look at the marquee, darling. I'm feeling a bit parched?'

Jill had felt a sudden craving for liquid as she watched the condensation on a cool chilled glass of refreshing lime and lemon being held aloft by one customer as he made his way out.

'Might as well. To tell the truth I'm a bit thirsty myself.'

As they made their way into the marquee they found themselves being served by a pleasant lady in her forties who introduced herself as Madeleine Duval, teacher of English at the Lycée.

'Please indulge me. But would you mind if we spoke in English? S'il vous plait. I'd just love the chance to test myself a bit, get rid of some rust. '

'By all means. I've always been rusty with my French so you'd be doing me a big favour if we take turns at speaking each other's language, Madeleine,' from Jill as both she and Hilary warmly shook hands with their new acquaintance.

'Are you staying here or just passing through?'

'We're staying in that hotel across the road for one night. We've ordered an evening meal for later.'

As Jill replied, Madeleine waved across the room to someone who was leaving.

'Sorry about that distraction. Mmm...I've got an idea. Would you like me to show both of you around the town later on. I could bring my husband, Maurice, who'd be delighted to see you. Then I'd love to invite you both to our place afterwards for a light supper, perhaps?'

'That sounds lovely. What do you think dear?'

'I agree and would like to thank you very much for your kind offer,' from Hilary.

'Good. That's all sorted. I'll come to your hotel and wait for you later on. Au revoir.'

As she and Hilary bade farewell to their new friends much later on that night, Jill felt happy; arrangements had been made for Madeleine and Maurice to come over to see them sometime soon and that was good. However, something cropping up in conversation during the evening made a big impact on her. Madeleine spent a year at a university in Britain as part of her 'degré de bachelier ès arts en anglais' programme and had kept in contact with some close friends from that time thirty years earlier, mainly by letter and telephone. _Ma p_ é _riode glorieusement innocent et heureux_ she sighed twirling a near empty wine glass between thumb and finger and sighing wistfully... _le jumelage...oui.._

'What is it?', from Maurice.

'So sorry. I mean twinning. I'll explain...'

As Madeleine talked of conversations with her headmistress, Claudine, about twinning success stories that were beginning to circulate in both the local and national press and her own interest in giving her own students the opportunity to visit and experience the culture of Britain, Jill began to think... if this hope and burning desire of Madeleine's could be made a reality...(Bruneigh / Chataigniers....it had a certain ring)...it could be just what she needed...but much work needed to be done...

* * * * *

'Cherie, Jill, are you there?' The voice of Madeleine broke into her reverie.

'Oh bless you, sorry, where were we? Ah yes...the _Chataigniers_ twinning committee members have arranged for a group of about twelve of their _randonneurs_ (ramblers) to come on 25th. Did you say Monique was coming over with them?'

'Yes. And Claudine sends her regards. She's enclosed a list of her six students for the September intake and wants you to confirm some details of host families there. She also wishes to let you know that host families for the six new Bruneigh students whose details you sent her have been found and vetted. She will forward details shortly. Must dash now. Ring me soon. Au revoir cherie.'

'À bientôt Madeleine.'

* * * * *

As she put the phone down Jill allowed herself a wry smile as she remembered the first time she saw Madame Claudine Abelin, headmistress of _Lycée Briot_. Shortly after her first meeting with Madeleine the latter had wasted no time in telling her superior about her English friend and the hopes that the same friend had for Bruneigh. One morning three weeks later Jill was surprised to receive a call from a lady speaking in a cut-glass French accent who introduced herself and after a few brief pleasantries asked her if she would perhaps consider coming sometime soon to _Chataigniers_ in order to discuss a few ideas that could be of mutual benefit.

Jill arrived at the Lycée a week later at 9 am exactly, accompanied by Madeleine; she had just spent two extremely pleasant days at the Duvals' and eagerly anticipated a good outcome from her meeting with the esteemed head of the French college. Madeleine had told her roughly what to expect from Madame, so she felt fairly well at ease when she finally met the lady in person. Walking up a short corridor just off the main entrance Madeleine knocked on an imposing door with a brass plate and lettering, _Directrice d'École._

'Entrez,' came a sharp voice from within.

As Jill followed Madeleine in she glanced round at the attractive dark wood panelling on all walls and noted the sound of their footsteps on the bare parquet wood flooring. Tasteful brass lighting over framed paintings and prints adorned three of the walls and two large leather armchairs slanted in towards a large mahogany desk with gilt embossed leather inlay on the top. A faint smell of wax polish reached her nostrils as she took in the neat, orderly arrangement of everything in the room; all loose sheets and folders on the desk were held down firmly with heavy metal paperweights that looked like they could equally be used for missile practice and even the filing cabinets along one wall seemed to dare one find fault with anything within - such was the lustre and sheen of their outer surfaces.

'Ah. Jill at last. I'm so very glad you could make it. Please take a seat. You too, Madeleine', was the welcome from the tall elegant lady who rose from behind her desk, extending her hand to Jill, gripping hers lightly with a single handshake.

As they sat down Jill took a brief moment to study the lady at the other side of the desk. In her late fifties with a fine oval face, pale translucent features, small round eyes and thinnish lips she looked a trifle severe; the effect was lessened, however, by a svelte, willowy figure and shapely legs set off nicely by the dark blue skirt and pale cream blouse she was now wearing. As Jill looked, the lady smiled at her. The effect was amazing; gone was all severity and now seemingly bigger eyes, moist, in a face that that was much softer and warmer were looking directly into hers.

'I've been looking forward to meeting you, Madame Abelin and...' from Jill as,

'Claudine, please...but thank you all the same for your polite address,' from the lady as she got rid of the formalities and promptly got down to business.

After an hour or so Claudine called a halt as the phone rang. She was needed urgently elsewhere and wondered...

'Jill is stopping over at my house for another night and we've arranged to go to _L'Homme Vert_ for a few drinks. Would you like to join us and maybe tie up any loose ends then. You would be more than welcome and Maurice would be only too glad to take up where both of you left off in that slight disagreement...' from Madeleine

'Ah yes. Let me see. Right that will be fine. I'll be only too glad to show that Maurice what.' from Claudine.

'Oh and Jill. I'll bring some... Maybe I can also use you as a referee when I'm dealing with that stubborn mule...'

'Look forward to it.'

'À plus tard, vous deux.'

* * * * *

Working through her pile of correspondence Jill was making good progress when an interruption in the form of Jane Madley, school secretary, occurred as the latter swept in and dropped some letters on the desk.

'Good morning Jill. And how are you?'

'Fine Jane. I've just had a call from Madeleine.'

'Really. Good news I hope?'

'Nothing to worry about, for sure. Just some twinning and student exchange business. Oh. Monique will be here with a party of twelve in two weeks' time.'

'Ha Ha. Monique . I found Madeleine very easy to get on with when I met her at your house; she's easy going and jolly. Took me a bit longer with Monique, though, as at first I couldn't tell what she was saying and I thought she might be a bit mad. Now I love her to death and can't stop laughing every time I see her,' from Jane.

'Yes. I must confess it took me a while to get to know her also.'

'Well. I must be off now Jill.'

'And thanks, Jane. I'll try and catch you later.'

* * * * *

Jill thought wistfully of her own first encounter with Monique after Jane left the room. Shortly after her meeting with Claudine the latter had quickly got in contact with her friend and contact at the local _mairie,_ Monique Berger, to arrange an informal tête-à-tête so they could decide on the best course of action to take. Monique had long been aware of her friend's interest in twinning and general desire to get some sort of student exchange programme going but, until Jill, much had been considered but nothing ventured. It was Monique, herself, who had mooted the idea of 'twinning' as a natural extension of any exchange programme between two towns in different countries. After getting the go-ahead from her boss, _le maire_ to set things in motion, she got together a small twinning committee group at the _mairie_ and proceeded to check out her opposite number on the Bruneigh District Council. The subsequent telephone conversation between her and Tina was short and businesslike. Monique would come to Gurnings and Tina meanwhile would set up a committee at Bruneigh...

'Chere Jill. Pleased to meet you.'

Just as she came through the front door at Gurnings early one afternoon a few days after hearing about the proposed visit, Jill was suddenly and quite unexpectedly seized in a warm embrace, kissed several times on both cheeks, all the while feeling like she was being squeezed by a large over-friendly bear. The bear woman was powerful, about the same height as herself, but broad and probably weighing nearly double her own nine stone and a few pounds. She had a round face and ruddy complexion and was dressed in a smart grey trouser suit which didn't seem to sit comfortably on her frame somehow; she looked as if she might explode out of it any minute.

'And I'm glad to meet you too,' from Jill as she pulled herself away trying desperately hard to avoid laughing, but not before noticing a mischievous glint in the eye of the other woman who had obviously been expecting her.

'Its okay. I have this effect on everyone. Count your blessings, gorgeous one, that you didn't meet me a few years ago for the first time.'

'And why would that be?' from Tina, grinning hugely and obviously enjoying her French visitor.

'Ah mes amies. That is a story for another day. For now I go to the kitchen to have a look.'

As their eccentric newcomer left the room Tina beckoned Jill with rapid finger movements to follow her out on the porch where she brought her up to date on the latest development chez Branz. Monique had arrived by taxi about half an hour earlier with two large suitcases, one of which had been brought up to her bedroom; she had requested the other be brought straightaway to the kitchen.

In the course of a few telephone conversations Monique had learned about Tina's diabetes and her casual, almost indifferent attitude to important things affecting her condition. Somehow, at some point that Tina was unaware of, it had been decided that Monique would put certain things in order during her brief visit to Bruneigh. She couldn't remember details of the French lady's plans, but worrying images of three weeks on some starvation diet of grasses and weeds, colonic irrigation and endless pumping of iron at the local gym, loomed alarmingly as some awful nightmare about to be experienced.

'Fancy a cuppa. See how our friend's getting on? Follow me,' from Tina as she started back in.

'I'd love one. Lead on.'

As they went towards the kitchen the sound of plates, tins and countless other objects being slapped down on tops, drawers rapidly opened and shut and taps turned on and off reached their ears; someone was very busy.

On entering the room Jill realised that it was the first time she'd been in it. On her previous visits to discuss school affairs with Jack she had been taken straight into the lounge where they talked and were joined by Tina at some stage \- usually with a very welcome cup of tea and an invitation to 'take five' and chat light-heartedly about life generally. 'A break for a few minutes works for me in the office when I'm struggling with some problem - every time', were Tina's usual words.

The splendid fifteen by twelve foot kitchen had obviously been designed for someone who took great pride in all things culinary; it was in fact Tina's mother who had been the inspiration behind it all; the layout, colour scheme, solid oak cabinets, dark grey granite top, stunning claret Rayburn cooker and, last but not least, the solid Jacobean-stained oak table and eight chairs taking pride of place up the centre of the room, had been agonizingly mulled over and chosen by her. It was most certainly not a case of ' _like mother, like daughter'_ as Tina had never shown any serious interest in cooking; her interest in the kitchen would have more likely veered towards designing the nuts and bolts of the Aga itself. However, out of respect for her mother she always kept it scrupulously clean and well maintained.

'Ah I see you're getting into your stride Monique. Jill and I have come to interrupt you and make some tea. Do you want a cup?' from Tina as she made her way past the noisy one as she knelt on the floor grumbling and rummaging in a bag for some missing item or other.

'Ah. Mais oui. I'll never get all this sorted Tina. I'll join you two lovely ladies. Oui?' from the grumbling one, as she got up and sat on one of the chairs.

'I do believe you've got a treat or two in store for our friend Tina. Is that correct?' from Jill with a smiling glance at the visitor.

'Ah yes Jill. All will be revealed in good time,' from the now inscrutable one as she pulled out a notepad and commenced scribbling furiously, looking up from time to time before adding more items to what appeared to be a list of sorts...

* * * * *

As she now sat idly twirling a pencil round and round in her fingers, remembering, the phone buzzed, interrupting her reminiscences.

'Jill Ponsonby here. How may I help you?'

'It's Joe here, Jill. Something I need to show you. Can I come up to your office sometime this morning?'

The caller was Joe Deakin, school caretaker at Bruneigh for fifteen years and a level-headed, trustworthy individual. She looked at her watch. 9.40 am.

'I'll meet you down there Joe. Feel like stretching my legs at the moment. See you in the next half hour or so.'

As she walked down the corridor she passed the library and, noticing the open door, decided to have a quick look in.

'Good...even better...great', she murmured to herself as she passed row after row of bookshelves and found nobody present. Going to the large rectangular table at the end of the room with chairs all round she pulled one out and sat down. A stained glass window with representations of the Virgin Mary and some biblical kings took up most of the curved wall facing and gave a strong hint of both the room and the building's religious past. She found that a few minutes in this spot with no one around was a sure way of unwinding from stresses and strains and as a result could be found here, from time to time, head bowed and lost in thought.

The first occupants hundreds of years earlier of the _Old Building,_ as the original part of Bruneigh High was known, were an order of Augustinian teaching nuns and the library had originally been their chapel; the reading room table at which she now sat, occupied the spot where the altar had stood. As she let her thoughts wander, she thought of the peace, tranquillity and sanctity of this room in times past as nuns knelt, praying, in silent contemplation of all things spiritual, or raised their voices to sing sweetly in harmony the various hymns of service. She thought also of the horrific slaughter and carnage that had gone on outside the convent walls at the same period in time affecting other nuns and buildings like this one; many had been razed to the ground, burnt and the occupants sent to their deaths at Tyburn or declared as traitors to the state. The nuns here had been more fortunate having been pensioned off by a more benevolent patron. As she looked at the stained-glass figures she still felt that sense of peace and detachment from reality that seemed to wash away, cleanse...

Getting up, she crossed herself as if in sacred surroundings and silently crept from the room.

Turning left as she left the building she headed along the path past the playing fields on her way to meet Joe. To her right she could see a teacher and class heading into the _Belchers_ , an old exhibition hall and preserved part, together with smaller adjoining two-storey office building, of the otherwise dismantled Belchers glass factory.

'Hi Miss.'

The speaker, Cissy Blackstock, turned round jogging backwards as she spoke.

'And a good day to you too Cissy. Where are the others? Way too slow for you I'll be darned.'

'No. I've just hidden someone's pumps. Ahh... I see they've found them. I'd better be off before that posse of losers catches me. See you Miss.'

As she sped off laughing, Jill looked at the disappearing figure with a feeling of warmth; the attractive, intelligent sixteen year old girl, now a promising future medical student, was a shining example of success in a previously failing science department. During Jill's interview with the school governors for her present job she had been asked to give reasons why she thought she could save the school. Whilst going through some ideas for improving school performance she had pointed to the extremely poor science results and the Ofsted recommendation for improvement in science teaching, classroom discipline, physical education teaching and facilities and laboratory equipment. Mentioning these findings, she had insisted she be given a free hand to recruit without delay four full-time teachers of her choosing and the wherewithal to bring inadequate laboratories up to date. The department previously staffed by a succession of supply teachers with lessons often descending into complete chaos, had now five years later been completely turned round with results in the yearly exams showing dramatic improvement.

Walking along the wide concrete road at the edge of the playing fields she passed a white wooden sports pavilion, before turning left and heading for the small storeroom cum caretaker's office which was set back a little from the road, with a single row of large oak trees behind. Rounding the corner of the building she could hear voices and was just in time to see a police officer hurrying away towards his car, shouting something or other to Joe as he went. The latter was waving the visitor away with one hand while studying closely a sheet of paper he held in the other.

'Good morning Joe. I see you've had company.'

'Oh hello Jill. Yes. The officer you saw is Sergeant Tom Barton who just came for a chat about the strange hoax call they received at the station last night; he also gave me this sheet with police log details of their follow-up actions. Have a look.'

Case Number: WS 06/05/02/5683

Incident: Phone Call re. Break-In at Bruneigh High School.

Reporting Officer: Sergeant Tom Barton.

Date of Report: 08 April 2012

21.23 hrs. Caller reported fire in pavilion at Bruneigh High and break-in occurring at side of old building with four, maybe five intruders breaking glass window and entering. Four PC's subsequently entered through front door with Mr. J. Deakin, caretaker, and did a thorough search of building. No person or persons were found to be in the building or it's immediate vicinity. Search called off at 23.47 hrs.

T. Barton

'Strange. Mmm. Are the police concerned about this call. Have they any idea who may have sent it?'

'Not a clue. They're going to treat it as some sort of prank. They've too much on at the moment to have an officer stationed there all night but Tom said they will organise foot patrols round the perimeter from time to time for a few nights.'

'Just hope they're right about it being a mischief call. Anyway please accept a sincere thank you from me for your own efforts Joe.'

'Oh its nothing really. Can I offer you a cuppa? I've just brewed up.'

'Thanks. I'd love one.'

Sitting down on a long bench she looked up at him as he fussed about with cups, spoons and other tea-making items. At one point as he turned she caught for a brief second a full-on glimpse of his back and head in sharp profile against the light coming from the window. An involuntary wry smile spread across her face as she remembered...

* * * * *

She saw him for the first time on the very day of her arrival at Bruneigh. After being met by Jane Madley and introduced to the other teachers in the staff room she had then followed everyone on to the stage in the main hall where deputy head Jack Branz took assembly, going over the school business of the day before announcing,

'And now please welcome your new headmistress, Mrs. Ponsonby', beckoning her forward with an elaborate flourish.

After giving a short but well-rehearsed speech she made her way off the stage with the others, joking and engaging in light-hearted banter, before everyone disappeared in all directions on their way to class.

'How would you like a nice cuppa, Mrs. Ponsonby? Your office. Tea or coffee?

Jane looked at her new boss - liking very much what she saw.

'Tea please. I'm parched. And please call me Jill.'

'Fine Jill. Great speech, by the way. Back in a jiffy and then I'll take you to meet Joe, our caretaker - if you haven't already made alternative arrangements.'

'No. That will be fine.'

After a pleasant tête-à-tête over tea and biscuits the new head and her secretary felt they had bonded in a way that surprised them both; Jill could sense a true friend and ally in the honest, outspoken Jane - someone she could trust - whilst Jane respected the sincerity of the other's desire to do her best for the school and felt a genuine sisterly warmth towards the other woman.

'I'll have to warn you Jill. The man you are about to meet can come across as gruff and not the sort to doff his cap, so to speak, but I like him and give him pure hell if he starts preaching.'

'Sermons, eh...?'

Jill mused.

The sun went behind a cloud as both women came up to the small building where the caretaker had his quarters. A sudden change from bright sunny day to grey gloom and biting chill caused a similar drop in Jill's spirits. For the briefest of seconds, a sense of something not in balance, a foreboding, coursed through her body like a sudden thudding bolt...a knowing...

'To what do I owe this honour, ladies?'

The speaker had his back to them as he spoke and was staring upwards at a nest box on one of the trees behind the storeroom.

'If you can take your mind off that wretched bird for a second I'll tell you what for. I've brought your new lord and master, begging your pardon Jill - lady and mistress - to say hello. Is that honour enough for you?', from a smiling Jane as both women came up to where the staring one stood.

'Pleased to meet you - Mrs Ponsonby I believe?'

'Jill will do fine Joe. And what are you staring at anyway?'

As Jill shook the other's outstretched hand, she found herself looking at a tall, lean man in his mid forties, with greying hair and a twinkle in his eye as he looked down on her.

'I thought I just heard Baltimore fly back in. I was just checking...still can't hear anything.'

'What type of bird is Baltimore if I may ask? And why the name?'

'He's a barn owl and clever. I named him after the US city of high achievers.'

'How do you know he's clever enough to deserve such a grandiose name?'

Jill smiled as she warmed to the playful repartee.

'Well you can laugh but the reason why I know he has high IQ is the speed at which he realized the nest box was better than the tree hole. A week or so after I put the box up he was in it - and still is.'

'I'll be off now Jill. Don't take any more nonsense from this one. He's full of blarney.'

Jane sped off.

'You wouldn't believe I think the world of that woman now, would you? Seriously though have you got a few minutes to spare? I've some ideas to put by you and the kettle's just boiled. I like to think of this space as my sanctum sanctorum.'

Joe waved round the room in a grand gesture \- the emperor surveying his domain.

As she sat down on one of a pair of battered old leather armchairs whilst her host poured tea she took in her surroundings with curiosity. Facing her, under the storeroom's single large window, a long wooden worktop ran for about fifteen feet or so along the whole length of the room. On the table and under it were all the tools and implements of the caretaker's trade \- with a few very interesting additions, namely: a modern desktop computer and attachments, printer, printer paper, notebooks, assorted pencils, biros and other stationery wares. The pièce de résistance, however, had to be the photographs of varying sizes covering the wall above the worktop from one end of the wall to the other. They seemed to have a singular theme - old buildings. An exception to this was the photo of a large modern building complex composed of several photos pinned together.

'Okay if I take a look at some of the photos?'

'No problem.'

She would get to know what made this man tick; the photos and their subjects were a good place to start.

Going over to the end opposite the door she started with a small collection of photos of a hill tower. On one photo the tower itself, a square stone-built structure, twenty foot high by fifteen feet wide with a single open entrance and parapet hiding the roof, filled the picture. On another a group of very sombre individuals sat at the tower bottom holding aloft cardboard and plastic placards with signs ranging from the sober, 'Save our tower' to the more incendiary, 'Town hall bastards keep your f.....g hands off..' On another a group of young men and women bared their arses to the camera as they held up cards with, 'Up yours, demolition toerags' and other similar slogans. In the last picture of this collection the tone changed completely; gone was all the outrage and as she looked more closely she could see Joe near the front of a large merry crowd dancing round the tower waving victory signs.

'Ah, I see you've caught me out. Tea?'

'Thanks Joe. I take it your lot here in the picture got their way. What was it about and where do you fit in? Mmm. Good tea. I'll be back for more.'

'Well then. Not sure exactly where to begin. On that Saturday I was due to lead a group of the Bruneigh ramblers for a moderately severe walk of about ten miles in the local area when I had a call from a friend and local youth volunteer, Iqbal Siddiqui. He told me that a large group was meeting on Crook Pike to celebrate the decision by Bruneigh Council to save the tower by buying the small estate on which it stood and opening it to the public after carrying out some necessary renovations.'

'What about your ramblers?'

'No problems there. I took them along with me on the school bus and we had a good walk round the hill afterwards followed by tea and scones at Old Crook farm visitor centre. They enjoyed the day immensely and asked if I would be so good as to take them along again as soon as it could be arranged.'

She was now looking at some photos of the interior of a large hall. The hall looked like it had seen much better times; the eighty by sixty foot room was in a state of dereliction, the floor covered in dust, rubble and heaps of nondescript items which were piled in heaps all around as if the place had been deserted in a hurry for some reason or other. A balcony and wooden balustrade sat atop rooms with no doors along one side; peering closely she thought she could make out some doors lying inside one of the rooms on the floor. Looking at another photo she could see what was obviously the hall exterior and another smaller building adjoining it.

'Ah...where do I begin? Those two buildings are what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'Why? What is different about them? And why should they interest me particularly?'

'They might not interest you at all in the end but you are the only person I can think of who can save them from being razed to the ground. We're short of a proper gym at the moment. Yeah? And the extra land. A magnificent set of playing fields maybe?' And I just happen to know a person who has a set of keys - so what do you say, if I may be so bold?'

She thought for a minute or so. The foreboding from before was forgotten - for the moment anyway. This Belchers sounded promising. Her mood lifted.

'I'll need to have a look round the place and get a clear picture of what's involved. How about sometime tomorrow evening after I've finished with school business - say six?'

'And this last set of pictures. PFI in Caws.'

She studied the photos of a large complex - a combined primary, secondary and special needs college. The large entrance lobby, lecture halls, theatre, music hall and every conceivable part of the complex had been photographed in great detail.

'What interested you in this Joe?'

'I travelled down to see it as soon as rumours started after our last Ofsted report of a similar project being possibly on the cards for Bruneigh.'

'I see. I can't make any definite promises but as it's my job to get this place running properly I hope it won't ever come to that.'

'I sincerely hope so too. And I must apologise if I seem to be coming across as cheeky. It's just that I care.'

As she and Joe stepped through the main door of Belchers that evening she was immediately struck by the quality of the solid mahogany wood flooring and good condition of the plaster on the walls. On inspection all doors for the rooms under the balcony were found to be present and made of teak; the balcony area was in good solid condition and with the addition of tiered seating would have potential for a variety of functions. With shower and toilet facilities added along one of the end walls an excellent gymnasium could soon be brought into being and...what next?..mmm...As they went through into the smaller building she could immediately see its potential as a community centre; Joe mentioned local businessman Iqbal Siddiqui's interest in being involved. Hmm...

'Your early thoughts. Promising?'

'A possible winner. Have to think this through thoroughly first. If I think it's a good enough idea to pursue I'll arrange to meet with the board of governors and argue my case.'

Three weeks later her phone rang.

'Good morning Jill. Lady Persephone Carruthers here, Chair, if you recall. I trust to find you in good spirits and fine fettle. I was interested in your recent correspondence regarding the proposed purchase of the disused Belchers exhibition hall, adjoining building and some land. If you can free up the library at Bruneigh for an hour or so on Friday I have arranged with the other governors to see you then. Matters of gravity are best dealt with in quiet dignified surroundings don't you think, my dear?'

'Of course Lady Carruthers. I'll arrange it and look forward very much to seeing you once again.'

'Byee.'

Two days later she walked in to face the august group sat patiently and expectantly round the table. As she approached, the sun cast many shades of colour and light through stained glass on the table and sitting figures; for a moment they seemed surreal, like spectres in some great forgotten painting, so vague in outline they could evaporate any moment before her very eyes. For some reason she felt emboldened; in all her other moments in this very spot she escaped the humdrum, lost herself in introspection, communed with the very silence as a tonic or salve to her sometimes frenzied mind. It was working its magic now; her request to the eyes peering out from the ghostly mist in front was simple, pragmatic - they would be getting a fantastic bargain - and that was the crux of the matter as far as she was concerned.

'Good morning all. I hope to find you all well...'

After a few preliminary questions which she answered as fully as she could, the panel of about six leaned over to each other and discoursed amongst themselves for some time before the Chair addressed her,

'Hello again Jill. So sorry if we seem to have been ignoring you but there is one point we would like you to clarifv for us, namely - your interest in the smaller building. When we approached county, who own the site and everything on it, they said they would welcome your proposal for restoration of the hall for college use. They would, however, need to know why you think a community / youth club centre should be included on campus.'

'To help with controlling the gangs of youths who operate in the town. In the short time I've been here I've seen some of them openly pushing drugs at the school gates. A properly run youth club would help in giving some disadvantaged teenagers discipline, an alternative outlet for letting off steam whilst the community centre would provide a forum or meeting place for many parents who could get the help they desperately need to control these same out-of-control kids - a fairly compelling set of reasons in my book.'

Jill spoke firmly.

'A very good and honest reply dear.'

The group of worthies deliberated for some time after this, only glancing and gesturing towards her at odd moments as they tried to arrive at a mutually acceptable solution to the matter. Finally, and with much an air of much gravitas, the Lady spoke,

'After careful consideration of everything Jill I'm very pleased to be in a position to accede to your request. I'll get the wheels turning shortly and just wish you the best of luck.'

With that she stood up and came across to shake hands; in a few minutes they had all walked silently away and she was alone...

'Phew...Grrreat...Yippee.'

* * * * *

'Well Joe. I think we'll forget our hoax call for the moment. Just let me know if anything else happens and thanks again for your own prompt action. I'm afraid I must dash. Bye.'

Sitting in her office a few minutes later she looked at her watch

'11.52. Crikey. Hope she's still in.'

Picking up her mobile she dialled a number and waited.

' Naughty girl. What kept you? '

'Sorry Tina. I just lost track of time. You still up for a meal at _The Pines_?'

'You bet. I'll be there in five.'

As they sat, half an hour or so later, at a window table waiting for the meal to arrive, the crisp, starched white tablecloth and elegant cutlery on the table before her brought back a certain memory. Involuntarily she chuckled as certain images flooded back into her mind.

'What are you grinning at. Are you feeling okay?'

'Sorry Tina. I was just remembering the affair with Monique and the rugby players at the _Owl and Thistle_. You've probably quite forgotten it by now.'

'Not bloody likely. Best laugh I've ever had in my life. She's due at Gurnings in two weeks.'

'I know. Madeleine phoned me about nine this morning. I trust you're still sticking to the diets she ordered. Ha.'

'You might Ha. She knows I've neither time nor patience for that stuff. Every time she comes over she harps on about it...I love her to death though. She's completely barmy.'

'How did it start exactly? I can't remember the cause.'

* * * * *

'Don't you remember? We were all sat at table facing empty glasses after our third round of drinks. Both you and I were on shorts as our poison of choice while Jack and Monique had opted for pints of lager. At that point Jack rose to go to the bar for the next round whereupon Monique shot up and insisted she go instead. Protest from us was useless as, waving her fist at us in mock anger she declared loudly in French,

'Tous les petites dames françaises paient pour leurs tours de boissons. Allons.', before marching up to to the bar and taking her place beside some dashing young blades from Bruneigh rugby club.'

'I remember now. Please continue.'

'After a few minutes she was getting served so Jack got up to help carry the drinks back. He'd got just about halfway when it happened. I can still remember it vividly as a picture in slow motion. As she pulled her wallet from her trouser pocket it seemed to snag on something and fell to the floor.

Bending down to pick it up as the bartender commenced pouring the last pint of lager she let out the most amazing fart - a thunderous ripping sound that seemed to echo round the room for minutes after.

Everyone in the pub heard it. From where I sat I could see all eyes swivel towards what to them must have been this strange figure with bent back bursting from a tight-fitting grey suit and charcoal French beret. At that moment you could have heard a pin drop - such was the silence that seemed to have descended on the room. Everything seemed suspended...expectant...

Calmly straightening up and patting her buttocks she looked round, beaming broadly at everyone before turning back to the bar,

'Merci barman, et combien je vous dois? Err...What do I owe you?'

'Bloody foreigners', muttered Bugsy Brennan, resident misanthrope and laconic wit, as he broke the silence.

And broken it was. Cheers loud and clear rang out from the group of rugby players as they proceeded to clap her on the back, shake hands and bombard her with questions, asking if she would be so good as to give them a repeat performance. She was an instant hit and soon could be seen carried aloft on the shoulders of a doughty trio of revellers as they paraded her round the room for what seemed an age before ceremoniously placing her back in her seat. When Jack finally found his way back to the table with the drinks he found he'd spilt half of it trying to get through the merry throng.'

* * * * *

'I think it took an age for any of us to stop laughing that night. By the way I'm looking forward to one of her meals - provided that is, I get an invite.'

'Of course girl. You don't think I'm going to let you off that easily. I don't want to be the only guinea pig.'

'Perhaps we could bring her up for a session in the tree house like that one you, Jack and I enjoyed last week. That did me a power of good. A proper tonic.'

'We'll see. Now I meant to ask has Hilary been in contact since you left the marital bed, so to speak?'

'No. I tried phoning a few times but kept getting my own voice telling me I wasn't available for the moment and could I ring myself later. What a ridiculous state of affairs I seem to have created.'

'Well whatever happens you know you're more than welcome to stay for as long as you want. I'd really miss you if you left - and that's the truth. I know I'm being selfish and I really do hope you sort things out between you and Hilary in the long term but for now I just love having you around. That reminds me, let me...just...look... find it.'

As she rummaged around in the large rucksack she carried everywhere a waiter arrived at their table wheeling a trolley.

'Hello ladies. I'm so very sorry to have kept you waiting. Oh can I help you madam?' he effused as he noted the struggling Tina.

'No you carry on there. I'll be fine...ahh gotcha' from Tina as she held aloft, triumphant, a small envelope with handwritten address.

'For you.'

As the waiter started to transfer everything from the trolley to the table with Tina lending a hand, Jill opened the letter and began to read.

'Enjoy your meal ladies and give me a shout if you need anything.'

'Thanks. Everything seems fine' from Tina who occupied herself with setting the table as Jill read on.

7th. April

Dear Mum,

Just a short note to say Sula and I will be coming up from London to see you on 16th. Sorry to hear about you and Dad. We were thinking of calling on him first before coming on to see you. Any chance we could bunk up at your new abode. Would Tina mind? Dad sounded a bit off when we mentioned we were thinking of staying a few days - not like him at all I thought - but he's probably upset about things. Please ring.

Anyway all the best from us both.

With love and kisses.

Debs & Sula xxx

Putting the letter away in her handbag she looked at the full plate Tina had just set in front of her. For some reason the hunger she'd felt on arrival seemed to have vanished. It must have shown.

'Bad news, or should I mind my own business?'

'No. Nothing like that at all. The letter was from Debs. She and Sula are coming up for a week or so and she was wondering if they could both stay at Gurnings as Hilary doesn't seem his usual loving self at the moment. It just got me thinking of it all...not being able to get through to him....'

'Tell Debs she and Sula are more than welcome to stay. It'll liven the place up and there's plenty of room. Now eat up for heaven's sake before it goes cold.'

'I'll try Tina - and thanks.'

The next hour soon passed as they talked about the visitors about to descend on Gurnings. Debs was a PE teacher at an Inner London secondary school and her friend, Sula, worked as a social worker in the same area. Debs had always been an outdoor girl - athletic, 5'10'ish and keen on all types of sport having been a member of the girls' hockey and football teams whilst at college. She adored countryside and fell walking and throughout her school career had been on countless rambling and camping trips all over the country so it came as no surprise to Jill and Hilary when she opted for a career in teaching PE. A reasonable set of A level results secured her a place on a sports science degree course from which she graduated with honours. After some stints in voluntary and temporary work she finally landed her present permanent position.

'How did your Debs meet Sula? .'

Tina pushed her plate aside as she lifted a cup to her lips.

'Well, I can only tell you what Debs herself told me. She was in the gym with a netball class one morning when the school secretary came in.

'Someone in the office for you, Miss Ponsonby.'

As they both entered the reception area a svelte, dark-haired ebony young woman of medium height rose up from a chair and extended a delicate hand to Debs. The latter was transfixed by the creature of beauty standing in front of her; before the other had uttered a single syllable she was smitten, out of her comfort zone entirely.

'Sula Achebe. So very sorry to trouble you Miss Ponsonby.'

'Please...just call me Debs.' The reply came from an entirely flustered Debs.

'Okay Debs. And now...'

That was how it started. Sula, a social worker, wished to talk to a pupil in Deb's class as the family of the pupil concerned were on a list with problems of bullying - the father being the bully. Debs arranged a meeting for that evening, ostensibly to discuss the pupil's case in a way that would ensure no breach of confidentiality. Within a week they had moved in together and that was that.'

'Brunnhilde meets Oshun the African goddess, was how Jack put it when he first saw them together.'

'I think Hilary thought the same although it took him some time to get used to our daughter's sexual preferences.'

'Ready for the off then?'

Tina stood up, starting to put on her jacket.

'Okay.'

As they paid taxi driver and strode through the large automatic glass doors of Bruneigh town hall a few minutes later Jill was struck once again by the quiet museum-like atmosphere of the place. A few visitors stood round the large display cabinets on either side of the ground floor looking at the artefacts and pictures and talking in low whispers. Going forward, by the side of a wide stone staircase, Tina turned left through a large ornate door and entered the council chamber followed by Jill. It was the latter's first visit. The austere but elegant rows of green leather upholstered seats laid out in a semicircle with four walkways between and facing a single row of raised seating seemed to dwarf the small group sat on one of the front rows.

'Good day to you all. I've brought Jill whom you all know.'

'Good day to you Jill - and you Tina', came the reply from all five members of the Bruneigh twinning committee in unison.

Beckoning Jill to sit down on a row of seats facing the small group Tina sat down beside her, rummaged in her rucksack before taking out a single sheet of paper and studying it for a few moments.

'I must thank you all for being here. As you'll know by now from the letters I sent out a week ago, Monique and a group of twelve ramblers from _Chataigniers_ will be arriving here on the 25th. of this month for a three week's stay. Most will be staying at the _Owl and Thistle,_ the remainder at my home - _Gurnings._ Here is a list of some outings, day trips I've arranged, so all of you are welcome to come along on any of the trips. The group will meet most evenings in the bar at the _Owl and_ Thistle so please feel free to come along any evening for a jar or two.'

'We'd love to see them all again and promise you, Tina, that we will do our level best to make them welcome', from Deirdre Barber, colleague of Tina on the council.

'Fine. Thank you Deirdre. Now Jill has something she wants to say. Over to you, Jill.'

'Thanks Tina. Now the group have expressed an interest in coming along some day to Bruneigh High to give a talk about their town and meet some of the students who have been accepted on the next exchange programme starting in September. I'd like to invite any of you who are interested to attend - you would be more than welcome. There is also the business of finalising the arrangements concerning families who have accepted the fresh batch of French students. Maybe....'

She outlined some further points.

'Thanks Jill. And now for other matters pertaining to the group's visit....'

Tina moved on to deal with some other committee business before finally calling an end to proceedings.

'What say we break open a bottle, girl, when we get in?'

Tina spoke in mock conspiratorial tone as their taxi drew up some time later outside Gurnings.

'Couldn't think of a better idea right now. Tree house?'

'Tree house it is.'

# Chapter 3

April 10th.2012.

The bedside alarm began ringing. The sole occupant of the bed stirred drowsily, lazily, ignoring the sound and turning over as if hoping the action might blot out the racket and restore him to restful dreams.

'Brr..brr...'

The ringing continued. It filled the room as some malevolent omnipresence bent on torturing his eardrums and jolting him awake as quickly and painfully as possible.

'Damn blasted thing...where the hell..?'

Turning back round he stretched a hand towards the bedside cabinet, groping blindly on the top for what seemed an age before finding the alarm button and switching it off. Pushing the single blanket covering him to one side he got out and sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, elbows on knees and head in hands, as he gathered his thoughts and adjusted to another new day. Peeling off a black Fred Perry T-shirt that had seen better days he moved over to a small stainless steel sink in the corner opposite for a quick face and armpit splash before settling down to the more serious business of shaving.

Sat on the bed some fifteen minutes later after completing his ablutions, fully dressed in faded blue jeans and pale grey shirt, he took his tobacco tin from the small table opposite and picked out a roll-up. Drawing deeply to speed the drug into his system he luxuriated in the mildly euphoric sensation, allowing his mind to drift a little as he picked up a menu sheet from the table in front and ticked off some choices.

Putting the sheet back he stubbed out the roll-up and lay back on the bed to wait - and think - someday he would get to that beach in the sun under a clear blue sky...eat delicious seafood... drink strong iced lagers...swim for hours in the cool clear water... scour the place to find some sexy wench gagging for his company...long nights of hot passionate lovemaking...

A key unlocking his cell door brought him back to reality with a sharp and irritating suddenness. He looked at his clock. 07.00.

'Menu sheet ready, Gulpin?'

The officer, Tom Staveley 45, slightly built and around 5' 5, looked up at the bear of a man facing him and jangled his keys noisily with barely disguised contempt. He disliked all prison inmates and was one of a very small minority of officers who overly enjoy the feeling of power the job brings. The young twenty-five year old man facing him, John 'Basher' Gulpin, 5'11 and 15 stones of muscle, had even greater contempt for what he considered the upstart squirt addressing him.

'Your menu... sheet...Sir.'

The terse reply came in a low meaningful tone. One day the squirt would get what was coming to him - and more, much, much more. Leopards didn't change their spots - nor did elephants forget.

At 07.10 he went along to the canteen servery to help with breakfasts. It was one of his 'privilege' jobs \- the others being cleaner of certain parts of the wing, including the landing, and listener or 'buddy.'

As the prisoners approached the hatch he could feel some tension in the air. At any given moment a loose comment, innocent gesture or accidental bump could unleash total and deadly mayhem in a split second. He had been guilty of taking offence and creating a fracas himself earlier on in his sentence but had learnt his lesson - privileges earned for good behaviour made far more sense than penalties incurred for fighting or being uncooperative. He would use the system - for now. His duty complete, after serving the last person in the queue and getting his own breakfast, he made his way back to his cell.

'Got everything John?' from officer Brian Atkins.

'Yes fine, Sir. I'll start from here this morning if that's okay.'

'No problem. I'll let you carry on.'

It was 09.07 and he had just collected brush, mop, bucket and various other cleaning materials from the washroom store. He would be cleaning the landing until just before 12.00 and was in a good mood - he was out in the open and time flew. Besides Brian was pleasant, easy-going and never bothered him unduly. As he began mopping he decided to liven the place up a bit and so began to whistle some tunes; this soon provoked the reaction he expected.

'Cut that f..kin' howl you pigeon-farting nonce.'

'Leave him be Bickers, you flatulent smelly bastard. Carry on Basher. Make his day.'

As more and more insults were hurled back and forth the sounds on the landing attracted other attention.

'Silence. You lot. I'll not warn you again', from Brian Atkins who suddenly appeared.

'And you can carry on mopping John, don't let me keep you.'

As the officer went on his way Basher looked at the retreating figure and laughed to himself; this ruse of his never failed.

'You heard what the good man said, you lot. No more interruptions.'

As the banter continued on and off - albeit in a lighter and less noisy vein - he worked his way to the end of the landing, the halfway point of his cleaning cycle, and decided to go for fresh water. As he came out of the washroom a minute later and started back up the landing a cell alarm went off. It sounded very near; he saw the light above a door just feet in front and...

'Bloody nuisance Crab again.'

Brian and another officer were running up behind to investigate. Passing him they stopped at the door of prisoner 62-year-old Tolly Crab whereupon Brian looked through the observation window.

'Bloody hell Crab. What the....'

'Just have a dekko Dave...Filthy friggin....' from Brian as he bade his colleague take a look.

'You're not joking...mmm...yeah...we need full gear before going in there. Let's get on with it.'

As they turned round to go back, as if on cue the prisoner started to hammer and kick on his cell for all he was worth, roaring out expletives and insults in a never-ending stream that soon had the complete landing in uproar.

'I told you lot before. Shut it,' barked Brian at the top of his voice. The din continued at an even higher rate of decibels.

'Wasting your breath there mate, I'm afraid,' from his colleague.

Fifteen minutes later two figures clad from head to toe in white protective clothing marched up to the cell and, in turn, peered through the window. No noise came from within; as if in sympathy an eerie silence had descended on all cells at the first muffled tread on the landing from the officers in white. Something was going down. Not one single person was going to risk missing a second of the drama to come. From where he stood mopping, Basher would have a clear view into Crab's cell when the door opened. He didn't have long to wait - a few whispered comments, a loud jangling of keys and the men in white were in - sudden ghostly alien invasion.

'Out of that bed now Crab. You're coming with us. Do you hear and understand?' from Brian.

As Basher glanced in he had just time to see, as if in slow motion, a figure lying on the bed, the same figure sit up slowly, look towards the two officers, utter not a single word, then grin - a mocking ghoulish sneer - before giving an insulting two-finger salute and rushing at the men facing him, shouting abuse and snarling like a wild animal. The relatively slight 5' 4" prisoner was no match for his burly opponents who soon subdued him. All three left the cell within minutes, with Tolly Crab half carried, half running between his captors, cursing at the top of his voice about terrible things he could do to them if he wasn't handcuffed.

'You tell 'em Tolly.'

'Yeah. Knock 'em cold old boy.'

These and other choice titbits followed the departing trio as hammering on doors and general din ensued. As Basher stood there he suddenly, as if for the first time, became aware of a rank foetid odour hanging heavily in the air; he'd noticed it from the time the door had been opened but in the ensuing excitement had become oblivious to it. Deciding to see for himself the exact cause he glanced around to check the coast was clear, then walked across to look in through the observation hatch in the cell.

'Bloody hell....'

What he saw were lumps of faeces on three walls; these had been thinned down and brushed upwards and outwards with toilet roll or something similar. Lumps of solid waste had been dropped on the floor and trodden on resulting in brown boot prints over the tiled surface. The bio-hazard staff would be here soon to hose the cell and wipe out all trace of the mess; Tolly would now spend some time in the segregation unit.

'Whew!' he gasped catching a sharp whiff through the door edge.

Going back to work he continued mopping and thinking of things generally, the incident that had just occurred, the day ahead or just random thoughts. He liked these periods his privilege jobs allowed him where he could think; even the din around him seemed to intensify a feeling of privacy...wrap him cocoon-like with his innermost thoughts...resolve issues...

'Don't forget your interview at 2.20 with Shirley. I've also arranged for Jonah Madders to come and see you 1.15 just after lunch in the private room. Okay John?', from Brian Atkins who was stood, smiling, in front of him.

'Fine Sir. Thanks. No problem.'

He looked at his watch. 11.47. Time had flown. He'd only five minutes more mopping and then it would be time for lunch 12.00 - 1.00. His interview was with Shirley Goodall, prison psychologist, and promised to be a lively meeting if most of the previous ones were anything to go by.

'Hello. Is it John?', was the question from a very nervous young 22 year old as he tentatively stood in the doorway of the 'private' room - a room set aside, as the name might suggest, for matters of a private nature between listeners and their callers.

'That is me. Come sit down. Cup of tea? Yes? Good. Now while we wait for this clapped-out kettle to boil perhaps you can fill me in on...' from Basher as he began a session with his present caller...

* * * * *

In his early days at Windale prison, after becoming embroiled in fights and trouble generally, a listener at the prison was assigned to meet with him regularly as a result of some interesting conversations he had with his prison psychologist. Getting to know him a little - as a sort of experiment or shot in the dark - she had arranged for him to go through the Samaritan / listener training course. It seemed an inspired guess - the fighting stopped, he actually appeared to enjoy listening to and helping others in his role as buddy. Also he seemed to revel in work: at the present time he spent nearly every waking hour doing these 'privilege' jobs or working out, when allowed to, at the gym. It was all good...but was it maybe too good? Could he be playing a game...suckering her?

* * * * *

'I think we'll call a halt for now. I'll see you later but just remember...do everything just as I've told you to...you might be scared...yeah...well forget it...you know what I'm talking about? Okay Jonah?'

Basher spoke, checking his watch - 1.57.

'Yes thanks.'

As the young man walked away with a gait suggesting he carried the worries of the whole world on his shoulders, Basher thought of people to see, possible threats to make - he'd sort something but his caller would have to 'man up' as part of the solution.

At 2.20 pm he was knocking on a door.

'Enter.'

'Good afternoon, John. Please take a seat. And how do we find you today, may I ask?'

The speaker, a forty-three old slightly plump but attractive 5' 4" brunette, was standing by the window and gave him a welcoming smile as he entered the room. As he shook the hand offered to him he noticed, not for the first time, the long, shapely fingers and finely manicured nails and felt aroused. She had always had this effect on him; the sensible casual outfit of dark, cargo-style trousers, roll-neck jumper and short denim jacket plus flat nondescript leather moccasins could not, for him, hide the highly desirable body underneath. He'd maybe someday get a bit closer...no rush...get free first...god he needed a woman soon...any woman...the way he was feeling these days he'd nearly f..k old Staveley. Jesus. What a bloody awful thought...

'Fine Miss. Having a ball.' his opening gambit in reply.

'I'm sure you are. But cut the crap. I'm Shirley and have told you on numerous occasions to forget formalities when you talk to me.'

'I could forget a lot of things when I talk to you...Shirley.'

Ignoring the comment, she left the window and went over to her desk. Leaning over she picked up a folder, opened it and started flicking through it, humming softly as she scrutinized various documents within.

'Ahh. Here it is.'

Waving a sheet of paper briefly, she closed the folder and put it back on the desk top before sitting down and studying the sheet.

'May 15th. Your parole hearing. I'm here today to answer any questions you have at this stage. Okay?'

'How long before I have a release date - that is if I get through the parole hearing. And what are my chances?'

'Well, your chances, as you call them, depend on what the Board decides after considering two important points: prison reports and their face-to-face interview with you. If all goes well you should hear their decision within a fortnight and be released about three weeks later.'

'I see. So I'm still in the dark.'

'Just keep up with your present regimen of jobs and counselling, stay out of trouble and hope for the best. Remember you have to convince the Board that you will no longer pose a danger to the public when you get out.'

'I see.'

'Anything else you want to ask?'

'No. Not right now.'

'Okay John. I'll see you in two weeks' time. Byee.'

After he left she sat for some minutes idly twiddling a pencil between thumb and forefinger as she thought about the report she would shortly be called upon to write about him. Consistently favourable reports from herself, as the prison psychologist, and other members of staff could not seem to rid her mind of a nagging doubt...that day...four years earlier, when she'd first clapped eyes on him...the fraught first interview...but she'd have to give him a chance...he'd only started his sentence then...

* * * * *

Wiping sweat from his brow as he came off the running machine he looked up at the wall clock which showed 4.50. He'd just finished a forty minutes gym workout and felt a huge lift and adrenaline rush from the final burst on the treadmill.

'Ready for the showers?' from Boxer, a regular gym user and landing neighbour.

'Yeah. Why not. As cold and bloody freezing as we can stand it. I'm just in the mood.'

'Me too.'

As they dried themselves and started to get dressed Basher had a sudden idea. A short animated discussion followed after which they both went back to their cells.

As he walked into the day / recreation room later at around 8 p.m he looked past the men at the game tables and cast his eye down along the side of the room where men stood in small groups or sat on chairs against the wall.

'Evenin Basher mate, alright there... ' the greetings followed him as he made his way down the room.

'I've kept it warm for you.'

'Thanks. We'll just sit and wait.'

Boxer had duly chosen the spot arranged between them earlier. He sat down and now both were looking up the room waiting for someone to arrive...

They didn't have long to wait. A solitary figure looking forlorn and bereft made his way slowly to a seat across the room from them and sat down with hands on knees, head lowered, glancing furtively left and right. As they watched, two individuals standing in a group by one of the tables began pointing in the direction of the solitary one, grinning and making mocking gestures in an effort to get their prospective victim's attention. Spotting them, the victim suddenly seemed to come alive.

Gone was the furtive air and timid fearfulness,

Instead he jumped up - sprung like a ball from a cannon.

Giving a perfect 'f..k you' salute in the direction of his would-be tormentors, he walked off towards the toilets as if he hadn't a care in the world.

As Basher and Boxer watched this scene unravel they exchanged one long meaningful glance - any second now something was going to give.

As the lone one disappeared from view into the toilet area the mocking duo looked at each other in total disbelief, then fury. Banging fists on palms and swearing audibly they detached themselves from the group and started marching purposefully and menacingly in the wake of their solitary target - he would get the hiding of his life - and then some.

As the two went through the toilet entrance, Basher jumped up. Glancing round to check where the staff on duty were positioned - fortunately at the far end of the room - he tapped Boxer on the arm.

'Follow me.'

As they came near the entrance they could hear the sounds of a scuffle - shouting. The bullies were about to mete out merciless punishment - unbelievable pain.

'Little f.....g cheeky bastard ain't ya? Didn't really think you'd get away with what you just did out there did you?'

'Want me to do it again? F..k off both of you - stupid ugly bastards.'

''Now you've really f.....g asked for it.'

As Basher and Boxer flew in, the whole scenario for a split second seemed frozen. One of the two had his arm round the solitary one's (Jonah's) throat...the other gripped a nasty-looking homemade knife in his right hand, starting to pull it back...then...

The next few seconds went by in a blur of rapid action...the one with the knife turned round to see the towering figure of Basher nearly upon him...the other released Jonah before making a dive for the door...Basher connected with his fist on the first man's nose breaking it with a horrible crunching sound as the knife dropped harmlessly in the pool of blood forming on the floor...the man dropped to the floor as punches continued to rain down...Boxer grabbed the escaping one and began to punch...and punch...

As Basher, Boxer and Jonah left, the toilet two prostrate figures lay silent, bleeding on the floor.

'If anyone asks - you know nothing. Remember \- nothing. Okay Jonah?'

As he sat down on a bench at the far end of the room Basher kept his eyes fixed on a small group walking together in the direction he'd just left; they lingered for a minute or two just outside the toilet, deep in discussion about something or other, then went straight in...

'Quick. Come quick.', from a single individual as he dashed up the room to where an officer stood.

'What's the matter?'

'There's two bodies down there, maybe bleedin corpses, for all I know?'

'Where, you blithering idiot? Where?'

'In the toilets. I'll show you.'

'No. You stay right here.'

With that officer went off, returning a minute later with Brian Atkins and two more staff who rushed towards the toilets.

'Attention everyone. Go straight back to your cells. Right now.'

Brian shouted loudly as he emerged a second or two later...

* * * * *

At 9.00 pm. Basher was thinking. The lockdown was in place but it didn't worry him; he was remembering...way, way back...

* * * * *

One evening he came home from school aged 14, bleeding from the nose, with black eyes and bruises all over his body. He wasn't crying and he hadn't cried at any point during his beating by an older, bigger and stronger boy at school earlier in the day. His mother came into the kitchen as he sat at the table \- lonely, disconsolate and low, so very low.

'What'sha matta love. Gorblimey waas 'appened. Shu look awful. He he ',she muttered as she stumbled and just about managed to get her backside on a chair. On a high from speed and alcohol she was neither use nor ornament to him in her present state.

'I'm going for a wash Mum. See you.'

As he lay on the bed after cleaning himself up and changing out of his school uniform he made a vow to himself that he'd get even - but how? As he racked his brain for some answer or solution he heard a loud crash as someone came in the front door. It was his father, and by the sound of it, he was in a foul mood. As he heard the loud one start to rant and bang on things, he began to shake involuntarily. He was terrified of his parent when the latter got out of control like this with alcohol and knew he had to keep out of his way at all costs.

'What's the little blighter doing home from school this early? Eh?

He had just about made out the words uttered with real menace, when heavy boots started ascending the stairs. As he listened he found he'd lost the ability to move...he just sat there trembling...tears of pure anguish and fear dropped on his cheeks...he waited...

As the door opened, the six foot giant that was Barney Gulpin entered the room. The pitiful, shivering boy on the edge of the bed evoked no feelings of parental warmth or even the slightest pity in the drunk and anger-consumed parent. Taking off a thick, metal-studded belt he indicated with a forefinger that his son must turn round and lean over on the bed. The searing pain brought scream after scream as each thwack of the belt seemed to cut right through him; it only ended when the panting giant decided he'd had enough or otherwise he would have been more than happy for his son's screams of agony to go on forever.

The following morning he woke early and sat up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. As he swung his legs over on to the floor he let out a yelp as sharp stabbing pains from his beating the night before made him feel as if his whole backside was on fire. Going over to a small table he took a tube of antiseptic cream in his hand and proceeded to rub the ointment over the injured area, waiting until the throbbing ceased before getting dressed.

The kitchen was filled with the sounds and smells of breakfast being prepared as he went in some minutes later.

'Good morning dear. I trust you slept well. Hope you're hungry. Two eggs or three?'

'Two will be fine thanks, Mum.'

The shapely and efficient woman at the cooker had miraculously resurfaced as an entirely different being from her alter ego - louche, drunken harridan - of the night before. As he gingerly sat down on one of the hard kitchen chairs and waited for his plate of sausage, bacon and eggs to arrive, he thought of the house, a large 4-bedroom detached property, handsomely decorated throughout _-_ then his parents - somehow they didn't seem to fit.

'Here you are. Tuck in.'

As she sat down with him and they both started eating, sounds from upstairs could be heard.

'Dad's up. God I just hope the bugger's quietened down.'

It was always like this with his mother; she never mentioned his whipping the night before - only the fact of his father's bad temper..

'Okay son. Blimey who gave you the black eyes?'

His father had just joined them and, like his wife, seemed totally oblivious of any punitive actions chez Gulpin the previous night.

'Oh, just a boy at school Dad.'

'Well then. I see we've got some work to do son. I'll bring you down at six this evening to Terry's gym and we'll get you sorted. Okay?'

'That's fine and thanks.'

And so it was that he found himself enrolled on a self-defence class and introduced to a group of twelve or so young hopefuls like himself. It was to be the start of a twelve month gruelling routine of almost daily gym work and structured runs in addition to the weekly class which, at first, made him almost lose the desire to keep on living, but gradually increased his fitness, strength and confidence until, a year later...

...The message was passed along from boy to boy until, feeling a tap on his shoulder, the big sixteen-year old boy was handed a small handwritten note, with the words printed in large letters so there could be no possible misunderstanding:

Cocker. Fat slob. Meet me playing field near pavilion at 12.

I dare you, son of a f.....g whore.

As he received it Cocker's face turned red - positively livid. Rage was now building up by the second,

'Who the hell do you think wrote this? I'll bloody kill the bastard whoever it is.'

'No idea Cocker mate. Bloody hell I'm really looking forward to this. Someone has just got himself a death wish.'

His best crony, sitting beside him looked gleeful.

At the appointed time a considerable crowd had gathered in a loose semicircle near the pavilion shouting,

'Fight. Fight. Fight.'

Bursts of handclapping and stamping of feet filled the air. Cocker was the first to appear, lurching along with a bunch of his cronies, and punching the air for all to see; he was sure his day had come and some upstart would surely get what was coming to him - but who was it? He'd been thinking of nothing else since getting that note but couldn't find an answer...not surely...

He'd just spotted his adversary coming through the crowd with a small group from the opposite direction. There could be no mistake as this person was advancing with lowered head, two fingers held together and pointing straight ahead - at him. This was a complete stranger. He had absolutely no recollection of seeing or meeting him before.

As the two groups drew near each other until just five yards stood between them, they stopped abruptly, as if forced to do so by some unseen power. The aides drifted off to the sides and mingled with the crowd as the two opponents stood rooted to the spot and took stock of each other like gladiators in a Roman arena; this contest, like those of old could be a fight to the death. One, indeed, had death of sorts firmly in his mind - he had revenge to take and pain to mete out - lots of it.

Something clicked in the mind of the ungainly Cocker as he gazed across at his nemesis; the face was the key and in a flash he remembered. The face, though, didn't fit at all with the body; he'd fought and annihilated a relative weakling but the face that now glowered and glared at him belonged to a strong, lean and possibly very mean individual. Even for a sixteen-year old he'd let himself go badly in the twelvemonth since, with drink, drugs and junk food - but the hell with it. He'd kill the bastard looking at him from just feet away.

With a roar he lunged forward reaching for the shoulders of the other boy. Just as he was about to make contact and bring the other crashing down beneath him, there was suddenly no contact - nothing there. His opponent, Basher, had darted nimbly to one side at the very last second and watched as the ungainly one continued forward under his own momentum before crashing heavily to the ground.

Getting up he slowly turned round, stopped for a second and lunged forward as before - then stopped - just as Basher darted sideways. At that point he caught the darting boy a heavy blow to the chin sending him sprawling and made to follow this up by leaping on him and hopefully battering him.

It was to prove his undoing. As he leapt forward and down Basher rolled sideways and jumped up in a flash, waiting for Cocker to get up. As the latter got to his feet it was apparent the fall had winded him somewhat, so he took a second or two to recover as Basher, looked on.

Squaring up, Cocker came forward, pawing at the air as he ducked and weaved, looking for a way through to deliver the devastating punch that would floor his opponent before finishing him off with whatever punches or kicks it might take; he would not be fussy at this stage and his anger was building up again.

Finally he saw the opening he was looking for; the bastard would be finished, he was thinking, as he threw the punch.

Unfortunately for him, the other saw it coming, ducked aside, and followed up with a crushing uppercut then two, three, four hard heavy punches to the side of Cocker's head sending him crashing down until he was laid out on the ground - unmoving.

As Basher looked down on the prostrate figure, he wanted him to get up. No use finishing him off on the ground when he couldn't feel anything; the bastard needed to feel pain...more pain...endless pain...before he'd be satisfied....he'd prepared for a whole year for this...he could not - would not - be denied.

'Get up, you fat ugly bastard' he shouted as he began to kick the other, raining kick after kick on the comatose body...

* * * * *

Finally, with a glance at his watch - 9.47 - the prisoner turned over and settled down to sleep.

# Chapter 4

April 16th. 2012.

'Better.'

Cool air rushed in with a hissing sound as the automatic windows opened. She had just got on the dual carriageway and was accelerating to reach her usual speed of 50 mph for this stretch, watching carefully meanwhile the behaviour of other motorists around her. At that moment a high-powered sports car zoomed past causing her small Clio to rock slightly on its chassis; she cursed and waved her fist but the monster was already becoming no more than a slight speck in the distance up ahead. However, putting all thoughts of that from her mind, she noticed that the lanes were freer, less congested, than earlier and she should reach her destination comfortably in twenty minutes time, arriving around 11.

She'd been angry in the morning but decided to be cool as possible for the meeting ahead; ringing his landline and mobile numbers at various times during the week had proved fruitless so she was now coming in person to sort things out. As the car purred along she tried to remember details of their last meeting - parting, to be exact. She had come home on the evening in question - a fortnight earlier, at about 6 pm - full of verve and purpose and talking about her plans for the school. All seemed to go well during their conversation over the evening meal as she asked him about his day in the shop, customers, profits and plans to sell fruit and vegetables when _Thirsk Grocers,_ from further up the road, shut down.

At some point as they sipped postprandial glasses of Muscat, the subject of summer holidays came up. He suggested they start to make plans soon but she insisted they wait until after the Ofsted inspection and results were in, whereupon he muttered darkly that she was, to use his exact words, 'married more to that damned school than you are to me.' She retaliated with a declaration that frivolities like holiday planning detail came way down on her list of priorities when compared to the serious business of running - possibly saving - the school.

He then accused her of failing totally in her duties to him, her husband, as she was so tired on coming to bed he felt he might as well buy a plastic dummy and make love to it in the spare room. From that point onwards she could only remember vaguely the barbed insults that they flung at each other; she accused him of 'limp offerings', he in turn called her a 'closet Viking whore with appetites more suited to the brothel than the decent bedroom.' In the end she had jumped up in a rage, dashed upstairs, collected a few things and walked down again before going straight up to where he stood, ashen-faced and seething with anger.

'Plastic dummy for you tonight then, Buster. See you..'

As she now brought the car to a halt in the forecourt of the shop, under the sign, _Hilary Ponsonby - Butchers Windale,_ she took her phone from her pocket to check for messages received. There was one,

'Please give me a call. Joe.'

Dialling the number she waited for a reply and noticed Hilary and one of the regular customers, Bert Holden, both waving to her from inside the shop window. Was she forgiven? As she mulled over this and waved back at the smiling pair, a voice came loud and clear from the phone.

'Joe here.'

'Hi Joe. What's up. Nothing too serious I trust?'

'Probably nothing. I had a sort of run-in with an odd character late afternoon yesterday.'

'What sort of character. And run-in?'

'Well he was loitering near the pavilion and ran off after giving me verbal abuse when I asked him to explain what he was doing there'

'Goodness. Did you contact the police?'

'No. I thought I'd run it by you first.'

'You'd remember him easily enough I suppose?'

'No problems there; he had a hideously scarred face and a stoop I'd never forget on someone of his young age - he couldn't be more than 25 - looked like he suffered from curvature of the spine.'

'From what you said it didn't affect his ability to run.'

'Heavens no - the devil looks after his own.'

'Give them a ring Joe. Just to be on the safe side.'

'Morning Jill.'

Two voices at the counter greeted her as she entered the shop.

'Good morning. Nice to see you, Bert. I'll go straight up, Hilary. Shall I put the kettle on? Tea, coffee?'

'Tea will be fine. I'll be up in a minute or two.'

Waiting for the kettle to boil she looked round the kitchen. Suddenly it seemed as if she was a stranger entering this room for the very first time; she felt as if she didn't belong. The shiny, clean surfaces, uncluttered, were not as she remembered; where was the familiar packet of sugar carelessly opened with giveaway scattering of crystals like fine white dust on the worktop, or the dirty knife, spoon or fork in a corner of the sink? All left there, forgotten in the mad, mad rush to get out the door, keep up with life. It was all too orderly, too different, in a mere two weeks.

As the kettle hissed she came back from dark thoughts.

'Good timing.'

'Slainte.'

As they clinked their mugs together and sipped the hot tea talking small-talk to cover the awkwardness they both now felt in each other's company, Jill had an idea.

'It's a lovely day so what say I get flasks of tea and sandwiches made up, then we head off down to the lakeside at Windale Park - maybe have a drink at the _Fox and Grapes_ \- well, you anyway, as I have to drive later?'

'Fine by me. I'll just go change and freshen up a bit. Think I'll take a quick shower.'

'Great. See you back down here in five then. I'll go look in the fridge, see what we've got and get started.'

As he entered the bedroom, Hilary took out his mobile, looked up a number and texted the person before switching the handset off completely - the phone would be dead for the rest of the day but he expected a reply for later... much later on.

Half an hour later they walked arm in arm down the high street on their way to the lakeside, a mile or so away. As they approached the park, sounds of throbbing beat music from a circus set up on the far side of the lake filled the air, growing louder as they went through the gates and on to one of the benches at the water's edge. As Hilary sat down, dropping the rucksack beside him, Jill immediately opened it and began taking out the lunch items she'd packed earlier. As they ate, throwing the odd morsel or two to the ducks out on the lake, chatting between mouthfuls, a young man in his twenties dressed in smart casuals came towards them, looking tentative, nervous and generally ill at ease. As he came nearer, Jill could see he was trembling, pale and obviously in some real distress.

'Sorry to trouble you madam. Could you please help me? I need a drink. A £1 would be a godsend. I've no right to ask. Can't really explain. I'm desperate.'

'You need help rather more than a drink at the moment, young man. What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?'

'It's Gerald, madam.'

'Right Gerald I'll give you this £5 because I happen to see fit to do so. But you really must seek help. Have you thought of AA, your own GP, friends, family - that sort of thing?'

'I have - some of that - madam but now I must dash. Thanks. You're a proper life-saver.'

'Just you remember what I said.'

'Byeee.'

Hilary watched the departing figure rushing for his fix and thought of the precarious nature of individuals - certain ones - in society. The example of the egg on a wall, tilting, about to topple, came to mind; the fateful signature on a bank cheque about to tumble some unfortunate to eventual total and ignominious penury, the acting on a sudden sexual impulse that will have the actor end up in court, prison and public disgrace, the very first - teensiest - drop of alcohol or small injection of drug that will lead the innocent experimenter to horrible, painful addiction maybe death, the first small gamble at the local betting shop ending in loss of home, marriage and any remaining vestige of self-respect - all individuals utterly broken on account of one original single thought acted upon. Where was the young man at this point? Was he just beginning to tilt? Perhaps all such individuals were doomed from the start because they simply lacked some positive side to fight their demons; ultimately they would crash and topple, like the egg from the wall.

'Think I did the right thing, darling?'

'I'm proud of you for that, dear. He needed the money now and you gave him some. The rest is up to him.'

'Finished?'

'Yes. That lot has lined my stomach nicely for a cool pint of keg.'

'Right then. I'll just feed this little lot to the ducks before we go.'

Watching his wife as she gaily threw bits of food at the brace of ducks churning the water into froth as they flew in, flurry of feathers and hungry squawking chorus, he remembered the many good times they'd had together. He was glad to be here beside her right now and felt a longing for this moment to continue, as he missed her; he felt an ache and should let her know how he felt - but when? It was such a damned difficult time for them both just now. And then there was...

'Ready for the _Fox and Grapes_ then? I'll just pack the bag and we can be off. Those ducks were really hungry.'

As she leaned forward on the table mulling over the day's events, some twenty minutes later, watching Hilary as he joked with someone at the bar, her phone rang.

'Hi Mum. And where do I hear you've been sneaking off to? Give.'

The welcome voice of Debs came from the handset. From the laughing and banter going on in the background it sounded like some sort of party was going on - life at Gurnings was about to get much livelier and considerably louder over the next few weeks. Oh well, bring it on, she thought as her daughter talked at breakneck speed before finishing the conversation, or monologue \- abruptly, as always - with a desire to see her mother immediately. That was Debs.

Hilary came back as she finished speaking and placed their drinks carefully on the table, remarking on the numbers of people streaming into the pub.

'The circus, no doubt. And a good day like this. Always brings them out.'

They talked easily, familiarly, in the calm, friendly atmosphere; in their deepest thoughts they wished for an end to the present rift between them - get back to how things were \- if only...

* * * * *

'Just stop a minute Debs.'

As Joe massaged the calf muscle he could feel the ache subsiding; he'd not risk it just yet.

'Sorry Debs. Do you mind if we walk for a little while.'

'Don't worry. Are you sure you're okay? I could always get Sula to pick us up.'

'No. I'll be okay in a few minutes. I get this from time to time.'

He'd just phoned Gurnings earlier to speak to Jack and found himself talking to his present running partner. As they waited for Jack to come to the phone he'd mentioned that he was going for a jogging session whereupon she'd asked to join him, provided he had no objections. Assuring her he would be delighted to have her company he'd duly arranged to pick her up in fifteen minutes after he'd spoken with Jack.

As they walked slowly along they could hear the sound of girls laughing some way behind them. The sound grew louder.

'Hi Joe - and companion. Any slower and you'll be going backwards. What say me and the girls here give you a lift and carry you instead?'

'It'll be me needing to give you a lift, Cissy Blackstock, if you give me and my friend any more of your cheek. She's Miss Ponsonby, by the way, and may decide to put you all in detention',.

Joe smiled owlishly at the grinning trio who were jogging backwards as they passed him and Debs.

'Pleased to see you Miss. But we must go now. No place for slowcoaches on our team, eh Joe', from the leader, as with a final mock bow and elaborate sweep of the arm, she twirled round and continued on her way, her cohorts in tow behind her.

As Joe and Debs laughed at the antics of the group in front, now disappearing round the corner into the road that skirted the edge of the council estate, they could hear sounds of a different order altogether.

'F..kin little slags, the lot of you, get the....'

The expletives were coming thick and fast as Joe and Debs rounded the corner taken by the girls just moments before.

Entering Dunon Drive, the quarter mile stretch of road with the estate on the right, Joe could see the figure from the pavilion the night before. The unkempt individual stood waving his fist at the girls, some hundred yards up the road and accelerating fast out of sight, and mumbling to himself before turning back to the job in hand - cleaning his Harley Davidson. He didn't seem to notice the arrival of the walking pair; he grumbled and muttered to himself like someone bordering on dementia as he rubbed an oily rag round the innards of his machine.

'I'll have to keep my eye on that one.'

'Why Joe? I'd think anyone in their right mind would steer well clear of a creep like that.'

'Trouble is, he's been snooping up at the school.'

'Does Mum know? I'm thinking of the filth he's just been coming out with to those poor girls; sounds like he could be extremely dangerous. He looks damned loopy also.'

'Yes. I told her this morning. Anyway to hell with him. Let's see if you can keep up whilst I test this leg?'

'You're on, Buster.'

Half an hour later after a good run through the woods they both pulled up, panting, at Gurnings.

'Boy. You're not in bad fettle for an old 'un. I'm fairly pooped.'

'I'd like for us to go for a run again soon. I'm taking the Bruneigh ramblers out this coming weekend, if you fancy coming along.'

'I'd love to Joe. But I'll have to see what's going down, so to speak. I'll give you a ring though.'

'Look forward to it. Byee.'

As she walked over pebbles towards the door she could hear voices coming from inside; a man was talking in low tones - she couldn't make out the words - then a woman answered, her voice beginning to get louder and...

'What the...?'

As she rushed through the door, along the hallway and banged open the library door, a panicking Debs could neither believe nor make sense of the scene in the middle of the room. A small elderly grey-haired woman dressed in a very peculiar, spinsterish style of some earlier era - tweed jacket, skirt and Sherlock Holmes hat - was shouting at the top of her voice in a stilted posh accent, as she poured scorn on everything in front of her. She was stood with one hand on the desk, the other gesticulating wildly and accusingly down at the kneeling figure of Jack who was looking up at her with the woebegone expression of a flustered and frightened puppy.

She burst into the room and looked wildly round for a second or two, wondering where to begin or what to do. That bloody woman...how dare she... and Jack...wimp or what...?

Just at that moment the two occupants of the room swivelled round, as one, to look at her.

'Hello Debs.'

'Hello Debs.'

Puzzled, she looked at the two. She was being wrong-footed somehow and didn't like it. Then, just as anger began to well in her, she saw an unbelievable transformation begin to take place. Firstly the elderly woman made an imperious gesture for Jack to rise up with a flick of her forefinger, whereupon he obediently did her bidding, saluting with an elaborate bow as he stood up. As an incredulous Debs looked from one to the other, the elderly lady moved slowly across the room stopping just in front of her. Sweeping her arm in a wide arc she then picked her hat off, turned round and threw it to Jack who caught it. The woman humphed briefly, pointing at Jack with a scornful withering expression on her face.

'Quiet please, young lady.'

The woman haughtily commanded.

'What in heavens...?'

Debs was dumbfounded.

Reaching her arm in a wide sweep, the older woman placed hand on head and slowly, very slowly, began to pull at a large clump of hair. In seconds all grey was gone revealing fine jet-black hair underneath. Then, pulling with both hands at something hidden along the top of her forehead, she gave a sudden tug.

'Oh sweet Debs, you should see your face. You look ready to die.'

The last tug had brought a face mask off - revealing none other than her beloved Sula. The latter jumped into her friend's arms, laughing uncontrollably.

'Well I'm sure you were both having a great time. What in heaven's name is all this in aid of? I nearly had a heart attack when I came through the door.'

'I'm afraid it's my fault entirely, Debs. I was getting Sula here to put me through my paces for the part of Major Metcalf. We were just improvising a little for our amusement when you arrived.'

'I've got to admit that you both had me fooled. I didn't know you were into this sort of thing, Sula.'

'I tell you Debs. She's a natural and has done me a big favour', from a grinning Jack as he picked up the face mask and went off whistling to the kitchen, shouting back,

'Tea, coffee anyone?',

'Tea please, Jack.'

The two voices in answered unison.

'And how did your run with Joe go?'

'Fine, Sula. Think he might have problems at school though.'

As they gathered round the kitchen table later on, the front door burst open for the second time that day as someone could be heard throwing a rucksack on the hallway floor before coming towards the kitchen.

'Cup of tea please, O husband of mine. Good heavens - company. Here give me a hug, both of you', from Tina as she swept into the room and went to grab each of them in turn.

* * * * *

At 8 pm the man checked his watch as he walked round the dinner table. His guest was now due so he did a final check of everything; the gleaming silver cloches, Denby Linen plates, cork placemats, shiny wine glasses, and smart Viners cutlery, placed with loving precision round the plates, stood out with obliging sharpness against the dark polished mahogany table top - it all looked so perfect he felt guilty somehow - the tableware evidence of his absent wife's taste, not his. The pièce de resistance, however, had to be the two bottles of Montalto Sparkling Pinot Grigio Brut nestling coolly in their planter pot ice bucket; how dare any mere mortal find fault with food in their regal vicinity, they seemed to say, from their jaunty angle.

Lighting the two large candles in the centre of the table he went over to the window to close the curtains; it would soon be dark anyhow, he was thinking, as he watched the dull yellow flame get brighter, filling the room with a warm, dusky, otherworldly glow.

Someone banged the front door brass knocker three times; he knew his guest was now outside - he felt a tremble of excitement as he went to let the visitor in.

'Hello....'

Kissing for a brief moment on the doorstep, she went straight past him as he shut and locked the door behind them - nobody would be coming in or going out again this particular night. As she took her overcoat off and hung it on the hall-stand, he gasped as he saw, as if for the first time, the woman in front of him. She was dressed in a black knee-length halter dress with low v neck that set off her fifty-something, slightly stocky but gym-toned figure to perfection. As he guided her to the dining room, with his hands on her bare shoulders, and his eyes travelling from her bare back, shapely calves to her red Louboutins, he found it hard to focus his mind.

'What a gorgeous smell. And all this? Wow. You didn't tell me you were into cordon bleu.'

'I'm not even remotely into anything of the sort. Its just one recipe I've tried out so many times I couldn't possibly get it wrong - Mediterranean fish stew, followed by fruit cocktail and ice cream. Anyway sit here and let's get started. Wine for madam? .'

'Oh yes please, waiter, Sir.'

Later, much later, warmed by the food and wine, they went upstairs, arm in arm, two lonely souls in need of each other...for now at least. He knew it was wrong somehow, a sin. Well then - let him be a sinner and go sinning tonight for all he was worth.

Tomorrow was another day.

* * * * *

The three figures moved quietly, stealthily in the post-twilight gloom as they approached, single file, the small wooden building. Almost there, the leader suddenly stopped, turning round with finger on lips, bidding the other two fall in behind silently. As the trio waited in the shadows, a couple of walkers passed by - out of earshot - engrossed in conversation. Waiting a few minutes to ensure the coast was clear the leader bounded across the path to the side of the building, waving to the others to follow. As the two individuals came across, one stumbling a little from the weight of a large holdall he was carrying, the leader was already shining his torch through one of the windows.

'Right. You wait here with the bag and keep quiet as a mouse. And you - show me the place you found. Let's go.', the leader ordered in the loudest whisper he could muster, before setting off round the building with his scout.

The scout, a young man with pronounced hump, walked round, looking underneath the side of the building a few times at various points until he found what he was looking for.

'This is it.'

'Okay. Go get the bag and bring it here - now..'

As soon as the scout came back the leader took the bag, shoved it through the small gap and pressed the board his scout had loosened earlier in the day firmly back in place. Good job, nobody would spot it, he mused as he stood up.

'To the car - now.', he barked in the mother of loud whispers, as they left.

Minutes later they stopped the car. They were at the end of Dunon Drive which bordered on Bruneigh Woods - a quiet, secluded spot favoured by walkers, joggers and mountain bike enthusiasts - and were pulled up, out of sight, behind a high garden wall. There would be none of the above out at this hour which suited the evil purpose of the three in the car.

'Make the call', the leader ordered the humped one.

'I'm at the spot. You got the stuff?'

'Be there in five. See you', came clearly from the mobile.

'Right. You go over there to the corner. As soon as he arrives we'll jump. Go.'

As the humped one took up position round the corner, sitting on a low garden wall rolling a cigarette, the six foot leader and a chubby fifteen year old boy beside him got out of the car and went over to the wall opposite - just feet away but well hidden from the road where the third one sat.

Soon a car could be heard coming slowly up the long road. The driver stopped across the road as arranged and waited; a youth sat on a wall began waving him over - it had to be the right one. Reaching in the dashboard compartment he took out a small package, put it in his pocket and got out of the car.

Walking across to the other side, checking from left to right as was his wont, he greeted his new customer in a slightly off-handed, brusque fashion - it wouldn't do his street cred any good at all to appear friendly or easy when meeting a client for the first time.

'I've got the gear. Let's see your dosh and I'm out of here pronto. Savvy?' his opening gambit.

'Not so bloody fast. Let's have a good look at that gear first.'

'I haven't got time for this. I've plenty more clients to see tonight - paying ones, no stupid questions. Do you want this or not? Money - now. Get it?'

'We get it all right, you little bastard. You're coming with us - pronto. Got it?'

Barney Gulpin had emerged silently from the shadows with his son Baz, and as the young thirty year old dealer turned round, he had just time to see the towering giant for a second before his arms were seized in a vice-like grip and he was frogmarched rapidly towards a car, bundled inside and slapped viciously on the face as the others got in and set off, the giant in the back seat beside him.

'What the hell's this...' he was just starting to expostulate, when his words were cut off sharply as the giant leant over and planted a large thick length of tape over his mouth.

'Plenty of time to talk later - what time you have left, that is' from the giant as he guffawed loudly, the other two joining in immediately - obeisance towards their leader no doubt an imperative for their own good health and survival.

As they drove on towards some destination of his captors' choosing, the dealer had time to reflect, and start to worry - no doubt this was part of whatever game was now being played on him - the waiting. He'd only been in the area for a month or so and had been touting on dole paydays amongst the Bruneigh junkie community - right place, right time he'd found plenty of users, with fresh cash in their pockets, desperate for a fix and eager to score at his low, low prices - he'd make the losers pay through the nose later on when they became dependent on him for their supply.

He'd heard of a certain family he might have to watch out for, from a few of the junkies he talked to, but decided to put such considerations out of his mind for the time being.

As he racked his brains trying to think of a way out of the present precarious situation, the car started to slow down.

'We're here.' from X.

'Right you. Out - right now.'

As he stood by the car he noticed they were in a country lane outside what looked to be a derelict factory building, judging from the discarded bits of rusty old machinery parts he could just about see, in the darkening night shadows, littering the yard they'd just driven into.

X went up to a small wicket-style door to the right of the main entrance and fiddled briefly with a small brass padlock, before opening the door and entering, Baz following close behind.

'Your turn', the dealer had just time to hear the words from the giant, before he felt an almighty punch to the back of his head...momentary searing pain...then blackness...

'Let's get him inside.'

With Barney lifting the prostrate figure off the ground by the arms and Baz grabbing the legs, they soon had the dealer inside, laying him on the floor before pulling the wicket shut.

'Wait here, you two. Just keep your ears pulled back. We don't want intruders. I'm going up here to set the gizmo up.'

'Fine boss', from X.

X had switched the light on, a long fluorescent tube, which now cast a cold unforgiving light on the large empty warehouse - the few items remaining, a solitary pallet, forgotten brush and sundry other lonely objects strewn around - forgotten, discarded, sad testament to better times.

Barney climbed a wooden staircase to a small platform twelve feet up, walked across this and pulled back the lid of what appeared to be a five-foot-deep cylindrical drum. Checking a pulley system he began to secure the end of a rope to a post beside him; this went up round a pulley attached to a beam fifteen feet up and hung down on the floor near the drum. After giving the rope a tweak or two he came back down to join the others.

'Let's get this bugger awake.'

As the dealer came to, groggily wiping the water someone had chucked over him from his eyes, he knew instantly he must be in some sort of hell. His head throbbed with pain; he remembered getting thumped and the events leading up to it - what was coming? What on earth had he done to deserve any of this? The questions began to hammer away in the back of his mind.

'Tie his arms - behind his back.'

On hearing this order, X immediately took a roll of gardening twine from his pocket and, beckoning Baz over, made to grab one of the dealer's arms.

'Blasted little....'

The dealer had jumped up. For the moment blind panic seized him as he lunged towards the door, head-butting a startled X and toppling him backwards on to the floor, as he made to escape.

'Take that, you f.....g little creep.'

A large foot had tripped the dealer as he was about to reach the door - and freedom. He came crashing down on his face, banging his nose on the hard surface, splitting it wide open as blood began to ooze from both nostrils.

As he lay there, winded and bleeding, the dealer offered no resistance as his hands were grabbed and tied with the twine; as X pulled the two ends of the knot tightly together he leered knowingly at his victim - the latter would pay dearly for the toppling, the malevolent grin seemed to suggest.

'Get up. Follow me.'

The order from the leader was barked out in a loud, stentorian tone that pierced through the dealer's groggy, pain-filled brain. Picking himself up, he shuffled towards the stairs behind the leader, groaning and gasping with the effort; hesitating at the bottom for a second to catch his breath and get his brain somehow in gear, he felt a sharp prod in the back from X.

In fury he swung round to confront his tormentor; anger was fairly bubbling up in him and he'd not take any more insults - to hell with this damned crew.

'Try that again, you f..k-faced, hump-backed toerag and I'll kick you so hard in the goolies you'll wish your whore of a mother never had you when she f..ked your ape of a father and....'

His last words were cut off as he felt, not for the first time, a sickening blow to the back of the head, then blackness...

Grabbing the limp body and casting it over his shoulders with a single powerful heave, Barney Gulpin walked up the stairs and along the platform with his burden, depositing it beside the large drum.

'Up here now - you two.'

As they came up Barney took the end of the rope hanging from the pulley and started to tie it round the dealer's ankles. When he'd completed this he went over to the drum and had a look over the top before coming back to the post where he'd secured the other end of the rope.

'As I pull I want you two to guide him over the drum. Capiche?'

Taking off his jacket and sweater, the giant began to pull, his powerful arm muscles bulging as they took the strain; in five minutes the inert body of the dealer was swinging above the ground and level with the top of the drum.

'Your turn', the puller barked as he began twirling his end of the rope round a peg on the post beside him, fastening it securely.

After much creaking and squeaking from the pulley mechanism, X and Baz jockeyed the swinging body to a position above the centre of the drum.

'Time for wakies. What say you lads?', from Barney as he picked up a bucket, filled it with water from the drum and, with an almighty whoosh, threw the bucketful at the body, causing it to swing wildly above the drum.

'What the....'

As he came to, the dealer's first sensation was one of nausea at being upside down coupled with sheer terror as he saw the water all round, just inches from his face... gone were all feelings of anger or frustration...for the first time, as he saw and smelled the drum sides and water, thoughts went into hyperdrive: his past life seemed to come to the fore, how he'd come to this point. The water was now making a lapping sound...he started to visualise sharply the possible imminent horror of drowning...how long would it take...terror was setting in again...he didn't want to ask forgiveness from any god or person...he was just plain scared out of his wits...terrified.

'What have I done - ever done to any of you, to deserve this?' he croaked as he tasted blood running down his face and into his mouth from the injured nose.

'One of my people warned you but you took no notice. This is my turf, my territory. Now you pay when I cut through this rope. Simple or what?', from the giant as he took out a large 10" Bowie hunting knife and pushed it down in the drum, pressing the cold steel against his victim's cheek, a mere millimetre or so from his eyes, as he lovingly caressed the rosewood handle. Then, in a small, swift movement, he drew the large blade across the rope, causing it to give slightly with a heavy jerk sending the dealer a full inch closer to the water's surface - and doom.

'Please...just let me explain...please.'

The dealer saw the water come up at him, panic set in as his breath came in gasps...what to say...

'We're on our way now. The rope should hold for a little while. Pleasure knowing you.'

Barney Gulpin drew the knife once more across the rope. Another jerk and the dealer's head dropped some more - the water level now reached to mid-forehead - it would not be long.

The screams started as the three started to descend the stairs.

'Dad, don't you think this had gone too far. He was only trying to do what we do, after all - sell some drugs - he wasn't harming anyone.'

A pale-faced and visibly shaken Baz, grasped for the first time the seriousness of the situation; this induction to his father's world was a baptism or initiation he wasn't prepared for - up until now he had merely guessed at the true nature of that nefarious world - experiencing it first hand was something else altogether.

'It's like this son. He's the competition. To me he's vermin. You don't help or feed vermin - you kill them. Survival of the fittest and all that. I'm all for evolution. Get it?'

'No Dad.'

'I'll put it another way, son. If the roles were reversed and you were the one with your head in the tank, what do you think would happen?'

'Dread to think of it. I don't think he'd do to me what you've just done to him.'

'The only way to be sure son, is to get in first. You'll learn in time.'

As X locked the wicket door and they walked to the car, the screams from inside grew fainter; for Baz they remained, somewhere inside his head, as the tormented sounds of something awful...ghastly...getting louder...never going away...his father could be a monster...

As X drove back towards town, Barney took out his mobile and dialled a number.

'Hello, Barney. Whassa matter?'

The voice came clearly from the Blackberry - a worried, guarded, male voice. This person obviously wanted to make sure he didn't foul up when he did his master's bidding. There was no room for mistakes, no excuses accepted, in Barney Gulpin's world.

'We're heading back now. I want you to dispose of a body as instructed. Got it?'

'Setting off right now, boss. Warehouse?'

'Yes. He shouldn't be problem for you. Ring me when the deed is done. Okay?'

'On my way.'

The chilling dialogue ended, no further words were spoken on the way back; the three individuals sitting in the close confines of the car were only too happy to keep silent - enjoy their own private thoughts - forget the very existence of each other.

* * * * *

As Jill stopped the car outside Gurnings at 7 pm, she sat for a moment or two, thinking; the day at Windale had been a success on the whole - park, pub, then a pleasant early evening meal at home together. They had agreed on a small period of living apart to give them space; she had a busy two months coming up at school with the Ofsted inspection looming and he assured her that as long as they could spend regular quality time together, like today, he would be perfectly satisfied.

As she opened the front door, she could hear voices coming from the kitchen.

'We're all in here.'

As she entered the room Debs jumped up and darted across - hugging her to death and planting numerous loud kisses on her cheeks - that was Debs, releasing her and handing her over to Sula, who had risen from her seat and now stood waiting, smiling, beside Debs.

'Great to see you again, Sula.'

As she hugged the petite figure, she remembered, with affection, the first time she had set eyes on her. Then, as now, a sense of fragility in the beautiful, frail creature evoked strong maternal feelings in her. Debs would take good care of her and that was heart-warming.

'Tea dear, or would you prefer something stronger? Take a seat.'

Tina was already on her way round the table \- she looked at her friend and winked. They'd talk later.

'Tea will be fine Tina. Thanks. You really are an angel.'

'Coming up. Anyone else?'

As Tina fussed, preparing mugs of tea, Jack entered.

'Hello Jill. Now did my wife, my noble and dearest, tell you some news about her new calling - vocation, in other words.'

'Ignore him, Jill. I'll explain in a minute. And you, O husband of mine. I'll soon have you rue bitterly the day you bade me take up the thespian life - I'll fairly put you through your paces and no mistake. Now what say you to that?'

'I say naught but quake uncontrollably in my boots, dear wife.'

Hoots of laughter from Debs and Sula followed as Jack stood up and tried comically but extremely unsuccessfully, to shake his legs convincingly.

As Jill joined in the laughter, Tina came back with the tea.

'I must be mad or something, Jill. That man has just persuaded Sula and me to stand in for two of the _Mousetrap_ cast, a mother and daughter, who have pulled out. The mother phoned three hours ago and apologised, saying they had to stand down - for family reasons.'

'What reason - or reasons - did they give?' from Jill.

'Said it was too personal - that's what they told you Jack. Isn't that true? Damned cheeky beggars.'

'Afraid so, Jill. But thankfully these two wonderful maidens have stepped into the breach.'

'I'll give you maidens. Seriously though, Jill, as Jack put down the phone he looked so forlorn, saying they'd have to cancel, that Sula offered to learn the part of Mrs. Boyle and stand in, if he thought it would help matters. In the end, somehow, both of them persuaded me to 'audition' for the part of Mollie Ralston - although I'm much too old for the part. I found it all quite fun and decided to give it a try also - I have enough time, I think.'

'Well then, let me be the first to congratulate both of you. I think it's great to see people step in to help. I could probably do with a whole school full of people like you at the moment', from Jill.

As they talked, the wine flowed freely and the conversation soon followed suit; the jokes came thick and fast, getting laugh after laugh, the worse they became, and showed no sign of abating anytime soon.

'I'll just nip down to the _Owl and Thistle_ for a swift half - they shut promptly at 10.30 - barely half an hour from now. Need to stretch the old timbers. Anyone want to come along? Takers?' from Jack, as he rose stiffly from his seat.

'Count me out, I've had enough already and I was rather hoping to have a quiet chat with Jill - unless she wants to go out also. Do you Jill?'

'Gosh no. But thanks Jack for asking', from Jill.

'Well I'm off then. Byee everyone', from Jack as he left the room.

'Sula and I were rather hoping to polish off a bottle in the tree house. Isn't that so dearest?' from an exuberant Debs as she jumped up, stretching her arms and running on the spot as if ready to rocket off in seconds.

'If you say so. I suppose it might help me acclimatise, in a way.'

'Acclimatise to what, may I ask?' from Debs.

'Being marooned. In the play everyone is marooned at Monkswell Manor due to a heavy snowfall.'

'Oh well, let's get marooned then. Ta everyone' from said Debs as she grabbed two bottles of red and marched out without more ado, Sula following behind.

'I'll give you a hand with clearing and washing up Tina.' from Jill.

'I'll not say no. Do you know I was glad to see the girls. It's really cheered both Jack and me up. How did your day with Hilary work out?'

'Quite well, to be honest. We're keeping things as they are, for the moment, and plan meeting up every week \- basically see how it goes after that.'

'Oh. I nearly forgot. I got a call from Madeleine today. She wants to talk to you about some holiday in France. She was in a rush and said she had phoned the school.'

'Heavens. Yes. Hilary and I were supposed to spend two weeks at their home in _Chataigniers._ As things are at present I can't make any definite plans so I'll write her a short letter tonight when I've worked out what to do' from Jill, her voice suddenly breaking as tears started to fall.

'Easy now girl. Come here. It's the wine and all....'

As they hugged, her tears eased; the sudden burst of emotion was over.

With the washing up complete the two women retired to the lounge to put their feet up, glasses of red handy by their sides. As they chatted, strains of Vangelis music, very low, filled the background, adding to the feeling of warmth and intimacy induced by the wine and soft lighting. They talked on...

'Gosh. 12 midnight. Is that the time? I really must be off Tina. I've that letter to write to Madeleine.'

Jill pushed herself up reluctantly from her seat, rubbing both hands over her face.

'You could leave it until tomorrow, my dear. You must be fairly done in. I am.'

'Oh I'll just make it short and sweet - then it's out of the way. See you tomorrow.'

'Good night then. And don't worry. It'll all work out well I'm sure.'

Before undressing, she decided to sit down at her dressing table and write the letter. In twenty minutes or so, she had brought her friend up to date on the current situation chez Ponsonby in light-hearted manner - no need to wash unnecessary dirty linen in public - not at this stage anyhow. As she sealed and stamped the envelope her thoughts turned to Hilary...

Casting her mind back over her day at Windale she knew she should be content. Why then had a nagging doubt started to insinuate its way through her thoughts, like some ill-humoured, jealous gremlin set on creating mischief, planting dark thoughts where before lay peace and tranquillity?

The strange feeling of being an outsider in the kitchen she'd known for thirty years, had gripped her sharply for a second time when she entered the bedroom later on in the day to collect some clothes. Sitting at the dressing table...something different...the wardrobe doors pulled tightly shut...she left them open...the bed different...she couldn't tell how, but it was...that small window shut...she would leave it open to let fresh air in...again the feeling she was a mere visitor...something also about the smell...

As she now heard faint sounds of laughter from the tree house, she decided to go to the window and breathe some fresh night air. Dark shapes stood silhouetted against a dull red glow at the window of the small cabin; the happy scene at the other end of the garden - innocent enjoyment in peaceful rustic setting - lifted her spirits. She'd chase her cursed gremlin and phone Hilary.

Taking off her shoes so as not to disturb Tina, she crept downstairs. Going into the library she shut the door and went up to the desk. Before picking up the phone she glanced at her watch - 12.30. Hilary would be asleep but he'd only have to reach across the bed for the handset - she just needed to hear his voice - he'd understand.

Dialling the number she waited...eagerly...expectantly...those days early on in their courtship when she phoned, waiting, breathless in anticipation...like now.

'Hello, who's... there?'

Shocked, she let the handset drop. Then, as if in some horrible dream or nightmare, she picked it up and placed it back on its stand. She had to cut out that sound...it would haunt her forever...it burned through her head like some malevolent avenging angel tearing her soul out...she was falling.

As she recovered, standing by the desk, she stared...and stared. The tears would come later...not now...she had to come to terms with hearing that voice - a sultry, sexy feminine one \- from the bed, her bed, beside Hilary. Flopping down in the chair she just sat there. She felt paralysed...incapable of thinking. What to do now? How? When? She'd only just seen him, had a great day...merciful god no. No! No! No!

* * * * *

'Who was that, dearest?' Hilary's sleepy request.

'Nobody important. Your wife I think.'

* * * * *

The car stopped on the lonely country lane. As the hooded driver got out, he looked around, went across to a deserted factory building and let himself in with a key. Switching a light on inside, the man wasted no time. From somewhere up above soft moans could be heard - the moans would soon be stopped...cut off...he had his orders after all.

Ascending the stairs he walked across the platform to where the dealer hung suspended above the drum filled with water and gave the rope a sharp tug.

'Whhhaaaat? Help...please. Who's there?' gasped the dealer.

He had not been aware of any other person's presence since the departure of his tormentors earlier. Blind panic had set in from the moment someone had sliced through part of the rope; as he looked at the water so near he could only think of one outcome unless, by some miracle, a passer-by could come in and release him. The chances were slim...he had to try...shout...scream...attract attention...hope.

In time he got hoarse and had to stop...nobody was out there...no one would come...he panicked anew...he started to shout again...and again...again...weaker and weaker his voice...was he hallucinating...he could hear voices...still no one...the voices were in his own head...he came to...should he shout...nobody...no one...his tormentor was back...talking...was he now going to die...tugging...

'Hi Buster, I've just come to help you on your way.'

'Please help...can't stand...please...beg ' the voice barely a whisper. The man was on the edge - giving up - the hooded man could clearly see this. Just stir him up a little, he thought, as he took a knife from his pocket, rubbing a finger lovingly up and down the blade, then...quick thrust of the knife in the water...agitating the surface to a froth in rapid back and forth movements... in front of the dealer's eyes.

'No...please.'

'Would Sir prefer another haircut - perhaps?'

The new tormentor placed the knife against the rope and, with a long sweeping motion, cut through the remaining rope.

For the dealer it all happened fast; as he plunged below the surface of the water he hadn't time to think...he was just feeling the cold death gather round his head. Then - whoosh - he was being pulled from the water...lifted out...placed safe...shaking...unbelieving...

'You've good and bad news. The good news for you mate is that my boss decided to just give you a gentle warning this time. As you can see there were two pieces of rope up top so you were always safe.'

'And... bad news...what...?' from the dealer as he sat on a wooden crate on the platform, rubbing his arms and stretching to get some circulation going.

'You've to leave town by the end of the week. If you don't co-operate, your next dipping will be for real. Understood?'

'Yeah. Don't worry. I can't wait to go. I'll not trouble you anymore.'

'Good to hear it. Now get out of my sight.'

Y laughed to himself as he locked the factory gate, watching the erstwhile believer in cruel fates as the latter stumbled out on to the road.

# Chapter 5

April 20th. 2012.

X stood against the tree smoking, the acrid smell and taste of the skunk weed unnoticed as he drew deeply on the joint. He looked at his watch - 1.00 am - nearly time to go. Putting the fat stump to his lips for a final time he inhaled long and hard, filling his lungs, before whizzing the thing out of sight and leaving the woods by the clay path. He felt steadier; the drug was fairly coursing through his system - he was now bold, ready for anything, but still alert - he needed to be, he couldn't afford to fail.

He had planned carefully, meticulously; his lightweight Paul Smith trainers made barely a sound as he sprinted across to the small wooden building. Running along the side he stopped, reached under the structure and pulled out a holdall....

* * * * *

The phone was ringing.

'Bruneigh police. Tom Barton here. How may I help?'

'Bruneigh High pavilion - you need to go there - now..'

'What are you talking about? Who are you?'

'Never mind who I am, fat slug. I'm telling you to get off your fat arse and go to Bruneigh pavilion.'

'Are you the creep who likes to send police officers out on wild-goose chases. If so, I've got some news for you - you cheeky little bastard.....'

'It's on fire - blazing away. I'm just telling you, pea-brain. For myself I couldn't give a f..k. Suit yourself.'

'Hold on. You....'

As he switched the handset off, X looked across at the pavilion; from his safe vantage-point at the edge of the woods he would be able to see events as they unfolded. A few minutes earlier - 1.49 am - he had seen the fire take hold as flames started to light up the inside of the building; now it was showing signs of the inferno it would soon become, with flames already leaping out of the windows and parts of the roof.

Smiling, he dialled another number, content to wait - he would enjoy waking up this sleepy bastard.

'Bruneigh Recorder. Don. Don Blethyn. What? It's 2. Jesus....'

'Big fire at Bruneigh. You can tell the coppers that it was started by a group called _Friends of Bruneigh_. Also....'

Got all that, sleepy-head?'

'Hold on. Who the hell are....'

'Never mind. Just bugger off up there and remember what I told you.'

As he switched the set off for the second time, X took a small notepad and biro from his pocket. It was time to wait...

* * * * *

'Is that Joe?'

As Joe picked the receiver up he cursed, wiping sleep from his eyes as he looked at the bedside clock - 2.20 am - what could be going down, at this god-forsaken hour.

'Yeah, it's me. What's up Tom?'

'You know that hoax call we got a couple of weeks ago?'

'Damn right I do. What about it?'

'I got another one twenty minutes ago - this time it's for real and no bloody mistake. I'm here now waiting for the fire brigade. Can you come? We might need to gain access to the school.'

'On my way, Right now.'

As he got out of the car some ten minutes later, the heat from the fire hit him like some physical presence; a few officers stood opposite the pavilion, shielding their faces as they looked at the firemen unwinding a hose and connecting it to the nearest hydrant. Approaching the group of officers, Joe spotted Tom who was talking on his radio handset and beckoning him forward.

'Hi Joe. Glad you're here. I've been talking to the chief at the main Windale station. He wants you to open up the school and accompany some officers on a tour of all the buildings to ensure there are no intruders. In view of recent hoax calls he insists that we do this without delay.'

'I'd be glad to help in any way possible. I can open up right now. Who wants to come with me?'

'I'll send these three with you Joe. Be careful all of you. I'll have to remain here to keep....'

As he spoke the first hose opened up, drowning out his remaining words as a jet of water hit the flaming building; a cacophony of hisses, creaks and crashes now filled the air as the weakened structure began to collapse. It wouldn't take long - some lathes were already falling inside from the roof whilst flames were leaping up around the front and sides. A second fire engine was pulling up behind the first as Joe and the three officers moved off.

As he watched them go, Tom felt a tap on his shoulder.

'Hello Sergeant. Don't suppose I need to introduce myself.'

'No need Don. Just remember to stay right here. Any information you want must come from me. I don't want you disturbing my officers or the firemen. Okay with that?' from Tom as he addressed the newcomer, Don Blethyn, a journalist working for the local Bruneigh Recorder.

'That's fine, Tom, but you might want to hear what I've got to say.'

'Fire away while you have the chance. I'm all ears.'

'Well I got an anonymous telephone call from some damned cheeky, weird geezer who woke me up just before 2 am telling me the fire had started here and virtually ordering me to attend the incident. Little bastard called me a sleepy-head.'

'He didn't have a North-East England accent, by any chance?'

'How the hell did you know that? But you're spot on.'

'The same person rang me too. Cheeky - yes. He sounds nasty too.'

'You haven't heard the end of it. He insisted I tell you that a group, calling themselves _Friends of Bruneigh_ wish to claim responsibility for this arson attack. He also told me that the same group have heard rumours of shady practices at the school - fetish parties involving teaching staff, girl pupils performing blatant sexual teasing, innocent boy pupils succumbing to this teasing being expelled - he said the group were going to expose it all.'

'I trust you're not thinking of printing any of this garbage, Don? It could be toxic.'

'Not a chance of that. Oddly enough he didn't mention me going to print - but he was adamant I tell you.'

'Mmm. I wonder how this ungodly lot intend to follow this up. They seem to have some sort of vendetta against the school?'

'Dunno about all of that. I'll merely report that I had an anonymous tip-off of a fire and duly went to investigate it.'

'That's the right way to play it, Don.'

By 5.40 the fire was out and all that remained of the building were blackened embers letting off pale vapours which now writhed up - ghostly frothy spectres in the dim, crepuscular light of early dawn. As the last of the fire crews drove off, Tom dismissed the officers at the scene and dialled a number on his mobile.

'Hi Joe. Just finished down here. Where are you?'

'At my office. Could I see you down there for a quick look? Then there's a brew up here with your name on it.'

'Fine by me.'

As Joe walked along the path between school and playing fields, an area at the far end - a black spot to begin with - was now morphing into the sad unsightly remains of the once noble little building. Tom was peering at some object on the treeline, 200 yards or so directly ahead, as he approached.

'What's caught your attention, Tom?'

'Just look over there, right where I'm pointing. Can you see him?'

As he looked in the direction indicated, Joe couldn't see anyone - just the line of trees. Then he saw it. A person leaning against a tree was now moving away from it...facing them...Joe could now just make out the unkempt, foul-mouthed youth he'd seen a few days earlier at the pavilion and at Dunon Drive...the terrible being must have seen them looking at him...he was putting up two fingers...probably leering ghoulishly as he gestured...arms outstretched...

'I definitely see him now. Giving us the evils.'

'I see that too. Wonder what he's doing? Now he's running off. Just wish I knew where the little creep lived and I'd give him....'

His last words were cut off as Joe interrupted.

'I've seen him on the estate, not far from here. Not certain if I could locate the exact house but I could get us to within a door or so.'

'Well then. What are we waiting for? Get in.'

As they cruised along the drive a few minutes later, Joe pointed.

'Stop. That's it. I could swear it.'

He'd just spotted the Harley Davidson; it didn't seem to have moved a single millimetre from when he'd seen it a few days earlier and gleamed even more brilliantly than before. It was certainly not a case of, 'Like owner, like bike.'

He remembered thinking that, when he first set eyes on the unlikely pairing.

As they both went up to the door, Tom knocked loudly and waited...

Not getting a response, he knocked again - much louder, repeating the action a few times, shouting,

'Police. Open up or we'll break your door down. I'll not warn you again.'

As he followed this up with some truly ferocious banging, a voice finally could be heard from inside, muttering...incoherent.

'Stop yer f..kin racket....gettin my keys...filth...stupid plods...' the voice continued from the hall, before keys rattled in the lock and the door opened.

A woman of about forty stood in the opening \- a harridan figure, beaten and bruised by life, judging from her gaunt emaciated features and substance-induced pale, sickly pallor \- holding the door with one hand, whilst a large pit bull dog strained a little against the lead she held, in the other.

'What d'youse want...at this bleedin hour...better be quick...don't think I can hold Brawny here much longer...he'll eat bastards like you just to be friendly-like...and he hates the filth...know wot I mean? I was jus' on me way 'ome wi im. He's my little helper..'

'Cut your cheek woman. We're not frightened of you or your dog. We want to speak to your son. Get him down here. Now.'

'Wait here. I'll 'ave to wake him. C'mon Brawny...foller Mum....'

As she shuffled off upstairs they waited...

Presently sounds of loud, vituperative argument from above drifted down; the would-be sleeper was now stamping on the floor and kicking up a right royal rumpus, shouting and banging on some piece of furniture with such fury that it seemed only a matter of time before his fist would crash right through it. As they listened, a door could be heard crashing back against a wall followed by near silence as the angry one appeared at the top of the stairs, barefoot, before coming down slowly, carefully, looking directly ahead at the two strangers on his doorstep - his progress pure slinky motion, feline in grace and hidden threat.

'What you two bleeders want?'

'We saw you up at the school just now. What were you running away from?' from Tom.

'Mindin me own bleedin' business. That's what. Anyways gets you fat slobs off your lazy arses once in a while. Innit? He. He.'

'I'll ask you again. Wh....'

Tom's last words were cut off as the youth suddenly lurched forward, grabbing Joe by the shoulders and pushing his head up close...Joe was looking right into the other's very soul...chilling...evil...

Then, in a flash, the youth pushed hard, sending Joe toppling backwards to the ground as he lunged forward to make his escape.

'Not so bloody fast, you little bastard. You've now earned yourself a day and night down the nick. How about that?'

As the youth dashed past him, Tom put out a foot, tripping the escapee and sending him crashing forwards on his face. A quick handcuffing and the spread-eagled figure was now their prisoner.

'What about me bleedin' shoes. Wankers the lot of you.'

'You just mind your manners or I might send you walking all day in your bare feet. Hi you back there. Get this son of yours something to put on his pretty little tootsies. He's such a big girl. Get him some make-up while you're at it. If I find you're behind this I tell you - shoes will be the last of your worries..'

'Go f..k yourself, bitch', from the youth, as he started struggling.

'I'll just radio for a couple of lads to deal with this one and then I can take you back', from Tom.

As he walked into his office, Joe grabbed the telephone and dialled. He waited. Looked at his clock - 6.15. He'd have to allow time for the person to wake up. For himself he felt the morning and its events were unreal, part of some dream; he dearly wished he could wake up and find everything as normal - before the conflagration. He waited...

'Hello. Jill Ponsonby. What can I do for you?'

'Hi Jill. Joe here. I'll come straight to the point. The pavilion's been torched - razed to the ground. It looks like a deliberate act with accelerant used. I've just finished with the police and fire brigade. I'm sorry I didn't let you know earlier - I thought we might have been able to save it.'

'What the bloody....'

A silence ensued. As she absorbed the news, Jill's brain went into the default mode for handling a situation like this. From her early days at the school she'd known a crisis could easily occur given an unfavourable set of circumstances; now she must forget emotion and concentrate on what to do next - school business had to go on at all costs.

'Right. We'll do it like this....'

As she finished talking to Joe, Jill got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. She would now have a shower, get dressed, then go to the kitchen and get the coffee percolator going.

Minutes later as strong coffee smells permeated through the room, she poured herself a cup of the black nectar, leaning with elbows on the granite worktop, head in hands, as she lost herself in thought between sips...

* * * * *

The woman was bent down between the two large mirrors - one a free-standing 6 footer, the other a full-length one attached to the back of the open wardrobe door - trying to pick up a £1 coin on the floor between her sandalled feet, whilst looking backwards. Dressed in tight black jeans and pale blue blouse her gaze was fixed on the top area of her buttocks; as she bent down towards the floor she watched the 'crack' between them begin to appear, then widen as she reached lower. She wanted to get the final view as perfect as possible for her purpose later on.

As she straightened up she looked at the pile of jeans strewn across the top of the bed, and groaned inwardly; she had to make a decision - the difference between all of them was minuscule and she'd already spent over an hour on this caper - dammit, she would go with the black, and let the devil take the hindmost.

As she walked down Windale High Street on her way to the shop, fifteen minutes or so later, she thought of how irrational - even nonsensical - her thoughts and behaviour had become over the four days since that night of passion and pure lust chez Hilary Ponsonby. From the moment she awoke the morning after, she knew something had changed; as she reached across to kiss her lover, she found she was alone, for the first time, in the sumptuous king-size bed. In their sporadic sexual encounters over the past six months he had always been there when she awoke - ardent, throbbing, eager to make love anew. Curious, she'd dressed quickly and gone downstairs to find out what was on his mind.

'Can't do this anymore Angela dear. It's not fair on Jill - and you deserve better than this. As for myself I feel suddenly dirty - sordid.'

'Didn't stop you before. Its the call last night. Isn't it?'

'Yes. sorry. Want some breakfast? Eggs? Bacon? I sure don't want to lose you as a friend.'

'Yeah. Go on. I'll have the usual. I take it she's coming back?'

'I just hope so. I dread trying to explain things. She might very well want to ditch me for good.'

They had parted amicably, easily, after breakfast; for her that had been the easy part. She'd visited the shop daily for her usual small purchases and chat. The nights became difficult; after a few glasses of vino to relax and think things through after busy days at the supermarket where she worked as assistant manager she found herself beginning to brood. She knew it was wrong, somehow, in the grand scheme of things, to have designs of any sort on him. Tonight, she started to think...the alcoholic always has one last drink...a teensy weensy one,,,she laughed...god this vino...that Hilary owed her - Angela Horner - one last... She poured another glass. Plotted.

'Morning Angela. Nice to see you. Usual?'

'Yes. Hills. Blimey would you just look at that?'

'What do you mean?'

'Someone's dropped a coin. Here I'll give it to you. You can put it in that charity tin of yours.'

As she bent down to the ground to pick up the 'coin' already in her hand, Hilary saw, as in slow motion, the jeans drop lower...lower...the crack appeared...bigger...the mysterious darkness...he was lost...he wanted to be there again... god...he missed Jill...he needed this...something...soon.

'There you are.'

As the coin dropped into the tin with a light metallic thud, Hilary looked across the counter at the smiling woman opposite. She saw his tremble. She had won some more time for them...they both needed it...neither of them deserved it.

* * * * *

As Jill mused, sounds of rumbling upstairs signalled the house wakening to a brave new day. Who would be first downstairs, she wondered. Debs and Sula, after their first roisterous night in the tree house, had elected thereafter to sleep in the quaintly-named Jacobean room - a cosy, intimate bedroom at one end of the house with dark oak furniture and bare oak-timbered floor. They rarely surfaced before she left for work; it seemed as if they were still catching up on lost sleep from that first night. Jack rose at unpredictable times. He seemed to be at odds with himself somehow - good days, bad days, dreams, nightmares - she dearly wished to have him on board as soon as possible, but would have to wait until the medical team were satisfied with his mental state and overall recovery.

'Morning dear. Refill?'

Tina was first in the kitchen and looked at her friend closely. The figure with wan and pallid appearance, drooped forlornly over the worktop with a woebegone expression full of hurt, bereft of hope, was not the Jill she knew and loved like a dear sister.

'Oh God Tina. It just all gets worse...more and more...Hilary...now this. I honestly don't know how....'

As her voice broke, Tina grabbed her friend tightly.

'Just let it all out dear. There now....'

As her sobs eased, she brought her friend up to date on the details of the arson attack at the school an hour or so earlier. She would get over there immediately to get a proper handle on the situation and decide what to do next.

'You'll stay right there, girl, till you've had a proper breakfast. No excuses accepted. You're not in a fit state at the moment to go there. Okay?'

'Fine Tina. As usual you're right. I'll only promise to try my best though. I really don't feel I can eat a thing.'

'You will eat - otherwise you don't go out that door. Is that clear enough for you?'

Laughing, in spite of herself, Jill accepted the offer - Tina in her present mood was someone to be obeyed, certainly not argued with.

'You know Tina. I really do worry about Jack. I should be consoling you. The attack on him must have given you such a shock and....'

'I know you have his best interests at heart, dear. He'll pull round in his own good time, I'm sure of it. Now then...get your mouth round this little lot.'

As they ate and talked, Jill surprised herself by polishing off every last crumb on her plate.

'That was simply delicious Tina, and the tea \- I can't ever get tea to taste like this.'

'Glad to see you get some grub down you. Now you're ready for....'

Her words were cut off as the telephone rang loudly in the hallway.

'I'll get this Jill. You relax there.'

As she picked up the receiver, the loud, hearty voice of Monique Berger boomed out.

'Bonjour, ma belle Tina. And how are you?'

'Monique. You little French devil. What a surprise. I take it we'll be seeing all of you in a few days. Oui?'

As laughing could be heard from the other end, Tina turned round for a second as she felt a slight tap on the arm. Jill was beside her - beaming broadly; the French visitor was obviously going to be just the tonic her friend needed.

'I could hear her clearly from the kitchen', whispered Jill, before exploding in a fit of laughter as she ran off back to the kitchen.

'Ce qui est si drôle. Qui est-ce qui rit?' Who laughs with you dear Tina?'

'Its Jill. She cannot stop laughing when she hears your voice. She's very naughty.'

'Oui. Très méchant. I remember Jill. My dear, I've got news for you and I hope you are not going to be angry. Marcel and I will be with you this evening. I will explain all when I see you. I'll try and get Marcel a place at your _Owls and Thistles._ Oui?'

'Not at all. You and Marcel will stay at _Gurnings_. No arguments. Understood. Compris bien?'

'That is too good of you, Cherie. We must go now. À bientôt. Love also to Jill.'

'I'm glad to see a smile on your face for once, my dear. I think I'll promote you, by royal appointment, to 'Keeper of the Monique' when our visitor arrives later on', from Tina as she put the phone down.

'Oh no please. Such surfeit of pleasure. Pure decadence. Seriously though, the very sound of her voice seemed like a cool, comforting breeze wafting throughout my entire being. For a precious few moments I quite forgot troubles at home, school. I was remembering... laughing.'

Arriving early at school - 8.10 am - Jill went in her office, dropped her briefcase on the desk, then set off out again, locking the door behind her.

'Morning, Mrs. Ponsonby. Lovely Spring day ahead, by the looks of it.'

'Good morning Valerie. Just hope it keeps up. You're doing a great job.'

'Thanks Mrs. Ponsonby. We try our best at any rate.'

Leaving the cleaner to her chores, Jill walked along the corridor of the silent, near-empty building, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished tiles as she paced herself, thinking...planning...deep in thought. Passing the library, she noticed the open door and decided to enter and have a few moments alone, as was her wont on certain occasions. As expected, it was empty, so she walked up towards the long table and sat down. Looking upwards at the sun streaming through the stained glass windows, she lost herself for a short while in contemplation - relaxing and easing her mind in readiness for the busy, frenetic day beyond this private place...this space.

Rising up, her spiritual communion complete, she walked out silently, slowly - those precious moments... hard to let go...

Talking to Joe minutes later as they looked at the charred remains of the pavilion, now cordoned off with police tape, she was struck by the smallness of the black pile in front of them; it had a pathos or sadness - the little building, thus reduced by fire to ashes, echoed the fate of all mankind, somehow, - reduction by death to formless dust and ashes.

'You've been marvellous Joe. Now you must go home and get some sleep. That's an order. Ok?'

'I'll not say no to that. There's just the small matter of a police incident report I've got to give you.'

'Fine Joe.'

Leaving the caretaker's office shortly after, she walked along the footpath that skirted the playing fields, on the way back to her office. The school car park at the end was busy as she drew level; sounds of cars being electronically locked rang out across the tarmacked area as some teachers dashed away from their vehicles, clutching briefcases, stacks of books, folders and all manner of teaching paraphernalia - a mass of bobbing figures weaving frantically round each other, desperate to exit the park as quickly as possible. Others moved at a leisurely, lazy pace; not for some of these seasoned veterans the mad masochistic rush to begin a day of possible torture at the hands of brash, uncouth, unruly and sometimes downright rude youngsters. This group of worthies moved with a nonchalant gait - slow, deliberate. They would meet the coming day and any surprises it might bring with perfect composure and a degree of insouciance cultivated meticulously over the years.

'Morning Jill.'

The usual pleasantries followed as she made her way through the crowd, answering questions asked by some, and buttonholing one or two others she wished to see at some point later on during the day. Reaching her office she went straight over to the large comfortable leather chair and sat down, leaning back; she would now let her mind relax for a few moments - this was going to be one of those damned awful days - she could feel it in her waters.

'Hi Jill. You there? Don't worry. I'll get you a tea. Back in a tick.'

'Sorry Jane. I was away with the fairies, so to speak. Tea will be lovely.'

'Don't worry dear. Tea coming up.'

As Jane went out Jill opened her briefcase and pulled out some contents, placing them in order on the desk. Picking up the police incident log Joe had given her she studied it briefly.

Case Number: WS 06/05/02/5684

Incident: Phone call warning of arson attack followed by arson attack at Bruneigh High School pavilion.

Reporting Officer: Sergeant Tom Barton.

Date of Report: 20 April 2012

02.00 hrs. Caller reported fire in pavilion at Bruneigh High. I informed Fire Brigade immediately and contacted caretaker, Mr. Joe Deakin at same time. Myself and six PC's then attended the scene. Fire Brigade and Mr. Deakin arrived shortly after. Accelerant had been used so building collapsed and burnt to the ground despite the best efforts of everyone concerned. Fire burnt itself out 05.40 hrs. Copy of log given to Mr. Deakin.

T. Barton

As she waited for the computer to boot up, she opened her memo pad and started checking the entries; she'd have to check everything with Jane first, as usual.

'Tea. Your friendly service with a smile.'

'Thanks Jane. Now I want you....'

* * * * *

The man sat on the hard, sparsely upholstered chair and wriggled for a second or two trying to get comfortable. As he looked around, the bare pastel-coloured walls, bright, pale-grey plastic floor tiles and utilitarian furniture - all spartan austerity and negative aesthetic appeal - he felt more uncomfortable still. He wriggled again.

'Good morning, Mr...'

'Good morning, Miss...'

This was going to be some fun at 11 a.m. The man knew he had to curb the cynic in him - a tendency to bite the hand feeding, or in this case, helping him - in order for his meeting with the delectable Sameena Gulati, his consultant, to get anywhere - yield results. Flicking through pages of notes, humming and hawing at intervals, she finally got under way, asking him question after question - draining him, drawing him out - asking about his troubling dreams...probing...

'I think you're doing just fine, Jack. I'll arrange the next - hopefully final - appointment for some date towards the end of May. Okay. Byee.'

* * * * *

At 6.15 the small group assembled in the lounge at Gurnings were waiting - expectant. Anticipation of an arrival had been building up for an hour. Eager not to miss the slightest sound from outside, everyone present spoke in low tones - all ears waited for the knock on the door.

It finally came - a soft double one, as the caller lifted and dropped the large brass knocker carefully twice.

'Tina, cherie. How are you? This is Marcel. Don't know if you remember him. I think you may have met him once. Est-ce vrai?'

Monique hugged her friend tightly, then reached down for two large suitcases, lugging both inside and dropping them in the hallway.

'Great to see you Monique, Marcel. Of course I remember. Wasn't it...?'

'Yes Tina. That is so. I'm very grateful for your kind offer of hospitality. It is truly - how you say? - apprécié.'

As Marcel extended a hand, Tina gripped it in a firm 'power' handshake. She didn't do prissy, feminine anything, let alone handshakes.

'You're very welcome, Marcel. I can assure you that Jack and I have been looking forward very much to seeing you again. Come on inside and meet the others.'

Eventually with all introductions over with and rooms sorted for the French visitors, Tina addressed everyone as they sat down to tea and sandwiches.

'I have a suggestion to put to all of you. Monique, Marcel and I thought of going down to the _Owl and Thistle_ after, for a few drinks, so if any of you wish to come along...'

'Count me in.'

'Count us in.'

As Jack, Debs and Sula eagerly put their hands up, Tina had a final word.

'I'm glad to have you along. A mystery guest will be joining us at some point.'

'Who?'

'Yes, Who?'

All voices shouted in unison.

'All will be revealed in due course.'

As the party of six walked in the pub, talking and joking, Jack went to the bar with Marcel as the rest of the group went looking for a seat.

'I'd watch those two very carefully, if I were you, Jack. They're drunk and I'm thinking of getting a couple of the lads to get them to sling their hook.'

Joseph Coggins, the publican, pointed with his finger.

As Jack looked behind in the direction indicated, he saw, somewhat to his dismay, two unmistakeably boorish characters sitting at a table right beside the one now occupied by Tina, Monique and the girls. Turning back to Joseph,

'What sort of trouble are you expecting from them?'

'They've been shouting out, challenging anyone to take them on, in an arm-wrestling contest.'

'That doesn't sound too terrible, surely?'

'Trouble is, they start by inviting, then bullying, individual people into taking them on. Those who refuse get insulted. It's only a question of time before a fight breaks out and somebody gets hurt.'

'I'll let you know - immediately - should we get even the slightest hint of bother from either of those two.'

'Fine, Jack. You just take care now. And your good friend?'

'Oh I'm awfully sorry Joseph. This is Marcel from France - good friend of Monique, over there. Remember her?'

'Ah yes. Now I certainly do remember. She's a marvellous woman. I'd like all at your table to have this round of drinks on the house. If you don't mind, I'd like to go over later to welcome her back in person. Hello Marcel. Pleased to make your acquaintance and I look forward to having both of you in here again soon.'

'Thank you, monsieur. Tout le meilleur. All the best.'

As the ladies settled in, a loud drunken voice boomed out from one of the tables next to them,

'Man or bleedin' little mouse. You there, come here and give me what you've got.'

As they looked round they spotted the boomer \- a large, uncouth, red-faced man, sat at a table behind Monique. The object of his unwelcome attention, a mild-mannered young man in his thirties, sat with his wife or girlfriend, had a look of bewilderment turning to downright consternation, as he looked over at his tormentor - the latter seemingly hell-bent on ruining his evening and doing God knows what else, into the bargain.

'Little mouse over there. Hear me. Either you come here or I go over there. Now what's it to be - mouse?'

The pub suddenly went quiet. A chair scraped on a parquet tile; someone coughed then for what seemed an age pure silence reigned. What was going to happen next?

Something purely unexpected - something purely magical - followed.

A chair was noisily pushed back, and someone started to rise up, slowly, deliberately, peeling off a jacket as they did so...

Monique was now standing up...majestic...towering...pulling her sleeves up to reveal powerful biceps...now flexing them...turning round...looking directly down at the bullying oaf.

'Perhaps monsieur would like to try his luck with a woman. On one condition. If you lose I chuck you out onto the street on your fat, useless backside - sur votre dos, as we say in France. Okay? Bien? Vous la graisse de porc. And don't ask me to tell you what that is, useless slug that you are.'

'French bitch. I'll show you f.....g what. No woman talks to Freddie Black that way. Get down here. I'll show yer.'

As she turned completely round, her opponent now saw, for the first time, the powerful physique of the woman facing him. If even half of that was muscle, he knew he could be in trouble.

'Prêt?'

As they locked hands, the man began to feel a crushing pressure as the woman tightened her grip. Even before his hand hit the table in utter defeat he began to experience pain \- excruciating, as if splintered bone were pressing on raw nerve. She released her grip. He felt his hand - no bones broken. He was mortified...speechless...then anger began to rise up in him...he jumped up...lunged forward.

'Bitch.'

It was all over in seconds. As he lunged, Monique jumped up and back, then shot a fist out, catching the man squarely on the chin mid-lunge, dropping him to the ground - momentarily stunned. Staring blankly for a few seconds, he began to rise up - groggy, eyes darting around as he staggered to his feet, holding on to a chair back for support. He looked at his adversary, eyes bulging - malice and hatred written in every tautened line and hard wrinkle on his puce, pock-marked face.

'Go Buster. Out. I'll not warn you again.'

Tina was now stood up beside her friend, her anger and sense of outrage rising by the second.

'Moi aussi.'

Monique moved forward.

'F.....g bitches, I'll do both...'

As he went for them, at a quick signal from Tina, as she put her foot out, tripping the man, Monique darted forward, dipping slightly, before connecting with a hard vicious uppercut to the man's chin, sending him crashing down to the floor, dragging a table and glasses with him. This time he stayed put.

'Okay. Ready Monique?'

'Oui. And thanks Tina.'

Grabbing an arm each, they lifted the semi-conscious one and dragged him to the door, thrusting him unceremoniously onto the street.

Cheers went up for both women as they went back inside. As they sat down, the young man of the wife / girlfriend partnership came up, extending a hand to Monique.

'Can't believe how you did that but thanks. I felt awful as I'm a coward in situations like the one you just saved me from. I retreat within myself - try to become invisible. Thanks again.'

'The bully is the coward, not you - mon petit. You need not worry. Bien?'

'You didn't put on a bad show yourself, old girl.'

Jack leaned across to hug his wife. He empathised keenly with the sentiments expressed by the young man. He himself was of similar ilk and, but for his wonderful Tina, his exact opposite - bold, fearless and paragon of bravery - he might have been in the young man's place more times than he dared to think.

'Your round, I think, O husband of mine.'

'Of course, darling. Your wish is, as ever, my command.'

As Joseph Coggins came up to welcome and congratulate Monique, a man could be seen slinking off, unobtrusively, silently...the bully's friend.

'Bloody foreigners. Showing us all up as cowards. Wonder what next?'

Bugsy Brennan, ever present, never heard, total cynic, muttered to himself as he shook his head - like some sage of ancient times - raising a tankard of _Foresters_ to his lips.

As conversation flowed, Marcel looked up from the table at one point, allowing his gaze to drift round the room, take in the different ambiences at tables- the close intimacy and low tones of a young courting couple at one, the ringing voices and robust banter of a group of sporty young men at another, the quiet, sedate, sometimes dreamy discourse between an elderly couple at yet another, others...he allowed his mind to wander...fascinated, hypnotised for a time by the disparate display of humanity around him. He felt suddenly an outsider - he didn't belong here, anywhere \- the expression, 'loneliness in a crowded room', suddenly came to mind, real, crushing...suffocating...

'Penny for them', from Sula, sat beside him.

The dark thoughts and mood lifted as he looked down at the pretty little companion at his side.

'Rien. Nothing. I beg your pardon. It is Su...?'

'Sula. You looked distracted just then. I get that way often myself so I know.'

'Eh bien, Sula. I was just, what you say, 'wandering the mind', vagabondage de l'esprit, n'est-ce pas?'

'Well don't worry Marcel. I'm sure that between Debs here, and myself, we'll find plenty to distract you from your 'vagabonding' or whatever. Isn't that right, Debs?'

'No trouble there, Marcel. Watch though, or she'll be having you take part in some dreadful play or other. I wouldn't put it past her to throw a string of onions round your shoulder, pop a beret on your bonce and have you scream _La Marseillaise_ at the top of your voice.'

Debs smiled, giving Marcel a knowing wink.

'Oh really Debs. You are simply awful. As if I'd ever dream of doing something like that. Ignore her Marcel. She's naughty and incorrigible. Aren't you my sweet?'

'Yes Miss Sula.'

At that moment Marcel was looking at a new entrant. As she walked through the door, her hair caught the down-draught from a fan above, sending long, blonde tresses into some weird kind of frenzied dance upon her shoulders. From where he sat, Marcel could just about make out features of a lady he would never forget; his Mediterranean blood was beginning to race at the sight of the blonde creature approaching their table. As she drew nearer, he could see something distinct, different; she was truly stunning - something about her features, maybe Nordic - his musings were suddenly cut short as Monique rushed across from their table.

'Jill. Comment allez-vous, ma chère?'

As Marcel watched the Nordic maiden virtually disappear from sight as she became enveloped in Monique's huge hug, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

'Your turn next Marcel.'

As he looked at the mischief written over her face, he replied in as gracious and dignified manner as he could muster,

'My turn for what, young Sula? I sincerely hope you are not taking advantage of my good nature. N'est-ce pas?'

'Oh, dear Marcel. I'd never do that. But we can't have you vagabonding about now, can we? Oui.'

'Méchante fille. You must....'

His words were cut off as Monique came over.

'Allow me Marcel, to introduce you to a very dear friend, petite amie, Jill.'

'Enchanté madame. Sorry. Pleased to meet you.'

As they shook hands and looked at each other, Marcel felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, shy...

'I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance, Marcel. I hope we can be good friends.'

As Marcel heard her words, he felt comforted \- more confident.

'Perhaps you could show me some of your town, countryside. I love walking, what you say, rambling. N'est-ce pas?'

As he said this, Jill looked steadily at the handsome, 6 foot something, man before her with a warm, welcoming smile, tightening her grip for a second on the hand holding hers. In the brief second or two since seeing him, she felt a strong reaction, a quickening, something awakening in her. Thoughts of Hilary, forced back for a few days, would no longer need forcing - they were gone forever - the unfaithful cheating bastard had maybe done her the biggest favour possible. He had brought out the hidden cougar in her. From now on she would enjoy forbidden fruits, not hold back slavishly for appearance sake, or some vague diktat of moral propriety. To hell with it, or them, all - let the feasting begin.

'I'd just love a good hike. What about tomorrow, Marcel? You up for it?'

'Oui. I mean yes. I'd love it.'

'Homme paresseux, lazy man Marcel. You come with me to get drinks. Leave poor Jill alone.'

'Yes Monique. You see, Jill. To this woman I am purely a slave, how you say, appendage, or addition - to do with, as she pleases.'

'Fermez la bouche, garcon. Ignore him Jill. Just make sure he does everything you say.'

As they walked off, Jill's thoughts returned to the fire...

# Chapter 6

April 23rd. 2012.

At 8.45 am the two 14 year old boy students, one a gangly 5'8", the other a stocky 5'4", stood under _The Tree_ , smoking roll-up cigarettes and waiting. The tree, a tall oak of wide girth and enormous spread of branches, was a spot frequented by drug dealers, sellers of stolen goods and other shady characters. Its location, just inside Bruneigh Woods and near to the school and Belchers council estate, made it ideal for the purposes of such lawless goings-on, with a willing customer base nearby and absence of prying eyes.

'Here he comes now.'

Lanksy, the tall one addressed the other, Tiny.

A gleaming Harley Davidson was coming into view up Belchers Drive, purring sweetly with an occasional deep-throated roar from the big engine as it slowed down on approaching the woods. Getting off the bike at the end of the drive, X pushed it back on its kickstand before taking off his helmet and coming over to where they were standing.

'Morning fellas. Dosh?'

As the two handed over cash, X put the few notes away in a pocket of his leather biker jacket, then pulled out a couple of small brown packages, handing one to each of the boys.

'Thanks.'

'Now I've a job on for you both. Some real dosh. Interested? If not, I've got a few lads lined up ready to take your place. So what's it to be?'

The two looked at each other, wondering who was going to be first to accept or decline the offer made. Declining was not on either of their minds - they were intrigued, but wary as X was not someone they'd dare let down. Once committed to doing whatever it was he wanted, they would have to follow any instructions given to the letter and be successful; they had heard rumours of what happened to people who reneged on deals with X...frightening...

'Before I agree I'd just like to know a little about what's involved, so we know we're up to it - I don't want to get into trouble at the moment.'

Lanksy, in his reply, was referring to a threat of expulsion hanging over him for bullying in the school - extorting money, initiating some pupils into drugs and so on...

'No need to worry. I just want you to get close and personal with a boy at school - make him your best buddy and mate - just for a week or so. Then you can do what the hell you like with him. Okay?'

'We'll do it.'

The reply from two voices shouting in unison was emphatic. They were in.

'Right then. Today I want you....'

As he drove off, the two looked after the disappearing figure with mixed feelings. The money was welcome but the job itself had one almighty big snag - the boy. The thought of talking to, let alone, befriending or cosying up to Jonathan, the outrageously camp son of Bertie Brewster, Art teacher, was virtually unthinkable.

'I'd just as soon beat the little shit up, here and now, Lanksy. What do you think?'

'Job's a job. We'll go along with Flash Harry on his Harley for the moment. When it's over - then who knows? We could maybe deal with the little f..ker in our own special way if he gives us too much lip or whatever.'

'Never thought of that. Yeah. Sounds better by the minute. Nice one, Lanksy.'

* * * * *

As Jill and Madeleine approached the _Owl and Thistle_ at 6 p.m. the party was in full swing. The venerable old inn had been given a French-themed make-over for the evening, with tables and chairs lined up on the covered terrace along the front and side of the building - alfresco style - and the pub sign concealed underneath an expertly fitted canvas that now read, _Hibou et le Chardon._ The tables were filling up as groups came out, drinks in hand and berets on head, to sit in the fresh air, laughing and joking. An accordion played inside, the sound mixing with the lively conversation - teasing, foreign - captivating the senses somehow.

'Evening Jill.'

'Et vous aussi, Madeleine.'

The various voices greeted them on their way in. Madeleine had arrived with the coachload from _Chataigniers_ at 7 a.m. and, after a hearty full English breakfast, all had gone to bed in order to recover from the 15-hour journey. Madeleine had come along to Gurnings later to see Jill and Tina and was told by the latter, in no uncertain terms, that she would treat Gurnings as her home, base, whatever, for the duration of her stay - Madeleine, like Jill, knew that one simply did not argue with Tina on matters of this sort - the woman could be quite formidable when she put her mind to it.

As they got to the bar, Jill started ordering drinks for both of them from the mute, strange-looking new barman. Dressed in white, open-neck shirt, dark-brown waistcoat and tan breeches, with heavily rouged face and oddly styled jet black hair, he appeared as some sort of waiter, or courtier, from times long past. She grinned instinctively - he looked like a clown - but live and let live.

'Two small sherries please. And may I commend you on your....'

She couldn't quite finish the sentence. An uncontrollable fit of laughter seized her as she gazed on the figure on the other side of the bar, who was now screwing his face in all sorts of gurns, scowls, ridiculous smiles and numerous other facial contortions. She turned to Madeleine. To her amazement, her French friend was staring at her stony faced, then looking away...into the distance... mortally offended... in some way.

What have I done? As she bent down, alternating between paroxysms of mirth and concern at being a wrongdoer and offender of fine sensitivities, she took a long breath, then looked up again at the creature - cause of her present predicament.

'And what seems to be the problem, Jill? I never had this effect on you before now, did I?'

The unmistakable voice of Joseph Coggins came from the strange, alien figure who now addressed her. As she looked round, in bewilderment, at Madeleine, the latter broke into a fit of laughter of her own.

'Mon dieu. My dear friend. You were so funny...ohh...je suis désolée.'

'Now then, you two....'

As a relieved Jill began to scold her pair of jokers, her words were cut off as Monique came up, grasping her in a huge bear hug, before planting big, juicy kisses on both cheeks.

'Pauvre enfant. I beg you Jill to forgive these miscreants. Lutins malicieux.'

'Don't worry Monique. I'll get my own back on these two sometime. By the way, you're putting on a great show.'

'Well, petit. Light salad - style francais - will be served shortly. Also you will be entertained by singers with accordion. I think you might know the accordionist.'

'I'm afraid, Monique to admit that I don't know any virtuoso on that instrument.'

'You do. You'll see him later. Come Madeleine. You follow me. Oui? I nearly forgot, Jill. There will be a nice surprise for everyone later on. Bien.'

'See you later. We can catch up properly. N'est-ce pas?' from a smiling Madeleine as she rushed after Monique.

As the two women left, Jill sipped on her drink and leaned on the counter. She was going to enjoy this evening...soak up some Gallic spirit...sway...where was that damned accordion...she wanted to hear it...needed to...ever so slightly tipsy. Dammit she'd get a proper drink 'down the hatch', then see...

'Double vodka, lime, slice lemon - twice, please.'

'Coming up.'

Downing the first in one, she gasped, drew breath then settled down on her perch as the alcohol warmth spread through her whole body. She waited a minute. Looked around. Nobody staring at her. That was good. She began to sip...slowly...caressing the glass between thumb and four fingers, waiting for the thoughts...good ones...getting better...warmer...sexier...she could hear an accordion...God it sounded good...transporting her...she took another sip...heaven...

'Slow down there girl. Leave some for me. I'll have a dose of this woman's poison, if you please, barman. And a pint of _Foresters_. Will that be to your taste, O husband of mine?'

'As always you read my innermost thoughts, darling wife. And how do we find you, dear Jill, on this festive occasion as we welcome close friends from across the sea?'

'Happy dear Jack. Intent on getting very much more so, by the end of the night. Does that sound a noble aim. What say thee now, wise one?'

'Here Jill. Get this noble drink down your neck. And you Jack. Grab that. Cheers everyone. Shall we find ourselves a table?'

'Of course. I see one just over there. I'll be the wise one of Jill's fancy and go claim it right now before someone else gets in first.'

As they settled down, the pub started to fill. At first a mere trickle; a couple now, a single person minutes later, making their way to the bar. At some point, unnoticed by them, this became a steady stream, with the result that the whole place was now at a virtual standstill - the area round the bar full of people pushing, jostling and shoving their hands in the air in a desperate effort to get the barman's attention.

'Drinks anyone? That is if either Sula or I can get through that lot.'

'No need. Your usuals are here. Sit down there pronto before someone else does.'

'Thanks Tina. As ever you are our unerring provider.'

'Hello Jill. I believe you have some very important news for your daughter and me. Walks on the moors? Secret trysts in our hallowed woods? Spill, lady.'

'I do believe, young Sula, that the drink might just...'

Jill's words were cut mid-sentence as someone started ringing the large bell above the bar.

'Attention everyone. Food will be served shortly. French style. Merci.'

The short cryptic announcement by the theatrically dressed Joseph Coggins caused immediate murmuring in the crowd...anticipation...silence. Then from somewhere, an accordion started playing softly, fingers floating caressingly over the keys, as strains of _Sous la Ciel de Paris_ began to permeate subtly throughout the inn.

Turning round, like everyone else, Jill looked curiously at what was happening at the far end of the room. Plates of food, from trolleys, were being brought to tables by staff. As each table was served, a group of seven women, dressed in long, voluminous, cream skirts and long black stockings performed a long, sweeping curtsey.

'Bon appetit.'

The voices sounded in unison.

The trolley moved on to the next table with an accordionist bringing up the rear, bowing likewise and playing all the while.

As the entourage reached their table, the music changed to _La Vie en Rose_. For some reason, as the plates were placed on their table, Jill was transported back to a time - a brief weekend visit - by her and Hilary to Paris, shortly after they were married. Standing on the Pont au Double as they looked around, immersed in their own thoughts and taking in the beauty of the buildings around them, a young girl of about twenty strolled out - apparently from nowhere - and started to play _La Vie en Rose..._

...The moment...surroundings...haunting strains from the instrument...young, carefree accordionist...light-brown hair waving in the light breeze...smiling ever so slightly as the coins dropped in a small tin box...unperturbed...Jill had felt at that moment a stirring, something deep as if the spirit of the city was reaching down within her very soul - the sensation euphoric, precious - she wanted it to last forever...

Her pleasant reminiscence was cut short as Tina suddenly shot up, grabbing one of the serving entourage.

'You little rogue. Well I never.'

'Ah, dear Tina. I sweat behind these wigs but I don't care. I do it all for you....'

'Away with you. I believe you have a surprise. It better be good, you regular French imp.'

As Monique moved off, laughing, with her troupe, the tall accordion player hove into view for the first time. With long, shoulder-length black hair, brown beret, Breton-style navy stripe sweatshirt and pale grey culottes, he cut a dashing figure as he passed by their table. Taking off his beret, before curtseying, a giant wig came off with it, revealing Marcel.

'Bon appetit. Et vous, cher Jill. Ravissant...'

He looked straight at her for a second, then moved on, strains of the Pretzel polka now mingling with the rising hum of conversation as his fingers fairly flew up and down the instrument.

As she watched the retreating figure, Jill recalled their meeting the previous Saturday. Walking along, side by side, in full hiking gear, carefree, happy, fully at ease with the world and each other, all that seemed to matter was the moment. It was as if she were truly young again, with the whole world before her - fresh, tempting, all to be explored and conquered for the first time. Present troubles seemed to ebb away...drift...like an outgoing tide...

'You are lost, dear Jill. Penny for them.'

Sula, as ever perceptive, regarded her with an owlish grin.

'And why, young Sula, should I let you into my private thoughts. You're barely out of...and....'

Her irritated response was cut off as the bell at the bar was rung again, loudly, three or four times.

'Attention everyone. Look towards the stage. In a few moments the show begins.'

Joseph Coggins, as usual, didn't wish to waste words. Less is more, being his motto.

'Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs. My friends and I now welcome you to a little bit of fun, comedy - divertissement drôle. I hope you enjoy. Merci.'

As Monique finished speaking, the group of women from before, came on to the stage, performing their curtsey as they lined up on her right. The surprise of the night came next.

A loud drum roll sounded... silence...another prolonged drum roll...a large lady appeared...took up position on Monique's left... another drum roll...a second large lady appeared... taking up position beside the previous one...the process repeated until six large ladies stood - towering figures - on Monique's left, with the original six ladies on her right.

'Commencez..'

As the order was barked out by Monique, all started to take off the elaborate hats as they began their wide curtsey, starting with the ladies on her right. The audience began to clap as each lady did her curtsey and blew a kiss at the audience, starting with Madeleine.

'Vive Madeleine. Show us what you've got girl.'

Tina was getting into the spirit - her rock-chick alter ego coming to the fore.

As the last lady on the right completed her bow and kiss to the audience, there was a sudden halt in the proceedings. All eyes now turned to the group of large ladies on the left. When were they going to start? What seemed to be the problem? Then it happened...

As one, they blew a kiss to the audience. Silence. Then slowly...very, very slowly...hands reached up...grabbed the large, wide hats...small drum roll...started slowly to raise the hands...bigger drum roll...hats now began to come off heads...large, sustained drum roll...the hats came off...completely...there were no beautiful curling maiden locks underneath...bald men's pates and short cropped male heads appeared...

At once, Marcel struck up on his accordion, playing the lively _Tico Tico_ as the troupe on stage began their dance routine. Starting with Madeleine, the girls began a lively dance, flinging their dresses open at times, revealing shapely leg and thigh, to loud applause from everyone present...

Then it was the turn of the large ladies - the men - to strut their stuff. Unlike the ladies, this group commenced the routine with the skill of lumbering bears. When they flung their dresses open, revealing knobbly knees and hairy legs, the audience went into uproar, shouting lewd comments at the stage.

'Bloody foreigners. Fairies all of them.'

This was Bugsy Brennan's silent comment, as he wryly looked on. The dour misanthrope had nevertheless made sure of a perfect front seat so as not to miss anything.

* * * * *

'Jonathan.'

The boy looked around behind him.

'Hello, Lanksy. What do you want?'

Jonathan looked up at the tall boy - surprised, suspicious. Three years earlier, as a soft-featured first-year entrant with girly voice and mannerisms, he had been quickly picked on by the bully and his sidekick, Tiny. Unsure about his sexuality, knowing yet not knowing, his tentative efforts to form friendships in those first few weeks were met with rejection. As rumour - spiced up with fantasy creations by the two bullies - spread around the school, he soon found himself to be an outcast. All in his class shunned him - some out of fear of the bullies, others out of distaste, distrust...

'Dirty, f.....g little monster.'

The cries and shouts echoed round the school playground for most of the first year, and surfaced at times during the second. Then the beatings. He could remember clearly when it all started, almost two years earlier...

Walking from school down Belchers Road, he was about to turn into Laburnum Drive and head up towards the end and home, _The Stables_ , when he heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was running; it seemed like more than one person. Just as he looked round, a hand grabbed his shoulder, spun him round and pushed him back against a garden wall.

'We need dosh. Get it? .'

'I've only some change. You can have it. No need to be so rough.'

'Right you little bastard. We'll show you rough.'

With that the two bullies dragged him back down the road, over a wall and into the far end of the school playing field. The beating was short but painful, with promises of plenty more to come if he couldn't pay; they took his satchel and its contents, mobile phone and everything they could find in his pockets. They left him, blood pouring from his nose, shocked, full of fear, empty. He later told his mother he'd been mugged. Her subsequent tender solicitations and assurances did little to dispel a growing sense of dread and horror at the thought of going into school.

That phase came to an end unexpectedly when an unlikely ally, or guardian angel, came to his aid...

'You're short here, little pisser. More. Give.'

'That's all I've got. Honest.'

'You know what we do to little bastards like you. Pay.'

'Sorry. Can't do this anymore...I just...'

Jonathan was whimpering even before the first cruel blow to the jaw knocked him to the ground. The stealing from home, lame excuses to his poor, adoring mother, never-ending demands from his tormentors - it had all got beyond what he could bear - death from a beating would, right now, seem a welcome relief from the grinding, daily torment of his present existence.

'What's going on here? You two. Bugger off. Now!'

Cissy Blackstock, 12 years old, in the class above Jonathan and the bullies, had just seen the small - apparently defenceless - boy being thrashed to within an inch of his life. Without thinking, the generous-spirited girl - proficient in martial arts - had dashed across the yard to rescue the victim before he sustained some serious injury. As she came up, shouting, the tall one, Lanksy, was about to deliver a vicious kick to the prostrate figure on the ground. He looked round, his right foot raised halfway, with anger in his eyes at the unwonted intrusion.

'What the bloody hell's it got to do with you, bitch? Leave now, if you know what's good for you.'

'Oh don't you worry, Buster. I know very well what's good for me right now.'

'What's that then?'

Two voices in unison were threatening...coaxing...looking for a second victim perhaps. Tiny was beginning to move forwards, aggression evident in every ponderous, deliberate step.

'Well you two dumb-bells really know how to make a girl's day, don't you? I'll answer your question. What's good for me and what I'm really looking forward to is knocking you two ugly big girls on your fat, smelly arses. Got it?'

'I'll bloody show...'

As Lanksy dived towards her, she stepped back sharply, putting her foot out. The tall one tripped over the outstretched foot, and crashed to the ground. As Tiny dived forward, she swivelled sideways, lifted her right foot back, then caught the advancing bully with a sickening kick in the groin, dropping him to the ground, holding his injured parts and moaning in agony. He was out for the count.

'F.....g bitch. Now you're really for it. Start praying cow...'

As the tall one rose up and shot towards her, she ducked, grabbed his flying body, flinging it over her shoulder, in a perfect judo move, before grabbing the neck and applying a stranglehold. As she tightened her grip, Lanksy struggled for breath, gasping, arms waving helplessly as he tried to release himself from the suffocating hold. As he continued to writhe and pant, his face began to go purple. He knew he was in trouble. Fear was now in the pathetic eyes of the merciless bully of moments earlier.

'Please...can't breathe...please.'

'I've only started you useless wimp. Now feel some real pain.'

With that, Cissy suddenly let go, jumped up, stepped back and delivered a hard, crushing kick to the chest of the wheezing individual on the ground. He cried out, whimpered, then began to cry like a baby.

'Please...no more...beg you.'

'If you're not up and out of my sight in one minute flat, I'll show you some real pain, useless lump. If I ever see you touch this boy again I swear I'll kill you. Clear? Now get out of my sight - both of you.'

Needless to say Jonathan never heard from the bullies again. His saviour, Cissy, became his hero and 'big sister' from that day onwards, looking out for him. In no time at all his outcast or pariah status was forgotten; with Cissy's help and guidance he started to make friends - come out of his shell - breathe freely once again without fear...

'Well, that's not a very friendly way to greet a friend...just joking.'

Lanksy was now addressing a puzzled Jonathan.

'Me and Tiny here just thought we'd got you wrong some time back. Want to join our little club. Its exclusive you know, Jonathan. Just me and Tiny at the moment. What do you say partner?'

'Sorry. I don't really see the point in us teaming up. We're so different, I mean.'

'Ah. Different we are but we could join forces. Your brains and our muscle. To tell the truth we could do with help with our school homework, projects and stuff. Tiny here can't even read or do sums; he's thick as a plank and needs a helping hand. We could do you favours - whizz, speed, boys like yourself, gagging for it - you name it.'

Something clicked in Jonathan's brain. Hearing the tall boy's last words...gagging for it...speed...whizz.

In his own, very comfortable home, he'd often wondered about strange goings-on when visitors, a dozen or so at a time, would arrive, late in the evening, on certain weekends. On such occasions his mother would take him aside at some point, earlier in the day, and tell him the visitors were part of an art project and not to be disturbed by him. On arrival at about 6 p.m. he would often meet them, couples mainly, but single men and women also, as they headed towards the lounge. Clinking of glasses, laughter and sounds of merriment from within filtered through to the hall as he passed by; these art projects must be fun, he was thinking, intrigued.

Then it happened.

At about 2 a.m. he woke up suddenly one night, dreaming - or was he dreaming? He thought he'd heard a woman scream. He listened...

Nothing... silence.

Feeling the need to relieve himself, he got out of bed to use the small ensuite bathroom. After, splashing water over his face, he heard something. Was it a sob? Someone crying perhaps? No bother - nothing to do with him; he was tired anyway and needed to get back to sleep.

Just as he reached his bed, he heard,

'Oh...oh...more...yes...oh.'

No mistake this time. A woman was right out there in the hallway - doing what?

'Ugh...ugh...ugh.'

'Ahh,,,yes,,,yes.'

The grunts from a man mingled with the woman's lustful cries of pleasure. A couple were obviously having it off. Why not in their bedroom?

He listened again.

Silence.

He listened some more.

Silent as a tomb. The couple had obviously left...gone back to bed...wherever.

Curious, he crept out of bed and went to the door. Ever so quietly, he opened it a tiny fraction....

Back in bed, he tried to make sense of what he'd just seen. A man in his fifties, with a large fat belly fit to burst, was lying on his back, naked, on the upstairs landing carpet. Beside him lay a girl, not much older than Jonathan himself. As he watched, through the slit in the door, the girl rolled over on top of the man. Another door in the landing opened as another naked couple emerged. They got down on the carpet and started...another door was opening...

From that night onwards he knew. He would say nothing. It was his secret - for now at least. He eventually dropped off to sleep...the safe, secure world he'd known shattered...he'd never trust anyone...anything...those images...coarse...indelibly printed in his brain...

'Did you, by any chance, have someone in mind, Lanksy. Gagging for it, I mean?'

Of late Jonathan had felt urges...strong...cravings. He needed physical release soon - very soon. Outwardly at school, the soft-featured, camp boy was a model pupil, bright and obliging - more at ease in the company of girls. Inwardly, however, he was a raging torrent of hormones, desperate to have some young Adonis take...possess...ravish his strumpet body...more...much, much more...

'You can rely on Lanksy, old boy. Just hold on a minute.'

Lanksy had just got an idea - cunning, devious. He took out his mobile; phoned someone. Talked rapidly for a few minutes.

'All arranged Jonathan. After school me and Tiny here will bring you along to my house. You'll like Dory.'

'Who's this Dory. Is he your brother?'

Jonathan was instantly fearful; he might have needs but the very thought of having them satisfied by any relative of the tall monster would be simply unthinkable.

'No. He's just someone we know. Like yourself - likes boys. He's not at all like present company. Get my drift?'

'I'll take your word - for now anyway. I can only stay a few minutes.'

'That's fine. See you at 3.30.'

Walking down Belchers Drive with his two companions, Jonathan felt oddly elated. The jovial banter between Lanksy and Tiny, the cool, clear day and the unknown element of it all - first time entry into the notorious Belchers council estate, then the boy - he felt a tingling...frisson...excitement...

'We're here.'

They were stood outside what looked, to Jonathan's eyes, like the most dilapidated, hovel-type slum imaginable. Panels on the bottom of the front door were missing, others bent in from kicking. Paint was peeling off the door, door-frame and windows; the house and small garden had the shabby, uncared-for look of some poor stray cat. It looked equally abandoned...forgotten.

'Follow me.'

Lanksy had found a key after fumbling around amongst some fallen masonry under the front window, cursing as he scratched around.

As they went inside, Jonathan was fearful; could the inside of this awful place be even worse than the outside.

'Mum. You there? Mum? There's nobody home yet. Sit down there boys. Make yourselves at home.'

As he sat down on one of the comfortable leather armchairs, Jonathan looked around in amazement at the well-appointed lounge; it seemed as if some joke was being played on him - the awful, unkempt exterior simply did not belong. As he looked through to the kitchen where Lanksy was now making tea, he could see a modern, well-equipped area with shiny tiled floor, gleaming units and the latest appliances. He felt like asking but he'd wait.

'When are you expecting Dory?'

'I'll ring in a minute. Biscuit anyone?'

'Yes please.'

Two voices answered as one.

'Thanks. Mmm. Nice cuppa. Sort of goes with the house. How come the front....'

Jonathan's words were cut off sharply by his host.

'Never judge a book by its cover, Jonathan boy.'

The words were delivered as the speaker put finger to nose, with a knowing look, like some wise old _Daniel._ No further explanations would be given; the subject was closed - forever.

'Back in a minute, fellas.'

Silence...

Tiny wasn't talking; the boy was a veritable mute, with an expression on his face - blank, expressionless - surely no brain could exist behind that vacuous front.

'Have you known him a long time - Lanksy, I mean?'

'Dunno.'

'See him a lot?'

'Dunno. F..k off with the questions - yeah?'

Silence prolonged...

Lanksy came back in the room, whistling some tune or other. At least one of them was in a happy mood, Jonathan was thinking. He'd get himself out of here very soon; he was beginning to get a bad feeling about the turn of events since meeting the boys earlier that morning.

'Think I'd better be running along. Mum will be expecting me for tea.'

'That's fine, Jonathan. By the way, I've just been speaking to Dory. He's sorry he couldn't make it today but will be free on Wednesday.'

'What time? Where?'

Jonathan was getting irritated.

'Well, to tell you the truth he didn't really want to meet you here - in this house. Something to do with the company I keep, he said - cheeky beggar. He said he'd prefer it if we all met up at your place as he's heard of _The Stables_ and would love to see it - as well as meeting you, of course. By the way, if anyone asks, on the day - he's your friend. Okay?'

Jonathan thought for a moment.

'No problem. But all three of you? I mean Tiny there doesn't seem to like my company very much. Does he really want to come?'

'Don't you worry, Jonathan. When I say he's coming, he'll be properly dying to come. Right there, Tiny?'

'Yeah. Maybe.'

'No maybe in it. You're coming Tiny boy - and about to enjoy every bleeding minute of it. Right?'

'Yeah. Go on then. Glad to...Jonathan.'

As he walked home, Jonathan was lost in thought...wondering...doubts were creeping in...something...

* * * * *

'So the little bastard's buying it, Lanksy.'

'Yeah Tiny. Hook, line and sinker.'

'Do we tell X about Dory. I mean it might....'

'We tell no-one about that bit. Got it? That's to be our own little going-away present to our new-found friend, when the time is ripe - very soon.'

'Fine by me. So long as he gets what's coming to him - good and proper.'

* * * * *

April 24th. 2012.

'Madeleine. Is it really you. I was wondering when I'd finally get to see you, this time around. Come here girl.'

Jane Madley grabbed the woman in a tight hug, lifting the taller woman off her feet, as Jill looked sternly on.

'Now then Jane, when you've quite finished, I'd be much obliged if you could put my friend back down on the ground.'

Jane had liked Madeleine from the start. To her, both women were like true sisters; all three had a similar impish sense of humour, when put to it.

Jill and Madeleine had just come back from the official welcoming party at the Town Hall, starting at 10 a.m., where short speeches by the Mayor, Tina and Monique were followed by a brief tour of the town centre, taking in visits to the local parish church, museum, library and new shopping centre. At around 12 the whole party had returned to the Town Hall, where a few bemused townsfolk, quietly studying artefacts in glass cases, found their silence interrupted as a jolly, slightly boisterous group, talking in foreign accents, suddenly burst through the front entrance, making their way across the marble floor in the grand reception area, before disappearing round a corner.

A four course lunch awaited them in the splendid banqueting suite. As they trooped in and took their places \- in no particular order, round the long, mahogany table, under dimmed lighting from chandeliers hanging somewhere above - the dignified surroundings, for the briefest of moments, had them in awe. Laughter dropped to a dull, near inaudible chuckle, as they looked at menus with elegant script placed on the table before them.

Pissaladière Niçoise

(appetisers)

Ist. Course

Pan-seared Artichoke with balsamic glaze

Main Course

_Faisan fourr_ é _à la sauge et aux pommes vertes_

(roasted pheasant stuffed with sage and Granny Smith apples)

Side Dishes

Vichy carrots

Oignons à la crème

Dessert

Dessert clafouti

(cherries in custard)

Wines

(best from Hibou et le Chardon)

As Joseph Coggins and his team of 'sous-chefs' came through the doors from the kitchen area, a loud cheer went up, as one by one, following Monique's lead, they stood up, clapping loudly. From then on all thoughts and feelings of reverence for the place disappeared; a sense of camaraderie quickly spread as everyone tucked in and laughter flowed like the wine.

As the meal came to an end, Tina stood up to announce that a coach was waiting for all of them outside the building. They would travel for an hour or so to the coast, then walk along a pleasant coastal path, with Joe Deakin as guide, before returning to the _Hibou et le Chardon_ in time for tea.

* * * * *

'Now Jane, I'm going to take your new best friend and make her work for a living.'

'You really are the most awful bully. To think what I've done for you all these years. And this is how you treat my best friend. Well I never.....'

'Not to worry, Jane. I'm simply taking the French A Level class for two hours. C'est bon.'

As they reached the classroom minutes later, Jill knocked on the door before entering, with Madeleine behind.

'Good afternoon, Shirley. Everyone. Sorry to interrupt. This is Madeleine.'

'Oh hello. Madeleine. We've all been expecting you.'

As introductions were made Jill took her leave. Madeleine would relish her time with the pupils, particularly as two of them had been to her school in Chataigniers, two years earlier, as part of the ongoing student exchange programme.

Two boys, up to no good, peered round the corner as Jill and Madeleine left the office. Seeing Jane go back through to her own inner sanctum, they approached the open headmistress's office, looking round to check the coast was clear.

A couple of folders and some papers were laid neatly across the desk. That should do nicely. Silently, they grabbed these, dumping them in their rucksacks before shooting out of the office, down the corridor and out of the school.

X stood at _The Tree_ , smoking a stubby joint. The rancid smell of the strong skunk didn't bother him; it just took his mind off the sheer annoyance of waiting. These two had better turn up soon; his patience only went so far - otherwise. He really didn't want to dwell on it - or the little bastards - any more than he had to.

* * * * *

April 25th. 2012.

As Jonathan sat on the bench at the end of the school car park, he was worried. The queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach had been there all day. He wondered how...

'Hi there Jonathan. Say hello to Dory.'

The voice from behind fairly shook him out of his dark thoughts.

'Hi Dory. Glad to meet you.'

As he shook hands with the boy, their eyes met briefly. He liked what he saw. From the other's returning smile the feeling appeared to be mutual. It was as simple as that. If he thought too much along these particular lines, he would soon be embarrassing himself. As it was, he found he was still holding the other's hand - trembling. He let go immediately.

'Glad to meet you, too, Jonathan. I believe we're about to impose ourselves on you for a couple of hours. Hope you don't mind.'

'Not at all. Pleasure's all mine, I can assure you.'

'Right. Let's get going. All set?'

Lanksy was not one for formalities, or prolonged conversations. Tiny, as usual, was noticeable by his silence; he liked very few people and - Lanksy apart - heartily detested his present companions.

'Fine with that, Tiny?'

Lanksy couldn't resist annoying his accomplice.

'Oh yeah. Fine. Brill. F.....g bloody cosmic man.'

As they reached the gates, Jonathan went over to a small rectangular panel and pressed some digits. As the gates opened, the boys followed him through on to a short tree-lined avenue with the house at the end.

'Wow!'

As they came in full view of the Palladian-style building, Lanksy was gobsmacked. The residence facing him was extremely modest by comparison with some, but impressive nevertheless; a triangular, 15 foot wide, stone gable, with ornamentation of a winged horse in the tympanum, rested on a single stone slab - all resting, in turn, on two large circular stone columns. Four windows on each side completed the front of the two-storey house.

Studying it, Lanksy found his mind wandering; compared to what he called home, down the Belchers estate, this was colossal. What sort of people lived in places like this? Why did they need all this space? Bet they could hide some loot in a gaff this size. Instantly dismissing such thoughts, he put his mind back in gear. He was here to do a job - on a mission of sorts - so no time to dwell on the niceties of more privileged living quarters.

As they walked into the wide hallway, a pleasant woman in her early fifties appeared from a room at the side.

'I see you've brought some friends, Jonathan dear. Now you must introduce me to them properly over a nice cup of tea and some cake. Follow me.'

As they sat on comfortable sofas in the large lounge, drinking tea and making small talk, Lanksy was already making mental notes of everything he saw and heard. At some point they would have to lose the lady. That could wait. As he listened, he smiled. The lady in question was at that moment addressing an extremely discomfited Tiny.

'Tiny. That is a most unusual name, my dear, for a big boy like you. How did you come by it, if you pardon my curiosity?'

'Dunno Ma'am. Just happened.'

'How awful for you. I'm sure you must get a terrible ribbing at school.'

'Oh. He gives as good as he gets, Mrs. Brewster. No flies on our Tiny.'

Lanksy came to the rescue; the look on Tiny's face was turning nasty, murderous - the boy would gladly kill the lot of them at that moment.

'I'm very glad to hear it. Now I've got things to do so I'll leave you boys to amuse yourselves. Jonathan, you must show them the bathroom. And feel free to show them your room, the library, garden....'

'Okay, Mum.'

'Guess we could start with my room. Follow me.'

As they trooped upstairs on to the landing, Lanksy noticed that there were keys in most of the doors. He'd already extracted this small fact from Jonathan, but still wanted to see for himself - he had plans for those keys. Jonathan had also mentioned a small house rule affecting visitors on party nights: if they wished to lock themselves in for privacy, the key would have to be taken out of the lock and placed on the bedside cabinet. There was a safety measure to allow access to the rooms in case of fire or other emergency; a locker in the hall had spares for all keys in the property.

'Well this is it.'

As they entered Jonathan's bedroom - complete with single bed, TV, built-in wardrobes, ensuite shower / toilet / sink, writing desk, four or five stand chairs scattered around - Lanksy had a question for his host.

'Could you show me which door is the main bathroom, Jonathan?'

As Jonathan pointed it out, Lanksy darted down the landing like a demon possessed.

'Have to dash. Got the runs. Back in a jiffy. Thanks mate.'

As Jonathan went back in, Lanksy opened the bathroom door a fraction. He had to check the coast was clear. Then, taking out a small box from his pocket, he went over to a door, taking out the key. Pressing the key on a hard paste substance in the box, he made an imprint. He put the key back in the door lock. Repeating this process on one other door, he put the small boxes carefully back in his inside pocket. Returning to the bathroom he took out a small pad and pencil, drew a small diagram of the landing, with X's showing the position of some doors.

'That should do...mmm.'

After some more humming and hawing, he put pencil and pad back in his pocket, before taking out his mobile phone - dialling a number.

Back in Jonathan's room an awkward silence prevailed. Tiny stared at a wall, unwilling to talk, mumbling incoherently to himself, seeming to get more agitated and angry by the second. Jonathan looked across at Dory, perplexed, at a loss what to do. The other looked over to the door, pointing, before,

'I'd love a look round - just a quick one - before our friend comes back from the bathroom, if that's all right with you, Jonathan?'

'Yes. Great idea. Let's go. Ok, Tiny?'

'F..k off, bitches.'

They left the room as Tiny started to rise up from the sofa.

'Is he always like that, Dory?'

'I don't know him at all, I'm afraid. Only met him the other day.'

'You know Lanksy, don't you.'

'A bit. I know his brother better. He goes to my school.'

About five minutes later it happened.

Looking at a sumptuous 4-poster bed in one of the rooms, Dory took a running jump, landing on it and beckoning Jonathan over.

'Bloody hell. This feels good. Come over here and lie beside me, like a dirty old couple. Bet this baby has seen some fun - if only it could talk, eh?'

As they lay there, Dory suddenly rolled on top of his new-found friend. At first Jonathan struggled, but soon found himself becoming aroused as he felt the other's hard member pressing up and down on him. Then, with eyes closed, he felt lips pressing on his...he was melting...felt his trousers being unfastened somehow...pulled down...

A door banged. Someone - Lanksy - was whistling outside on the landing.

'Good grief. Sorry. Don't know what came over me.'

'Dunno myself. Let's get the hell back to them before....'

Jonathan was a mixture of emotions...seething...frustrated somehow...elated nevertheless...his time would come...soon.

'Found it OK, then?'

'Yeah. Fine. No problems. Where were you two gallivanters, then? Tiny here thought you'd both done a runner as you'd found his company so terribly stimulating.'

'F..k off, Lanksy.'

Jonathan felt relieved at Lanksy's light mood. Tiny's company might be many things, he was thinking, ruefully, but stimulating - that really took the biscuit. Even Tiny, himself, was now looking likely to have a fit at the very thought of it.

'Just showing Dory round the place.'

As they chatted, Jonathan decided to show them round outside. In due course, they were taken round the greenhouse, large shed, lawn and ornamental flower beds, before finishing up in the outdoor conservatory - a fifteen foot wide, octagonal glass structure, with central heating pipes and wooden benches round the sides.

'Don't tell me. This is where you do your homework, Jonathan..'

'Sometimes. I come here mostly on bad days, when its wet, to look at the rain and listen to the wind howling. I like that a lot - me inside , tempest outside - I feel close to nature then...just a thin sheet of glass separating....'

'F.....g mad little bastard. You'll be howling back before long. Men in white coats'll come and take you.'

Tiny, as usual, sprinkled words of sympathy and bonhomie all around him.

'Well Jonathan. Think we'll be heading off now. Dory's free again on Saturday, so if it's all right with you, we'll see you then. That right, ain't it, Dory?'

'Yeah. I'd like that.'

'See you all then. Bye.'

As Jonathan saw them off he wondered if he should be happy or sad. The only real blot on his horizon was the ill-tempered and recalcitrant Tiny - as for the rest, he'd just have to wait and see.

* * * * *

X stood at _The Tree_ as the boys came up. He coughed painfully as the pungent, sharp smoke from the skunk weed hit his lungs. God. He'd have to knock this shit on the head and no mistake, or his X years could be severely limited.

'Got the stuff lads?'

Lanksy handed over a memo pad and some small boxes. X opened each one carefully, peered inside before pocketing them. He studied the diagram entries on the pad for what seemed an age. As usual he wanted to make the boys sweat. Other's pain was mother's milk to him. Finally, as if the effort was something he detested, he put the memo away in a pocket.

'See you boys here Saturday. I'll phone you an exact time before then. Scoot.'

* * * * *

April 28th. 2012.

As the four boys came up the drive to _The Stables_ at 6.20, three visitors' cars were lined up, side by side, at the front of the house. A smart Porsche Boxster looked oddly out of place, wedged between a battered old Jaguar on one side, and a Ford Fiesta on the other.

'We get all sorts.'

Jonathan's explanation seemed to amuse Tiny, who burst into a fit of laughter. Nobody asked him what tickled him so much. Best leaving him to it seemed to be everyone's unspoken opinion.

'Hello boys. I say, Jonathan dear, you do know we're having our party, arts get-together, this evening?'

'Yes Mum. The boys will only be stopping for an hour or so.'

'Good. No loud noises or anything. Mind.'

The busy woman was already dashing up the hall to attend to some visitor as the four went upstairs. As they reached the top, they could hear the front door opening.

'Whoa. Just get an eyeful of that - coming in.'

Lanksy, whispering, touched Jonathan lightly on the shoulder.

'Blimey. What a looker. Didn't know that girls like her came to parties at this house', was the latter's reply as his eyes became riveted on the new entrant.

As all four looked down from the landing, the object of their attention - and, no doubt - desires, was walking up the hallway, her 5" high heel shoes making a distinct clip-clopping sound on the tiled floor. Aged 20 or so, 5'8", this girl was dressed to kill - a vision in black - pure minimalist dream. Her shiny item, cut approximately 6" above the knee, with deep V-Neck, revealed the slim figure and pert bum underneath, to perfection.

She looked up - just for a second - seeing the sets of hungry young eyes gazing down on her. She smiled...waved...was gone...forever.

'Wow!'

All four voices sounded in unison - in reverence.

As they sat in Jonathan's room some time later, talking about the party going on downstairs in the lounge, Lanksy suddenly jumped up.

'Feel like stretching my legs. Ready Tiny?'

'Yeah. Can't wait. Where to?'

'Thought of checking the place out a bit more. You and Dory okay here till we get back?'

'Fine. Take as long as you want. I wouldn't go near the lounge or kitchen, though.'

'No problem. Its fresh air I want right now. A wander in the garden - that sort of thing.'

Walking along the landing, Lanksy suddenly stopped at a door, taking out the key. Reaching inside a pocket he took out a small envelope, containing two keys with buff-strung tags, marked X1, X2 and a memo pad. Opening the pad, he looked at a diagram, selected a key and inserted it in the door, turning it round and back again to make sure it worked. Repeating the process on the other door, he pocketed keys and pad before moving on. Going up to another door, he unlocked it, looking round for a moment before walking through.

'What do you think, mate. Let's just put this little parcel behind that lot - there. Ok.'

'Sure you've brought enough? This could take some time.'

'Quite sure. Clear head remember?'

'Suppose. I could murder a can now.'

'Okay. Just one - for now.'

As they sat on boxes, whispering - listening intently for any sounds outside on the landing - their mood lifted a little as the strong lager took hold. Draining the last drop from his can, Lanksy stood up.

'Right then. Let's have a smoko. That conservatory sound good to you?'

'Good as anywhere else, 'spose. Just let me finish this.'

Sitting on a bench, smoking a joint from some weed X had given them, Lanksy started to cough violently, in spasms, retching and bringing up bile.

'Jesus. What bloody shit.'

Recovering shortly, the previously suffering one dragged deeply on the murderous, fat stump between his fingers, feeling the lift - powerful, euphoric. At that moment nothing seemed impossible - the world, women, money - it could, and would, all be his. As he dwelt on delicious thoughts of possible fame, reality TV shows and countless other fantasies racing through his brain, a couple came out of the back door, arm in arm. They looked round for a minute, laughing, took off their shoes and started to walk, barefoot, across the grass.

'Bloody hell, Lanksy. Have you seen who's just come out. Think they're headed this way. Think we'd better do one.'

As Lanksy looked round at the couple, he had a moment of panic. Then an idea.

'Just keep quiet Tiny. I just want an eyeful of that dolly bird if they come in. Then we can leave.'

'You and bloody birds.'

Just then the barefoot strollers came through the door.

'Well hello. And what have we here?'

'What's it to you?'

Lanksy wanted to try out the geezer. Test the old fart.

The middle-aged man looked at them, frowning. He separated from the girl, moved towards where they were sat - his expression unfriendly in the extreme. Lanksy took the hint.

'We were just leaving, Sir'

The old fart had won the encounter. Only by default. Lanksy had bigger fish to fry at this precise moment in time.

'He'd have given you a hiding, I reckon', from Tiny.

'We'll never know. Let's get back to the odd couple upstairs.'

As they went in the back door, some more visitors were arriving - car doors shutting, footsteps on gravel, leather and rubber on tile - all these sounds followed them as they made their way along the hall and up the stairs.

* * * * *

As Jonathan and Dory watched the other two leave the room, Dory excused himself for a moment to answer a call of nature. As Jonathan waited for his new-found friend to finish his ablutions, or whatever, he started thinking, daydreaming, as he lay on the bed.

'Still there?'

Dory was looking down on him...undressed...full erection...perfect Adonis...

'Mind if I lie there beside you? Looks very comfy and enticing.'

'Feel....'

His words were cut off as he felt Dory upon him...his trousers were being pulled down...they were now kissing...feeling every inch of the other's body...hungry...Dory was now entering him...God it hurt...good...he was lost...going...time meant nothing...they'd only started....they'd been at it for ages...again...what?..

* * * * *

'What the...?'

As Lanksy entered, the room in front seemed to fade around the edges - tunnel vision-like - to a single clear image of two naked bodies locked together, the one on top pumping fiercely up and down, whilst grunting like some demon.

'Told you that Jonathan's a mad f..ker.'

Tiny, coming up behind him, felt the need to add a pleasant pennyworth of his own.

As the two startled and highly embarrassed lovers reached for clothes to cover their nakedness, Lanksy put a hand up.

'Carry on ladies. Don't let us stop you. Just came to let you know that Tiny and I will be off now. Okay?'

'Yes..sorry...me too...byee.'

As Lanksy left the room, he had an idea.

'What say we try the conservatory again?'

'You want to get battered? Be my guest.'

'Only if its empty, idiot. Come on.'

As they crept silently down the stairs, the sounds of voices from the lounge seemed louder than before. Crossing the garden, deserted for now, and reaching the conservatory - empty and silent - all boded well for an undisturbed hour or two before the real fun began.

* * * * *

X drove the Harley up Laburnum Drive, past _The Stables_ , and over a dirt track in the woods at the end. Stopping behind some trees, he got off the bike, pushed it on its stand and walked back a short distance towards the end of the drive. This would do nicely. He could see the front of the house, unseen, from behind the tree he was now leaning against. Going back to the bike he took off his helmet, putting it away in one of the panniers, before looking around for somewhere to sit.

'Think I'll plonk my arse on that, for now.'

He went over to the large tree stump a few feet away from the bike. Taking out a spliff, he started to smoke, inhaling deeply, satisfyingly, as the drug took hold. Soon he would have much to think about and do - for now he would enjoy this small peaceful interlude, let his whole mind and body relax...melt.

* * * * *

'Christ. Did you see the time? 8.51. We have to move. Now.'

Lanksy flicked his stub across the conservatory floor.

'Where to now, for f..k's sake?'

'Follow me. And remember. Quiet as a mouse.'

As they moved across the garden and into the house, dull sounds of conversation drifted through from the lounge. They were barely halfway across the hall on their way to the stairs, when the lounge door suddenly opened.

'Hello. Who are you? And what are you doing here at this hour?'

'Sorry, Mrs. B. Me and Tiny, here, are friends of Jonathan's. You met us earlier. We were on our way home ages ago but realised we'd left some things in Jonathan's room. We've just come to collect them, if that's okay with you, dear lady?'

The woman came across, right up to them. Lanksy could smell the alcohol on her breath. This person might be tipsy, but she was sharp as damned nails. He could see that as she looked him straight in the eye, before suddenly focussing her attention on Tiny.

'Ah. I remember. Poor boy. What a name. Are you still getting the stick, dearie?'

'Oh. Tiny's over that, Mrs B. He beats the bad boys who call him names. They don't bother him any longer.'

As Lanksy explained about his friend's 'supposed' troubles, the lady suddenly put her hand on Tiny's shoulder, drawing the latter up close to her as she looked searchingly into his eyes.

'Now Tiny, my dear young boy, you must promise me that you'll never - ever - raise your fists in anger to any of the rude boys when they call you names. You must rise above it. They'll soon get the message that you don't care a toss for their juvenile insults. Understand? Promise?'

'Yes Ma'am. I promise. And I think you're a very nice lady.'

'Thanks for that, Tiny. Now both of you be off and get your things right now, before I change my mind.'

'Thanks, Mrs. B, Ma'am.'

Two voices in unison. Two sets of feet scampering up the stairs as if their life depended on it.

'Whew. That was a close one.'

As they reached the top of the landing, Lanksy headed straight for a door at the end. As they walked along he glanced at each and every door - all had a key in the lock - they were not too late.

'Quiet mate, from now on. Quieter even than before. OK?'

As they went in the small 6' x 6' storeroom, Lanksy switched on the light, closed the door, then pulled out a couple of wooden crates from behind a pile of items.

'These should do nicely. Get your bum on this.'

As Lanksy whispered, he was already looking out through a small gap in the door, which he'd reopened, quietly, just a tiny fraction. Closing it again, he went over to a shelf, rummaged around before pulling out the package he'd stored there earlier. Ripping the brown paper off, he pulled out two cans, handing one to Tiny.

'Get that down your neck. Just wait until I give you the signal before you open it.'

Opening the door, Lanksy peered out through the small crack.

'Now.'

The loud hiss from the two ring-pull cans seemed explosive in the tomb-like quiet of the little room. Lanksy moved his crate into a position where he could observe the landing, keeping the door open just a smidgen. They settled down to wait...sipping...thinking...the alcohol just about taking the edge of the boring, tedious waiting...another can...more waiting...tedium hell...had to stay sufficiently sober...unbearable...

Laughter sound beyond the stairwell. Voices from a couple now on the landing. Lanksy was suddenly fully alert. This was it. Soon... Peering intently, he could see a couple, laughing as they came up the landing, stopping at intervals, hugging tightly and kissing hard as if they wished to devour one another. They stopped at a door, unlocked it and went in, taking the key with them. Lanksy looked at the chart on his memo pad. The room the couple had entered was X2. One down. One to go. It was all beginning to happen. He checked his watch - 10.45 - time had actually flown.

'Not long now, Tiny old mate.'

'About f.....g time, too. I'm fresh out of booze.'

All remained quiet on the landing save for the muffled sounds of laughter from X2. They waited. Nothing. Lanksy looked at his watch. 11.15. More waiting. 11.45. God.

'Here, you take this, Tiny. I've had enough.'

'Thanks. This sodding wait...its doing my f.....g head in..'

They waited more. Lanksy checked his watch for the umpteenth time - 12.10.

Then sounds erupted - unmistakable. A veritable stampede of feet on the stairs.

'Darling, you're so naughty. For a little girl you're simply....'

As Lanksy peered through the crack at the giggling pair, he saw it was the couple he'd encountered earlier, in the conservatory. He pushed the door to, quickly, as there was too much activity on the landing - he must not risk being seen. Anyway, he'd seen the room the giggling pair had entered - X1 - all he had to do now was wait until it all quietened down and the landing became empty once more.

They waited, listening to the intense activity outside, footsteps pounding up and down, doors opening and closing, laughter, shouting. A couple were right now canoodling right outside the storeroom door. Lanksy turned the key, locking himself and Tiny in. The couple walked off, laughing, talking obscenely...suggestively...they entered a room...locked the door...

Silence.

Lanksy tentatively unlocked the door, glancing furtively through the crack; the sounds had stopped suddenly at some point as if everyone had been suddenly whisked away into the ether by some unseen force. They might never have existed. He had to be sure. Opening the door, he stood on the landing outside. An eerie silence prevailed. He took out his phone. Dialled a number.

* * * * *

X checked his watch - 12.34 - he'd just got the call from the boys; told them to wait for his reply. He'd now two calls to make. He dialled a number. Waited...

'Hello. Who's this...office closed...ring me back in the morning...byee.'

The sleepy bastard wasn't going to get off so easy. X dialled again.

'Hello..who the f....'

'Listen to me, you fat slob and don't dare put the phone down again. _Friends of Bruneigh_. Are you ready to listen now?'

'I remember you all right - the cheeky bastard....'

'Well fasten back your lug holes and listen to this....'

As he turned the phone off after his talk with Don Blethyn, X sat down on the tree stump for a moment to think... Barney Gulpin's instructions... he had to get his mind round it all...

He had to be careful with the next call - to Tom Barton. In normal circumstances the police would need a search warrant to do a house raid. He, X, would have to try and convince Tom Barton that paedophile activity involving minors was, at that very moment, taking place at _The Stables._ He would have to insist that _Friends of Bruneigh_ had evidence of a link between regular clandestine activities at _The Stables_ and similar ones at Windale's _Pear Tree Guest House_ \- subject of a successful police raid two months earlier. That raid had been the climax of a year-long investigation; some VIP', TV personalities and lesser worthies were now charged with serious sex offences and awaiting appearances at court in the coming months...

He took out his phone again. Dialled.

'Bruneigh Police. How may we help you?'

'I wish to speak to Sergeant Barton please.'

'And who are you?'

'You can tell him it's _Friends of Bruneigh._ He'll understand.'

Silence.

Raised voices at the other end.

'Tom Barton here. I can tell you right now that I'm not in the mood for cheeky buggers or game players.'

'The pavilion. Game. I think you know very well that we, _Friends of Bruneigh_ , get our facts straight. Now I'm speaking of something equally serious. I've already alerted the press. We, _Friends..._ will be going online with this immediately after our conversation. Do you want to hear what we've got to say or not?'

'I can tell you, right now, that I wouldn't trust a little scoundrel like you as far as I could throw you. I wouldn't put it past you....'

'Listen....'

X cut the officer off and proceeded to tell him of the events unfolding at _The Stables._

As he digested the information after putting the phone down, Tom Barton was in a quandary. He felt wrong-footed; forced into a corner. To do absolutely nothing was not an option. But do what? He'd have to act fast, if he acted at all.

He thought...

He would phone Windale. The delay was unavoidable; he needed to consult with someone there - they'd been through it themselves. They would know what to do.

He dialled.

'Tom Barton here. I was just wondering if I might....'

* * * * *

X was waiting. After the last call he'd injected amphetamine and now, smoking furiously on skunk, he was getting high, ready to rumble. Previous feelings of doubt had evaporated - his confidence now knew no bounds. Whatever was going to happen, he would be ready - a little bit of extra fuel could do no harm.

Taking a can of strong lager from his pocket, he pulled on the ring-pull and started to sip. Soon a warm comforting glow spread through his body; he could comfortably pass any amount of time in this state...waiting would be easy...however long.

Time passed. He lost track. He started to look for stars as they appeared from behind the moving clouds above...distant. He thought about the universe...far away...forever shrouded in mystery...

He barely noticed the cars' silent arrival up the drive. A headlight flashing for a brief second brought him out of his reverie. Now he was alert. He'd already been up to the gates just after midnight, pressed the keys on the pad by the side, opening them, before returning to his covert spot by the tree.

As he watched, dark figures started to emerge from the cars, silently, shutting the doors with barely audible thuds, before going over to the gates. He could now make out six or seven shadows moving around by the open gate; one of them, presumably the leader, was now pointing ahead, then moving.

They were now going through the gates...

X took out his phone. Dialled...

A lone figure was running behind - going through the gates also...

* * * * *

Lanksy had been looking at his watch steadily since phoning X. The suspense was now getting to him; he felt like shouting, swearing, going for a short walk - anything at all would be better than this waiting. Also it was bloody chilly, sitting with no clothes on, and clutching a small holdall and one key.

Then, suddenly, miraculously, his phone started to ring.

'X here. Get moving. Now. No mistakes. Got it?'

'Yeah. Just about given up on you. We're gone as I speak.'

'OK, Tiny. We're on. Got your key and bag. Don't forget either.'

'Not bloody likely. When do we get dressed again. I'm freezing, mate.'

'Soon. No more than five minutes, I'd say.'

As they came out of the storeroom, sounds of footsteps in the hall downstairs could be heard. They had no time to lose. Clutching a small bag each, they ran to the doors, X1 and X2, unlocking them and darting inside, leaving the doors in each room wide open as they entered.

As Lanksy rushed in, naked, switching on the light, a girl screamed at the top of her lungs from the large four-poster bed in the centre of the room. The middle-aged man from before then sat up and started to get out...

'You little bastard....just wait.'

'You've got it wrong, Sir. There's been a break-in. Robbers on their way up the stairs as we speak. Just listen?'

Loud footsteps could, indeed, now be heard charging across the landing towards the bedroom door.

As Tom Barton rushed into the room, he saw the figure of Lanksy, naked as the day he was born, sat between a naked twenty-something year-old girl and a similarly naked, fat gentleman in his late fifties.

'Save me, officer, please...These two....'

Lanksy dived off the bed and lunged towards a small bag, frantically grabbing underpants, trousers...dressing himself...murmuring frightened sounds...thanking the officer.

'Right you two, in the bed there......'

A bright flash from behind. Then another. More in quick succession. Don Blethyn was getting more than he could have dreamed possible, from the phone call earlier. What a scoop.

* * * * *

April 30th. 2012.

Jill Ponsonby sat at her desk, her middle finger drumming on the desk as she looked down at the papers - copy of a police report, early morning copy of the Bruneigh Recorder and small handwritten note from Tom Barton. She picked up the phone.

'Jane. Could you send him straight in, when he arrives, please?'

'Of course. Best of luck, by the way.'

Jane Madley had met Tom Barton earlier that morning shortly after her arrival at work, as he delivered the papers that were, at that moment, consuming her boss. He'd just hinted vaguely at 'some trouble' at _The Stables,_ over the weekend - it was not his place to comment or tittle-tattle, he'd said.

Jill looked at the police report copy...thinking...deciding,...

Reporting Officer: Sergeant Tom Barton.

Date of Report: 28 April 2012

01.13 hrs. Caller reported abuse of minors occurring at property, The Stables. After conferring briefly with colleagues at Windale, myself and party of five set off to investigate. On reaching the gates of said property, we found them to be wide open, as previously indicated by the caller. On entering we proceeded up the stairs to search for the unlawful activity reported to be taking place in one or more of the bedrooms. As we reached the landing we found two doors to be open and moans and cries for help coming from inside. On entering the rooms we found two naked 14 year-old Bruneigh students in compromising positions between two nude adult couples. We checked all further rooms. The two couples were arrested, charged, released on bail to appear in court at some later date. The two boys were taken home. Will be referred for counselling. The owner of the property, Mr Bertram Brewster, was cautioned for allowing his house to be used, however unwittingly, for illicit encounters involving the exploitation of children. Left property at 02.35 hrs. Released the accused at 05.15 hrs. from Bruneigh police station.

T. Barton

A knock on the door - light, timid.

'Come in.'

Jill barked the order in her best stentorian voice.

'Morning Jill. Awfully sorry. Don't quite know where....'

'Cut the crap, Bertie. You've put me in a quite impossible position. Consider yourself suspended - with immediate effect - until a thorough investigation has been carried out. I want you to clear your desk, lockers whatever and leave the premises without further ado.'

'But I wish to explain. I didn't....'

'I'm afraid you'll have to leave that to the investigation team. For myself, I can only say that I'm extremely saddened by this - I would have expected much, much better from you. I find recent events at your house to be truly abhorrent and disgusting. Please leave. Now.'

# Chapter 7

May 7th. 2012.

All is grey...dreamlike...

He walks at a steady pace. Turning into the side street he counts down: sixty-eight, sixty-six...until finding himself opposite number forty-four.

'This is it.'

Traffic noise from the square beyond has now abated to a soft swish; he can collect his thoughts and look about him. The imposing four-storey Georgian building, part of a smart terrace row, looks unobtrusive. Formal and totally in keeping with its neighbours, no hint of activities within are betrayed by this elegant façade, save perhaps the discreet tablet beside an attractive black entrance door. 'Frissons' cut out in elegant brown lettering on white plastic, meaningless to most, tells a true initiate that he has arrived. The man presses a brightly-lit buzzer below the sign. Standing back a bit to wait he suddenly becomes aware of a reflection staring back at him from the highly polished surface. This image is definitely unsettling and seems to mock him with a most unsavoury leer: the owner of such an unfortunate mug would be instantly disowned by any sensible, respectable person; it belongs to someone who is a lost cause and utter sleazebag.

He hears steps approach from inside... silence...nothing...he's made a big mistake coming here somehow...he feels sure about it.

'Jack Branz?', a squeaky voice asks from an intercom set into the wall above the buzzer just as he's beginning to agonise over the next move.

'Correct', he replies.

A jangle of keys, assorted clatter and crunch of locks and bolts, and he finds himself being urgently beckoned inside by a face and hand which materialise behind the slightly opened door.

'Quick, dearie. Madam's in a mood. I'm maid Marian.'

The male voice purrs softly - simpering, camp.

Jack steps inside and finds himself in a bright vestibule with pastel coloured walls and tiled mosaic pattern floor. An archway in front opens into a large lounge with white walls and soft carpeting. A few leather armchairs placed along one side of the room, framed pictures hung on each wall with lights placed just above and an occasional table in the centre with magazines on top complete the reception area.

It has the businesslike look and feel of a modern GP or dental practice with comfort levels on steroids. Here, somewhere in the bowels of the establishment, the well-heeled will be humiliated and forced to grovel for their sins. Even a high court judge will find the sentence of this court is...Guilty. He will confess to his naughtiness, plead for mercy but leave...debased, full of shame, a small man, a mere cipher or baby even. There is a palpable sense of mystery, immorality, hidden danger and curious evil about the whole place.

'Wait here.'

Marian points to the chairs before setting off up a small corridor opposite.

Jack is transfixed by the retreating figure who appears to be dressed as a Roman courtier. He might be a slave or eunuch. He sports a tonsure for hair style and wears a toga fastened behind, revealing tanned bare back, firm cheeky buttocks bulging from a brown leather thong and legs well-toned with rippling calves. He moves away silently on sandalled feet. Visions of swelling members bursting from erotically-styled rubber pouches fill Jack's head.

He dreams on...

Casually glancing round the room he notices an empty alcove on one wall; it has a plaster architrave with fine tracery picked out in delicate strokes of gold and coloured paint. He goes over to read the inscription on a brass plate underneath and mentally translates as he reads the black copperplate Latin characters:

'Stabat Mater dolorosa

Luxta crucem lacrimosa'

(At the cross her station keeping

Stood the mournful Mother weeping).

A statue once stood in the alcove; he can almost see and touch it. He feels the spiritual presence of a group of nuns in silent prayer kneeling where he stands, their saintly, humble offerings cheapened by his sinful presence. He can certainly picture this as a place of communal prayer at certain times and one of silent private contemplation at others. The rich deep carpet underfoot is now wrong.

He sees back...back to a former time. Bare floorboards and kneelers complete with missals and prayer-books appear, arranged in neat rows. Nuns in black habits hold rosary beads and pray with bowed heads. This sacred silence is only broken by the occasional swish of cotton on wood, squeak of leather shoe on polish - as genuflecting worshippers enter or exit the room - or by the pure clear sounds of a choir at evensong. The smell is of beeswax on polished pine.

The strident ring of a telephone interrupts his musings. Musky smells of the boudoir fill the air; he feels horny arousal and no real sadness or regret for the grotesque change to the place's raison d'être or his participation in such change; just the vague sense of guilt a hangman maybe feels as he drops the fateful platform...

A soft sound of shoe on carpet.

Frightening dominatrix.

He is now looking directly up into the face of an Amazon. This lady towers over him; she stands at six feet four inches in her five-inch-heel tan leather Louboutins. Everything about her is magnificent. Her body has the toned look of an athlete; the look is voluptuous rather than slender. Her face and colour are pure West Indian, sans full lips; long jet-black hair drops luxuriantly on a diaphanous pearl-grey silk blouse which provocatively displays the shape of large firm breasts underneath. Skimpy but stylish black leather hot pants sit atop long legs which show a faint ripple of muscle around the thighs suggesting power... lots of it. This lady is something else altogether - awe inspiring...frightening even. If she wore perfume a mere whiff would surely drop whole platoons of Boadiceans in stupor at her very feet.

This magnificent creature looks down on him with a look of utter disdain.

'I want capable slaves, not pitiful piss artists. But if you behave and pay double...who knows...?'

The lady disappears - floats off into the distance...

He looks round.

The smart waiting room is now changing...dissolving before his eyes.

A strange bent creature is coming towards him - beckoning.

The creature's on fire.

Pulling him.

Down.

He struggles to get free.

He's powerless.

Cries....

* * * * *

...'Jack....Jack.' Wake up.' .

Sprawled out on a large leather armchair in the Town Hall lobby, he came to suddenly as he felt someone shaking him.

'Wh...what...sorry...'

He'd been waiting for Tina and Monique...

Remembered...

Looking up at one point...

A young African woman was entering through the glass door entrance. Tall, shapely and dressed in a short black leather jacket, red mini skirt and elaborate high wedges, matching the skirt, this paragon of beauty caught his drooling, craving stare as she glanced over in his direction...

She smiled...waved gaily at him. Nothing else. She disappeared round a corner out of sight...

As he watched her go...something about her...his mind had begun to drift...away...

* * * * *

'Ready then, O husband of mine. Shopping? With Monique - remember?'

'Of course, darling wife. But must I really forgo the pleasure of beholding you for the rest of the day?'

'You must.'

Tina hugged him.

'Now then. Off with the pair of you.'

'Ah, cher Jack. Pauvre enfant. You are so cruel, Tina. Méchant fille.'

As he looked at the two ladies before him, Jack could not help bursting into a fit of laughter. Tina - statuesque, tall, dressed in a sharp pinstripe business suit, standing beside the rotund, eccentric Frenchwoman, now sporting some outrageous black and white striped onesie - seemed like some strict matron beside her most incorrigible pupil.

'I'll meshant feel you - French filly. I now leave both of you to do a thoroughly good shop. I shall expect nothing but the best of French cuisine awaiting me when I return at 5 this evening. That should give you something to laugh about, husband. Okay children. Bye.'

'Bye. Tina.'

Two voices, in unison, spoke - looking admiringly at the departing figure - as one.

Grabbing her large rucksack and slinging it carelessly over her shoulder, Tina left, striding purposefully and confidently; she didn't do small - she was tall and acted accordingly.

'Quelle merveilleuse femme. You are a lucky man Jack. N'est-ce pas?'

'True Monique. Without her I could not exist.'

'Bon. And now you must show me the shops at Bruneigh and Windale. I drive. Okay with you?'

'That would suit me fine. I think we'll try Windale first. There's a rather nice delicatessen just opened up in one of the quaint side-streets which should suit our purposes nicely. I seem to recall some interesting French....'

As they drove, listening to Monique, Jack felt pleasantly at peace. Her accent and jovial manner reminded him of pleasant times at _Chataigniers_ when both he and Tina had stayed as guests on short week or weekend breaks.

'I'm really glad you're here, Monique. I'm just sorry I'm a bit....'

'Don't worry chérie. I'm glad to be of help.'

* * * * *

Jill looked up from the seat in a window alcove as Tina approached.

'Good choice, girl - the seat, I mean.'

'It's a bit more private, I thought. These city centre pubs have ears. You never know....'

'True. I believe you got a call today from the police about events up at _The Stables._ No charges. It all seems very odd, mysterious...'

'I'm still struggling to understand it all, Tina. Tom Barton rang me as soon as I got in my office this morning and gave me a full account of what transpired after that awful night. The affair with the two boys - mischievous miscreants of the first order, I might add - was a set-up, arranged by some persons unknown, but going under the pseudonym, _Friends of Bruneigh._ Mrs. Dorit, mother of one of the boys - nicknamed Lanksy - apparently went into a rage when she found out the truth of her son's involvement with these _Friends._ She knew about them and their shady, sinister dealings - this gang of hoodlums were dangerous and best to be avoided at all costs - the whole estate knew this - sometimes to their cost.'

'So she got her son to own up?'

'Yes. She's had dealings with them herself - something to do with money - got thoroughly frightened. She told Tom Barton she'd sooner die if it meant preventing her son from having dealings with them and she certainly didn't want to see an innocent teacher lose his job, if she could help prevent such a miscarriage of justice.'

'Are any of these _Friends_ going to be charged - brought to book, face the music?'

'Just one. He's been cautioned for wasting police time.'

'Too easy. Who knows what else they could....'

Tina mused for a while as she digested the information. Could her own Jack have been a target...mmm...she wondered...

'And what about Bertie? Is he going to get his job back? This whole thing stinks to high heaven. God. If I had my way, I'd just love to be the judge of old, who put the black cap on, and uttered the words - you have been found guilty and will be taken to a place of execution, where you will be hanged by the neck, until dead - this lot deserves that sort of summary justice, as far as I'm concerned.'

'Well Tina, I'm in agreement with you to a point. As regards Bertie, I'll do my best when I see the Board on Wednesday - I most certainly don't want to lose an excellent teacher like him.'

'I'd give the fellow a really good talking-to about these parties of his - I'd be only too willing to do this for you if you want to bring him to Gurnings.'

Jill laughed, in spite of herself, as an image popped into her head of the formidable, Boadicean figure of her friend upbraiding, the small, rotund Art teacher, lecturing him on his ways - finger pointing down at him like some rather grim and proper lady of the house before an unfortunate chambermaid.

'What's so funny girl? Spill.'

'Oh Tina. I could just see you and him together. Its just too....'

As she burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, Tina looked on, bemused.

'I'd really like to see this guy. Drum some sense into him. He should be reinstated, in my opinion. And now let's get some serious glasses of vino down our necks before our dear friend, Monique, takes charge of our stomachs later on.'

'God yes. I was nearly forgetting....'

As they walked through the hallway at Gurnings at 6 p.m, delicious smells from the kitchen filled the nostril...tempted the palate. Suddenly a woman started shouting. Loud, in a French accent, the unmistakable tones of Monique rang out, seeming to come nearer, as the laughing figure of Marcel shot past them, on his way out of the kitchen, followed by a frightening figure in white, brandishing a large rolling pin.

'Lourdaud stupide. Âne maladroit. You dare make fun in my kitchen..'

As she saw Tina and Jill, Monique rushed forward, tears in her eyes.

'Ah Tina. I am desolated. That Marcel. Fingers in the flour. Sale chien..'

As Tina grabbed her 'desolated' friend in a mighty hug, consoling her, Jill sat down on one of the chairs, exploding into laughter, rocking back and forth.

'I think our friend Jill here is now in a state. What can I do with you both? One crying like a baby - the other laughing their head off like a maniac - eh, Monique?'

As she spoke, Tina grinned knowingly at the beleaguered chef.

'Ah Tina, my friend. I just try my best. Hope you like it. 7 okay with you?'

'7 p.m. will be fine. And don't worry. Is Madeleine helping you?'

'Yes. She is a true angel.'

As they went in the lounge, Marcel came towards them.

'So very sorry, ladies. I'm afraid I was playing the pranks on our friend in the kitchen. I had to escape - hope to live another day. Si?'

'We'll see, Marcel. No more pranks now or you'll have me to answer to. For the moment I'll leave you to keep Jill entertained.'

At 7 precisely a gong sounded from the kitchen.

'Wow.'

As they came in, exotic herbal aromas wafted round their noses, teasing and tantalising the palate, as they took their seats at one end of the long oak table. A flute of champagne and a plate of soup faced each person.

'Glass of _Kir_ and French onion soup. Please to enjoy my simple _ap_ é _ritif and entr_ ée, everyone.'

Monique looked round, raising her glass. All followed, raising theirs in a toast.

Soon the soup plates were empty, taken away and large plates of steaming Boeuf Bourguignon - the main course, _Plat Principal -_ brought to table by Monique and Madeleine. Marcel fetched bottles of red wine - Boschendal Lanoy Cabernet Sauvignon - uncorking and placing a bottle before each diner.

'He's forgiven, I see', from Tina.

'Pour l'instant. For now - I forgive.'

A smiling Monique looked round at the grunts and exclamations of appreciation coming from the diners - they were enjoying their meal, so she was content, her efforts were paying off. As she continued her gaze, she noticed Marcel and Jill exchanging glances, whispering, as they sat side by side.

'Ce qui se passé ici? Fresh romance?'

Monique spoke sotto voce, her mind lingering for a second on the couple. Duty called as she looked round at the rapidly emptying plates.

'Marcel. Madeleine.'

'Yes Monique?'

Two voices answered as one.

'Clear these plates. Plateaux de fromages. Vite. Vite.'

'A votre service, madame.'

Soon all diners had a splendid cheese board on the table before them, with a baguette resting on the tablecloth at the side. The wine flowed freely...stimulating appetites...loosening tongues.

'I must say, darling wife, that I shall miss our dear Monique when she leaves. This cheese is brilliant. What was it, Monique, Blue something...'

'Blue d'Avergne, Valency, Explorateur, Epoisses, Tomme de Savoie, Banon. I'll write them down for you, Jack, before I go. Bien?'

'Merci. I'll be forever in your debt.'

'And you, O husband of mine, can go and get said cheeses. I shall expect you to add to your culinary expertise by cooking me a meal - French style - in the manner of today's excellent offering, and presenting a suitable cheese board to accompany it - at times of my choosing. Understood?'

'Clearly, my dear. As ever, your wish is my command.'

Suitably admonished, a smiling Jack was soon tucking into the penultimate course, _Le Dessert,_ sipping wine and laughing to himself. His darling wife, whom he adored, was so, so easy to tease. He could only go so far, though - too far, and her icy glare would freeze him to his core, his very soul.

'And now, mesdames et messieurs, _Le Café,_ your final course, to wash down all you've eaten, will be served in the lounge.'

Monique stood up...waited...

As they drifted out, Jill started to pick up plates...

'Leave those where they are, girl. Come with me.'

'But I just wanted to help. I mean....'

'Come with me. Now.'

As a bemused Jill followed Tina out of the room, Tina explained.

'Monique made it clear to me that only herself and Madeleine were going to do the washing up. She was adamant. I love her to death and don't want to offend her. Clear?'

'As crystal. I didn't mean....'

'Don't worry. To the lounge girl.'

Later, after coffee, Jill went for a stroll outside. She wanted to get away for a moment, collect her thoughts. The effects of the wine and the rich meal - wonderful though it was \- made her feel bloated. She felt a heaviness, slight nausea and her head started to spin as she reached the bottom of the tree house. Sitting on the bottom step, she leaned forward, started to retch...

'Bon, ma fille. Get it all out, Jill...Better?'

'Yes....I think I'll just....'

She vomited again. Waited. The spasms of nausea were over.

Marcel was beside her, concern written in every line of his handsome, careworn face.

'Take your time. The meal was very heavy. Also maybe you had too much wine. Non?'

'I should blame you for that. You kept topping me up. Trying to chat me up. Non?'

'True. I am caught out now for the scoundrel that I am. N'est-ce pas?'

'Help me up these stairs then, Monsieur Scoundrel. I feel like a quiet chat, far away from the madding crowd - for the next hour or so.'

'A votre service, mon cher.'

* * * * *

May 10th. 2012.

The phone started to ring. She had much to do, people to see. The damned phone could wait.

Brr. Brr. Brr. Brr. Brr. Brr.

The person was insistent. Angrily she picked up the handset, put it to her ear.

'Jill Ponsonby here. How may I help you?'

'Lady Carruthers here. Oh I say. So awfully glad to have got hold of you, my dear. Regarding your correspondence concerning Mr. Brewster, I am pleased to inform you that I concur with your own conclusions on the matter. I've had words with members of the Board and put all the relevant facts before them. They agree that reinstatement is appropriate at this moment in time, given the problems of finding a suitable replacement anytime soon. The strong case you put forward on his behalf - excellent academic results achieved by his students - was decisive. We leave it to you, however, to advise him, in the strongest possible terms, that any further activities at his home, liable to affect the school's image, will not be tolerated. I hope I've made myself clear.'

'Perfectly, Lady Carruthers - and thanks.'

'Byee.'

As she put the phone down, Jane Madley came in with a large, steaming coffee, placing the beaker down on the desk.

'Is that who I think it was, Jill?'

'Yes. He's safe - for now. I've got to give him a jolly good dressing down though.'

'From what I hear, he might just enjoy that.'

As they both laughed, Jill got out of her chair and walked over to the window, standing beside Jane. As they looked out on the large school yard, now thronging with students released for the morning break, Jane suddenly grabbed her friend's arm.

'Look down there, Jill - those two just inside the school gates. I've seen the small, stocky one before.'

As Jill looked in the direction indicated, she saw the two.

'Baz Gulpin - that's the stocky one, Jane. Don't know the taller one. He's stooped, bent or something. Looks to be deformed. Yes, a strange boy. Neither of those two should be here. I'll have a word with Joe to get them removed, in a minute.'

'Do you see who our new arrivals are now talking to, Jill? Aren't those the two involved in the scam up at _The Stables.'_

'Damned right they are. I'll get on to Joe straightaway. I'll have him bring those two to my office as soon as he collars them.'

'I'll leave you to it then. Best of luck.'

As she put the phone down after talking to her caretaker, Jill went back to the window. She was now intrigued; Baz had been expelled months before, so what was he doing back in the playground, bold as brass, in apparent cahoots with two known mischief-makers? She'd get whatever this was, nipped in the bud. Small incidents, left alone, could fester, like some malignant cancer - bringing chaos and possible disaster, further down the line.

As she looked, she could now see Joe advancing on the four. Two, - the deformed one and Baz - were running off, as Joe grabbed the remaining two by the shoulder. He was now bringing them inside the building.

She picked up the phone. Dialled.

'Emmeline Brewster. How may I be of help, dear?'

The sultry tones of the woman jarred on her senses - irritated her.

'Mrs. Ponsonby here. I wish to speak to your husband. Now please!'

'Oh, Mrs P. So nice to....'

Her vacuous utterings were abruptly cut off.

Mumblings at the other end. Someone had grabbed the phone.

'Hello Jill. What....'

'I'd like you to come to my office for a little chat - if that's not too much trouble. 4.15 this afternoon?'

She had to sound bossy - authoritative.

'I'll be there.'

The penitent spoke in low, subdued tones. A broken man.

That pleased her.

* * * * *

May 13th. 2012

At 2 p.m. precisely, the back door of the _Owl and Thistle_ opened, disgorging a distinctly merry group of indivduals - men first, boisterous, slapping each other on the back in slurred French and English accents and trying to outdo each other in laddish banter - the women following, in groups of two, three...laughing and pointing at the drunken antics of their menfolk.

'Right now everyone. Ready for it?'

Joseph Coggins egged them on - grinning like some demented devil.

'Teams. Teams. We need teams, Joseph.'

The crowd were fairly braying.

'Calm down dears. Teams you shall have.'

The demented devil looked round. He grinned. Leered. He was up to something - wanted his onlookers to know it.

'As you know, for this game, first we need horseshoes. They are over there. See?'

As the crowd looked across the gravel car park to where he was pointing - now completely devoid of cars - they did indeed see a small pile of rusty iron horse footwear.

'And over there, at the other end - the target. See it, everyone?'

'Yes, Joseph. We see it. Now for the teams. We need teams. Teams. Teams.'

'Okay. It's men versus women. Isn't that just great?'

'Boo...Boo...Boo.'

The women didn't appear to share his enthusiasm, stamping their feet and booing at the top of their voices, before ending with a sustained slow handclap.

'Quiet please, ladies. Now can the following five men come over and stand by me when I call out your names - Marcel, Jack....?'

As each man went over, the women booed loudly, slow handclapping all the while. As the last man was called and went to stand by Joseph, there was a sudden lull in the proceedings. Then, abruptly, with a sign to his team, Joseph led them away, towards the pile of horseshoes.

Loud boos from the crowd - men joining the women - a slow handclap now began in earnest.

'Silence everyone. Vous tous..'

Monique addressed the crowd.

'I want the following ladies to come to my side. À côté de moi. Madeleine, T....'

As the final woman went to stand by her, Monique walked up and down in front of her small line of women, humming and hawing, forefinger to lips, apparently lost in thought. Some men in the crowd started to titter, pointing at the small group of women lined up. Some more joined in. Soon every single man in the crowd seemed to be laughing uproariously, pointing at the women, shaking hands and clapping each other on the back as they did so.

'Women can't count. Women don't amount.'

'Women can't count. Women don't amount.'

Only four women stood beside Monique. She was, indeed, short by one lady. Had a lady dropped out? Had she miscalculated? Surely not. Why then, did she look so distraught...mystified?

'Women can't count. Women don't amount.'

'Women can't count. Women don't amount.'

The chanting from the men continued.

She turned round to face the crowd, waving with both hands to get silence.

'I seem to have a small problem, mes amis. As you can see - I need a lady.'

'Get one dear. Make us cheer.'

'Get one dear. Make us cheer.'

The chanting, pointing, clapping on backs and general mayhem amongst the men continued - louder and lustier than ever.

Waving again for silence, Monique moved her head slowly from side to side - the expression on her face one of purest dejection - crestfallen.

'Can't get any more ladies. Je suis désolé.'

The crowd went quiet. A huge wave of sympathy swept through them as they watched the forlorn and bereft figure standing before them with a team short of numbers - short of hope of any sort.

Then.

Zap.

It happened.

The figure that had stood before them seconds earlier - dolorous, carrying the weight of the whole world's miseries - was changing. The face was breaking into a smile \- now wide...positively beatific.

'Mes amis. I think we may have a solution. N'est-ce pas?'

'Go for it, girl..'

The crowd were now on her side - eager in anticipation.

Monique put her arms round the four girls, in the manner of a coach giving final, vital instructions to the team.

They whispered amongst themselves for a minute or so, before Monique turned back round to face the crowd, flinging both arms in the air - triumphant.

'We have chosen a man. Then we have a full team. Bien.'

A loud clapping followed the announcement. Then...

'Who is the man? Soon to be a girl.'

'Who is the man? Soon to be a girl.'

Monique faced the crowd again.

Lowered her voice.

'He is a very special man. Si?'

She was teasing them and they knew it.

'How is he special, madam?'

A solitary voice from the crowd spoke for the rest.

'All members of my team must wear a skirt. It's a team rule.'

The crowd in the car park erupted into peals of laughter. This was really getting better.

'Our special man. Bugsy Malone. Please come forward.'

Monique now beckoned the figure - leaning nonchalantly against the pub door, smoking - to step forward. Stunned - the dour individual stood where he was.

'I'm not coming anywhere with you. And not wearing no frilly skirts neither. What do you think I am - a bleedin puffter and shirt lifter? You can bugger off. This boy's not for turnin - like the lady politician..'

'Like the lady politician? Come girls we make proper lady politician of our _petit Bugsy,_ n'est-ce pas?'

With no more ado, Monique and the girls walked up to the door where he stood, grabbed him between them before carting the loudly protesting _chosen one_ inside the pub.

'You can't do this. It's a free country....'

Minutes passed.

More minutes.

Everyone waited. All was silent inside the building. No loud protestations or indignant outbursts could be heard.

Nothing.

What was happening? What Machiavellian plans had the ladies in store for the unfortunate misanthrope? Were they _Charons_ bringing him across some sinister _Styx_? As they waited, the small gathering of men and women let their imaginations take flight in all sorts of fanciful scenarios. The very thought...

Then a gasp from someone.

Monique was coming out through the door, followed by Madeleine, another girl, another...

What had happened? Five girls were now standing beside Monique. So where was Bugsy?

'Our saviour. Our late addition. Bugsy please step forward.'

Monique waved to the crowd to join her as she started clapping hard and loud. Then, one of the 'girls' moved forward a step.

'Don't look so bleedin pleased wi yerselves.'

The unmistakable voice of Bugsy came from a most unlikely source - a girl with long blonde hair - until the eye travelled downward somewhat, to stumpy, hairy legs in white trainers.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

'Bugsy. Bugsy. Bugsy.'

'Bugsy. Bugsy. Bugsy.'

'Well then. Now we have our ladies team. Let's begin. Oui?'

Monique addressed Joseph Coggins, as the crowd of onlookers still brayed, pointing at Bugsy and laughing.

'Youse are just jealous you don't look as good as me in a dress. That's what. Bleedin donkeys, the lot of you.'

'Legs so hairy.

Bugsy fairy.'

'Legs so hairy.

Bugsy fairy.'

'Silence. Let the games begin. Let's toss for who throws first. Okay Monique?'

'Oui. Go ahead. Whoever wins the toss doesn't matter to us. We're going to win anyway. Right girls?'

As the clang of metal shoe on iron pole got under way to ohs and ahs from the crowd, one mutant, hairy-legged contestant might have appeared to a casual observer as dour, reluctant, entirely out of sorts and not in the least happy in his role. This casual observer, however, would have missed the secret smile on the face of said mutant. Bugsy always the misanthrope, always dour, nevertheless managed at all times to secure a front seat when the _Chataigniers_ visitors were in town. Perhaps he'd now bagged the best front seat ever.

* * * * *

May 14th. 2012.

At 5.45 precisely, the coach set off from the _Owl and Thistle_. The mood was sombre as tearful faces looked out from the windows and waved goodbye to the small group assembled in the car park. The dull grey morning and darkening sky seemed in keeping, somehow, with the spirits of the departing _Chataigniers_ group and the well-wishers waving them off. It was sad but - there was always next year. Vive l'année prochaine!

# Chapter 8

May 21st. 2012.

X stood at _The Tree_. He'd just arrived. As he looked around, drawing deeply on a stumpy rolled cigarette and filling his lungs with toxic smoke, he thought of the many times he'd been here, at this very spot, waiting to do business of one sort or another.

'Should have a brass plate with my name on this bleeding tree - amount of times I come here. And why not? I deserve a plate just as much as those f..kers with names on statues and benches in the town. Could just see:

X, didn't give a toss

Didn't have no hope

F.....g sold good dope

Yep. That would do me nicely.'

He laughed, coughed violently, in spasms, bringing up phlegm and spitting the green putrid essence as far from his body as possible, as if it were some evil spirit or unearthly canker out to destroy and devour his body and soul at the same time. As the fit subsided, he went over to the Harley - stood on its stand and hidden snugly behind a garden wall - and took a small plastic carrier bag from the pannier. Checking the contents for a minute or so, he went over to a tree stump and sat down to wait, checking his watch. 8.45 a.m. Time for a 'hair of the dog' to take his mind off things. Taking a can from his jacket pocket, he opened it and started sipping...thinking...

'Hello. Anybody there?

'Hello.....'

Somebody was calling.

'Keep the f.....g racket down, you little bastards. What kept you so long?'

X looked at his watch again. 8.53. Blimey, the little buggers were right on time. He wouldn't thank or praise them.

'Might just give the little frickers ideas. Treat 'em rough, keep 'em scared.'

He muttered under his breath his sworn conviction about dealing with relative minors.

'Sorry mister. We didn't see you there. What's the...'

'Listen, both of you, and listen hard...'

After five minutes X and Lanksy left the clearing beside _The Tree_ and walked the short distance to Belchers Drive before joining the throng of pupils now arriving at the school gates. Tiny stayed at _The Tree,_ watching the Harley. He opened a can and started sipping. He shouldn't have very long to wait.

As they entered the school, X behind Lanksy, they followed a group of girls heading towards the cloakrooms. At a point in the corridor, just as the girls turned left, Lanksy opened the door to a small room with buckets, mops and all sorts of cleaning paraphernalia strewn about inside.

'Is this okay, mister?'

X shut the door, leaving it slightly ajar. He was now peering through the small gap, where he found he had a clear view of all the girls entering the cloakroom.

'Spot seems okay. Now it's up to you. You know what you have to do. I want a good clear photo of the girl I told you about - a good, clear picture of her face; another of her back, her arse, her hair. Everything. Got it?'

'Yeah. No problems.'

'Right. Use this mobile. I'll meet you at _The Tree_ at 4. Don't let me down, now. OK.'

'I know how to take a bleedin photo. Its only...'

'Cut the crap, you little twerp. If you don't get it right, you know what'll be coming to you. Got that?'

'Yes, mister. Sorry.'

Minutes later, a relieved Tiny saw X come towards him.

'You can go now. Take this.'

'Thanks, mister. That's great. I...'

'Buzz off with you. Now!'

As Tiny looked at the three £20 notes in his hand, he grinned. He was only too happy to buzz off.

* * * * *

Tina rushed in the pub, unzipping her Haglof and shaking the garment furiously as she looked around and made her way to a leather upholstered bench running along one of the walls. Taking off her dripping rucksack and dropping it with a resounding thud on the carpet, she then peeled off the jacket, throwing it down on a table, before advancing on the bar, muttering out loud.

'Goddamn bloody weather.'

'And good day to you, too.'

A small, fearful man sitting at a table beside the dripping items, muttered silently. The tall, striking woman in sharp charcoal-grey pinstripe suit didn't look like someone to trifle with, as she looked severely at the barman and ordered a drink. As she came back to her seat with two drinks, he made a quick mental note, before busying himself with an intense scrutiny of his own pint of _Foresters Best_ \- better not be caught snooping.

As she sat down, Tina grabbed her jacket off the table and dropped it over the rucksack, looking round as she did so and smiling at the strange little man who was glancing in her direction.

'Simply awful weather, don't you think?'

Tina grinned as she spoke.

'Ha...ha...have to agree with you madam.'

The little man cleared his throat as he got out his reply. He looked agitated.

'Ah well, I see my friend's just arrived. It's all beginning to look up - even the weather. What do you think, my friend?'

'Ahh..oh yes, ma'am, sure.'

'Jill. Jill. Over here.'

As Jill came over, shaking raindrops from her umbrella before sitting down, Tina reached down, opened her rucksack and brought out a small sheet of paper, laying it on the table before her - blank side up.

'When you get a couple of slugs down your throat, girl - not before.'

'What, Tina...?'

'All in good time. Its only 1.15 p.m. Drink up.'

Later, as the two friends finished putting the world to rights between them, a point was reached...

The blank sheet of paper was still there...like a presence...ominous...harbinger of bad, not glad tidings...one of them knew...the other had now to be told...

'Best get on with it. What do you say? Ready?'

'As ever I will be, I suppose.'

As she read the bad handwritten scrawl, Jill gasped.

'Unbelievable. What the...?'

'Read it through first. Then we'll talk.'

Dear Madame...

We, Friends of Bruneigh

Want to warn you.

And promise its true.

You're sending your child

To a school truly wild

Drugs at the gates and

Some poppers so grand

Their heads will explode

In the coolest damn mode

Just so you know

A Friend's let you know.

Byee

'Mmm. How many of these were sent?'

'Six. Each of the French parents on the new list. Monique was extremely upset and asked me to look into the matter and help you, if I can.'

'Might be a coincidence, but a copy of that list disappeared from my desk one day, amongst other things. Could someone from that group _Friends_ , or whatever, have been the thief on the day, I wonder? Otherwise how did all six parents manage to receive this poisonous mail?'

'Did you report the theft to anyone?'

'Oh yes. Fortunately all information on the stolen items is already on the computer hard drive. Jane Madley has been very busy asking around the school. We've both been trying to work out what could be the likely cause of the group's vendetta against the school, the pavilion fire, _The Stables_ fiasco - now these strange letters.'

'What about calling those awful two, Lanksy and his mate, in to your office for a 'not so friendly' chat...frighten the devils...find out some more...'

'Good idea, Tina. I'll arrange for Tom Barton to come and interview them in my office tomorrow sometime. I'm sure he would be more than willing.'

'Good. I'll leave it with you, girl. By the way, great news about Marcel...'

'Oh yes. I do believe I have both you and Monique to thank for getting him to prolong his stay at Gurnings. With you two ganging up on him, the poor man didn't stand a chance. Thanks anyway. I'll be delighted to have him to myself for a bit longer.'

'Go for it, girl. I certainly would, in your shoes. He's a regular hunk - and a gentleman to boot.'

They chatted on...

* * * * *

May 23rd. 2012.

'Liebling. Pizza zum Abendessen. Ordnung mit dir?'

( Darling. Pizza for supper. Okay with you? )

The young couple were deep in conversation, walking along the forest path, as he emerged, breathless, from the trees.

'Guten Abend.'

(Good evening)

'Guten Abend sie zu.'

(Good evening to you, too)

He waved cheerily and walked on - in the opposite direction. It was getting darker as he glanced at his watch - 7.45 p.m. He knew he had to get to a town or village in the next hour or so as tiredness and fatigue were setting in. He was feeling hungry also. Bright car headlights appeared somewhere up ahead, so he lowered his eyes to cut out the blinding glare as the vehicle approached.

'Zhooshh...'

'Goddamn bloody...'

As it sped past, the wheels had splashed water from a puddle in the road, drenching his trouser legs up to the knee. Cursing again and waving futilely at the fast disappearing car, he turned back and carried on walking.

He could not remember why he was here. Vaguely he recalled leaving the hotel in....g for a stroll earlier on. He'd wandered into the woods off......strabe, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the setting, as he wondered if perchance he might be lucky enough to encounter a Kolkrabe raven, Dreizehenspecht woodpecker or any of the other rare animals he'd heard about in the hotel. So far all he'd seen were the two walkers and the car.

What was the strange little building, barely discernible in the gloom up ahead? As he drew near he saw it was a tiny church, set back a little from the road in a small clearing. Going up to the door, he saw it was open - slightly ajar.

'Might as well have a look. I could ask for directions if anyone's inside.'

Then something amazing happened.

As he walked through the door, he found himself in a huge, brightly-lit cathedral. A nave with high vaulted ceiling stretched away in front, ending at an altar with transepts on either side. He began to make his way up the central aisle of the nave, his shoes clip-clopping on the marble floor and echoing away into the far reaches of the building. What had happened? What tricks of the eye were being played on him? He was sure he'd seen an extremely small church coming up the forest road. Now this?

Then he saw something else.

A cowled figure knelt, with elbows leaning on the back of a pew, near the altar.

Looking at the figure, he decided to stop and sit down for a few minutes. He could do with a rest and he didn't want to interrupt prayer or silent contemplation unnecessarily. As he sat there, the silence, at first pleasant, calming and welcome, started to become oppressive, penetrate his head. He'd often enjoyed quiet moments in a church, let his mind wander...sacred thoughts...heaven...things spiritual...eternal. This was different in some way.

The figure moved. Turned round. Smiled.

'Guten Abend.'

He thought he'd be friendly.

'Why. Good evening to you, too, Sir.'

'How in heavens did you....'

The look of utter mystification must have shown clearly on his face, as the monk signalled him to silence with finger to lips.

'My friend. In this life, all is not necessarily what it seems. There is mystery. I am part of this mystery.'

As he said this, the monk rose from his seat, making a sign of the cross as he did so, before coming down to the seat where the bemused and befuddled man sat.

'Look at me, my son. Tell me what you see.'

As the traveller from the forest looked deep into the eyes of the mysterious hooded figure, a change took place. The benign, benevolent gaze of the seemingly saintly being started to transmogrify, second by second, into the malevolent leer of some satanic fiend. The traveller jumped up in horror. Started to run...run...

He was back on the forest path, still running in terror from the unholy monstrous face - trying to put time and distance between them. He was panting, out of breath, so he slowed down to a brisk walk before stopping.

He listened.

Not a single sound came from the forest depths: no rustling of leaves from a busy rodent or scurrying squirrel as they foraged for food, no chirruping of birds. All around was silent as a tomb; no tender breeze, brushing the cheek, could be heard dancing gently through the trees. Sound, in all its infinite variety and rich, distinct timbres, had fled this place as if it were the cursed refuge of Satan himself.

'Mmmm. Ahhhh....'

He shouted out loud - his voice piercing through the thick silent depths, like some finely-honed rapier slicing cleanly through flesh.

He shouted again.

The clear, sharp sound - echoing - was surely teasing some dark god from demon slumber. He moved on. He didn't dare wake some such god, run the gauntlet of avenging angels sent to seek him out, slice...

He didn't want to think any more of these dark thoughts.

Looking up ahead, in the darkening gloom - now almost opaque - he saw a dark shape across the road, reaching up to a level with the highest trees. As he drew nearer it seemed to loom menacingly, get bigger.

He slowed down.

Came to a stop.

Peering at the large, grey, amorphous shape, he noticed a small dark spot at its bottom. Moving on again, the mysterious shape and dark spot eventually materialised into a large hill or mountain, straddling the forest road, with a tunnel running underneath.

'Wow.'

He started to enter the tunnel, taking care to keep to a narrow footpath running along one side. As he moved on in, visibility dropped to zero - total blackness and deafening silence would be his companions whilst he negotiated his way through this dark, serpentine maze. He proceeded, step by step, touching the slimy, wet sides at intervals.

He stopped suddenly.

'Brrrr...brrr....'

The sound came first, then bright lights. A vehicle was coming down the tunnel.

He jumped for joy.

As the vehicle - an open-top convertible - zoomed up, he started to wave his arms exuberantly, from side to side, to get the driver's attention. He wanted to get some directions to the nearest town or village as his body was becoming weak with hunger; food and shelter for the night was vital at this stage.

'Stop. Stop. Please. Please.'

He started to roar.

The occupants of the car must have been fairly shaken to see the figure waving madly in the glare of the headlights. White-faced, like some ghost, and shouting like a demented devil, he looked like someone high on alcohol or drugs - best to be avoided. Putting his foot down hard on the accelerator, the young driver zoomed past, as his friend, a young 'man about town' type or 'blade', leaned out of the car, giving the insulting two-finger sign and shouting,

'Sich verpissen Hündin.'

(F..k off, bitch)

As the car sped off, with the two occupants, driver and passenger, laughing loudly, the solitary traveller sat down against the damp, slimy wall of the tunnel. Tears started to fall down his cheeks, he closed his eyes - he felt battered, beaten and hungry. But he couldn't stay here; he had to find somewhere for the night. Rising up, he started to walk...

It seemed to go on and on, forever, as he stumbled blindly, his hand slipping off the slimy, cold wall at times as he reached to steady himself. With strength failing fast, he had to stop at intervals to shake and massage a leg, now beginning to cramp badly. Involuntarily, he found himself licking the moisture from his wet hand to ease lips and throat, now feeling dry as cardboard.

'Christ, what bloody muck.'

It was putrid. He'd have to wait.

Then hope.

A tiny spot of light, way, way down at the far end of the tunnel.

His spirits lifted as he groped his way forward. In next to no time, it seemed, he could see clearly ahead \- the tunnel walls with water dripping off growths of moss, lichens and general algae, to begin with - were now becoming drier with each step he took.

As he came up the final slope out of the tunnel, he found himself on a brightly-lit street, with tall three and four-storey buildings, painted in white, on either side of the road. Up ahead, at a crossroads, he could see the odd bit of traffic.

Stillness prevailed.

The only sounds he could hear were his own footsteps on the hard pavement. He had the odd sensation that this sound was from another world - another place. Reaching the crossroads, he turned left, and started to walk up the wide, busy-looking road, with houses, similar to the ones he'd seen earlier, on either side. Cars whizzed past, going in both directions, up and down.

As he looked round, something began to dawn on him - three things, in fact.

There were no people to be seen.

There were no sounds, apart from his that of his own footsteps.

No smells.

As the cars moved past him, he noticed all windows were darkly tinted, with no sign of drivers or passengers. They moved normally, smoke coming from exhausts, silent as tombs...odourless...ghostlike.

He desperately needed some food. He'd have to talk to someone. Was a living, breathing person behind one of the darkened windows of the cars now swishing silently past him?

'Hi. Anyone there?'

He waited, as he put his hands up and waved at each car passing him.

No response.

The cars went silently by as before. To them, he didn't appear to exist - to matter at all. He thought to himself. Then.

'Hallo. Gute Lente. Helfen Sie mir.'

(Hello. Good people. Help.)

He waited once more.

Nothing.

Perhaps all in the cars were like the young blades from earlier, in which case he might get more than he bargained for. He decided to move on.

Had to think - find a shop, something.

Reaching another crossroads he stopped.

Go straight on, or turn left, like before?

He looked around. All streets looked the same.

There. Yes.

He suddenly saw it.

A neon sign on a doorway, a hundred yards or so, up the street ahead.

Öffnen Zimmer

Vernünftigen Preisen

(Open. Rooms. Reasonable prices)

He started walking as fast as he could. A great weight seemed lifted off his shoulders. He was going to eat, sleep...live...

Suddenly a voice from somewhere - up above. He looked up.

'Hallo. Da unten. Kommen. Madame will mit dir redden.'

(Hello down there. Come up. Madam wishes to talk to you.)

A young woman leaned over a balcony, looking down at him, her dark-grey dress with white frilly edging, barely containing full, firm, silky-smooth breasts that pressed against the fabric - tantalising him with her womanly fulsomeness...erect nipples...sultry, 'come hither' smile.

His hunger seemed forgotten.

He was becoming aroused.

She saw it.

Beckoning him, with a carefree wave of her hand, she spoke again in a soft, hushed voice - so low he found himself straining to hear the words.

'Tür ist offen. Schieben..'

(Door's open. Push.)

Going forward, he pushed the door and entered...

A dull red glow from lights, recessed in walls, hit his eyes, his senses, with their omnipresence, as he entered. Leaving the bright lights of the street, this murky underworld luminescence seemed to enter his brain - permeate his whole being.

A door to the left, at the foot of the stairs was open. As he glanced sideways, his foot resting on the bottom stair tread, he could see a vague shadow inside the room; this shadow seemed to be coming towards the door.

He waited.

Curious.

As he continued looking, somehow transfixed, a nude figure darted out, grabbed him by the hand, then pulled him towards the room. Stumbling along behind his 'captor' he found himself in a place with lighting so dim it took several seconds before he could see properly.

God.

He darted out faster than he'd entered.

An orgy was taking place in the room he'd left. It was a 'males-only' gathering; men, a dozen, or so, were stood round, penises erect, pleasuring themselves, or coupling - stood up, on the floor, over the edge of chairs. The spirit of Dionysius was rampant, libidos feeding on the sight of so many naked forms and free flowing wine.

He made for the door out of the building; the hunger was returning, so was a feeling of exhaustion.

'Nicht so schnell..'

(Not so fast.).

He felt a hand on his shoulder. What was this monster with hands of steel now gripping him so painfully?

He looked up.

A tall, powerful female looked disdainfully down on him as she released her vice-like hold on his shoulder. With brilliant blonde hair dropping halfway down her back, and a slim, athletic figure, this Aryan goddess was dressed from top to toe in shiny black leather. Apart from the classic contours of smooth, ivory-coloured face, the only other part of her body to be seen were pert, firm breasts, slightly protruding from her jacket.

He wondered what this strong creature of beauty was doing in the place; she had the look of one accidentally finding oneself in totally unforeseen circumstances.

She continued looking at him.

He couldn't decide whether the look was more or less welcoming than before.

'Folge mir..'

(Follow me).

She began walking up the stairs.

He followed.

He didn't know what else to do.

As they climbed, doors off the stairwell were open, revealing scenes of Bacchanalian revelry. In one, female shadows writhed around in a red mist, as dancing, copulating entities or single lost waifs, flailing their arms and bodies to a pounding beat; in another, naked bodies lay sprawled across settees, and chairs, smoking, oblivious to all around them - locked in individual worlds, eyes vacant and staring outwards...upwards...lost...

'Hier. Kommen..'

(In here. Come.).

'What the...!'

The change was startling. Dazzling white light from long fluorescent tubes, recessed in the ceiling of the room behind white plastic mesh, hit his eyes, causing him to blink painfully, as he entered.

'Hungrig. Ja?'

'Yes. Ravenous.'

'I machen Sie Tee und Sandwich.'

(I'll make you tea and a sandwich).

'Thank you. I'm grateful.'

As she went over to a corner to prepare food, he sat down in one of the seats and looked round the room - all spartan white walls, black leather seats, and gleaming stainless steel fittings. A large modern television, fastened to one wall, seemed to glower at him; he couldn't imagine snuggling up or relaxing in front of it, somehow - the chequer-board black and white tiled floor seemed cold...uninviting...

What looked like a doctor's examining bed / table, tilted up at one end, placed against a wall opposite, suddenly took his eye.

Something about it didn't seem right. He looked over, studying it.

'Cripes, not...?'

It wasn't the strong leather straps, going across the bed at top, middle and bottom that had sent a chill through his body.

It was the cruel-looking cat o'nine tails, hanging by a peg from a wooden rail on the wall. Hanging beside it were, assorted thick ropes, handcuffs, and other BDSM items. Other implements he didn't dare think about, he saw laid out neatly on a small shelf beside the bed.

'Jetzt essen..'

(Eat now.)

The woman commanded, as she placed a tray on the coffee table in front of him.

'Bratwurst. Genießen..'

(Bratwurst. Enjoy.).

As the first drop of warm tea hit his throat he felt his parched mouth moisten. He relaxed. As he munched his way through the delicious warm sandwiches, all thoughts of his predicament faded away....for a little time, anyway.

She moved away as he ate.

The only sounds in the room were of his making. All else was silence. The woman stood somewhere behind...watching.

He could feel her presence - her very silence seemed to intensify his awareness of the silent, brooding figure as she watched and waited. He ate fast and furiously - he had to assuage the hunger, come what may.

He ate...listened...began to dread...

'Kommen.'

He got up as ordered and followed her, belching, as the meal he'd eaten so quickly tried to settle. She stopped in front of the bed, pointing at him, indicating he strip off completely by hand gestures that left no doubt in his mind what she wanted him to do.

'Erste, abstreifen alle Kleider, dann liegen auf dem Bett - Arsch in der Luft..'

( First, strip off all clothes, then lie down on the bed - arse in the air.).

'But...what...?'

'Tun Sie es. Keine Argumente.'

( Do it. No arguments ).

As he began peeling off his clothes, he heard mild swishing and clattering sounds behind him - she was undressing also. He carried on, stripping off his tawdry garments, dropping them on the floor in a small pile.

Then he heard it...

A different sound.

Menacing.

His heart started to race, as he stumbled out of his underpants, dropping this last item on top of the miserable little pile.

Swishhhhh.

Crack.

Swishhhh.

Crack.

As he stood, legs and arms atremble, the sound repeated behind him, then round to one side - remorseless, cruel, inevitable, striking fear and consternation through every fibre of his body - before stopping - as suddenly as it had begun.

He didn't dare turn his head to look, but he knew she was to the side of him, that awful instrument of pain and torture held firmly but mercifully silent in the hand of this cruel Aryan mistress.

As he stood trembling uncontrollably, he felt tears dropping. He was crying but felt it was another person's tears now running down his cheek, his chest, running down more...

Then he heard another sound.

Running water.

What could this be?

He looked down to where the sound came from.

The water was coming from him.

He was urinating.

As he looked at the small circle of liquid pooling at his feet, he didn't feel anything.

It couldn't belong to him.

It was there. He tried to think. Could...?

'Schwein. Sie wagen schmutzig meiner Etage. Kinen..'

(Pig. You dare dirty my floor. Kneel.).

'Please....'

As he began to feebly remonstrate, he looked round - saw her, as if for the first time. Gone were the black leathers. The person standing before him wore only the flimsiest of leather thongs and knee-length black leather boots. As his eye travelled over her body, from the hand holding the whip, he marvelled at the powerful sensuality of this superb creature - firm arm muscles, fulsome firm breasts, slim waist, thighs - powerful with muscle, yet feminine, legs hidden in tight boots suggesting more power.

As he looked, his body ached for her. Fear and trepidation, for the moment, was turning into irresistible desire. He was aroused...hard...

She saw it.

Sneered.

'Sie sind nicht wurdig. Freche Spritzen. Kussen meine Stiefel sonst mach ich dich lecken verpissen meiner Etage..'

(You are not worthy. Impudent squirt. Kiss my boots else I make you lick your piss off my floor).

He looked at the woman, shivering, his member throbbing...hard. He would be only too glad to do her bidding. He was her slave - unworthy like she said.

He knelt down.

He started kissing those gorgeous black boots - the footwear of a true conqueror - his conqueror.

'Lecken. Lecken. Sie kriechen Stück Scheiße. Deine Herrin braucht sauberes Stiefel..'

(Lick. Lick. You grovelling piece of shit. Your mistress needs clean boots).

He licked furiously. Quicker and quicker his tongue went over the boots. She turned up her soles so he could lick those also. His tongue went into overdrive, hungry for the smell of the leather, the sensation of tongue on warm animal skin containing goddess foot and ankle.

'Genug. Genug. Jetzt hier küssen.'

(Enough. Enough. Now kiss here).

As he raised his head from the floor, she swivelled round in a flash, exposing firm, round buttocks, the perfect contour of each cheek clearly delineated by the thin leather thong. As he planted wet kisses on each warm, soft mound of ivory flesh, gasping for breath as his excitement grew, she suddenly turned round again.

'Stehen. Tritt mich..'

(Stand. Facing me.).

Obediently he stood before her, as requested.

Grasping his hard penis between her fingers, she stroked, caressed, squeezed. Again...more...

He closed his eyes.

Exploded.

His semen shot out...away. He felt limp...drained...panting still...

'Ich werde ihnen noch einmal sagen. Auf dem Bett..'

(I'll tell you once again. On the bed.).

As he got on the bed and laid down, face up, she slapped hard down on his belly, winding him. As he gasped and wheezed, she roared.

'Arsch in der Luft..'

(Arse in the air.).

Coughing and spluttering, he turned himself over and waited...

The woman came over, grabbed one of the straps, and started pulling it tight.

'Please. No tighter. I can hardly breathe.'

She ignored him - nevertheless, she loosened the strap a notch, before fastening the remaining two straps.

He couldn't move a muscle, but could breathe \- just.

Swishhhhh.

Crack.

Swishhhhh.

Crack.

'No please...no....'

He screamed as the first sharp, stinging lash of the cat o'nine tails caught him right across his buttocks. Instinctively he reached back to feel the area, now throbbing with acute pain, where the whip had struck home. As he pulled his fingers back in front of his face he could see blood dripping from them. If this was the damage from one blow, what terrible damage was about to be inflicted by the end of the session?

Swishhhhh.

Crack.

'Oh. God. Please stop...I beg you...please....'

The whipping began in earnest.

The dreadful pain caused him to scream, scream...

At some point he felt himself drifting away, pain subsiding...he was passing out...

As he began to lose consciousness he found his eyes focussing on her boots. They were changing...doing a dance of their own...blurring in and out of focus...something familiar...they were now trainers...Paul Smith's...somebody was kicking him...he was lying on a piece of ground...pavement, maybe...he was turning round...looking up to see his attacker...tormentor...almost there...a thundering kick...more to come...he started to scream...

'Mate. Hi there, buddy.'

Coming to, the man sat on a bench near the hospital entrance, blinked, then wiped a hand across his face.

'Feeling all right, there, fella?'

'Don't rightly know - but I was bloody glad to get out of where I think I've just been.'

As he looked up, he saw a figure - a tramp - holding a large cider bottle in one hand and shaking him with the other.

'You was well out of it mate, shoutin' and hollerin. Wassa matter wi' ye anyways?'

The reek of stale alcohol and rank sweat filled the man's nostrils as the tramp leant over him, drunkenly swaying from side to side as he did so.

'I'll be all right. Thanks for your concern, Sir. Here, have a drink on me.'

With that, the recumbent figure on the bench reached inside a pocket and pulled out a wallet. Extracting a £10 note, he placed it in the tramp's hand, grabbing the latter's arm tightly as he did so.

'You cared, my friend - you who have nothing. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.'

'Thank ye. You're a genilman. I'll be off now. Ta.'

As the tramp went on his way, whistling merrily, he continued to sit there thinking...

Some secret, locked in his memory, was on a cusp between mystery and revelation. He could almost reach out and touch it. The thought was unsettling, frightening even, like tempting Satan in his very lair.

A rucksack dropped on the ground beside him with a rough plop, making him jump.

'Oh I'm so sorry, darling husband of mine. I'm so thoughtless sometimes.'

As he felt himself being wrapped in a tight hug and kisses from his loving and contrite wife, Jack mellowed. Dark thoughts and mental anguish from some deep, uncharted area within his subconscious mind, faded...dropped away.

'Let's see. Its 11.15. What say we go visit that delicatessen in Windale for a nice relaxing cuppa and tasty exotic salad of your choice?'

As she spoke, Tina stood up, grabbing the rucksack and extending an arm.

'Come.'

'As ever your wish is my command, my dear. Let's go seek fine victuals.'

* * * * *

May 24th. 2012. (Thursday).

The phone rang.

'Jill Ponsonby here. How may I be of help?'

'Ah, cher Jill. So nice to hear your voice. Just a few small....'

The pleasant, precise tones of Claudine Abelin - directrice extraordinaire - came clearly through the headpiece.

'Claudine. I'm so very glad to hear your voice. I'd got to thinking you might never want to speak to, or have anything whatsoever to do with me, after those awful....'

'Chère fille. You must never think I doubt you.'

'But....'

Claudine interrupted, without a moment's hesitation.

'Non. Non. Non. Tout a été réglé - what you say, sorted out. Monique, Madeleine and the Chataigniers group, who all volunteered to help - chacun - have been to the houses to explain about the rude letters. You must not worry.'

'I'm very grateful. I really owe every one of you a big, big apology.'

'Tut. Tut. Jamais. On another matter, my dear, I feel some sort of congratulations might be in order...I am listening...?'

'For what, Claudine? I really don't....'

Jill was truly mystified. What could...?'

'Madeleine tells me she is expecting you to bring a certain Marcel Dupuis when you come for your fortnight's stay with her and Maurice in early August. Am I right, Non?'

'The little imp. Just wait until I see her. Sorry Claudine, I'm just....'

Jill heard laughing down the phone.

'I'm so sorry, my dear. I do believe she wanted to, how you say, 'pull your leg' through me. Seriously, though, if anything were to come from these rumours I've been hearing, I'd be extremely happy for both of you - you'd make a very handsome couple.'

Jill felt herself blushing.

'That's extremely nice of you, Claudine. I must confess I do like Marcel a lot, but its early days and wedding bells are still a long way off - indeed they might never ring, knowing my sort of luck at the moment.'

'Well, my dear. I must go now. You must keep your spirits up. Hope and love conquers all. Peut vaincre l'amour. Bonjour..'

As she put the phone down, Jill found her spirits had indeed lifted. Thoughts of Marcel and a pleasant stay in _Chataigniers_. What more could a girl, or busy headmistress, want? Indeed.

She rested her elbows on the table, head cupped between her hands, for a moment. Why could such happy, carefree moments not last longer...forever...why...?

'Penny for them. Blimey, you look like the cat that's got the cream - all of it. Now there.'

Jane Madley was stood, grinning broadly, before her desk, holding a stack of folders and letters.

'Sorry Jane. I was just daydreaming. I think it's what I do best - to be completely honest. And what is that great pile of drudgery thou bringest me, O Mistress, to make me thy beast of burden? Speak. Most cruel taskmaster.'

'Golly. You really must give me some of what you've been treating yourself to. Poetry too. Well this lot will bring a smile to your face and sweat under your armpits.'

'Oh heavens.'

As she looked at the pile she shivered.

'Cuppa?'

'Yes please, Jane. Strong and sweet as you can make it.'

'Coming up.'

After Jane left, Jill picked up the pile of letters, flicking quickly through them.

'Hmm. What's this?'

As she started slicing through with her letter opener, Jane came back.

'All quiet in the hall when I passed - exams \- you could hear a pin drop.'

'Yes, Jane. We'll soon be having our inspection - Ofsted - I expect Mary and her team sometime soon.'

'Ah yes. Mary Crozier. I quite liked her. Can't say I liked that Wilfrid Sharp - even some of his colleagues called him 'nerdy gaunt Wilfy' - something to do with his nasty way of getting up peoples' noses.'

'Ah well. I suppose it takes all sorts. It can't be - surely not?'

'What is it, dear? You've gone pale.'

As Jill handed Jane the letter she'd just opened and quickly scanned, the latter gasped as she read the familiar, handwritten scrawl:

Dear Madame

Friends of Bruneigh

You must take heed

Bad things have happened

Much worse to come

Very soon.

Your bad, bad school must close

Else much more will be done

A Friend

'I thought we'd heard the last of this damned lot, after the shenanigans up at _The Stables_.'

Jill sat suddenly upright in her seat. Someone - a group, individual, fanatic, she didn't know who - had it in for her. She could not allow this to go on any longer - the culprits, or persons responsible, would have to be found and brought to book quickly, before any further damage to property or reputation was done.

'I'll really need your help, Jane. Are you up for the challenge?'

'Count me in right now. What do you want me to do?'

'I'm not actually sure at the moment. But keep your eyes peeled and your ears to the ground. Anything out of the ordinary - any unusual person, sound, smell, even fart - I want you to tell me about it straightaway. Meanwhile, I'll get on to Joe. I'll have a proper chat with Tina when I get home as we'll definitely need her on board, should anything develop. Okay?'

'You don't even need to ask. I'll get on to it right now - I'll start by getting you another cuppa. You need one.'

'Thanks, Jane. I honestly don't know how I'd be able to manage without you. You're a real treasure.'

* * * * *

X looked at his watch as he came in sight of the _Nags Head,_ a seedy, busy town centre pub frequented by weekend revellers, drug dealers, junkies, prostitutes and other unmentionables.

'9.10 p.m. Mmm. Good. Ten minutes late. Keep the f.....g 'suits' waiting. See the bastards sweat once again. I'd just love to....'

His idiosyncratic ill-humoured mutterings were cut short.

'Hello, dearie. Fancy some fun tonight? I'm hot...horny like you'd never believe....'

As the thirty-something, skimpily dressed tart, with a figure she didn't deserve, came up to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, he immediately recoiled, brushing the hand away.

'What you been suppin, you filthy old bag? Rat's piss? Now bugger off. I'm busy.'

'Oh, you didn't complain about ol' Betsy Keller's breath a week ago. You couldn't wait....'

'Told you, bitch. I'm busy. Maybe later. Yeah? Get some bloody peppermint in the meantime. Now go. F..k off..'

As he entered the dimly-lit pub, now swelled to near capacity, with new arrivals pushing through the swing doors every minute or two, he looked around.

'Over here, old chap. Drink waiting.'

The two men were sat at the usual table in a small alcove - perfect for the conducting of deals, shady or otherwise, where privacy, away from the peering eye and listening ear, was of paramount importance. Dressed in black Nike tracksuits and trainers - white as the driven snow - they looked an unlikely pair, one small, thin as a rake, the other tall and fat, verging on obese. The small one, of this Little and Large duo - the leader - addressed him.

'Now then, young man. Take a seat and have a drink. I've ordered your usual tipple - _Foresters Best_ \- in a tankard. That OK with you?'

'It'll do for now.'

Lifting his tankard to his lips, X savoured the moment, holding the pewter in position, closing his eyes in apparent oblivion, before downing the whole drink in one.

'Same again - then we talk. Yeah?'

'Not a problem. We like to see clever young people enjoy their liquor, don't we, Bertram?'

'Oh, yes Dom. Sure we do.'

With the refilled tankard on the table before him, X took a sip before putting his drink down slowly, carefully, on the table. He was now ready.

The leader looked across at the young man facing him. He'd worked out over the years that humouring the ungainly, uncouth and utterly detestable creature always worked best.

'Now I don't want you to tell Mr. Gulpin Senior, anything of some 'extras' we are about to discuss here. It's to stay strictly between the three of us, for now. Is that clear?'

'Mmm. Not sure...maybe for some extra - in cash, plus cheque as usual. Now get on with it. I haven't got all day. Things to do, people to see. I'm a busy bee. See?'

He burst into a sudden fit of giggling - he always found his own jokes and repartee amusing to the nth degree.

The suit called Bertram looked at the ugly leering misfit, barely able to disguise his distaste and contempt.

'Cheque, note signed by you, as usual for the job, then let's see...Yeah. 500 smackers in my hot little hand - Now.'

'Why, you little....'

Bertram jumped up.

'Sit down.'

The large man obeyed his smaller counterpart. He sat down, fuming, his florid complexion turning a nasty shade of purple.

'Now let's get down to it. Your mission is simple - get very close and personal with the girl - very soon. Think you can manage that?'

'Thought the arrangement was for verbals, bit of harassment, that sort of thing. So you want me to ask her out for a date. Maybe kiss her. Bit of a change there, Mister.'

'No. We want you to f..k the arse off her, good and proper. Do we have to spell it out for you, you sad little....'

The large man had jumped up again, chest heaving, finger pointing menacingly and pushing his chair away from behind - this fat 'suit' looked ready for a scrap and apoplectic fit, all at the same time.

'Think your big melon there better sit down, before someone decides to squash him - big f.....g ape.'

'That's enough - from both of you. Sit down Bertram. Now!'

'So young man. Can you arrange something - give the girl some extra, 'choice', attention of your own?'

As he spoke he slid a small, slim envelope across the table, then pulled out a wallet, peeling some notes from a thick wad, sliding these across also.

'As agreed - plus the extra you asked for. See you soon.'

'Pleasure doing business with you, Mister. Just one more thing, though.'

'What might that be, young fellow?'

'If you bring that f.....g great red-faced bastard with you again, I'll not be answerable for my actions. I'll....'

As he spoke, the big 'suit' jumped up, dived over the table, bringing table, chairs, glasses and himself crashing noisily to the floor.

X, grinning, was already halfway to the door, as he glanced back to see the small mayhem he'd just created. The barman and two burly bouncers were hauling the unfortunate big 'suit' to his feet, as his colleague remonstrated loudly - all to no avail. Both 'suits' were being frogmarched to the door as X left the pub.

As he walked, X took out his phone. Dialled.

'Betsy. You ready?'

'You bet, baby. Could you bring some cans. God I'm horny...ohh....'

'Never mind all that, you filthy slapper. I'll be there after I visit the off-licence.'

A quarter of an hour later, he knocked on a door.

As it opened, the familiar, 'too-good' buxom figure in black stockings, frilly knickers and nothing else, stood before him - smiling.

As she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him hard on the lips, he lifted her through the door, kicking it shut behind him, losing himself in smells of musky perfume and the feel of smooth, warm flesh...intoxicating...decadent...

The following morning he knocked on the front door of a large detached house - a red brick affair with double bay windows, just off the town centre.

He waited.

Listened.

Nothing - no sounds at all from inside.

Checking his watch, 8.45 precisely, he began to worry.

'Just hope....'

As he muttered to himself, he heard footsteps from inside.

'Come in, sonny.'

A large 6' man, towered over him.

'Go sit in the lounge. I'll see you shortly.'

'Okay, Mr. Gulpin, Sir. And thank you.'

As he sank back into one of the deep leather seats he found himself starting to worry more than before. Moving his body to the edge of the seat, he began tapping a nervous rhythm with his feet on the carpet as he looked around him.

'Cup of tea, young X?'

'Tea will be fine, ma'am.'

As he watched the back of the handsome figure retreating towards the kitchen he began wondering...thinking...

Sounds of conversation woke him from his reverie. Then he heard footsteps in the hall. Someone was coming towards the lounge.

'Tea as promised. My - you look like you need it. Are you okay?'

'Fine, ma'am, Mrs. Gulpin. Just a bit queasy. I'll be alright in a minute.'

'Right then. Drink up. I've left you a couple of biscuits to nibble on. Feel free to help yourself.'

In ten minutes or so, an empty cup and plate lay on the coffee table in front of him as he waited once more for the arrival of his host.

'Ah sonny. I see they've been looking after you. Good. Now to business.'

'I think I've done all exactly as you told me to, Mr. Gulpin, Sir.'

As he recounted his conversation / interview with the 'suits' - in full - including the boisterous aftermath, his host laughed out loud, shaking his head and grinning for a few moments as he digested all the information.

'Do you know, youngster, I do believe you're coming along very well - a fine asset. Yes. Good job.'

'I've brought this tape as well, Mr. Gulpin, Sir. It's got all the conversation on it. They gave me this money....'

'Good...good....'

His host was mulling things over. X kept quiet. He had long ago decided it was best to avoid interrupting the big man when the latter was weighing things up in his mind.

'Do not - under any circumstances - molest the girl in any way, without my say-so. Understand? I'll tell you exactly what to do, when the time comes.'

'Perfectly, Mr. Gulpin, Sir.'

'Now then. Keep this money. You've earned it. You can go now.'

As the young man left, Barney Gulpin walked upstairs and entered a room. Going over to a large mahogany desk, he stopped for a moment, took a small bunch of keys from his pocket before opening a drawer. As he deposited the tape, he opened the slim envelope and took out a large Bruneigh Council letterheaded sheet with Bruneigh Borough Council cheque and handwritten note enclosed, allowing a moment or two to study the note:

' _We authorise Friends of Bruneigh to carry out this act..._

Enclosed payment of...£ in pursuance of said...

Signed.

Dominic Saviour (Quantity Surveyor)

Bertram Little (Assistant Surveyor'

'Mmm. Getting these. Like getting blood out of a stone. Gave them no option. Some bastards' heads will roll soon - very soon.'

He grinned ominously as he deposited the cheque and note with similar ones in the drawer, before locking it and putting the keys back in his pocket.

* * * * *

May 26th. 2012. (Saturday).

'Say please.'

The seven year old boy with a posh accent held on to a football, his right foot forward, the expression on his face determined - full of purpose.

'Give that ball back here. Now. You little f....r. Or else I'll show you what for.'

A larger boy with less 'posh' in his accent, looked at the young upstart, and started advancing towards the cheeky squirt with equal determination but more devilish purpose.

'I'll gladly give it to you when you ask politely. Say please.'

'Now you've really done it. Ready...?'

In a flash the bigger boy ran at the other, pushing him to the ground, straddling him. Punches started to rain down on the unfortunate seven year old.

'Enough of that, young fellow. You are nothing but a mannerless bully. Here. Take your ball. Off with you now.'

As the father of the seven year old pulled the bigger boy off his son, sending him off with his ball, he addressed the latter.

'Now then, Raithie, I must tell you about boys like that one.'

'What's that, Daddy? He smells simply awful? His clothes are filthy? His accent is pure gross? What?'

'You must simply avoid his sort at all times. They're just not like us. I mean, look at you - you're clever and always look respectable - even if you're not a great fighter.'

'If you hadn't stepped in when you did, Daddy, I'd have boxed his ears. Yes, good and proper - so there.'

'Ah well, so be it, son. Come. Race you to that tree up ahead.'

As Jill and Marcel, walking along the path, skirting Lake Derwentwater, observed the small cameo performance end, they looked at each other and smiled. Then burst out laughing, as if on cue.

'You know, Marcel, some of these pushy, 'ambitious for their kids' type parents make me laugh sometimes.'

'How you mean, dear Jill? You are of the ambition, Oui?'

'Yes, of course. But some of the parents I'm talking about set themselves deliberately apart.

'How?'

'I'm thinking of a couple I recently encountered, as I was sat in a quiet waiting room at Bruneigh General Hospital. Quiet, that is, before this particular couple entered the room, whereupon their toddler made a headlong dash for some toys laid out on one of the tables, scattering these and some magazines off the table with loud 'Whee. Whee's' before selecting a solitary game box. When they have a toddler, this type of couple can be a downright nuisance to others; they enter a room and proceed to create, as if it is their very birthright, a mini chaos. They're thinking,

' _We're home at this moment, mentally speaking, we're completely oblivious to all the rest of you, now present in the waiting room. You are_ _so not_ _up to our level; just sit there quietly all of you and learn from superior progressives. We will do our proper baby talk to little Jonathan and Persephone. Oh boy. Aren't we doing all you lot of inferior nonentities a big, big favour, letting you see how_ _we_ _bring up our little_ _adults_ _. Excuse me, Sir / Madam, could you just move along a bit so little Jonathan and Persephone can spread this game out'_

You get the picture?'

'Oui. I agree the boy and father we've just seen were acting, similarly - how you say, supérieure, n'est-ce pas?'

'Yes. Thankfully, though, they are the exception. Anyway, enough of this, let's enjoy the pleasure of walking on a beautiful day like this.'

They had decided on a weekend break when Marcel had phoned her around midday, the previous Thursday. At the time, the very thought of putting distance between herself and school problems seemed particularly appealing; the latest letter from the infamous, _Friends of Bruneigh,_ was beginning to get to her - push her towards the edge. A walk had been Marcel's suggestion - an unfailing panacea for minds overburdened by strife and travail - or so he said.

'Marcel. I'll now make a phone call - maybe more than one. Then I'll get back to you, my good friend.'

She'd made the calls - to hotels and guest houses in the Lake District, perfect walking country - both of them were keen walkers, kitted out with waterproofs and boots. Also, they could get there in about two hours by car.

Soon, she found herself talking to Charlotte, a very pleasant lady, proprietress of a small guest house near to the lakeside in Keswick. She booked a twin-bedded room immediately, for the following night - and that was that.

Replete with a full, hearty English breakfast inside them the morning after, they walked into the town centre and made for the Moot Hall, where they browsed through some leaflets, and chatted briefly to staff at the tourist information desk.

Walking out of the town, they took a path towards the lake and found themselves, an hour or so later, at a small jetty where a group of people were gathering to board one of the cruise boats touring the lake.

'Fancy a warm drink - maybe a bun or something light, Marcel?'

'Yes Jill. An excellent idea. The little café there, Oui?'

As they sat drinking cups of tea, a loud rumble sounded from outside. A massive thunderclap...brilliant flashes of lightning...darkening sky...rain...tap...tap against the window pane...more...now a torrent lashing against the glass...

' _I heard among the solitary hills_

Low breathings coming after me, and sounds

Of undistinguishable motion, steps

Almost as silent as the turf they trod.'

...Jill was murmuring from Wordsworth - the large hills, dark, angry elements outside stirring something of the primeval savage within her.

'Sorry about that, Marcel. It's all that...nature in full roar...majestic. I never see or experience it in the great urban sprawls we, most of us, live in.'

'I thought it, the verse, was very powerful. Also - very, how you say - approprié. N'est-ce pas?'

'Yes - probably. Look there, Marcel. The storm's easing, it's getting brighter; we'll soon be able to go out again.'

As they entered the Borrowdale Hotel at midday after a bracing walk down the side of the lake, smells from the kitchen promised rich reward for their efforts.

'Poached salmon - that's me. What about you, Marcel?'

As he studied the menu, he decided on the steak - medium rare, with vegetables and boiled baby potatoes.

'The walking sharpens the appetite, n'est-ce pas?' Marcel commented as the waiter approached to take their orders.

'Yes, I agree.'

Jill studied the information sheet they had been given at the Moot Hall earlier on.

'Mmm. We should be able to make it to Portinscale and the Derwentwater Hotel in time for afternoon tea. Boy, what a good sandwich selection. What do you think?'

'Très bon - provided, dear Jill, that we have room in our stomachs. You are going to be 'mon cochon gras', fatted pig', n'est-ce pas?'

'I'll give you fatted pig - you great French garcon. I'm a girl of high standards. You might just find me hard to please. Oui?'

'Ah non, ma chère. You are beautiful. I find it hard to keep my hands off you.'

'All right then. Consider yourself forgiven \- for now, anyway. You were a good boy last night; you didn't take advantage of me in any way - like coming over to my bed and jumping on top of me.'

'Mon Dieu. Jill. What do you think of me? Un vieil homme sale? La seule pensée. The very thought. As if....'

Marcel's words and thoughts trailed off...

Jill had slapped the information sheet down hard on the table and jumped up from her seat.

'Oh, Marcel darling. I really didn't mean....'

Standing behind him, with her arms wrapped tightly round him and kissing his head, his hair, any part of him she could get hold of, she lost herself and both of them in a moment or two of exquisite bliss and tenderness.

As they ate and talked to each other during the meal, the tender looks and obvious love between them caused a few cursory glances to be aimed in the direction of their table. The general consensus amongst the other well-heeled diners was one of lofty tolerance - they had been there themselves, but with a subtle difference. These worthies would never wear their heart on their sleeve.

'Why hello you two. I've some news that may interest you both.'

Charlotte ran up the corridor from her kitchen as they walked in through the front door of the guest house.

'Two free tickets going spare for a Mountain Festival dinner dance at the Skiddaw Hotel, up the street. It's a posh sort of affair - ballroom dancing. I know you told me to look out for you, Jill. What do you say?'

As Jill turned to Marcel, he nodded - vigorously.

'Oh, thank you, Charlotte. You are an angel. How did you come by them, by the way?'

'A couple I know. They were invited by someone on the organising committee, but simply don't feel up to going - they're quite elderly.'

'Heavens. I've got to say I'm extremely grateful. Thanks again.'

As Marcel waited in the lounge, sipping tea, and making small talk with other residents, he wondered...

'She'll not be long now, Marcel. Help yourself to more tea while you wait.'

As Charlotte darted back up the stairs to the room both women had ejected him from, ages earlier, he pondered the day's events...

For some reason, unknown to him, Jill had insisted he bring one single outfit of formal attire with him, as part of his holiday packing. He'd argued about it. Surely they were going for a walking holiday - not a fancy dress party. However, in the event, she'd insisted he pack the item or forget the whole thing, so he'd reluctantly given in.

'Les femmes. Quoi?'

He muttered to himself as he stared vacantly around the room. Dressed in white shirt, cravat and black suit he felt increasingly uncomfortable - like some rare Emperor penguin washed up by a tide...far, far away from his Antarctic wilderness.

He sat there and waited, drumming his fingers on the table, yawning and stretching his large frame, from time to time, to relieve numbness creeping up one of his legs.

'Oh, my dear, Marcel. So sorry. She just sends her apologies but she'll be down in a second.'

'Merci Charlotte. It is a good thing that I am a patient man. Is that not so?'

'Oh yes. So true...so true.'

Charlotte giggled to herself as she walked off...

He barely heard her come up behind him - so soft was her approach up the carpet. She appeared in front of him, soundlessly, like some creature of perfect beauty, conjured up in a dream - unreal, untouchable, a pure spirit.

She smiled.

He looked.

He didn't dare speak; had to linger, take it all in. Words would steal - take away some precious essence, or magic of the moment...

Her blonde hair pulled back in a bun, now set off a face, whose true beauty he was seeing for the very first time. The Nordic contours of the smooth marble skin set his mind off in a frenzy of images...golden tresses flowing in the wind as she danced over pristine snowy peaks looking down on fabulous fjords...now on horseback...her white steed galloping, taking her through the clouds...away...away...the stallion's breath forming tiny icicles...diamonds in the air...following her...now up, up, up...into the heavens...heavenly chorus...Zeus...Apollo...Terpsichore...all in song...dance...

'You look...stunning. I....'

He got up, and pulled her gently towards him, planting the lightest of kisses on her cheek. Then stood back a little bit - studying her.

'You like...?'

Dressed in a Lanvin dark-grey crepe dress, with draped front, V-neckline, left cap sleeve with the slimmest of belts - a black grosgrain - and raw hem on the pencil skirt, she was indeed a revelation. The neckline, suggestive rather than revealing, and the skirt coming over her hips to just below the knee, in perfect dogtooth outline, set off shapely legs now ending in smart black suede shoes with the cheeky, chic look of top French couture.

'It's absolutely...how you say, magnifique - but is it really you, dear Jill? I only see you in the sensible outfit, the jeans, Oui? You wear sac poubelle - rubbish bag - this Marcel will still love you - n'est-ce pas?'

'And I love you too, darling Marcel. I have a confession to make. You want to hear?'

'Oui. But I must warn you, dear Jill, that I'm not a very good priest. Have you sinned badly?'

'Incorrigible man. No seriously. It was Madeleine's idea. The naughty girl knows about fashion and, like the devil she is, got my exact measurements, then bought this designer outfit for me. She insisted I wear it to a function with you - at the earliest opportunity. Now I cannot afford to let my good French friends down, can I?'

'Méchant filles, vous deux. But I'm a big man. I let you off. Bien.'

'Right you two. Taxi's here. Don't forget this Jill.'

As she spoke, Charlotte was holding a burgundy coloured shawl, which she now placed over Jill's shoulders.

'Could get chilly later. Enjoy yourself, dear.'

As they entered the Greta Suite Jill looked round in wonder at the large, yet somehow intimate, space of the room. Finding a table near the bar they sat down.

'Shall we have a drink now, Marcel?'

'Oui Jill. I get for you. What would you like?'

'Mmm. I'll have brandy and ginger, for now, to calm me down. I'll have to ease myself into this place and crowd.'

Jill whispered the words.

She watched dancers glide slowly past as she waited for Marcel to return. _Moon River_ playing on the disco... Audrey Hepburn...haunting scenes from _Breakfast at Tiffany's..._ her mind going somewhere with the music... another place...another world...swaying couples before her on the floor...

'Les boissons, ma chère. Vous semblez lointain...loin....'

Marcel was looking at her with concern as he placed drinks on the table.

'So terribly sorry, Marcel. I was just gazing...losing myself.'

'Now my dear Jill you must find yourself - and quickly. Vite!'

As she looked over at the twinkling eyes of her companion with a look of bewilderment, a smart fifty-something couple in evening attire approached their table.

'I'm so pleased to meet you, dear. I'm Joyce Drinkwater, and this is my husband, Teddy. Marcel has just been telling us all about his fabulous lady friend, Jill. You must pardon my awful cheek.'

'Yes. Of course. I mean....'

As she recovered from her surprise, shaking the hands of the visitors to the table, she looked up at the lady standing in front of her. Instinctively she liked what she saw in the kind, honest face smiling down at her.

'Oh I'm so sorry. Please take a seat. You are most welcome.'

As they sat down, Jill winked at Joyce.

'I'm afraid to tell you that Marcel can be a very naughty boy. Please tell me what tales he's been telling you - other than singing high praises of his avowed princess.'

As Marcel put both hands up in mock horror, Joyce explained.

'We were standing at the bar talking when Marcel came up to order drinks. As soon as we heard him speaking it brought back memories of our holiday in a small town in the south of France last summer, when we were walking in the Pyrenees - we felt we just had to introduce ourselves.'

'I'm really glad you did. I take it you live around here?'

'We do. We came to live and work here originally because of the great walking to be had - we're both teachers at K.....k School, the local secondary.'

'These good people, dear Jill, were wondering if you would be agreeable to joining them tomorrow for a walk up the Pikes? Je vous en supplie.'

Marcel looked across the table - imploring - a cheeky, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

'We mean Causey Pike, by the way. We've even brought along our Wainwright guide, so we can follow in the great man's very footsteps, so to speak.'

Teddy interjected, by way of explanation.

'I'd be delighted. And now what was....'

As the pleasant conversation went on, Jill found herself glancing, from time to time, at the couples on the dance floor. A pleasant whiff of perfume wafted over their table on odd occasions from some of the younger bare-arm, exquisitely coiffed and clothed ladies, as they glided by on the arms of their partners, adding a sensual tingle - a frisson...one minute there...now gone again...

There.

Something different.

What?

As she studied the amorphous mass of weaving, swirling bodies on the floor, her eyes seemed drawn to one point in the room - one particular couple.

Now she really understood why opera-glasses were used by true aficionados - one simply had to get up close at certain stages as the drama unfolded. The couple were now going round...further...out of sight.

Damn.

She would have to wait for the dancers to come round again.

'So sorry, Jill. I think Teddy and myself are getting in the way. I think we....'

Joyce had seen her intense gaze into the crowd.

'Not at all, Joyce. I'd have sworn there was something familiar about a couple on the floor out there. I....'

As she started to explain, the couple on the floor hove into view once again like a small sailboat rocking, amidst many more of its kind, on a great wave. This time the woman was looking in their direction.

Jill looked steadily at the woman, locking her gaze - wishing, wanting, craving for knowledge of this mysterious creature.

The couple stopped.

As Jill watched, her curiosity fully aroused, the couple seemed to chat or argue animatedly for a minute or so before the woman started to point at their table with jabbing finger motions, arguing again with her partner before grabbing him fiercely by the arm.

Good grief.

The couple were now coming towards their table.

As they approached the woman waved gaily.

'Of all the places, Jill. Well I never. You look so totally, totally different.'

'You absolute devil. Minx. I'd never have guessed you could scrub up so good either. Meet my friends....'

As the introductions were made, fresh drinks ordered and lively banter begun, Jill hugged once again the small, demure 5'1" figure of Mary Crozier. Her formal attire of two-piece grey suit and sensible brogue shoes, feared by many heads in her role as a lead Ofsted inspector, was gone. In their place were a well-cut black dress - bare shoulder and arm, v-neckline, mid-calf length - and smart black suede mid heel shoes. The transformation was amazing.

'You look divine, Mary. I remember you told me that you and your husband, Tim, were keen walkers. Are you up here on a walking holiday?'

'Yes. We hope....'

* * * * *

May 28th. 2012.

Jill pushed the duvet gently aside and slid quietly out of bed.

'Zzzz...Zzzz...Zzzz.'

The snores from the sleeper continued as she tiptoed to the window. Pushing between the curtains she stood in the small bay window space and looked out, placing her hands on the narrow sill. At 4.08 a.m. the sun, although not yet visible, was lighting up the sky behind mighty Skiddaw in a kaleidoscope of colours...black along the edge of the mountain top...dark red just above...light blue...darker blue...black sky...

As she looked out she could hear the birds - myriad differing chirrups, warbles and other sounds - the dawn chorus in full voice eager to welcome the new day. She felt soothed as she listened, resting her eyes on the peaceful scene.

She felt, too, a deep contentment. Mary Crozier would be coming to visit her at Gurnings at some point - as a friend. The petite, demure woman had struck a chord somewhere within her; the woman's self-deprecating honesty and total lack of ego came through strongly during the few moments they were alone with each other during the festival dinner dance. As Mary had left the room at one point, Jill had followed her out into the hotel corridor out of genuine concern. She found the latter outside the front entrance, puffing rapidly on a cigarette, and looking agitated.

'You okay, Mary? Heavens you're shaking with cold. Here put this on before you catch your death - and no arguments lady.'

As she gently wrapped the burgundy shawl round the smaller woman, she gave her a quick hug.

'Thanks Jill. Ohhh...that feels better. I...I sort of feel awkward sometimes - in formal do's and events. I have to escape...leave...get away from it all...for a time...sorry.'

'Don't you be sorry girl - and that's an order. Hope you don't mind me joining you.'

'I'd be glad for you to stay with me. I'll be okay in a few minutes.'

The walk with the Drinkwaters had been a pleasant change, also. As they got into their stride, she suddenly felt aches in muscles she'd forgotten she possessed; the discomfort had passed and she soon lost herself in the business at hand. As they sweated and toiled, joking and generally getting to know each other, the time seemed to pass all too quickly. As they neared the summit, having negotiated successfully - if somewhat painfully - the rocky terrain around the top, Marcel suddenly stopped - shouted.

'Nuage. Cloud. We must turn back, my friends. Now!'

As he spoke, a figure appeared, running, from out of the rapidly descending mist in front. As they watched, another figure materialised, then another - all running back down from the mountain.

'Mist coming fast, friends. Run with us.'

The first runner, a young man, shouted the warning as her ran past them on his way down; the other two merely nodded - intent, fully engrossed in putting foot on turf or stone...at speed...get out of danger...outpace the menacing mists behind...

As one, following Marcel's lead, Jill, Joyce and Teddy had made a rapid descent down, the swirling mist filling the void they had just left like some great leviathanic presence - grey, monstrous, craving the lives of each and every individual fleeing before it...

...As Jill continued looking out, single, solitary sounds started to drift up from the street below: the dull thud of a door closing, the creak of a bicycle as a paper-boy began his morning round, muffled greetings from early risers out on a morning constitutional, a dog barking somewhere, an electric milk van floating along with its distinctive whine, a car starting up - more sounds being added by the minute.

She continued looking down for a time, pondering, content to let her mind go vacant, empty, as she allowed her eyes to take in the activity below on the street and wander upwards at will to the changing sky above the dark, towering mountain.

'Ahwee...ohh....'

She yawned, spreading her arms out wide. She smiled as she found herself thinking of the previous day's events once again...

...As they ran down the hillside, with Marcel bringing up the rear, all had gone well until they had almost reached the bottom.

Then it happened.

As they crossed a marshy stretch, Joyce stumbled and fell flat on her face. Jill swerved sideways just in time to avoid the fallen woman.

'Teddeee...Teddeee....'

Joyce's voice cut through the air - shrill, like some wailing banshee.

As Teddy turned back, he saw Jill and Marcel helping his wife to her feet. As he looked on, the stricken woman turned round and looked at him with a dazed look on her face.

He started to laugh.

Pointed directly at her.

'Should see...Shhh....'

Paroxysms of laughter followed as he continued pointing at her, his peals of mirth growing louder and more painful by the second.

'Wha...What's so damned funny...What...?'

'Just look. Should see...oh my....'

She looked dumbstruck. Had this man - her own Teddy - lost his mind?

Then Marcel looked at the woman.

'Un veritable singe. Comment. Ah, c'est tres....'

As she watched the strange spectacle of two men - now sat beside each other on the ground, laughing uncontrollably - Jill had found herself wondering.

'What on earth...?'

Then she saw it.

Joyce's face was hidden behind a mask of brown clay, some of it hanging off her chin. With just her eyes shining through, and her hair matted at the sides where clay had stuck, she was indeed a spectacle - a cross between some exotic monkey or mad actor in a burlesque drama.

Repressing the urge to laugh herself, Jill had an idea.

'Look at this Joyce.'

With that she grabbed a handful of clay and went over to where the two men were sat.

'So pleased, gentlemen to see how good a time you're having. Let me just give you this small token of my appreciation.'

Grabbing Marcel by the hair she rubbed some clay over the astonished man's face, before going over to Teddy and doing the same to that gentleman.

As Joyce looked on in disbelief, Jill pointed...

Suddenly, mystery solved, they all laughed...

...She continued looking out of the window - remembering it all; much had happened - good things - and time had flown so, so quickly. Joyce and Teddy had said their goodbyes, with a promise to visit Marcel and herself at Gurnings later on in the autumn...

'Mon cher...venez.'

The voice called, sleepily.

She pushed the curtain aside and crept over to the bed, sliding quickly under the duvet. They made love again, hungrily, their lovemaking sharpened by thoughts of the lake, the mountain, their precious few days together - thoughts that would, in time, be memories...cherished...

'Marcel.'

'Jill.'

Spent, they lay together afterwards.

No more words were spoken.

None whatsoever were needed.

# Chapter 9

May 28th. 2012. ( 5.15 a.m ).

Two Vaudes stood upright at the bottom of the bed. As she looked at the zipped-up, bulging rucksacks, Jill felt a sudden sadness - their pregnant fullness seemed to mock her somehow, silently chide her for leaving, too soon, this room of happy memories.

She sighed.

A dull rumble of thunder sounded from outside, interrupting her sombre train of thought.

'Crraaack.'

The thunder grew louder as a sudden flash of lightning lit up the room. Going over to the window she looked out at the early morning scene. 5.15 a.m. Forked lightning shot from dark charcoal-coloured cloud, striking down on the mountain slope in bright, white threads - powerful, menacing. As she watched, droplets of water pattered lightly against the window pane, getting crisper, more frequent, by the second. Within minutes, heavy rain was lashing against the glass, borne on fierce gusts of wind that seemed to shake the very building. Far off in the distance, the path of the storm showed clearly as a grey mass of lines falling obliquely as it advanced steadily across the face of the mountain. At times the sun appeared from behind some cloud to magical effect \- the rainstorm now appearing as shiny, silver bullets pelting down on an earth of many hues, forming patterns - dancing shapes - kaleidoscopic...constantly changing...vivid rainbow fragments.

'Ready.'

'Oui, ma chère. It is sad...Yes?'

The reply from Marcel as he grabbed a rucksack echoed her feelings of deflation; the raging storm outside at that moment seemed comforting, appropriate - a violent reaction of the elements in tune with her inner turmoil. The mighty mountain was bidding her farewell in its own majestic way. She looked back at the shape through the window - a dark, brooding presence looming darkly, powerfully over the town - and felt it beckoning. She lifted her hand and waved; it was the right and respectful thing to do - like crossing oneself when leaving the grave of some dear departed relative or watching the coffin of a poor, fallen soldier being driven slowly to the church for last rites.

As they made their way down the stairs, delicious smells and the sound of sizzling bacon from the kitchen lifted the spirits of the two departing guests. They tiptoed quietly; to wake even a single person in this house of sound sleepers would be unpardonable - at this ungodly hour.

They put the rucksacks in the hall and made for their favourite table in one of the two bay window recesses.

'Ah. Good morning, you two. I'll be with you in a minute.'

Charlotte whispered just loud enough for her voice to carry to their table. She was doing this as a great favour to the couple; normally no one would be astir in her guest house until 6.30 a.m but, to her, Jill and Marcel had become fast friends. She had seen something of beauty, something fragile in their tentative, developing relationship and had warmed to them instantly. Her own husband had died, two years earlier, and her son was serving in the army, so she knew about the pain of loss; the loss of one and the fear of losing the other was a constant in her daily thoughts. She didn't want this couple to lose each other - not if she could do anything about it.

'Here we are, then. Enjoy. I'll leave you to it.'

'Gosh. Thanks Charlotte. You know you really shouldn't have taken all this trouble. I mean...'

Jill's protestations were cut short.

'Don't mention it, dear. Just you come back and visit me after you...You know?'

'That's a definite promise. And of course you'll be seeing us, before that, when you come to our big day. Consider yourself invited to a wedding.'

'I'd just love to. Thanks so, so much.'

Charlotte rushed off.

As they tucked in to the delicious fare on the plates placed before them, they failed to see the tears rolling down the cheeks of their landlady as she made her way back to the kitchen. Their invitation had touched a chord deep within the kind woman. With only a son for family, Jill and Marcel were the first people she'd encountered with whom she felt any sort of closeness, or bond. Sad at their leaving, overjoyed at the invitation, her emotions were running riot - she'd be okay, though, in the blink of an eye. That was her way.

They were on their way by 6 a. m, a tearful Charlotte waving them off after much hugging, kissing and promises to see one another soon. Marcel had said goodbye in true Gallic fashion, lifting the surprised little woman up in the air for a second before dropping on one knee and kissing her hand.

'Nous sommes très tristes de vous quitter, cher ami. We're truly sorry to leave.'

Thirlmere, Grasmere and Rydal Water went by in a blur, as the rain battered non-stop against the windscreen. Passing through Ambleside town, the rain seemed to ease off a little as Marcel pulled up in a small side-street opposite the Ambleside Salutation Hotel.

'What are we stopping for, dear?'

'We have a choice now- oui? We go to Kendal, then head for A6, or M6. Which would you prefer?'

'M6 Marcel. Ok?'

'Bien.'

Later, as they drove through the town, famous for mint sweets, the sun came out for a brief spell before disappearing once more behind darkening cloud. Rain started to fall and soon they found themselves in a queue of cars sloshing their way towards the motorway - dull, grey shapes...headlights...shiny bumpers...coloured tail-lights...spray from tyres...one obsession on the mind of everyone...that car in front... home...

The car crunched over rough pebbles, engine spluttering, as it made its way up the drive at Gurnings some two hours later. As it came to a stop, a figure dashed out from the house holding a large umbrella.

'Mum, Marcel. So glad you're back. Get under this. Quick, dash - now.'

Holding the umbrella aloft against gusts of wind and lashing rain, a smiling Debs ushered the travellers into the house, with all the efficiency and aplomb of a good gym mistress. Once inside, this young lady threw the water-laden umbrella across the floor where it came to rest against the hallstand - at the exact spot intended. Then, grabbing her mother in a tight hug, she planted juicy kisses on both cheeks, before going over to Marcel and giving the smiling Frenchman the exact same treatment.

'Shh. Follow me.'

As a bemused Jill and Marcel followed her, she suddenly stopped outside the kitchen door, turning round, whispering,

'Listen.'

As they all put their ears to the door, the strange plaintive tones of some elderly-sounding woman could be heard, denouncing the state of everything in sight - it would seem, from the nature of her complaints that she was now stood in some sort of unsuitable lodging, some hovel or highly undesirable residence.

As the group outside the door continued to listen, a man's voice from inside the kitchen was now replying to the elderly lady. He spoke in the clipped tones of the army higher ranks - 'days of the Empire, old chap' - and seemed to be making a great effort to placate the fussy, uneasy woman.

Suddenly the door opened.

A small elderly woman looked down, aghast, at the three crouching figures, as they almost fell into the kitchen at her feet. It was obvious to her what they'd been doing.

'What in heavens...?'

'So...so sorry. What...?'

Jill, perplexed, tried to work out...apologise. Marcel stood up, looking, dumbfounded, at the lady opposite and a 70-something year old army officer in full uniform and medals, standing further back - sole occupants of the room.

Debs rose up, tapping her mother on the shoulder as she did so.

'You can get up now, naughty girl.'

As Jill looked, she saw her daughter break out into fits of laughter, pointing at the lady in front as she did so.

'Oh I'm so sorry, Jill. Your daughter is too, too cruel. She put us up to this as she heard your car coming up the drive. I'm so terribly sorry.'

The unmistakable voice of Sula came from the body of the elderly lady; she now threw her arms round Jill's neck, hugging and kissing her for all she was worth.

'I'm afraid to say, I'm not sorry, Jill. We must be fine thespians - to fool you like that. We've been practising for the play.'

Jack spoke from behind some elaborate face make-up.

'Thespian? Huh. I might just start practising something of an entirely different variety on your backside, Jack Branz.'

Jill was smirking as she spoke, trying to hide a giggle.

At once everyone in the room fell about laughing as Marcel grabbed Sula, whirling her around, planting noisy wet kisses on her cheeks.

'Toujours coquine - mauvaise, très mauvaise fille..'

'And you're one very naughty French schoolboy.'

Sometime later, Jill excused herself and went in the library. The room was empty - hardly a sound could be heard... indistinct distant-sounding murmurings from the kitchen...subdued laughter.

This suited her.

She took out her smartphone.

Dialled.

'Hello....'

After just five minutes she had her answer. Putting the phone in her pocket, she went to the hallstand, grabbed her Haglof, putting it on as she walked purposefully towards the kitchen.

'Hello all. And goodbye. For the moment, that is. I've something to do - right now.'

All faces turned towards the serious-looking woman in the doorway, now buttoning and zipping up her jacket as if her life depended on it - a fired-up expression on her face and a jaw set square with steely determination.

All talk and laughter ceased in an instant - something was afoot.

'Vous le faites. Maintenant, mon cher?'

'Yes Marcel.'

'What's going on, Mum? Please tell me.'

As Debs marched over to the door where she stood, Jill pulled her daughter to her in a tight hug.

'Nothing to worry about, dear. I'll catch up with all of you later. Okay?'

'If you say so. But I'll get it out of you before today is finished. I hate seeing you upset like this.'

Jill was indeed trembling somewhat as she walked through the hall and out the front door - but a certain thing had to be sorted out without delay.

Today!

As she drove out over the gravel and made her way on to Windale Road, she was deep in thought. Tina's parting words, when she'd spoke to her on the phone earlier, had struck home.

'No doubts, collywobbles, guilt. None of these. You know what you must do. Now go for it, girl. Don't let me down.'

As she got on the motorway and settled the car at a steady 50, she thought of the utter transience of life in general; the last time she had made this journey, barely six weeks earlier, her mind had been focused entirely on saving their marriage - now she was fully intent on ending it as expeditiously as possible.

Rights and wrongs didn't seem to matter. Events had unfolded that had taken both her and Hilary on different paths, severed any link or connection between them, as surely and cleanly as the cutting of fresh umbilical cord. She'd never met his lover, Angela, but would be interested to do so. She was curious - no more than that. She wanted to put a face to that voice...

Her phone call, contrite, late at night, full of optimism, hopes for a relationship about to be reborn, renewed...

A woman's voice from the bed - her marital bed...sleepy...sexy...satiated...

Then Marcel.

An entirely new chapter had opened up - unexpectedly - a perfect cure or salve.

Pulling up outside the shop some fifteen minutes later, she noticed an empty space where Hilary's car would normally be parked. The shiny BMW, his pride and joy, might be parked in the garage at the back.

'Closed. Humph. How very convenient. Shut up and gone out with his floozie for the day, no doubt.'

Looking in through the window at the bare, washed-down surfaces and empty trays, she made an instant decision. Tina's words still rang in her ears. She was here for a purpose. Emotions and minor setbacks would not - must not - deter her.

'I'll go in, write a quick note, make a nice pot of tea, then leave. He'll still get the message. What could be simpler?'

Once inside, she went straight to the electric kettle.

'What the....'

It was red hot. Someone must have just...

She listened.

Sounds...barely audible...coming from upstairs.

She went to the bottom of the stairwell.

Listened.

Laughter...soft squeals...murmurings.

'Mmm...'

Pouring herself a cup of tea, she sat at the kitchen table for a few moments to think. Should she write a note and leave? No. Certainly not. She was not in a mood to write furtive notes and scuttle off with her tail between her legs, like some timid little schoolgirl. She would finish her cup of tea - better still - have a biscuit to go with it.

Going over to a cupboard she took out a packet of digestives, extracted a couple and returned to her seat.

'Better...'

Moments later, she finished her drink and walked upstairs, singing at the top of her voice - _La Marseillaise_ \- in French. Why not? Indeed.

Stopping singing as she reached the bedroom door, she knocked loudly, two or three times.

'Hilary and friend. Would you be so kind as to get your arses downstairs right now. I want to talk to you both. Are you receiving me in there?'

'What's the...can't it wait? I...'

Hilary's confused, feeble responses came from inside the room.

Jill balled her fist. Banged ferociously on the door three or four times, rattling it on its hinges, vibrating the floor under her feet.

'I said now. Got it? Or maybe you'd prefer me to break this door down.'

'No. No...I'll...we'll be down. Damn and blast you, woman - foreign bitch in a hurry.'

Jill smiled as she walked down the stairs.

Things were going to plan.

Catching them 'en flagrant délit' had banished any last, lingering doubts she might have harboured. She was now truly free.

'Qu'un sang impur

Abreuve nos sillons..'

(Let impure blood

Water our furrows)

She was still humming as she went back in the kitchen.

They'd think she was mad.

So what.....

* * * * *

May 28th. 2012. ( 4.30 p.m ).

The man, dressed in vest and shorts was running on the spot, his trainers making a regular scrunching sound on the pebbles underfoot. A fresh breeze had got up on the fine late Spring evening; the sun shone brightly through the top of the trees, casting moving shadows on the stony drive. The sound of leaves rustling, odd bee buzzing, or the occasional flapping of wings from some bird or other, diving towards the bird table, were the only other sounds apart from the runner's metronomic crunching.

The top half of the farmhouse-style door at Gurnings was now being pulled back; Debs stood behind, leaning on the door. A smile formed on her face as she watched the rhythmic up / down, up / down of the runner's feet as he pounded away on the stones, with a look of intense concentration on his face.

'Hi there, Joe. Are you rooted to that spot or what?'

'Ha. Funny girl. You ready then for a jog round the woods, Shortie?'

'Coming right now, O Big One.'

As they set off, laughing, heading down Windale Road, Joe checked his stopwatch and began flailing his arms around for a minute or so before stopping his windmill act.

'Just loosening up girl...loosening up. Yup...better already. Thought we'd go down Windale to St. Barnabas, turn right through the town centre, past the _Owl and Thistle_ , then on to Belchers Drive, through Bruneigh Woods and back. How does that suit an action girl like yourself?'

Joe grinned as he glanced across at his fit, attractive 'gym mistress' companion. He looked forward to his runs with her, on the occasions when she came up to Bruneigh. At 5'10 1/2, she was a smidgen shorter than his 5'11 and he often delighted in calling her _Shortie_ , making sure he kept a respectful distance away from her when thus addressing her - just to be on the safe side.

As they passed the church and came towards the _Owl and Thistle,_ wolf whistles started from some pub regulars sat on benches outside the inn. Bugsy Brennan, sat quietly at a table near the end on his own, didn't join in the whistling; the dour sage merely grimaced knowingly, muttering under his breath.

'Fancy pants like those two...no clothes on...get their bleedin' death one of these days...mmm...yeah.'

'Give us a turn there, girl. What about it?'

One of the drinkers, in fine form with his tankard of ale before him, beckoned her over.

Stopping and swivelling round on one foot as she did so, Debs performed an elaborate bow for her appreciative audience. Clapping from every single drinker at the tables followed her impromptu performance.

'Fine girl you are. Fine girl you are.'

The chorus of voices rang out as she and Joe jogged on...away. One solitary voice remained silent, however. Bugsy Brennan looked at the clapping, cheering regulars, disdain written on every crease of his wrinkled brow.

'Show a bit of leg to an idiot...mmm...yeah.'

The cynic in him always won.

'You've gone down a treat with that lot, girl. Buy them all a drink and you'll have friends for life.'

Joe laughed.

'I'll leave the paying to you. Gentleman's privilege and all that.'

Debs grinned as she spoke. She suddenly felt an adrenaline rush...clapping, cheering, clean, fresh air...glorious euphoria...

'Race you to the exhibition hall, Joe. Loser pays for drinks next time we're out. What say? - loser.'

With that she was off like a ball from a cannon - streaking away, her blonde hair billowing out behind, shapely legs moving - balletic grace in motion. Some quarter of an hour later, Joe arrived at the exhibition hall, panting from his exertions. Debs patted him on the shoulder as he recovered his breath.

'Bit out of condition, old friend.'

'Yeah. Cramping a bit too...oooh..'

'Here. Let me help, Joe.'

Kneeling down, Debs started massage to the affected calf area.

'Ah...that's better...let me....'

Soon they were off again, turning into the woods off Belchers Drive. As they went past a large tree near the entrance, Debs noticed something move by the tree, out of the corner of her eye. Glancing back she saw a man, age about 20, looking straight in their direction - staring, as if annoyed at their presence, weighing them up somehow. As she continued to look back, jogging forward all the while, the man scowled, putting two fingers up in a f..k you salute, as he did so. Debs patted Joe on the shoulder.

'Hi Joe. Someone over by that tree doesn't like our presence here. Just now he gave me the 'up yours' sign.'

'Where is he? I'll give him something of my own - my fist in his jowls.'

As Debs looked back, the man was gone.

'Goodness me. Vamoosed. Just like that.'

'Probably some scallywag on drugs, strong alcohol.'

As Joe continued looking back at where Debs was pointing, he started wondering...

'Think we'll carry on for now, Debs. It's a question of keeping eyes peeled and ears skinned I think. You know about all the strange things...?'

'Of course.'

As they talked, slowing down to a stroll, for a few minutes, sounds of a runner in trainers came from somewhere behind.

Could the strange, angry man be coming for them?

Both turned round on an instant.

A young girl was running fast, breathing in controlled gasps, feet pumping rhythmically on the ground - clear, sharp sounds in the silence of the woods. As she came level with them she turned round, running backwards and grinned broadly at them.

'I've got to say you're a real bad influence on Miss Ponsonby, there, Joe. You've slowed her down to a crawl. I suppose you'll be having her on hands and knees next time I come along? Nice to see you again, by the way, Miss.'

'And a nice line in pure cheek from you, young Cissy Blackstock - as per usual. You know, you're still not too old for a good slap on the backside.'

'Ah. But you'd have to catch me first. Not a chance. Not a chance in hell. Bye, Miss.'

With that, the intrepid young runner twirled round and shot off like an arrow from a bow - heading straight and fast in front - a free spirit, full of the vigour and optimism of youth.

'Think I'll try running again.'

Joe rubbed his calf a couple of times before setting off.

As they passed by _The Stables_ back wall before turning out of the woods into Laburnum Drive, Joe saw a familiar figure - X - standing by one of trees, peering intently at a stopwatch.

'Remember that young loudmouth, Debs?'

'I do indeed.'

'Think I'll give him a miss for now.'

As they passed, X looked up suddenly and saw them.

'Can't you two f.....s run somewhere else. You've ruined my timings. Bastards.'

As they ran on past the disgruntled reprobate, Joe commented.

'Think we've rattled his cage somehow. Wonder what he's up to?'

'I don't know, but I'd keep an eye out for that sneaky little beggar - he's like one of Sula's worst nightmare cases come to life.'

As they came on to the gravel at Gurnings some ten minutes later, a heavily made up man and woman were being helped into a black cab taxi, parked outside the front door.

'Heavens. I nearly forgot.'

Debs waved at the figures as the taxi set off.

'Hello you two. Cuppa? You look like you need one, Joe.'

As they followed Tina into the house, Debs looked at her watch.

'5.45. Thought the show didn't start till 7. Aren't our actors a bit early off the blocks?'

'Jack wanted to get there early - compose himself. He's quite nervous about this thing. I'm afraid it might all be a bit too much, too early.'

'We're all rooting for him, Tina. I'm sure he'll be okay.'

'Thanks, dear. By the way, Jill wants a quick word with you in private, before we all set off for town.'

'Thanks Tina'...

As they took their seats in the theatre just before 7 p.m, Emily Jarvis, stage director, popped out from between the curtains to give a short welcoming speech.

'Pleased to see you all...enjoy...'

As she finished, the curtains were drawn back to reveal a dark stage - no actors, just the sound of a murder being committed...

'Ohh...noooo...please....'

Sounds of something metallic being dropped on the floor - a knife, perhaps? A loud thump - reverberating on the stage, as a body fell, dying, crying out.

'Ahh....'

A last gasp or death rattle...

As Jack stood on the darkened stage and blacked-out theatre, with Sula and the other two actors opening the play, he felt calm. This was it. He was already in the skin of an elderly army major, cum undercover policeman, and would live and breathe this other persona, or alter ego, in a manner to convince - for the next two and a half hours - not only the audience of a hundred or so down below, but also himself.

As the stage began to light up, revealing a room in Monkswell Manor guesthouse and four actors, a short clapping from the audience followed. Then it began. As everyone fell into their appointed roles, Jack found himself relaxing into the whole thing naturally, relishing his dialogue with the others, especially Sula, in her role as the utterly annoying, eternally complaining Mrs. Boyle. For him the interval seemed to come all too soon. As the curtains started to close, fierce clapping and cheering from the theatre floor showed the audience were thoroughly enjoying the performance.

'Bravo. Bravo...'

The cheering and clapping continued for some time after the curtains closed. As Jack sat alone on the left wing, collecting his thoughts, and running through some lines in his head, he found his eyes drawn to one of the stage technicians, on the opposite wing, as the latter fiddled with some lighting equipment.

Then it happened.

As the technician pulled at some wires, he placed a foot up on the apparatus to get more purchase. As he looked at the foot - more precisely the shoe, a Paul Smith Osmo leather trainer - his eyes seemed to home in, unconsciously, on the signature stripe webbing across the side.

Where had he seen that shoe before?

He tried to cast his mind back to some place, some event, some...

He stared at the stripe - transfixed...

Vaguely, as in a dream, he saw Sula dash across to talk to someone.

He looked again at the stripe...

It seemed suddenly vibrant...shimmering.

It was getting bigger...drawing nearer.

As his eyes moved up the webbing he saw smooth white skin...bare leg...shapely legs. A young flaxen-haired woman, now looking down at him, wore the trainers. He had no memory of a technician...anything...

...He was here...somewhere...nowhere...

The woman beckoned to him, waving a hand. She started to rise up...lie flat...float...weightless...into the cloud.

He put his hands out...found himself rise...he could see her in front...she pointed down.

They were above a green meadow and a group of men, bare to the waist, were haymaking, raking the dried hay into small stacks. The sun shone brightly on the bucolic scene as wispy white clouds moved across a clear blue sky, changing shape all the while. A group of women, carrying small wicker baskets of food were walking along the quiet country lane on their way to the meadow, gossiping gaily as they approached the wide timber gate. Full-bosomed with fresh, rosy complexions and hair blown about in all directions by the breeze, the ladies looked cool...wholesome...

The men stopped working as the womenfolk entered through the gate, waving and shouting greetings, before moving to sit down on some bales of straw near the gate. As the men tucked into the food, lively banter and laughter soon followed, adding to the sounds in the meadow of buzzing bees, crickets and occasional mooing from a nearby herd of cows...

They floated on...up...

He looked down.

The scene below...all changed...pure horror...

Now fire raged, bombs dropped and exploded on a dark world - a veritable cauldron of pain and misery. Figures darted round from place to place, trying desperately to avoid the flames reaching out to consume their feeble bodies - avoid the bombs dropping from the sky. Some of these wretched creatures were now looking up at him from their pit of suffering and anguish - pleading, begging, arms outstretched, beyond hope - total despair written in every look and pitiful gesture.

Was this Guernica? Would the Tree, meeting place for the elders, survive?

Images...ever changing...random nonsense...flashed through his mind...disconnected...now connecting...war...history...other places...other times...

As he looked down, stricken to his soul, he wondered what could be done. He looked at the girl.

His eyes were drawn once again to the stripes, homing in on one of them - the red.

It was changing shape, transforming...

Now a gun or cannon.

As he floated, weightless, powerless, he dreaded what was to come...

'Shhh. Shhhh....'

Water, not bullets were coming from the cannon.

The crowd way down below were looking up at them - cheering.

The young woman floated on.

He followed.

They floated way up...high...above a forest...cool...tranquil...total peace.

They were dropping.

They walked up a street and stopped outside a door. The woman knocked - once. A woman with matted black hair, dressed in dirty, ugly sacking, from head to toe, opened the door.

Glowered.

Then, in a flash, she smiled, threw off the sacking, shook her head vigorously and smiled at them.

Standing before them was a magnificent blonde haired creature, with power written into every sinew, curve and limb. Gone was the sack. This amazon sported the merest suggestion of black leather bra and lacy thong and was now holding a whip. She looked directly at him, started to smile.

'Crraaack..'

He felt a tug at his shoulder. The flaxen-haired woman was pulling him up - away from the sound of that awful whip. The amazon looked up at them for the briefest of moments as they floated away - her look, as she swished her instrument of torture, one of the bleakest, cruellest imaginable. Love, to her, would be an utterly detestable emotion. She lived for pain, in it, part of it - nothing outside of it existed.

They rose up again.

He looked at the stripes again...wondered.

Looked behind.

The amazon was floating upwards behind...toying with a large cat o'nine tails in her right hand...altering it...into some type of implement.

She was now aiming this implement - a deadly assault rifle - at him.

Bullets started to whizz past him.

He ducked.

The flaxen-haired woman in front looked back at him and smiled before flying on again. As she soared upwards he felt his eyes drawn once again to the stripes on her trainer. Focussing his eyes closely on a yellow strip he found it coming away...changing...

He was now looking at an aircraft - a fighter of some sort, maybe a Mig.

As he looked on, in total disbelief at this transformation, another bullet whizzed past from behind.

On turning his head back again, looking ahead, the plane dipped its wings once.

Vanished.

Before him was clear blue sky. As he looked downwards through some frothy patches of cloud, he could see red, molten lava. He must be floating above a volcano.

Bullets started to fly past.

He was dropping...he'd lost control of his flight.

Down...down...he was losing height fast.

He looked behind.

The she-devil amazon was pointing her gun again - grinning. Her face and shape were now changing...into a serpent from hell...scales...fangs...

He could feel the foetid stench of her breath as the white hot heat from the furnace below started to take his breath...his life...away...

It would be over in seconds.

'Help...me....'

He tried to scream...gasp...anything...

Nothing would come...

Then it was over.

No scorching lava.

He was lying in a street. He opened his eyes.

He was looking directly at a trainer - a Paul Smith - a mere foot or so from his face.

He allowed his eyes to travel up from the shoe...tracksuit bottoms...top...neck...

...'Jack. Jack. Wake up dear. Curtain's up in a second.'

Emily was shaking him.

As he came to, gathering his senses, the dream and all in it, faded...away, quickly. He was now Major Metcalf and must perform...

Later, as the curtain rang down for the final time, the cast took their bows and trooped off to the dressing-room. Spirits were high as people hugged, kissed and chatted gaily.

'We'll make a major of you yet, O husband of mine.'

As he found himself locked in Tina's firm embrace - she didn't ever do pure ladylike, gentle hugs - he relaxed...thinking...

Who was wearing that shoe?

'Shall we seek fine victuals, my dear? I feel drained but still refreshed at the delectable sight before my eyes, that is you - O lovely one.'

'Flattery will get you everywhere. Let's collect the others and head for the _Owl and Thistle._ What say you to that, husband?'

'Your wish is, as ever, my command, darling wife.'

As they entered the hostelry some half hour later, with Jack still in his Major Metcalf outfit, Bugsy Brennan - sat at the bar - muttered to himself.

'One minute, its bleedin' furriners. Now we've fellers who come out in fancy dress as army officers. Bleedin' mad world and that's a fact.'

* * * * *

May 30th. 2012.

The clouds were darkening and a fresh wind was gathering in strength - proof, if any were needed, that a storm was imminent. A first, dull rumble of thunder could be heard; it seemed to come from far, far away at first, but grew louder and more frequent as the minutes ticked by. In a short time the roar grew very loud, seeming to shake the ground as violent streaks and flashes of lightning lit up the air in sudden release of pent-up energy. As yet this explosion of the elements was limited to sound and fierce electric discharge; soon the rain would come - heavy, torrential - cooling the hot, humid air and bathing the parched ground in water long sought and much needed.

A perfect day for the carrying out of dark deeds - if any such were planned.

It was still dry as a young sixteen-year-old girl opened a door in Cedar Close, off Laburnum Avenue, and looked out. Stretching a hand to feel the air, she looked up at the sky for a second or two, went back indoors, reappearing almost immediately, dressed in a white jogging outfit of vest, shorts and trainers.

'Mmm...yes. 4.30 start. Back by 5.45.'

Checking a stopwatch as she pulled the door shut, she set off up the road towards Laburnum Drive and the Bruneigh Woods. Going past St. Barnabas Parish Church, fifty yards into her run, she failed to spot a tall powerful figure - cruel eyes peering from slits in a balaclava and clad from top to toe in black lycra - standing by the church wall as she passed by.

* * * * *

X stood at _The Tree_ for a minute, thinking, then went over to sit on a tree stump. Putting a spliff to his lips, he lit up and inhaled deeply on the thing.

'Phwoaahhh...better.'

There was a job to be done and he had to be at his sharpest to carry out the instructions given him by Barney Gulpin the previous evening. He laughed as he recalled a job, or undertaking, he'd carried out earlier the same day for his paymaster, with assistance from partner in devious matters, Y, and a certain young lady acquaintance...

...'Ask these questions - all of them. Understand? Either memorise them all thoroughly, or put a copy out of sight somewhere. They must not suspect anything. OK then. See you later.'

As he entered the _Nags Head_ around midday, the place was quite busy with diners, enjoying a pub lunch, taking up most of the tables. Most of the drinkers were at the bar, chatting noisily and squeezing tighter and tighter together as more people came in.

X looked around quickly as he entered, spotting Y at a strategically placed table near the back. Nodding at his partner, he noticed the latter lift - for a split second - a small towel off the top of an object on the table before him, before dropping it quickly back down again. A camera.

Looking back across the room X spotted his quarry - the 'suits' Dom and Bertram.

'Over here, young man. Take a seat. Tankard of _Foresters Best_?'

'Yeah. If you must. Go on then.'

'You heard the young gentleman, Bertram. You'll be glad to grant him his request, won't you?'

Dom smiled at his colleague as the latter got up from his seat.

'Make that two pints, Bertram - and sharpish. Haven't got all day.'

'Why you little...I've a good mind to....'

'Go on Bertram. Now!'

Dom grinned at X as his extremely disgruntled colleague stormed off.

'Now then. To business, young feller. I believe you want more...'

'Naw. Nought like that. My boss just wants a few more answers to some questions. That's all. First off...'

With that he placed a small memo pad on the table, flicking the pages backwards and forwards a few times, scratching his head meanwhile.

'Lost something young man?'

'Naw. Let me see...yeah...this is it.'

With that he lifted the pad, pushing the page up close to the other's face - grinning inanely as he did so. As he looked at the numbered list of crude hieroglyph figures Dom was puzzled.

'What are these? They mean absolutely nothing to me.'

'I see a shape and know the question. Simple or what. Eh?'

Placing the pad on the table, open at the page, he immediately stood up and began to laugh out loud - a cackling, shrill, hysterical burst of sound - bending down at times and holding on to his sides for dear life. People started to look round.

Concerned.

The laughing maniacal figure appeared to be out of control somehow.

Suddenly the laughing stopped and X sat back down.

'Your drinks.'

Bertram plopped the tankards in front of X, spilling some froth on the table. The latter lifted a tankard, stood up, putting it to his lips before quaffing the lot in one long drawn out gurgle.

'Ahh...better.'

'Shall we?'

Dom looked at his watch.

'Right...'

Later, X looked at his list, ticking off the last symbol as he listened to Dom going on at length about the topic in question. Suddenly he stood up, yawning, stretching his arms out wide.

'Hope I'm not boring you, young man.'

'Naw. Not at all. That seems to be it gentlemen. Ah I see someone waving. Some young lady's coming over. Wonder what she wants?'

'Darling Bertie. Ooo...you naughty boy...why did you run off like that? What's a poor girl to do when she wakes up and her boyfriend's run off. Well I'm here now, sweetest. You can make it up to your lovely loving Betsy later on. Give us a kiss.'

As the flabbergasted pair of 'suits' watched, a smiling and mischievous Betsy Keller flung her leopard skin on the floor, revealing a figure too good to be believed, bare to the world except for the briefest of bras and thong, before jumping on Bertram's lap and kissing the latter hard on the lips. Following this up with a rhythmic up and down pumping action, simulating sex, she looked round, grinning, as all eyes in the room swivelled towards her and the unexpected show she was putting on.

'You show him, girl. All for Betsy hurrah. All for Betsy hurrah.'

The shouts rang out from some regulars.

'What the...'

'Filthy f.....g little whore.'

With that the big 'suit' jumped up, flinging the girl off him.

'I've never seen this piece of gutter garbage in my life, Dom - and that's a fact.'

As he spoke, rubbing his hands and spitting on the floor, as if ridding himself of some abhorrent slimy unmentionable incubus, the small heap on the floor opposite, that was Betsy Keller, started to get up. All eyes now turned to the sensuous figure in the centre of the room as she rose and stretched to her full height.

Patting bare buttocks and stroking her body, from top of nipple to glossy, nail-varnished toe, in slow deliberate motion, she looked round the room meanwhile at the appreciative audience with a twinkle in her eye. A tantalising exhibition of exquisitely performed striptease followed, as she moved her bare body - one minute curling slowly, statuesquely in elegant balletic poses, the next swirling like a dervish and pirouetting madly on the spot.

'Hurrah for our Betsy - the girl with it all.

Hurrah for our Betsy - a pearl and a doll.'

The regulars shouted, clapping.

As they watched, the dance suddenly changed.

As she twirled, the girl shot a hand out at intervals, finely-manicured fingernails pointing in one direction, at one particular person - the big 'suit.'

The crowd looked where she was pointing. They saw...knew.

At one point she ended the dance with a low bow to everyone.

Then, shooting over to a table, she stopped, smiled, pulled her hand back and delivered a loud, stinging slap to the face of the astonished big 'suit', Bertram.

'So I'm a whore, ugly fat slob? Just say it again, fatso - if you dare.'

'Why you lying little cow. I'll...'

With that a furious Bertram pushed over the table, sending it and all on it crashing to the floor. As Dom tried to remonstrate, security staff rushed up, grabbing Bertram.

'I'll ask both of you to leave - immediately. I'll take your names first. You'll be paying for this damage, and no mistake.'

X rose from his seat, picked up his memo pad and made for the door, Y following. Looking round, both X and his 'partner' in devious matters, Y, laughed as they saw the discomfited pair of 'suits being frogmarched into a back room by burly bouncers, to the accompaniment of cheers and bawdy comments of the saltiest nature.

'You got all that - the picture, I mean?'

'Yeah - and this, too.'

As X looked, Y was snapping madly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a skimpily dressed female grab a leopard skin jacket from the floor, as she made a speedy exit.

'Got something for little ol' Betsy then, dearie.'

'Here girl. Put it away quick. Don't want the whole town gawkin at us.'

'Ohh...you are good to me, sweetie. Seein's as you're rolling in it I thinks little ol' Betsy might just charge you double next time. Heh. Heh.'

The youngish 'old pro' had lost no time in counting her small wad of notes.

'Run off now, while you still can - silly old bag. I'll see you later.'

'Damn good show you put on in there, girl.'

Y was looking approvingly at the woman.

As they sat on a bench a few minutes later, X smiled. 1.15 p.m. The whole thing had gone off even better than planned. The small tape recorder in his pocket had answers to questions - lots of them. The big 'suit' would be going through a bad patch for the next few days. Serve the ugly bastard right, he thought to himself. As for the other suit? He patted the trouser pocket containing the tape.

'I'll just take these little items to the boss. See you later. Okay?'

X took the camera, waving to Y over his shoulder, as he walked towards the Harley.

'Fine. I'll be there.'

* * * * *

Cissy glanced at a stopwatch as she moved along Belchers Road towards the school car park. She was checking her progress, being in serious training for the school sports day 1500 metres middle-distance event. A keen sportswoman, proficient in the art of self-defence and a doughty performer on the tennis court, she had found in running something else - an adrenaline rush \- when she pushed herself hard. Putting the watch back in the fob pocket of her shorts, she looked up at the sky. The clouds were dark and threatening; a fierce gust of wind now buffeted her as spots of rain began to fall. Rumbles of thunder and lightning flashes signalled a storm due any minute.

It arrived - with a vengeance - as she turned round on Belchers Drive, past the side of the school. The rain now fell in torrents, soaking through the flimsy vest in minutes, causing violent shivers down her body. Turning into Bruneigh Woods the normally hard, clay path was turning soft and slippery in the rain, so she slowed down, picking her steps with care.

'Oh no. goddammit. Bloody stone.'

Cursing, she reached down, unfastening her shoe and getting rid of the offending object. Straightening up before setting off again, she gasped.

Out of the corner of her eye - a shadow appeared, then was gone.

She looked behind - scouring the gloomy woodland for a presence, sound or movement.

Nothing.

Only the sound of the wind and rain - and her own heavy breathing.

She moved on, shivering - wondering. The mind could play strange tricks on a person at times. As she looked round at the rain splashing off leaves and streaming down tree trunks, boughs and branches as the latter swayed wildly, howling and creaking in the wind, the woods did indeed seem a strange and alien place - mysterious... threatening.

'What the hell...?'

As she brushed a hand across her face to wipe water from her eyes, a strange figure jumped on to the path from some woods at the side. As she peered through the sheets of rain bouncing off the muddy ground a hundred yards or so ahead, she could make out the shape and form of a person in a monkey suit.

'That joker sure chose a funny day to go clowning about in the woods. Blasted tail must now weigh a ton.'

As she drew nearer, she saw the 'joker' take up a position in the middle of the path, looking straight towards her as she approached. The strange figure was now waving its arms in criss-cross fashion for her to stop, legs splayed apart and stamping on the ground in the manner of a Maori haka dance - minus the chanting. The long tail seemed to slither from side to side in time with the foot stamping, sloshing the mud into small piles on either side.

'Do you mind moving - whoever you are? I want to get past.'

No sound came from the lips of the monkey person in reply to her request.

Instead a paw lifted - pointed behind.

She turned round.

'Who...?'

Her words died in her throat as she fell to the ground under her attacker.

'You're for it now, bitch.'

She began to struggle under a terrible weight. She'd only had a second to glimpse a large figure - presumably a man - before being manhandled to the ground. She hadn't heard his stealthy pursuit. The wind howling in her ears and the rain battering her face had deafened her to any sounds from behind as she ran through the woods.

'Can't breathe...can you get off...please?'

'Come back here. Get her bleedin' shorts off.'

The large man eased off her chest as he barked his orders at the monkey-suited figure.

In a nightmarish sequence she found she couldn't speak...things out of her control were happening...shorts being peeled off...shivering violently with cold...blood pouring from a nosebleed on to her outstretched hand...hands now plucking at her last flimsy piece of clothing...her underwear...personal dignity...now going...gone...what next?.. she found herself listening to a feeble croak from somewhere...it was her own voice...begging...

'Stop...please...why...please.'

'Shut up bitch.'

'I'm so coooldddd...pleaseeee...'

Panic set in.

Someone was fondling her buttocks - beginning to explore...

'Leave it, you little f....r. That's enough.'

It was the big man talking, reprimanding the monkey-suited one.

'Right girl. We'll be off now. Your clothes are here. Remember to tell that headmistress of yours that _Friends of Bruneigh_ want her school to close soon - for good. Until that happens, little events like this will continue to take place. You were lucky this time, girl.'

She heard them run off...cackling, shrill laughter...obscene comments...she began to pick herself up.

# Chapter 10

June 4th. 2012.

Plop.

The morning paper dropped on to the mat at Gurnings. Time 7.18 a.m.

'Paper boy's early today - and happy too, by the sound of that infernal whistling.'

Tina grumbled as she sat, elbows on the kitchen table, holding a mug of tea in one hand.

'You know Tina, I sometimes wish I could suddenly change places with the likes of that young person - single, with not a single care in the world.'

Jill, still in a dressing gown with golden hair falling on her shoulders in a riot of wisps and curls, didn't look particularly overburdened with cares either, as she sipped from her mug - bleary-eyed, expression vacant. Yawning deeply, satisfyingly, she let her body slip lazily, subconsciously into the new day dawning.

'Back in a moment. Help yourself to more toast.'

Tina went off to collect the paper.

Some shuffling noises at the letterbox.

Footsteps returning across the hall - getting quicker by the second.

'Bloody cheek.'

As she waited for her grumbling friend to return, Jill's thoughts went back to the previous Thursday morning, barely a week earlier, her mood instantly turning sombre...dark, troubling thoughts filling her mind...

...She was sitting in the kitchen at 7.45 in the morning, drinking tea with Tina and Debs, when the phone rang. Tina, as was her wont, went out into the hall to speak to the caller.

'For you Jill.'

As she rushed out Tina whispered.

'It's Tom Barton. He sounds worried. Whatever it is, I'm right behind you. Go for it girl.'

'Hi Jill. I'm sorry to be sounding dramatic but I really need you to accompany me to the house of one of your students - Cissy Blackstock. You know her well I believe?'

'Why? What's happened to her? Good God...Not some accident...please not...'

'No. She's fine but something's happened and she insists that you accompany me when I talk with her.'

'Okay Tom. I'm more or less ready right now. The poor girl...'

'Thanks Jill. I'll pick you up in my car in, say, five minutes. Byee.'

As they pulled up at 7, Cedar Close, off Laburnum Avenue, some thirty minutes later, the gentle rain patter on the car windscreen, consistent throughout the short journey from Gurnings, now turned into an almighty downpour.

'God. We're about to be soaked to the skin. Well, Tom - once more into the breach, and all that, I suppose. Let's dash.'

'Just a moment. Look.'

A woman had appeared at the door of No. 7. She was stood for a moment, fiddling with some long object in her hands. Then, suddenly before their eyes, the object opened out into a large umbrella. The woman dashed over to the car.

'So good of you both to come out in this dreadful weather. Get under this.'

Mollie Blackstock shouted at the car as she held the umbrella aloft in the torrent of rain.

As they sat drinking mugs of tea five minutes later in the comfortable lounge, Jill and Tom facing across the room at Mollie and her daughter, Tom began his questioning...

'I think I'll start with you, Mrs. Blackstock...'

'Mollie, for heaven's sake, just call me Mollie...

Yes. Roger, my husband, and I were just sitting down to tea around 6 when the front door burst open. I remember it was an awful evening, raining buckets, like now - this morning. Cissy was due back and her place was set at table; she was always punctual to a fault. I expected her to rush up to the bathroom, do a quick change before joining us for the evening meal.

I listened...

The sudden dash up the stairs was not happening...

Then I heard it.

A whimpering, moaning sound from the hallway.

I looked over at Roger and could see from his puzzled expression that he, also, knew something to be sorely amiss.

As one, we both rushed out into the hall...expectant...worried...blind panic setting in...

"Oh Mum...."

My heart sank as I saw the dishevelled figure, in dripping running gear, trembling and moaning on the bottom stair tread with blood caked round her nose. Blood also oozed slightly from the palm of a hand raised upwards, forlornly, on her lap.

'Oh my darling girl. What in heavens has happened...What...?

As I rushed to embrace my daughter, pulling her tightly to me for what seemed an age, I cried bitter tears as I felt the trembling going through her body. Pulling myself away eventually, I felt the cold hands and arms - as if for the first time - and looked in horror at the blue pallor of the hands.

'Roger dear. Bath towel from the airing cupboard upstairs. Quick.

As he came down moments later, I bade him go back in the kitchen.

I need to get these wet things off her - wrap her in this warm towel - then we'll see what to do next.

Some ten minutes later, dried, with a dressing gown wrapped around her, she spoke. She'd been silent throughout as I undressed, dried and went to get her something to wear.

"Oh Mum...a cup of tea...I'll be okay...in a minute or so...just...."

Don't say another word darling. Come in the kitchen. It's nice and warm in there at the moment.

As Roger put on the kettle, I got a small basin of hot water and sponge and bathed the injured hand, applying a bandage afterwards. I also wiped the face clear - the bleeding from the nose had stopped by then. Cissy became herself in no time and was adamant that she neither needed nor wanted anyone from the police station contacted until the morning. Roger protested vehemently - to no avail. Cissy knew what she had to do. I concurred and so my husband was overruled on this occasion.'

'Okay Mollie. Thanks for telling us all that. Now I would like to hear something from Cissy herself. Do you want to say something first, perhaps, Jill?'

'I'd first of all like to commend you, Mollie, on your handling of the situation - you were simply brilliant. I'd love to have someone like you on my team. Now I believe you wanted to talk to me, Cissy, about something....'

'Yes Miss. I'll just start by saying what I told Sergeant Barton there. I was not raped. I was told by the attacker, who pulled me to the ground and overpowered me, that I must first report to the police exactly what happened, and then make sure I give you, face to face, a message.'

'Amazing. Go on Cissy, if you're sure you're up to it at this moment. You've been through a simply awful experience.'

'I'll be fine Miss.'

'I think you're very brave. Go on, dear.'

'Well it all happened really quickly. I was doing my usual run - normally just over an hour, along some streets and through Bruneigh Woods - when I saw a large monkey jump down from an embankment and stand in the middle of the path as I ran through the woods. I started laughing to myself; I thought it was some student prank or someone on the way, maybe, to a fancy dress party. I was just thinking of some funny insult to throw at him as I passed - you know what I'm like, Miss, always game for a laugh.'

'I do indeed, young Cissy. Pray go on.'

'Well the next thing I remembered was the monkey waving me to stop, pointing with a paw at something behind me. I started to look behind...

Then it happened. I was pulled to the ground by a large person. It must have been a man. I begged for him to let me breathe as his weight was suffocating me. To cut a long story short - I was stripped naked, but not raped - although the monkey-suited one seemed to have ideas in that direction.'

'Did he try something, Cissy?'

'He was groping, just for a second, where he shouldn't, when the large one holding me told him to f..k off - pardon my English, Miss.'

'Okay Cissy. And what was this message?'

'He said I was to give you a message from some 'friends', or something, that you had to get the school to close for good. Otherwise I, or someone like me, might not be so lucky next time. Sounded crazy to me, Miss, but I was petrified, in no position to argue. That's all there is, message-wise.'

'Thanks Cissy...God...'

Going over to the young girl - her favourite student - Jill hugged her gently, holding her close for a moment at arm's length, looking tearfully into those stricken eyes.

'I think Tom has a few questions, now dear, if you feel up to it?'

'I'll keep it short Cissy. I've heard what you just told Jill here about the incident. I'll be talking with my superiors regarding steps the police will now take. As nothing happened in the 'sexual' sense it will probably be classed as assault. The threat, however, that you mentioned, will be treated with the utmost gravity. You will have to be examined by a GP...'

'I've already planned to have her looked over this morning by our family doctor. I take it that is okay? It seemed essential, somehow, under the circumstances.'

Mollie was quick to explain.

'I can't see any problem with that. Now Cissy, there is the problem of identifying your attackers. Mmm...let me just think.'

'All I saw Sergeant Barton was a man in a brown monkey suit and another man in black lycra. I didn't see their faces as they wore balaclavas. I know they were men by their voices.'

'Would you be willing to attend an identity parade? You never know - something might trigger recognition...a shape, perhaps.'

'Yes I'd be glad to help but don't hold out much hope. I only remember their voices...vaguely...'

'Okay Cissy. I'll be going now. We'll phone you later today, Mollie, to let you know what's happening.'

The journey back to Gurnings was silent.

'We have to get to the bottom of this Tom. There's something sinister going on and I haven't the faintest clue as to who might be responsible.'

'All I can promise you, Jill, is that I'll pull out all the stops on this one. I'll keep you posted.'

'Thanks Tom. I've put so much into all this. We can't let these bastards win...whoever they are...the threat to innocent girls...total evil...'...

...Tina was devouring the lurid article on the front page of the _Bruneigh Recorder_ with eyes glued to the print and an angry expression on her face that was getting fiercer by the minute, as she made her way back down the hall, cursing and shouting all the while.

'What is it Tina? By the look on your face... Whh...'

Jill's words, spoken as the shouting one came in the kitchen, froze in her throat.

Tina came straight over, holding the paper out of sight behind her back, and hugged her friend for a second or two, before placing the offending object carefully on the table before her.

'Just take your time girl. I'll make us another cup of tea while you digest that piece of horrendous shit.'

Jill looked down at the paper.

Rape attempt.

Bruneigh High - Principal warned.

Close now - or else.

' _Friends of Bruneigh' declare war._

A young girl student was pulled to the ground at 5 p.m on Wednesday 30th. May in Bruneigh Woods, stripped naked and then let go, with a warning that she, or someone else, might not be so lucky next time. In the pouring rain the shocked youngster had to dress and make her way back home unaided.

Her two assailants were wearing balaclavas, one dressed, head to toe, in some sort of monkey suit, whilst the other sported all-over black lycra. She was not molested sexually.

The Recorder has received a badly handwritten scrawl, purportedly from the group, 'Friends of Bruneigh', with the following message:

' _Vestal virgins we'll have none_

Down they'll go, one by one

If you hear us, Principal dear

Make a point and make it clear

Bruneigh High is bad and should be gone

Throw the towel in, now move on

If you hear but fail to go

Then some girls we'll lay down low

So hear us well and do the deed

' _Fore we make you f.....g bleed._

Friends....

An anonymous letter from Bruneigh Borough Council offices, claiming that a growing number of councillors were in favour of the school being closed in favour of a large PFI-funded project which would absorb pupils from Bruneigh High and the nearby, 'already failed' Eston Comp, has also been received. On contacting the council, the Recorder was unable to get any clarification as to the identity of the anonymous person, or the veracity - or otherwise - of the anonymous one's claims.

As she got to the end of the piece, she dropped the paper on the table.

'It just gets worse, Tina. I'll have to give Tom Barton a ring this morning sometime.'

'What about the girl, Cissy? Is she over the shock yet?'

'She's doing just great - back today, in fact. I'll be keeping a close eye on her nevertheless.'

'I'll be making a few enquiries of my own, Jill, about this cloak and dagger stuff at the council. It's the first I've heard of it.'

As they talked, footsteps and talking somewhere on the landing upstairs could be heard.

'Ah. Bonjour mesdames. Je suis désolée. I'm so sad to leave two lovely ladies this morning - even if it's only for a week. It is sad, Jack, n'est-ce pas?'

As Marcel and Jack entered the kitchen, the former smiling broadly, Tina got up from her seat and hugged the Frenchman for a second before going over to the worktop to prepare breakfast.

'And me, darling wife?'

Smiling, Tina walked back smartly across the floor, grabbing her husband and planting a juicy kiss on each cheek.

'Don't worry dearest. First day back - you'll be fine. I'm proud of you.'

At that moment Debs and Sula appeared.

'Joyful reunions I see. Morning all. It seems like we're all deserting the ship this morning.'

'If both you girls behave, I'll take you to the station when I drop off Marcel.'

'Thanks Tina. You're a gem.'

Debs sat down, grinning at Marcel as she spoke.

'Sula was just telling me that all French men are simply too lazy these days. Don't believe in walking anywhere if they can get a lift.'

'Don't believe a word she says, Marcel. She's a born stirrer.'

Sula gave Marcel a quick peck on the cheek as she sat down.

'Oui, ma belle amie. She's just, how you say, full of the pensées jalouses, jealous thoughts. You are better looking than her. I like you better.'

'Quiet you lot. Come and get your plates. We haven't all day.'

Tina pointed imperially at the sizzling breakfasts laid out on the marble worktop.

* * * * *

'Morning Tom.'

'Hello Dave.'

As Tom Barton watched PC Dave Skelton go up to the canteen serving hatch for a morning cup of tea, he wondered about the day about to begin. He was uneasy. The Cissy Blackstock affair and threats to Bruneigh High had brought his local station to the attention of bigwigs at nearby Windale police station. Until the matter was sorted out, one way or another, he would remain under the microscope, as far as some of these worthies were concerned.

'When is she due - the temporary from Windale?'

Sliding the bowl of sugar cubes across the table towards the questioner, he smiled as he watched the latter deposit six cubes in his steaming mug.

'Sure you've got enough sweetness in there? One of these days that stuff will glue your insides solid - sure as hell.'

'And...?'

'Oh right. I nearly forgot. You were asking about our newcomer. Its 7.15. I told her 7.30 so she should be along any minute.'

At that moment an officer shouted from the door.

'Woman at front desk asking for you, Dave.'

'I'll be right there.'

As Tom watched, Dave stood up, raised the mug to his lips and downed the hot liquid in one long gurgle.

'You must have insides of iron, is all I can say.'

'Best of luck with our new recruit, Tom.'

As the fast tea drinker shot off, Tom let his thoughts wander back to the impending meeting with WPC Miranda Carr, 23 year old entrant on the 'fast-track' graduate intake scheme - brainchild of Superintendent Meredew at Windale. From what he'd heard through the police grapevine, the young lady in question was an only child and daughter of a high-ranking civil servant father and gynaecological consultant mother - an unusual candidate, in his eyes, for career police officer. He would have to tread carefully with this one. He started to wonder. Would she be a spoilt brat, a daddy's child perhaps, with chubby cheeks and a rotund body? Might she instead be thin, with sharp mannish features and big hands, wearing glasses. Mmm...

Lost in thought he failed to spot canteen lady, Marjorie, pointing at him and smiling broadly as she looked at the door where a young woman in hi-visibility jacket and trousers, holding a helmet in one hand down by her side, had just entered the room. The young woman smiled back as she made her way to Tom's table.

'Hi. Sergeant Barton?'

Tom looked up, puzzled.

'Yes. What can I do for you?'

'I'm Miranda - Miranda Carr - I take it you're expecting me?'

'Why yes of course. Sit down. Tea? Coffee?'

'Tea, white, one sugar please.'

'Marjorie. One tea - white - when you're ready. And another for me. Would you mind taking that stupid grin off your face. There now.'

All three of them suddenly burst out laughing. The ice was broken.

As he started to talk to his new officer, drafted in on a temporary basis to help with the recent crisis, he found himself warming to the young woman. She had an apparent complete lack of self-importance and a genuine desire to serve the community as a police officer. Of average height and build and pretty as a picture, she would never be short of suitors. Even as they spoke, the word would be flying round the station that the new girl was truly a stunner.

'Here, let me take those, Marjorie.'

'Thanks dear. You're the first decent officer I've met since I arrived here. Do you know all these lazy sods expect me to wait on them hand and foot.'

Marjorie winked at Miranda, as the latter collected the mugs of tea.

'And we all love you for it, don't we, Marjorie?'

Tom blew kisses towards the serving counter.

'I hope you don't mind me asking, but what do your parents think of your choice of career?'

Tom felt emboldened to ask.

'I don't mind at all. They were both a bit uneasy but respected my decision. In their opinion, it is an honourable career with rewards, like any other. I never wanted to do anything else for as long as I can remember.'

'Thanks for telling me that, Miranda. And now....'

As they turned into Dunon Drive, some half hour later, Tom began looking at the houses, counting down 197, 195,...175. The Harley was parked in its usual spot - a thing of beauty, metal and paintwork gleaming brightly as it caught the early morning sun.

'This is it. Be prepared for big surprises with this one, WPC Carr. He's a real beauty and I'm sure you'll take a proper shine to him.'

'Don't really know how to take that, Sergeant Barton. Who is this man, really? Angel or devil?'

'You'll soon find out. Just keep close to your old sergeant and you'll be safe enough.'

'Dunno. For some inexplicable reason that doesn't seem to entirely fill me with confidence.'

'Now, now...blimey. The sod's seen us coming. He's already at the door.'

As they came up the short garden path, X stood in the open doorway. His stance - low stoop, one foot planted firmly in front of the other, arms pointed rigidly downwards, face peering towards them in a steady glare - was one of determined confrontation.

'You f.....s again. What you after this time?'

'Less of your cheek, young man. And mind your filthy language. Can't you see that there are ladies present?'

As Miranda looked at the young man facing them, she involuntarily cringed. Spotted, stooped, deformed - all this in an individual she could gladly stand. What she was not prepared for, however, was the repulsive, depraved character emanating - oozing - from the evil eyes, the very pores of this invidious being. The evil was tangible...she could feel it reach out...touch her.

'Ugh....'

She shivered, giving herself a shake.

'Ladies sucker. I see no ladies. I see two f.....g plods - one uglier than the other. He. He....'

With that, the ungainly, obstreperous individual immediately broke down in paroxysms of laughter, holding his sides for all he was worth. The hyena-like cackling went on and on, like it would never end...shrill...piercing...a sound from the very depths of hell.

Then.

Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

A crowd of curious onlookers from houses on either side, attracted by the strange sound, were gathering, meanwhile, in true rubbernecking fashion, to observe the free show.

'We are here to ask you some questions. Can we please do it inside - in private.'

Tom was getting annoyed by the antics of the crowd, now getting loud and vociferous, in their own right. Their motto no doubt being the purely selfless - pour a little innocent petrol, see what happens.

'We're behind you mate. Whatcha done bro? Murder yeah? Its murder everyone. Murder. Murder. Murder...'

'Shut the hell up you lot. Now. Kapiche....Good.'

The crowd quietened down.

Tom turned his attention back to X, now smiling and giving the crowd the 'Come on' sign with both hands.

'I'll not ask you again dumb-bell. We can either talk to you here, or take you with us down the station. Your choice. I haven't all day.'

'Well, what the f..k are you both wasting my time for. I'm a busy boy, a busy bee...He...He....'

With that the creature went off again, convulsed with laughter at his own perceived wit, as Tom and Miranda walked past him into the house.

As they entered the hall and proceeded through the open door of the lounge, Miranda wondered what possible horrors might be awaiting them.

'You'se might as well sit down, now you're here. Wanna cup of tea, or something - Eh, big man?'

'No. I'll just sit here - get straight down to the reason for our visit, if you don't mind.'

'Pity about that. I'd have just loved to lace your f.....g tea with my house special. As if - you stupid big f....r. Think I'm a bit short up top?'

As the pleasantries went on, Miranda found herself in a state of total disbelief. The ugly individual handing out gross insults at random didn't seem to fit his surroundings, somehow. Comfortable settee and chairs, carefully chosen matching wallpaper and carpets, mahogany bookcase in one corner and shiny glass-topped coffee table - all, surely, were chosen by someone of an entirely different ilk to their owner. The place was kept in immaculate condition - not a single speck of dust or dirty smear could she see on any surface.

Noticing her expression, X was quick to indulge in his favourite pastime - taunting the 'filth', as he liked to call all police officers. He certainly was not about to divulge the fact that the council house was one of a batch bought by Barney Gulpin as part of some recent shady deal involving a certain councillor, a Mr...

Barney had installed his trusty lieutenant and the latter's mother in the place - fully furnished beforehand by his good wife, Janine. The understanding was that he, X, should look after the place and keep it at all times in the pristine condition in which it was given to him. The pit bull was allowed to stay as X assured his master that no neighbour or visitor would dare enter the property whilst his dog was present.To let Barney Gulpin down would be unthinkable - the very thought filled him with terror most nights.

'Bet you was just thinkin girl of maybe hookin up with a nice, handsome boy like me, eh? All this could be yours. Jus' imagine dancing the night away....'

'Cut the crap, you degenerative little lickspittle and shut up. Consider yourself duly warned. Last chance. Okay?'

'Oh but I do like it when you talk dirty to me, big boy. Shall we go off to the bedroom now duckie? Ooo...I'm getting so hot...so so...'

As he watched the ungainly creature preen and caress his buttocks provocatively in the manner of a striptease artist as he looked steadily at the officer - blowing kisses - Tom decided that enough was enough.

'Right, you little weasel. I warned you. Now you're coming with us. We'll ask you some questions down at the station.'

'You can f...k off. I'm not going anywhere with you pigs. I'll f.....g show youse both where I'm going. Right now.'

The previous preening, buttock-caressing individual now looked straight at the two officers - malevolent...cunning.

He started to grin - dived towards the door.

Tom's reaction was too slow. X was already past him - escaping.

Then as Tom looked, he saw, as in slow motion, Miranda shoot up from her seat, grab the escaping one, bring him to the ground, handcuffing him in seconds as she sat astride her prostrate adversary.

Astonished at his young colleague's speed and agility, he could only mutter.

'Damned good work, WPC Carr. Welcome to my unit.'

'Pleased to be of service, Sergeant Barton. Shall I escort him to the van?'

'Yes. I'll just get his keys and lock up here before we go.'

Later at the station, Tom addressed Miranda outside the door of the room where X sat waiting to be interviewed.

'I'll let you ask the questions. How about it, WPC Carr?'

'I'd love to, Sergeant Barton - even though the little beggar gives me the creeps. It will be the first time I've had the chance to interview a suspect.'

'You've earned the chance today, WPC Carr. I've total faith in you.'

As she looked across the table at X, Miranda thought to herself,

'This might very well be a poisoned chalice \- a true baptism of fire. I'll sink or swim here.'

'We wish to ask you what you were doing last Wednesday evening. Think carefully. Take your time. And would you mind awfully if I ask you to forget your play-acting and concentrate? '

She addressed the strange man / boy who was at that moment in the process of shadow boxing some invisible assailant by his side, cursing and swearing as he rained down punches on said unfortunate ghostly adversary.

'Okay Ma'am. I'll let the little blighter off for now. Oh and what you were asking. Haven't a clue, I'm afraid. Same as any other day. I'm a busy boy see.'

'So you know nothing about an attack on a young girl sometime that evening, in Bruneigh Woods?'

'No. 'fraid not...but hold on. You did say Wednesday, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'Now I do remember. It was pissing down rain in buckets. I was visiting a certain young lady for some indoor sport. He. He. Get my meaning, darling? You can come anytime and we'll make it a threesome. What ya say to that?'

The reprobate immediately went into rapturous applause at his own marvellous wit, pointing hysterically at her as he stood up laughing uncontrollably for a few seconds before suddenly stopping and taking his seat once again.

'If you've quite finished. I'd like to get the young lady's name, address and place of work, so she can corroborate your story - allow us to eliminate you from our enquiries.'

'No problem. Its...'

'Right. And what is the nature of your relationship with this young woman? Girlfriend? Wife?'

'Naw. None of those. Just casual...like. We both meet for a right good f.....g session when we're horny. Want some details, darling?'

'I've got all the details I need from you, for the moment. We may need to speak to you at a later date, so I wouldn't be thinking of jetting off to far-away places anytime soon. You may leave for now.'

Sometime later, Tom and Miranda pulled up in the Bruneigh council estate, opposite a row of single storey flats, off Dunon Drive.

'Watch where you put your feet, WPC Carr. Piles of dog shit everywhere. What a bloody awful neighbourhood.'

'I have to admit it's not the most salubrious place I've been to, Sergeant Barton. Can't something be done to the dog owners, like penalties for failure to scoop up their pet's mess?'

'I'm afraid tenants move in and out so quickly in this area that the council cannot keep tabs on them, or bring them to book for misconduct, littering, nuisance -anything.'

Knocking loudly on the door they waited.

'Who's there?'

A woman's voice, muffled, came from behind the door.

'Police. We wish to speak with you. It should only take a few moments of your time. Okay?'

'Hold on. I'll get my keys.'

As they waited Tom turned to his colleague.

'Do you know, Junior, I think we can cut out the 'Sergeant, WPC' stuff from now on. What say we shake on it - Miranda?'

'Fine by me, Senior - Tom, isn't it? My. But don't you look old and distinguished for your thirty years - or less, maybe. Ha.'

'I'll have less of the cheek, young Miranda. I don't tolerate insubordination in my ranks. As senior officer, I.....'

His words were cut off at that moment as the door suddenly swung open to reveal a woman in her thirties, extremely fit, dressed in a revealing red top - bare at the midriff \- and short black miniskirt that threatened to reveal all as she put a leg out, raising her heel off the ground, swaying provocatively.

The barefooted coquette did a twirl before looking at Tom, licking her painted red lips.

'Mmm....I'd be willing to do anything for you, dearie. What about you and me...?'

Her words were cut off mid-sentence, as Tom barked,

'Enough of that. I remember you now - by a different name, Madame Crimson, or something. I arrested you for soliciting. I must say you do manage to keep yourself in remarkably good trim.'

'Cos it's a good girl, I am. Cruel, you were, to poor ol' Betsy.'

The woman pouted.

'Can we come inside for a minute?'

'Don't take too long. Ol' Betsy's got visitors coming later.'

'I bet you have.'

Miranda was getting irritated by the woman.

As they sat down in the lounge of the small flat, she looked around as Tom got out his notebook and answered a call from the station. Drab and threadbare to a fault it smelt of damp musky boudoir. Wallpaper, browned with tobacco smoke and peeling off in various places met painted surfaces everywhere that looked as if they'd never had cloth or sponge rubbed over them. The overall appearance seemed one of carefree abandon on the part of its present tenant - pleasure yourself while you can, all ye who enter here - seeming to be the motto.

'So you can confirm that the gentleman I just mentioned was with you between 4 and 6 p.m. last Wednesday.'

'Of course. The naughty wee stallion was treating ol' Betsy well that evening. Kept it up all night, the randy little beggar. So there. Satisfied?'

'That's all for now.'

As they left, Miranda felt compelled to ask a question.

'You don't really believe her, do you, Tom?'

'No Miranda. I don't but for now we'll just have to take her word for it. I'm determined we'll get to the bottom of all this in due course.'

'That place was simply awful. I've a feeling that woman lives in fear of someone.'

'I don't doubt that, for a second. But it can't be the little creep we saw earlier that's behind this vendetta against the school. He's taking orders from someone - bigger, with brains and know-how. There's more to it all than we're seeing at present.'

'Any plans...?'

'Nothing definite. We'll just have to keep vigilant...follow up all leads, even the tiniest. We must not - cannot - allow this group to succeed in carrying out their threat of raping some young girl. That would be unthinkable.'

'Agreed. By the way, I'd just like to say that I'm glad to be here and look forward to working alongside you, Tom.'

'And glad to have you on board. Welcome, Miranda, to the cutting edge of police work.'

* * * * *

Brr...Brr...

Jill picked up the phone, checking the time on her computer screen as she did so - 8.45 a.m.

'Jill Ponsonby here. How may I help you?'

'Oh hello Jill. I'm glad I've caught you. I'm just phoning to tell you my team will arrive sometime after 9 tomorrow morning. I'll come along earlier for a little chat with you - if that's okay? I was thinking 8.30'ish.'

The soft yet crisp, clear tones of Mary Crozier brought back pleasant memories of a meeting, just over a week earlier. A different world entirely sprang into her mind - carefree abandon, innocent pleasure, meetings with new friends...more...so much, much more.

'That will be fine, Mary. By the way, its lovely to hear your voice again and I really look forward to seeing you. That invitation for you and Tim to spend some time at _Gurnings_ still stands.'

'Thank you for that, Jill. I'll definitely take you up on your kind offer sometime - maybe sooner than you think. See you tomorrow, then. Byee.'

As she put the phone down, Jane Madley knocked on the door and entered, holding the customary mug of tea.

'Morning dear. I'll just put this on the desk for you. I suggest you drink it soon, as I think you're going to need it when I tell you who's just been on the phone.'

'Thanks Jane. Pray go on. You do know I want to speak with some of the teachers before tomorrow's Ofsted visit. Mary Crozier's just been on the phone to confirm.'

'I know, dear. The person I've just been speaking to is Lady Persephone Carruthers. She says you must ring her sometime within the next half hour about some visit or other.'

'A visit by whom?'

'She said it was confidential.'

'Okay Jane. Thanks. I'll ring her now.'

As Jane left, Jill thought for a second about what the august Lady might want to talk to her about so urgently.

'Hello Lady Carruthers. Jill Ponsonby here. My secretary has just informed me that you wish to speak to me on a matter of some importance.'

'Ah yes, Jill. I've just been contacted by some gentleman from Bruneigh Council, singing the praises of a project I thought to have been more or less shelved - a large PFI-funded secondary school to replace the two existing ones. He said a growing number of councillors were coming round to the idea and thought I should be informed, as Chair of Governors of Bruneigh High.'

'Goodness. And what did you say to that?'

'I promptly told him that, unless I received an official letter from the council, signed by the appropriate official, about anything so important, I would treat such unwarranted approaches as irrelevant, and ignore them.'

'Brilliant. And thanks for letting me know.'

'There's more. He also said he was going to visit you today at 1 p.m. to discuss this apparent change of mind by the council. He doesn't sound like a gentleman so I'd warn you to be cautious. Anyway, I'll leave it in your capable hands. Byee.'

As she put the phone down she made arrangements with Jane to expect the visitors and went off, hoping to buttonhole certain members of staff for a quick chat, before classes started.

At 1.15 p.m. her phone rang.

'Hello, Jill. Your visitors are outside.'

'Okay Jane. Send them straight in.'

As the odd duo entered, she had just time to make a quick assessment of them before a single word was spoken - unfavourable to the nth degree. Something about their appearance and general demeanour didn't sit right, somehow. Even before he opened his mouth, the first one to enter, small and thin \- presumably the leader - looked across at her with the slick, oily expression of one who considered himself to be a smooth operator, whilst the giant following in his wake had the shifty, ape-like appearance of one who had lost his true vocation of bouncer in some unmentionable and shady nightclub.

'I do believe you were expecting me and Bertram, my dear. I'm Dominic - Dom to my friends. I'd like us to shake hands on what could be a possible ongoing relationship, beneficial to all concerned.'

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Jill indicated that the pair sit down in the chairs facing her across the desk.

'Please take a seat, both of you. And let me make two things crystal clear. I'm not your friend at the present moment in time, and very much doubt I shall ever consider myself as such at any foreseeable time in the future. Furthermore, I shall expect you to address me at all times as Mrs. Ponsonby. Do I make myself clear?'

'Stuck up cow.'

The muttered response from the giant one as he shuffled uncomfortably in his chair took her by surprise - wrong-footing her - for a second.

'I think this meeting is no longer...'

Her reply was cut off mid-sentence, as Dom quickly interjected.

'I'm sorry, my dear - I mean, Mrs. Ponsonby \- about Bertram. He gets upset at little things but means no harm. Apologise now to the good lady, Bertram. Do you hear me? Right now!'

'Sorry Mrs. But that's all you're getting from me. I still think...'

'Right Bertram. As you don't seem capable of co-operating in any way, I insist you leave the room - immediately!'

Fuming, Jill stood up as she delivered her ultimatum.

'Wait outside, Bertram.'

As the latter hesitated, Dom stood up, tapping him on the shoulder.

'Go now, Bertie. I shan't be long.'

As the grumbling, mumbling one left the room Jill addressed Dom.

'I don't think this should take long. I'm just interested to hear what precisely you've got to say.'

As Dom looked across at her his expression changed. He seemed to be looking beyond her into some other world - ecstatic, as if experiencing some beatific vision, or ultimate euphoria. He had the look of a zealot discovering the source of true happiness in abandonment to some religion or cause. Maybe it was also the look of a gambler about to put all his chips into one last feverish throw of the dice.

'I've got visions of what utterly great benefits a new PFI-funded secondary complex could bring to Bruneigh. I have it, on good authority, that you would head it - on a much improved salary.' All you have to do, Mrs. Ponsonby, is sign a paper - an agreement - which I've brought here today with me so that we can set things in motion. As it is, with disaffected members of the community such as _Friends of Bruneigh_ now baying for blood, and Ofsted results uncertain, I think I know what I would do - in your shoes. A no-brainer, surely?'

'I'll tell you this once - and once only. I don't give a fig for your - or anyone else's - opinion on the merits of PFI as an alternative to Bruneigh High, as it currently exists. I was employed to bring my school up to the standards required by Ofsted and will continue to do the job to the best of my ability. I trust I make myself clear. Now please go, and take your ill-mannered assistant with you. Now!'

'You'll regret this, lady.'

Despite his ponderous threat, the small man nevertheless cut a forlorn, dejected figure as he left the room.

As Jack walked towards Jill Madley's office to collect question papers, answer booklets and other items, on his way to the examination hall where he was due to act as invigilator, he narrowly missed colliding with two figures leaving the office adjacent - Jill's - locked in argument. They passed on, oblivious of his presence, absorbed in angry exchanges with each other.

'Hi Jane. I've just called in to collect the stuff for the History exam. I nearly got knocked down by two guys leaving Jill's office. They were really giving it rice - I thought I'd have to act as referee before taking up my duties as invigilator.'

'Hello Jack. Welcome back. I'm so glad to see you. I've got your stuff here and will go with you to the hall and help set things up. I'll tell you about the strange couple you saw, in a minute. Cup of tea?'

As she spoke, Jane rushed over and hugged him before putting on the kettle and plopping a teabag and sugar in two mugs.

'You know, Jane, I remember having tea with you all those years ago, when you suggested I go to a rock festival.'

'Yes. I was so glad for you. What a fabulous catch you made in Tina. I'll never forget the moment you told me about it. Man - that day you were on fire.'

'To tell you the truth, Jane, I still can't believe how lucky I was that day. Ah well, as Jill's new friend, or paramour, Marcel, might say - C'est la vie.'

Some fifteen minutes later, they both set off, carrying small piles of exam paraphernalia. Putting the items on a small table at the front of the hall, they both looked round for a second or two. Joe, the caretaker, had already done a splendid job of setting out some thirty or so tables in three rows, spacing them apart with mathematical precision. Looking at the overall neat, geometrical pattern, Jack marvelled at the skill involved - the same expertise he admired when looking at the precise joinery work of a door neatly hung, the brilliant flawless finish on a finely polished table, the intricate tracery on a Gothic window, and so on...

'Clock's okay. I've checked it against my watch, set to time earlier from the speaking clock. I'll start putting stuff on the desks.'

Jane's words cut through his musings.

'Fine Jane - and thanks. I honestly don't know what I'd do without you sometimes.'

As they both placed booklets and exam papers on tables, moving up and down the rows, the only sounds to be heard were muffled occasional outbursts of laughter from nearby classrooms, or footsteps in the corridors outside.

'That looks great, Jane.'

Jack was looking at a large blackboard at the front where Jane had finished chalking necessary instructions for the students. Her neat lettering was in a different league to his ungainly, spidery scrawl.

'Well Jack. I'll be off now. Best of luck.'

'Thanks again Jane.'

At 1.45 he opened the door and looked down the line of students standing in the corridor.

'Hello everyone. And straighten up there, Henry Grossen - no need to look so worried - it's just an exam, not doomsday.'

As a wave of tittering from the students followed his remark, the lone voice of one, Jerry Morris, rang out clearly.

'Glad to see you back, Sir.'

'Thanks for that, Jerry. And now, before you all go inside, I've just a few important things to say:

Firstly, you will see instructions written on a blackboard at the front of the room.

Secondly, if you have any queries please come up and ask me before the exam commences.

Thirdly, none of you will be permitted to leave the room during the first 15 to 30 minutes and the last 15 minutes of the exam.

Last, but not least, if any of you decide to cheat - which, by the way, I'm sure you wouldn't dream of doing - any unauthorised material will be immediately removed and a report filed.

Okay everyone. Now you may file in, in orderly fashion, and take your seats.'

At 2.0 p.m. precisely he shouted clearly at the rows of upturned faces.

'You may now turn over your examination papers and begin.'

After a few minutes the only sounds in the room were an occasional scraping of a solitary chair, somewhere in the hall, as a student stretched, the odd cough or two, or murmurings and gasps at odd intervals from points across the hall. As he got up and quietly began to walk slowly up and down the rows, he could not fail to notice certain clear and distinct differences in the facial expressions of some of the students. Some, rapt, scribbled furiously, eager to prove their worth, get as much down - the product of hard work over two years - as possible, in the time given. Others scribbled more slowly, looking up from time to time, to collect their thoughts, cast back in their memories for some elusive fragment or other, before putting pen to paper once more. Some poor souls looked lost, forlorn, their pens hardly touching the papers in front of them at all. Instead they gazed wistfully round them at the furious scribbling of others, twiddling their pens and wishing...thinking...if only...

As he filled in the attendance record, he felt a tug on his shoulder.

'Sir. I'm off. Sorry.'

'But Des....surely...'

As he looked up into the face of Des Corcoran, the latter dashed towards the door and was gone.

It had happened in an instant.

The student's work had deteriorated from the beginning of the year and recently had seemed to fall off a cliff. When he'd approached the student the latter had been steadfastly non-committal about reasons for his poor work rate, but it later transpired that he'd started associating with the pair of troublemakers, Lanksy and Tiny, at around the same time as his school work started to fail. His efforts to prise the student away from the clutches of the pair proved fruitless, but he had never given up hope that someday he might just succeed.

As he collected the papers from the student's desk, he looked at the answer sheet in horror, tinged with deep sadness. Graffiti filled the pages where answers should have been in an obscene gesture of some sort - defiance...anger...whatever...

'What a damned waste.'

'Time's up. Stop writing. Please make sure you've filled in the sheet with your name, number etc. I'll be round shortly to collect your papers.'

It was 3.30 and, as he spoke, he got up and moved down the rows, collecting booklets from each student, checking the cover sheets as he went. As he placed the final papers on his desk, he looked down the room for the final time.

'You may all leave now. In an orderly fashion, if you please.'

As the last student left the hall, Jane Madley entered.

'Hi Jack. I'll give you a hand with those. Everything go all right?'

'Oh yes. Apart from one...'

As they chatted on the way back to Jane's office, Jack was thinking of a possible meeting ahead, later on in the evening - with a certain someone. Would the person be there?

'Mmm. Could be interesting.'

He muttered to himself, thinking aloud.

'You all right Jack?'

Jane quizzed, looking directly at him.

'Fine Jane. Never better....never....'

'I'll take your word for it, dear.'

She smiled, shaking her head.

* * * * *

Basher sat at the edge the bed, stretching lazily, then gasping as sudden pain from a pulled leg muscle seemed to shoot right through his body. He'd felt the twinge the previous evening as he worked out at the gym and had reluctantly cut short the session - better safe than sorry being his motto. Fully dressed, ablutions complete, he sat waiting, thinking back to that Parole Board hearing... barely three weeks earlier...

...As he entered the small compact room, he noticed five individuals sitting at a table facing the door. Shirley Goodall was there, a warming presence, sitting to the left of the group, and his solicitor, Peter Godsell, was sat to the right, looking down, a look of utter concentration on his face as he turned over some pages in front of him - seeking some vital missing piece of information, perhaps?

The central figure, an elderly sage of some sort, with an intelligent face full of lines and creases, made Basher recall, for some reason, one of four faces he'd seen on a TV documentary, carved into stone at Mount Rushmore, Dakota, USA. He couldn't remember the names corresponding to each face, but for the moment he'd settle on George Washington as a likeness for the sage opposite. This figure with sharp, grey aquiline features now addressed him.

'John Gulpin. Correct?'

As prison officer, Brian Atkins, indicated he sit down in a chair opposite the group, he cleared his throat for a second or two.

'John Gulpin. Is that your name, young man?'

The sage was being patient. Basher, for some unaccountable reason, felt a sudden nervousness, a wave of mild nausea, as he took stock of where he was at that moment and its significance. Quickly pulling himself together, he looked across the table at his questioner.

'Correct. I'm John...er...Gulpin...Sir.'

'Well now. Let's see. You were sentenced to minimum 12 years for murder, second degree....'

It seemed to drag on for some time as the three talked amongst themselves at times, referring to the copious notes on the table in front of them, the elderly sage directing the odd question at him, from time to time. Shirley Goodall was asked to give some opinion on his progress, overall rehabilitation and readiness for release - albeit on probation - into the community.

'In my opinion, Sir, John Gulpin is ready for release on licence into the community to serve out the remainder of his sentence. Now....'

As Shirley flicked through some papers on the table, the sage leaned slightly in her direction, addressing her in the manner of a genial uncle.

'Pray, young lady, take your time. Go on.'

'When he came to this prison he suffered from sudden, rather violent outbursts of temper...rage of sorts. As I talked to him, I soon realised that much of this was due to frustration at having nothing to do, or look forward to; I also noticed that he liked to get involved in the goings-on of people around him. As a result I decided to put him on our 'listener / Samaritan' training course so that he could actively engage in helping other prison inmates with their individual problems...'

'And the point, my dear...we really must...Ok?'

The sage was looking at his watch as he interrupted her flow.

'Sorry Sir. The point is he excelled in his role as a listener - well beyond my expectations. Also, his improved behaviour earned him privilege jobs that he carried out - and still does, to this day - in an entirely acceptable and responsible manner. He puts his heart and soul into it, in a manner of speaking. He is truly reformed...'

'Thank you...thank you indeed for your comments. Duly noted. Now...'

Shirley's comments were brought to an abrupt end as the sage interrupted. As Basher looked at the group - the sage, in particular - he couldn't help but mutter, sotto voce.

'Wonder if he's already sealed my fate. Looks like the old fart thinks he's already teeing off at his posh, 'members-only' golf club.' There was also something in Shirley's voice - a faltering, as if trying to squeeze out words she didn't truly believe. He wondered...

With some final words to the group, the sage addressed Basher.

'Now we've considered all the relevant information, progress reports, mitigating factors, etc .we'll let you know our decision in due course. Thank you, Mr. Gulpin. You may now go.'

As the voice from _Mount Rushmore_ spoke, the gravity of his words, spoken in a low voice, seemed to carry a heavy weight from the ghostly familiar from times long past. As he heard the words, Basher thought of the same illustrious figure, possibly now turning and groaning in some splendid sepulchre. Did this figure think him an unworthy recipient of clemency?

Brian Atkins tapped him on the shoulder.

'Thank you, Sir.'

He addressed the three words to _George Washington_ as he rose and left, the prison officer following close behind...

...A key turning in the lock of his cell door made him wonder...

'Not that f.....g Staveley? Christ, I hope not.'

He muttered to himself as he watched the door open.

'Morning John. Everything okay?'

Brian Atkins stood in the doorway, smiling.

'I've a letter for you. Arrived yesterday.'

'Thanks, Sir.'

As he got up sharply to take the letter from the officer's outstretched hand, a sudden spasm of pain shot from his right leg and up the side of his body, causing him to jerk suddenly as he grabbed hold of the throbbing area.

'F.....g hell. Sorry guv. Must be a trapped nerve or something. I felt something give in the gym yesterday evening.'

'Best get it seen to. I'll arrange for you to go to the medical wing later. Best if you rest it for now. I'll tell them at the canteen. Okay?'

'Thanks Sir. Much appreciated.'

As the officer left, Basher went over and sat on the bed. Ripping the letter open he frantically read the contents...

'Yippee...Yeah...Good one...Not such a bad old fart after all...I thank you, George Washington, from the bottom of my heart..'

The letter, envelope, bits of paper flew through the air as an exuberant Basher took in his good news. In a moment he picked up the letter again, reading:

... _We have pleasure in informing you of release date June 27th. 2012._

You will have to attend at Windale probation office on Friday June 29th. at 9.00 a.m, where your offender manager, Deirdre Catchpole, will ask you to read and agree to a sentence plan, telling you the rules you must adhere to during your probationary period, and what your responsibilities are......

It was there - in black and white. Whew....

'Take that - bastard. And another. Now piss off out of my sight. If I see you near young Simon again you'll be for it.'

Basher heard the slaps as he sat with Boxer later on that evening in the recreation hall. Looking round he couldn't help but smile as he saw the familiar figure of Jonah Madders, albeit in a completely new light. The slightly built young man / boy fronting one of the bullies from an earlier phase of his time at the prison cut a curious _David_ figure as he squared up to his large _Goliath_ nemesis.

'Why, you little f....r. I'll f.....g....'

As the larger man made to dive on his adversary, a hand gripped his shoulder.

'Why dearie, that's no way to treat my friend. You're simply far too naughty. Off with you before I give you a good....'

As the bully looked up at the towering 6'1" figure of smiling negro, Benjamin Saba, known to all inmates as Benjy, a cross-dressing transvestite, he gulped. In a second, he found himself pulled towards the negro, then slapped hard a few times on his backside, before being released.

'Bloody nonces...'

As the erstwhile bully walked away, muttering to himself whilst holding his stinging posterior, Basher joked.

'Our Jonah's learning fast. Don't think he will need my listening services anytime soon. We'll soon be paying lip service to Jonah, if we're not careful. What say you, Boxer, my friend?'

'I'm glad he found balls. And that Benjy is cool - real cool..'

The person in question was serving a life sentence for second degree murder. Before his incarceration he had worked during the day as home delivery driver for a large supermarket chain as a normal 'man' but felt somehow imprisoned or restricted in the role, being as he was, outrageously camp by nature. As a hobby, and in order to get rid of pent up feelings of frustration, Benjy attended a local gym regularly. It was here that he discovered he liked very much letting rip on a punch bag he found there. Advised by the resident coach, on seeing his potential, to do serious training, he toyed with the idea for some time, but finally decided to give it a miss.

One of those rare transgender types - tall, with female curves, full bosom and a rear to die for - Benjy liked to dress up as a woman, alter ego, Claudia de Ville, when going for a night out on the town. Very convincing, 'she' found herself propositioned very often - as a woman - and accompanied many a businessman back to his hotel room after a chance meeting at the bar and meal / drinks afterwards. Interestingly, on discovering their girlfriend for the night to be a 'chick with a dick', only a few had recoiled in genuine horror and disgust. The vast majority, after getting over the initial mild shock of surprise, had got on with things, some assuring her the morning after that they'd never f....d so intensely before, in their whole life. Some of these she'd met later, by arrangement, when they were in town. It was on one of those occasions, that something happened...

As 'she' sat at a table in a hotel one night, sipping a whiskey chaser, dressed in a pale cream blouse and red leather mini, with matching low-heel Jimmy Choo Harlow flats, waiting for a friend, she felt her Jon Renau 'long hair' black wig move slightly.

'Damn.'

She groaned. She'd have to go to the Ladies and refasten the thing in a cubicle immediately. Downing the chaser in one gulp, she went off. As she came out of a cubicle, a few minutes later, she exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes with a young girl who was at that moment touching up her make-up as she gazed into one of the mirrors on the wall.

'What trouble we go to, for our men. Eh?'

She addressed the other before leaving.

'Oh. Yes - to be sure. Er...?'

'Claudia. Bye Petal.'

'Bye, Claudia.'

As Claudia exited the Ladies, shutting the door behind her, the young girl looked at the door for a second, then exploded in laughter.

'Chrissakes. That Claudia had me completely fooled - until she opened her gob. Unbelievable or what?'

She was still muttering to herself and laughing as she left the Ladies.

Claudia headed straight for the bar as she entered the lounge.

'Usual Claudia?'

Roger, the barman, knew her as a regular and liked her. An unapologetically camp Claudia in full swing added definite frisson to a room, in his opinion - a definite breath of fresh air.

'Lager please, Roger, and a chaser.'

'Coming up.'

As she waited, looking round the room, the usual sort of crowd were sat round the tables. Some couples, menu sheets in hand, seemed to agonise for ages over choices, before coming to a decision. Others sat alone, drinks in hand, gazing listlessly into space. Mysteries all. Who were these solitary ones \- mostly men - who sat in silence? She wondered...

'Seven forty-two please, Claudia.'

'Ta Roger.'

Sitting down near some diners, she placed the drinks carefully on the table before taking out her mobile.

She rang a number.

A man answered.

'I'll be down in five minutes or so. Then we'll order. Byee darling.'

As she put the phone back in her handbag and settled back in her seat, re-crossing her long legs, she reached for the pint of lager and took a long lingering mouthful of the cool refreshing liquid.

'Mwaaah. Better.'

She muttered aloud as she wiped some froth from her red painted lips with a white paper tissue. Then she noticed...

A man, sat at a table, a few feet away, was looking at her...studying...leering...

As she looked at him, deciding whether to give him a frozen basilisk stare or a two finger, f..k off salute, she saw the sixty-something man rise from his seat and start to come across to her table. He staggered, obviously drunk, and would be a problem. Her guard was already up.

'Dje mind, if ayee jj...join you, my dear.'

'Sorry Sir. I'm afraid I'm already spoken for tonight. I'm waiting for someone.'

'Then shhhh...sure I's wait wi ye, gel. I'm a fine man. Bessir than your sssomeone, yeah?'

'Please Sir. Would you mind going back to your table and leaving me alone?'

'Snooty bish. Thass wass ye are. I'll show ye wass ayeee do to snobby bishes.'

In a second the chubby fourteen stone dived on her.

As she saw him lunge, she jumped up and stepped aside.

As the burly assailant flew past her he grabbed...clutched...

Her _Jon Renau_ came off in his hands.

As the man rose up from the ground, his expression, furious at first, changed in a second to one of exultation - triumph.

'F.....g nonce. Disgusting shirt lifter. Dirty prick teaser. Just look at this specimen before your eyes - all of you.'

As he lifted her wig and twirled it round, parading her shame and misery before everyone present, she felt mortified.

She looked for one second into that repellent, drunken face as he brushed the beautiful dark locks - her pride and joy - insultingly, against her cheeks.

With no hesitation, in fury, she balled her fist, pulled her arm back...far back...and punched with all her might.

The man dropped down - dead.

In the aftermath of an incident lasting mere minutes, the erstwhile Claudia found her whole life turned upside down. Immediate incarceration with no bail, followed by a trial with an unsympathetic judge - and then prison - was the outcome of that one moment...that fury of a second...

...'So you'll be leaving us soon then, Basher, old mate?'

'Yeah. Might be back, though, sooner than you think. Certain things to do...take care of.'

'You be careful, man.'

Both men looked up the hall at a table where new inmate Simon was listening intently, head bent down, to some words of wisdom from Jonah, sat on his right. Benjy was sitting on the other side of the newcomer - silent, lost in thought.

The world was moving on...

* * * * *

June 5th. 2012.

'Morning Jill.'

At 8.35 a.m. the formally attired HMI lead inspector, Mary Crozier, stood just inside the door, smiling, as she came over to shake hands.

'Good morning Mary. Heavens. The day, or days, of reckoning are now at last upon us.'

With that, Jill came from behind her desk and shook hands with her visitor, giving her a quick hug. As she let her visitor go, Jane Madley entered, carrying a tray with mugs of tea and biscuits.

'Thought you two would need a lift. You can help yourself to sugar or sweeteners, Mary.'

'Thanks Jane. You are kind - it's very much appreciated.'

'I think I've got everything more or less in order, Mary. I took on board what you said regarding feedback updates and have allocated times accordingly for us to meet during the day.'

'Fine. I wanted to see you alone for a brief talk before the rest of my team arrive. I've looked online at your SEF, sixth form performance and assessment report, or PANDA, your learner achiever tracker, LAT, Parent View, the school's last inspection report and a few other things relevant to the current inspection. Okay? With me so far? Sorry to sound officious but - you know the drill. I didn't come across anything of serious concern, by the way. Since I first saw you five years ago the school has come on in leaps and bounds. When it was in 'special measures' following the 2007 inspection, just before you were appointed as head, I saw closure as the most likely eventual outcome. The inspection in 2008 saw considerable improvements, when I awarded a rating - requiring improvement.'

'That's quite all right, Mary - and a relief, to tell you the truth, especially in view of an ongoing vendetta against the school by some strange group, calling itself _Friends of Bruneigh.'_

'This has indeed come to our attention but will be considered as mere 'hot air' and not worthy of consideration as a qualifying complaint. We, the inspection team, are here to judge the performance of the school, taking account of teaching quality, pupil success outcomes and legitimate views of all concerned - nothing else.'

'Good. I've got a list of things here...'

With that, Jill handed over copies of the school timetable, staff list and recent school improvement plan.

'Ahh. Yes. Mmm...'

As the inspector hummed and hawed for a few moments, lost in apparent introspection of sorts, and tapping a pencil on the desk, Jill smiled.

'Something's tickled your fancy, I see, unless I'm very much mistaken.'

'Yes Jill. Indeed. It's your very welcome introduction of Mandarin Chinese to the curriculum. It's a very important language skill to have, in this day and age. If you don't mind, I'd like to use this Ching Lan Liú's class to test your observational skills. I'd very much like to do this test myself and have the opportunity to watch your new staff member in action.

'I'd like that Mary. Apparently her name means 'beautiful orchid' when translated into the English. I can assure you this little lady truly lives up to her moniker.'

'I'm glad to have settled that. Anything else you want to discuss before the others get here?'

'I'd just like to mention a couple of things. I had to get a replacement for teacher of English due to the retirement of the incumbent, John Salter. The new teacher, Miss Lillian Grant, shows great promise but is still struggling a little \- finding her feet, so to speak. She's only been with us for a month or so.'

'In what way - struggling, I mean?'

'Classroom discipline. She has a very soft voice which doesn't carry to the back of the class sometimes. She told me it was a problem during her student years - getting the jitters when being tested by tutors - and had to get extra coaching in order to ensure graduation from teacher training college. She told me yesterday of her fears of letting herself and the school down in front of the inspection team.'

'I'll make a note of this Jill. And thanks for pointing this out. And now...'

Her words were cut off at as someone knocked softly on the door.

'Visitors. Shall I send them in? More teas?'

Jane Madley stood in the doorway.

'That's fine Jane. Okay with you, Mary?'

'Yes. Tell them to come in please, Jane. We can catch up on any outstanding issues, one-to-one, later, Jill.'

'No problem. And just in case I forget to tell you - I've allocated Room A2, next door for exclusive use by the inspection team. My office is, of course, is open to you at all times, Mary.'

As the three members, Additional Inspectors, of her team entered the room, Mary made the necessary introductions.

'Please, all of you, take a seat and say hello to Jill, headmistress of Bruneigh High.'

'Hello Jill.'

All three voices rang out in unison.

'Wilfrid Sharp.'

'Dave Miles.'

'Marianne Laslow.'

As the three reached across the desk to shake her hand, Jill couldn't help noticing straightaway some body language evident in the gestures and seating choices of the latest incomers. Dave entering first had taken one of two seats to the lead inspector's right, with Marianne following and immediately taking the other seat on the right, beside Dave. Wilfrid, entering last of the group, took the remaining seat on Mary's left. Knowing, slightly intimate, glances between Dave and Marianne as they sat down contrasted sharply with the dour and rather austere demeanour of Wilfrid who seemed to have a permanent pout as he leaned slightly away from the group of inspectors on his right.

Jill had seen Wilfrid on two previous inspections - 2008, at the end of her first year's tenure as head, and again in 2009, a year later - and found him somewhat difficult to deal with. A small, spare man, 5'4" with thinning jet black hair and prominent nose, he stood out as an oddity of sorts, seeming to prefer his own company at all times and only socialising with others when necessary.

After brief introductions, Mary briefed her team on details of inspections, meetings and other points relevant to the business of the day ahead.

'Now I think it's time we met with the staff if Jill is in agreement.'

'That's no problem. I'll be happy to take you right now. Most of them should be in the staff room.'

Some twenty minutes later, as they came out of the staff room where Mary had addressed everyone on outline details of the inspection, they noticed a group of students clowning about in the corridor up ahead. As they drew near, Jill recognised Cissy as she jokingly upbraided a tall lanky student in her group, slapping him hard on his backside as he yelped and shouted.

'Bitch. Bitch. You absolute bully. I'll show you...'

The lanky student had just seen the group, with his headmistress, Jill, in the lead, approaching, as it were, from out of the blue. He was momentarily stunned...embarrassed...

'Sorry Miss. We were just...'

'Humph. Regular little comedians...wastrels...the lot of you.'

The comment from Wilfrid, delivered _sotto voce_ nevertheless reached the ears of the group - the tall one, in particular.

He suddenly changed.

Became angry - balling his fists.

Walking up to the group, he stood squarely in front of Wilfrid.

Started to raise his fist...

Then - in a flash.

He opened his fist - jabbing a bewildered Wilfrid in the chest.

'Guten morgen, Große Nase. Good morning, big nose. Vor you, zee inspection is ovahhh..'

Having delivered his tirade, the tall one strode off without a word, the others in his group following.

Cissy, however, turned round and came up to Jill.

'Sorry Miss. Munsie meant no harm. But he'll get a right good 'what-for' from me when I catch up with him.'

'You get that young rascal to come to my office at 12 today to apologise to Mr. Sharp. Is that clear, young Cissy?'

'I'll get him there - on the dot.'

'Glad to see you've got your mojo back, I have to say. Now off with you.'

'You never keep a good Blackstock down, Miss.'

At that the redoubtable Cissy shot off like a ball from a cannon.

'Physics lab, Stewart Potter. Make your introductions and inform him you will be with his class today - until 2 this afternoon. Can I leave this with you, Wilfrid?' from Mary.

'On my way - provided I can find such a place in this infernal dump.'

'Now. Now. Wilfrid. Inspections first - judgements after. Got it? Good. I'll see you in Room A2 just after 3 for team meeting.'

'See you...Mmm...judgements after...we'll see...we'll see...'

As the little man flounced off, muttering to himself, Mary turned to Dave.

'A list here for you, Dave, of classes I want you to inspect during the course of the day. Some are 20 minutes or so, others longer. I'm afraid you'll have to use the map to locate them as best you can. It's a tall order - but I've faith in you, so do your best to get to them all. Okay? Feel free to come to the main office if you have any problems - Jane Madley will always be there to help. Don't forget - team meeting at 3 in A2.'

'On my way Mary...Yes...I'll ask teachers, students for directions to some of these...Belchers...Old Chapel library...I'm on it. Byee.'

'And finally Marianne - here's your list. Similar to Dave's I'm afraid. So do your best, and I'll see you at 3, with the others to discuss everything. Don't forget the room.'

'A2. I'm jotting it on my wrist as I speak. Once more unto the breach and all that...Byee.'

As Marianne strode purposefully off, head down, scribbling on her arm as she studied her map, Mary turned to Jill.

'Sure you're free to observe the Chinese class from 10-12 this morning?'

Jill looked at her watch. 9.35.

'Not a problem. I've got to dash right now. See you in my office in five or ten minutes.'

'Fine Jill. My throat's dry from all the talking this morning. I'll beg Jane for one of her wonderful cups of tea before we set off to see your Miss Ching Lan Liú.'

'Tell Jane to make one for me too. Byee.'

As she dashed off down the corridor she hoped she'd get to Room B132 before class began...

'Why hello Mrs. Ponsonby...Jill...sorry...I'm all at sea this morning. What can I do for you?'

Jill had just popped her head in the door as Lillian Grant was about to start her A-Level English class. As the latter came across the classroom, Jill had a short whispered conversation with her about the imminent visit of an inspector.

'Just remember what you were told - don't freeze; think of him / her as another pupil. If he / she looks rather severe, just consider him / her as a beauty-challenged, dense, rather stupid and slow person who has trouble mastering basic facts. Okay Lillian? Now give it your best shot, girl.'

'Thanks Jill. I just...'

Her words were cut off as Marianne came up, map in hand, looking at numbers on doors.

'Heavens Jill. I'm here, B132. Are you...?'

'No Marianne. This is Lillian. You've arrived at your destination and I'm off. See both of you - whenever, wherever. Byee.'

As she left, Jill smiled wryly. Never in a million years would Lillian be able to think of Marianne Laslow as ugly and dense. The smart-suited, attractive, 5'5", forty-something brunette was the walking, living epitome of the exact opposite. On the other hand, she was also a warm, friendly person who would put Lillian at ease.

'Bien, c'est la guerre.'

She laughed as she thought of what Marcel would think of it all. Now she had just time to warn Ching Lan...

At 10.00 a. m. precisely Jill knocked lightly on the door of class A27.

'Please enter.'

As she and Mary entered, Ching Lan came across the room to welcome them.

'I'm honoured to meet you Madam and hope you enjoy what we do in our little class. I'm Ching Lan Liú. Please call me Ching Lan.'

The words spoken in a beautiful, clear voice, with exquisite hints of the Orient in her accent, seemed to match the subtle porcelain features of the speaker, as the latter offered a slim, delicate hand, first to Mary, then to Jill.

'Pleased to meet you, Ching Lan. We are here to observe your class until 12 but do not wish to get in your way or cause a problem for you.'

'You will not be a problem. Now...'

'Its okay Ching Lan. We'll sit on those two seats, back there.'

Jill interrupted the teacher as the latter struggled to decide where to seat her visitors.

As they sat down, the teacher spoke to the class at large.

'Today I want all of you, my students, to repeat everything you say, in English, for the benefit of our visitors. In China, as elsewhere, it is not considered good manners to speak in a tongue others cannot understand.'

Pointing to a large map of China, Ching Lan addressed the visitors.

'We will be looking at Chinese history during the Second World War so all discussion will be on that subject alone.'

As the lesson progressed, Jill found herself struggling at times to differentiate between interest in the subject under discussion and the teacher's performance. As she watched the faces with eager expressions on their faces, shooting their hands up to ask or answer questions, she thought to herself, 'this is what teaching is about - getting a class enthralled in a subject.' She was becoming enthralled herself, as she listened to the lively discussion going on around her. Mary Crozier would be emphatically more impressed by Ching Lan's teaching than by her own observational skills...

'And now, for next week I want you all to...'

The lesson was over.

Time had flown for Jill.

She'd have to write up a neat copy of her class analysis from the illegible scribbles on her A4 sheets later. As Mary talked with Ching Lan outside the classroom door after class was dismissed, Jill walked on.

'See you back at your office in a few minutes, Jill.'

Mary Crozier shouted after the figure, already out of earshot and speeding up the corridor...

'I'm just saying...'

'You what - bloody little pipsqueak. Non-existent lesson plans, eh? You've a damned cheek. If you weren't such a craven little sissy I'd be tempted to...'

'What in heaven's name is going on here? I could hear the shouting from way down the corridor.'

Jill demanded in as loud and authoritative a tone as she could muster.

As a fuming Stewart Potter, Physics teacher, turned round from berating the unfortunate Wilfrid Sharp, a crowd of students were gathering round, egging their favourite teacher on.

'You give him what for, Sir.'

'Give him what for.'

'Give him what for.'

The chorus of voices chanted.

'Shut it, you lot. And go. Now! Do I have to repeat myself?'

'No Mrs. Ponsonby...'

'No Miss....'

As the students drifted off, one by one, Jill turned to the pair of men, now glaring at each other.

'I think both of you had better come to my office right now to sort this out. Follow me.'

'Everything okay, dear?'

Jane Madley enquired as the two glowering individuals pushed roughly past her.

'Madness...pure bloody madness, Jane. Has Mary arrived?'

'Yes. Having a nice cuppa in your office, as we speak. I'll get yours straightaway.'

'Better make that three, Jane. The cup that cheers and all that. I think those two aching souls inside need some solace.'

'I'll get the teas right now. You be careful, dear. I don't like the look of those two bears.'

'Are you up to speed with these two, Mrs. Crozier?'

As she took her seat, she involuntarily smiled as she looked across her desk at the most unlikely trio facing her, smart, sharp-suited Mary in the middle, the irascible, untidy Stewart on her right and the small grimacing Wilfrid on her left.

'As they were arguing I suggested they sit safely on either side of me, Mrs. Ponsonby.'

As she spoke, the lead inspector gave a mischievous wink at Jill.

'I just wonder what in hell we're supposed to do with two prize specimens like those, sat on either side of you, Mrs. Crozier.'

'It's this blithering...'

'Not so fast dumbhead. I tell you...'

Two protesting voices shouted as one.

'Silence! Both of you.'

Jill shouted, before turning to Mary.

'It would seem, Mrs. Crozier, as if Mr. Potter doesn't remotely wish to compromise with Mr. Sharp - and vice versa. As the former considers it anathema for himself to be observed and inspected by his nemesis, would you consider assigning a different inspector?'

Mary Crozier tapped a biro on the desk for a long, lingering moment, looking upwards, as if seeking inspiration \- divine intervention, perhaps?

Suddenly, the pencil tapping stopped.

'What say I kill two birds with one stone? I take the place of Mr. Sharp, and bring you with me, so I can analyse your observation skills, for a second, and final, time.'

Mary looked straight ahead at Jill - beaming broadly, as she spoke.

'A splendid idea, Mrs. Crozier.'

Jill smiled as she answered - the new arrangement would suit her fine...

'Whew. That really was...'

'Lost for words, dear Jill?'

'You can definitely say so... Wow.'

They had just been observing the afternoon Physics class of Stewart Potter - disciplinarian extraordinaire. As the class progressed, Jill found herself on the point of jumping straight out of her seat several times as a loud, stentorian boom rang out.

'You down there - still with us. Hairy little mongrel.'

The teacher seemed to have some sort of sixth sense about pupils' attention levels dropping off. As she looked across the room at the object of the tutor's wrath, the pupil in question would jump to attention, with a quick apology, 'Sorry Sir.' She was soon lost in countless diagrams, equations, and other odd hieroglyphics appearing on the blackboard - meaningless to her as the Chinese characters Ching Lan had put up earlier in the day on the blackboard beside her map. The students fired some questions, from time to time, or conversely, the tutor would single out certain pupils to check they understood some point or other.

'You down there...'

Jill shot up again.

And so it went on until class was dismissed with a peremptory,

'Right then, you ugly little blighters. Go, before...'

The class piled straight out...

At 3.15 p.m, the inspection team were joined by Jill and Lady Carruthers, Chair of Governors, in Room A2 for a verbal update on the team's findings.

'As Chair can I take this opportunity to welcome you all - in particular, you, Mrs. Crozier. I remember you very well from before.'

The august Lady cut a regal presence. As she looked across at each individual in the group, her glance seemed to linger for a time on Wilfrid, causing the little man to wilt somewhat under her steely gaze as he shuffled in his seat and looked as if he dearly wished to be somewhere far, far away.

Jill, sat beside the Chair, spoke.

'Over to you now, Mary.'

As the inspectors talked about the day's inspection, giving their individual feedback on various issues - lesson observation, discussion with pupils, pupil interaction, etc \- Jill and Lady Carruthers listened, offering input of their own at times, or querying an odd point.

At the end Marianne Laslow asked if she could make a point that tickled her.

'I'm sure we're all keen to find out what amused you. Pray go on, dear.'

The redoubtable Lady Carruthers leaned back in her chair, casting upon Marianne a look of rapt attention - this had better be good, the look seemed to say.

As Marianne looked at the speaker, she seemed suddenly intimidated.

Hell. Too late now.

'It was odd altogether. I was just about to inspect a class - English, Lillian Grant - and had introduced myself as a member of the inspection team, when the teacher, this Lillian, suddenly broke down into an enormous fit of laughter. The woman looked in agony - so much so, I started to worry.'

'Worry about what? That you looked like some clown or other?'

The Chair was getting slightly peeved - where was this strange story leading?

'No. Not at all. She recovered and told me the reason for her outburst. Apparently some sage, or wise person, had told her not to worry about inspectors at all. This same sage told her to consider all inspectors as ugly, dense individuals who hadn't a clue about anything and had to be pitied. Then she saw me.'

'That's very interesting, Marianne. Now I just wonder who this sage person might be. Well I think that's all for today. Nice to see you again, Lady Carruthers.'

Mary spoke, closing the meeting.

'It would seem, Mrs. Crozier, that we are good for a laugh - if nothing else. Bye everyone.'

Lady Carruthers smiled dryly to no one in particular as she left.

* * * * *

June 6th. 2012.

'See you at lunch. I'll be in Room A2 - if anyone needs me.'

'Fine Mary. I'll send Jane in with tea later.'

As Mary Crozier walked off with arms full of returns from staff questionnaires, Parent View outcomes and a rucksack over her shoulder, bulging with other unmentionable material, Jill leaned back in her chair...thinking. Marcel should be back from France in the next few days and...

'Penny for them. Tea. Drink up lady.'

Jane Madley placed the mug on the only part of the desk not smothered in countless letters, forms, memos and other clutter.

'Ta Jane. Mmm - 9.30. Our Mary's certainly on the ball. She's going to give me update / feedback at lunch time. Final meeting next door at 3.00. Let's just keep our fingers crossed. Eh?'

'How's it looking - if I'm allowed to ask, at this stage?'

'That's okay Jane. I think it looks like we might just make the grade we need. It ain't over though, till the fat lady sings - as the saying goes.'

'Well I just wish you all the best. I mean...'

Jane's words of encouragement were abruptly cut off as someone started knocking on her office door.

'Just wonder who...?'

Moments later she came back in.

'Its Iqbal Siddiqui. He's wondering if he can have a word.'

'Fine Jane. Send him on through.'

As the smart, but casually dressed retired businessman cum youth volunteer and community centre figurehead entered, Jill looked on approvingly as she extended a hand in welcome.

'Good morning Mr. Siddiqui. How may I be of help?'

'And I wish a good morning to you also, Mrs. Ponsonby. I'm sorry to come at a busy time like this, what with inspections and all, but I feel it is important to make you aware of something.'

'Go on, Mr. Siddiqui. Aware of what?'

' _Friends of Bruneigh_. We've had countless women - all ages, creeds and colours - coming into the centre, worried about phone calls from this nasty-sounding group.'

'Threatening calls, I take it?'

'Yes indeed. They say that this school is evil and must close - or else.'

'Or else what?'

'Dire consequences for daughters of families may result if their demands are not met.'

'Hmm...I must tell you, Mr. Siddiqui, that we know about this group of people and you may tell these women that the police have mounted a major operation in order to root out those responsible. I can only advise that you remain vigilant and tell everyone else at the centre to do the same. Ok? And whilst you're here I'd like to ask....'

Half an hour later, after tea, biscuits and a pleasant chat, Iqbal Siddiqui left, easier in mind. As he crossed over Belchers Road on his way into the community centre, a class of students were rushing towards the gym in the old Exhibition Hall next door, laughing and joking, their voices ringing sweetly in the clear morning air. As he looked up at a cloudless sky and felt a soft breeze waft across his cheeks, he breathed in deeply and sighed. The scene looked so tranquil and serene; shadows spread out across the way from the main building dwindling slowly as the sun rose higher seemed to herald the new day in their own unique and timeless fashion - shapes of grey retreating to nothingness...imperceptible motion...

'Morning Iqbal.'

'Morning Mr. Siddiqui.'

The voices from some women waiting at the door of the centre roused him.

'Morning all. I've just been to see...'

He stopped mid-sentence as he saw something out of the corner of his eye, across the road.

A young man, or youth, was sat on a gleaming motorcycle staring at the centre.

As Iqbal watched, he could see that the man had a large camera hanging down from his neck by a strap. The man now raised the camera.

'That bugger's taking photos. I'll damn well see...'

Thoughts of his chat with the headmistress minutes before were flooding across his brain as he dashed across to find out what was going on - vigilance, major police operations, dire consequence threats - each image in his mind vivid...urgent...

'I'd like a word, Can you tell me what...?'

His words died in his mouth.

In a flash the man shoved the camera behind his back, started the machine and shot off like a bullet, shouting as he roared past a startled Iqbal.

'F..k off out of my way. F.....g busybody, or you're dead meat.'

Iqbal went back to open up the centre - a troubled soul.

'What was that Iqbal?'

'I'll tell you all in a minute over a nice cup of tea. What do you say, ladies?'

'Fine by us. That man looked nasty...strange.'

Her comments echoed Iqbal's very own sentiments.

Later, with cups of tea in their hands, Iqbal addressed the group.

'Ladies, its like this

At 12.15 Mary Crozier came in the office as Jill talked with Marcel on the phone.

'Lunch then, Mary?'

Jill enquired of her visitor as she put the phone down.

'I'm rather looking forward to accompanying you to this _Owl and Thistle_ you mentioned. I really need the break today, Jill.'

'Follow me girl. I'll get you a cool tankard of _Foresters Best_ to whet your appetite before I get landlord, Joseph Coggins, to sort you out with a hearty meal.'

'Sounds great. God I'm hungry.'

As they entered the pub, Jill left Mary at a pleasant table by a window before going up to the bar.

'Two tankards of _Foresters_ please, Joseph.'

'Ah. Hello Jill. Nice to see you again.'

As he poured the drinks, Joseph started grinning to himself.

'Something you should share...Joseph. Are you with me?'

'Sorry Jill. No. I was just thinking of your friend...what was her name? Monique. That's it. What a card.'

'Nobody forgets our Monique...there's simply too much of her...'

With that Jill erupted into laughter, Joseph joining in, as they both recalled their wondrous French friend.

As she came back with the drinks she found the lead inspector staring into space, tapping a fingernail on the table with metronomic regularity.

Tap...tap...tap...

The tapper didn't seem to hear of see the pewter tankard being placed before her. Interested, Jill sat down quietly on the chair opposite; she'd let the tapping - or whatever was going on in the other's mind - take its course.

Tap.

All of a sudden it stopped.

Mary's rapt, abstracted gaze left some imaginary point in space; she now looked at Jill directly - beaming. She seemed to do that sometimes.

'Welcome back Mary. Thinking pleasant, holy thoughts I hope.'

'In a way - don't know about holy though - more puzzling than anything.'

'Gosh. You've really piqued my curiosity. Pray go on. Tell me what is puzzling you.'

Jill smiled back at her dining companion.

'Holidays, dear Jill - holidays - that's what. Tim wants to follow up on something we did twelve months ago \- a Baltic cruise. We boarded at Southampton and stopped at various towns and cities along the way in Denmark and Sweden before ending up in St. Petersburg for a four-day stop which included previously arranged excursions to the Hermitage, Winter Palace and other places of interest.'

'And...?'

'Well, after seeing round some magnificent buildings - I've never climbed so many staircases in my life - we were free to do what I liked best, which is walking freely in the city, taking in the sights in an undisturbed, leisurely fashion. I loved every single minute of the latter part.' We even managed to take in a ballet at the Marinsky Theatre one evening, after some wrangling about visas.'

'So what seems to be your problem, Mary?'

'The problem, such as it is, is that Tim would like to go back there whilst I would dearly like to follow up on a simple walking holiday we both enjoyed immensely a couple of years earlier, in the south of France - Pyrenees region. We'll have to come to some sort of an agreement soon, so we can make plans for dates, bookings etc.'

'Mmm...interesting. He might just...'

'Who might just...?'

'Marcel - the person you saw me with at Keswick just under a fortnight ago comes from an area not far from there. I think, girl, you'd better come to Gurnings very soon to have a word with him, if you wish to avoid some big falling out over where you spend your holidays.'

'Thanks Jill...yes...truly this could be the answer to my prayers. Let me think...yes...I'll be free around July 6th. - Friday. I'll obviously have to have a word with Tim first but if I give you a ring around that time would that be okay with you and Tina?'

'Tina would love to see you. I've mentioned our meeting at the Lakes.'

'Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by hot toffee pudding - for two beautiful ladies. Enjoy.'

'Thanks Joseph.'

'Thanks Joseph.'

Voices from two drooling faces - hunger buds afire - called after the figure disappearing up the room, as they stared longingly on the steaming plates of an _Owl and Thistle_ special midday meal he'd placed quietly on the table before each of them.

'Bon appetit, Mary.'

'Et vous aussi, Jill.'

With that they tucked in - holidays, inspections, the humdrum - all forgotten for a precious half hour or so as they ate and chatted between mouthfuls of succulent fare.

Sipping coffee at the end, Mary looked across the table at Jill with a wistful, dreamy look.

'There was one odd thing I remember, though.'

'Go on Mary.'

Jill, quietly stirring sugar in her coffee, noticed the look on the other's face...

...'Tim and I joined a group from the ship one afternoon on a tour of Catherine Palace, situated a short distance from the centre of town. As we walked through various rooms in the sumptuous rococo-style building, listening to the tour guide drone on and on, I found myself enthralled for some reason as we entered one particular chamber. As I craned my neck looking upwards at the delicate lines of plasterwork - curves and swirls of gilded beauty carved and painted in intricate, meticulous detail - I found myself slowing down as I gazed at the wonderful creation...thinking...something I'd heard earlier...times long past...

...a ball in full swing... elegant couples, the elite of Russian society, dancing the Polonaise, Mazurka or Kadril round this very room, the women sporting portbukets - silver or gold jewellery items in the form of small vases and bouquets of artificial flowers - talking small-talk whilst others sat behind elaborate fans, flirting outrageously, hiding or exposing themselves to full advantage, by manipulating the accessory....

... all dancing and cavorting...sounds of rippling laughter...

...Meanwhile...

...Somewhere far away...a solitary figure...ragged peasant in a distant steppe - in poverty, shattered body - pushing sorry, bony animal through one last furrow...

...Ploughing...

...Cursing...

...His time would come...

...Heads would roll...

...The dancing would stop...

A tiny sound.

Delicate footfall.

As I looked around I found myself alone. I'd fallen behind the group who were at the far end. They were staring, as one, at a massive chandelier suspended from the centre of the ceiling - silent.

I looked back behind me.

Where was the shoe or slipper that made the soft sound just seconds before?

As I looked back at a point just before a tall gilded entrance, I found myself concentrating hard - wondering...

There.

A white figure, barely visible, was forming out of a mist near the entrance. As I looked on I saw a head take shape...turn round...smile...

'What?'

I croaked.

As I continued to look I saw the smile come from the face of a beautiful, innocent young woman.

A young princess - Who?

Smiling, this creature - ethereal beauty - gripped the arm of a figure, materialising at her side - a man, her father, perhaps. As I watched, they walked towards an entrance in front, now changing...dissolving... as they approached it.

They went through into blackness. A crude cellar door shut behind them...

Clang.

I jumped.

'What's the matter, dear? You look like you've seen a ghost or something. For heaven's sake, let's keep up.'

Tim had come back from the group, now disappearing out of sight.

'Sorry darling. Just having a moment. Thinking how fortunate we are. Give me a hug'...

...'Well, Jill. I'm afraid that's about it.'

'Intriguing, to say the least. Did you...'

'It was only seconds...just seemed so real. I was overtired from the evening before.'

'How come?'

'An awful couple sat down at our table on board ship. Bored us to death for a solid two hours.'

'Poor you, Mary. Not surprising you started seeing things.'

'Bye Joseph.'

'Bye Joseph.'

'And a good day to you, ladies.'

Joseph Coggins looked admiringly at the backs of the two smartly dressed women as they left the pub, chatting quietly.

At 4.15 Mary Crozier summed up the results of the inspection team's findings as she addressed the three people \- Lady Carruthers, Jill and Deirdre Barber, from Bruneigh Council Education Department - facing her across the table.

'After taking on board what we've just been discussing since 3 p.m. and the much appreciated input from staff and students over the past two days I can confirm our final judgements and grades, a draft copy of which I'll send out to all concerned by tomorrow. Now we found overall...'

As they trooped out after, Lady Carruthers took Jill aside for a moment.

'Overall a rather splendid outcome, I'd have to say, Jill. Well done, my dear.'

As she shook hands with the team as they left, Jill held Mary's for a long moment.

'Don't forget Mary. Gurnings sometime soon. Okay?'

'I'll be there. You keep up the good work. And thanks.'

* * * * *

The man breathed in deeply, letting the cool evening air fill his lungs to capacity, as he stood by the wall of St. Barnabas Parish Church. As he looked across the town hall square, he spotted a youth heading for the small wooded area a few yards in front of the church, looking carefully around as he stopped by one of the trees.

'Vroom...vroom. Vroom...vroom.'

The powerful motorcycle swept into view, coming to a stop in front of the tree where the youth stood silently waiting. In seconds a brief exchange was made. The watcher had barely time to see; a flash of cash and a quick thrust of some mysterious small package into the hands of the youth - all done in the blink of an eye.

'Vroooom.'

The biker was off before a single word could be heard by the watcher. The youth pocketed the package and walked quickly off towards the shopping mall - head down, a smile spreading across his face - he'd scored. Boy wasn't he just about to enter junkie heaven. That shiny needle going in, gentle press on the plunger, barrel emptying, then... whoahh...

The watcher shook his head.

'The canker eating away...gnawing.'

Thinking further on society's ills, he resumed his power walk / jogging session. He hoped a certain individual was in his usual spot as he headed towards the hospital complex of buildings.

Bruneigh Royal Hospital had originally been a Victorian workhouse, and consisted of three large U-shaped stone buildings with a break in the U's so that two pleasant walkways went straight from near the front gate to the rear of the complex. In addition, another walkway followed the line of a perimeter wall with an exquisite view over the wall itself, looking down some twenty or thirty feet to a small park at the bottom.

Wheezing after a painful climb up the hill towards the front gate, he stopped just inside for a few moments.

'Better.'

Moving on along the high perimeter wall he stopped a few times to take in the spectacular view over the town, noting familiar landmarks such as the church spire, mosque and the railway line, which alternately disappeared, then reappeared from behind buildings and wooded areas. At certain times one could hear the muezzin call the faithful to prayer, from this point - for now the minaret remained silent.

'Over here, Jack.'

The tramp was sitting on a new teak bench, with brass memorial plaque shining brightly on the back frame to his right, as it reflected the setting sun.

'Hi Tim.'

Sitting down on the bench, Jack took off his light rucksack, carefully fumbled around inside, before producing a half bottle of fine Scotch Single Malt whiskey, with a £20 note wrapped partially round the glass.

'For you - just in case I don't see you before you decide to go.'

'Thank ye, good Sir - very much appreciated. With gifts like this a poor man might be forgiven for wanting to stay just that teeny bit longer.'

'You're more than welcome. I'll join you in a wee snifter.'

With that, Jack reached inside the bag once again, producing a small miniature bottle of Grants.

'Slainte.'

Glass bottles clinked as both men downed a small toast to the good health of each other.

'Still having those dreams?'

Jack pondered the question for a moment.

'Yes. Everything exaggerated. Powerful, beautiful women. Fantasies, BDSM, orgies, violence - nothing normal...yeah, that seems about it.'

'All this since that...accident?'

'Yes - indeed.'

'Still no definite clues...your attacker, I mean?'

'No - just something that keeps cropping up in these dreams - a shape of head / back, a type of trainer, Paul Smith.'

'Seems like something is maybe unravelling...somewhere in the back of your mind.'

'You're probably right. I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. Anyway. Enough about me for now. How about you? About to return to the fold? I never really got to know how this ' _cast thyself out in the wilderness'_ thing of yours started.'

'Simple really. I had a problem at work. Responsible for setting up a new computer system with a local council at the other end of the country I found myself under severe pressure with arguments arising over targets, costs, delivery dates and a host of other minutiae. I turned to drink at one point, as there didn't seem to be enough hours in a normal day to achieve what was rapidly becoming a seemingly impossible task. To cut a long story short, I had a nervous breakdown and had to go in hospital.'

'What about your job?'

'I was 'let go' with an early retirement package. I'm 59, anyway. As the house was paid for, and my wife has a good income as a solicitor, I had nothing to worry about.'

'Then why did you - hit the road, so to speak?'

'I had delusions - imaginings - in the early days of my treatment. I'd decided that I was basically an unworthy person and had to endure a form of flagellation in order to cleanse myself and become worthy once again.'

'Did you whip yourself - in hospital?'

'No. I planned to live the hard life of a tramp for a while, suffer in expiation for my sins that way. I would allow myself a modest income to live on, so I didn't have to beg.'

'How did it all start? Did you finish your treatment?'

'No. I scoured the streets for days - I was allowed out for short periods - looking for a tramp. I found one eventually and approached him.'

'What for, may I ask?'

'His clothes. It went something like this...

...I saw him sitting on a bench in the town square. He looked like some alien from another world...another time...sat there, with a large cider bottle on the ground by his feet. As I watched him from my vantage point by a tree, some ten feet away, I noticed a small collection box on the ground beside the cider bottle with a roughly scrawled message attached to the back of the tin - ' _Help a poor man in pain. Not eaten for days. Please I'm hungry.'_

I approached.

'Good morning, Sir.'

I spoke in a friendly manner, holding out my hand.

The man appeared to be mute - sullen even - as he ignored my outstretched hand, lifted his tin and began rattling it loudly in front of my face.

I fumbled around in my pockets and found some loose change - about £5 in total - which I dropped into the proffered tin.

'Fankee, kind gennelmun.'

He immediately reached down, picked up the bottle, holding it against his lips with both hands before taking a large gulp.

'Ahh...better...yeah.'

He put the bottle down before looking up at me, grinning owlishly, belching loudly and finally standing up to fart with a loud ripping sound.

'Jesus...what a bloody stench.'

I stood back a couple of feet, waving my hands in an effort to get rid of the vile vapours.

The man sat back down on the bench, laughing, and waving to a group of young girls who were tittering and pointing as they passed by.

'Better out than in - eh girlies.'

After a minute or so I sat down beside him.

'I've a proposition to make to you, Sir, which will be entirely to your benefit. Do you want to hear it?'

'Go on. I'm all ears.'

'I want your clothes - all of them. Now!'

The man stood up, balling his fists and shouting.

'You f.....g shirt lifter. I'll have nothing to do with f.....g perverts.'

'No. No. You've got it all wrong. Nothing like that. What I'm proposing is this. I'll take you to that store over there this minute and get you a complete new set of clothes. All I ask in return is that you give me yours. Got it?'

'You must be barmy, Mister. And what would you want with my togs - there's more shit on these than down the sewers - no mistake.'

'That is my business and I have my reasons. Deal?'

The man shook his head for a minute or two, looking at me. He seemed to be trying to weigh my possible lunacy against the prospect of a glorious windfall.

'Throw in a hundred smackers and you've got a deal. Okay?'

'Fine by me. Shall we...?'

As we entered the shop, I told the tramp - Mel - to wait just inside the door whilst I had a word with one of the sales assistants. I'd already briefed him - for the next half hour or so he would become mute, except for the words: yes and no.

'I'm wondering if you could help me, Sir. My friend at the door was mugged yesterday evening and robbed of everything - including his clothes - by some thugs. They dressed him in that awful gear. See him by the door?'

'Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. That's awful. I take it you want a complete outfit?'

'Of course. I'd be ever so grateful. I'd like to offer you a little extra something for your trouble if that's okay?'

I whispered an amount, causing the assistant to gasp.

'Good heavens, Sir. You really needn't....'

'Just one thing. Don't talk to him. He's still in shock, to some extent. I'm afraid he stinks horribly from the filthy rags they dressed him in.'

'Not a problem, Sir'....

...'Well, to cut a long story short, I walked out some half hour later with a transformed Mel by my side, and a carrier bag stuffed full of rank-smelling garments. After brief goodbyes, I took the 'clothes' to the nearest launderette and put them through a double cycle. I left the hospital next day without a word to anyone, carrying just my wallet and a few items in a holdall.'

'What about your family - your wife. I mean...?'

'I phoned her later that day when I arrived here in Bruneigh and explained my situation. She was upset, but agreed to go along with the charade - her words. - on two conditions:

1. I phone her at a certain time each week, so that she knows I haven't come to any harm.

2. She lets the hospital know, immediately, that I have decided to discharge myself - for personal reasons.'

That's about it.'

'Well, Tim. I'll come by here in a couple of days. Must be off for now. See you.'

'Best of luck with those dreams, Jack. I've a feeling it will all come back one of these days - memories of the incident itself.'

'Well - here's hoping. Byee.'

Breaking into a jog as he came on to Windale Road some minutes later, Jack was thinking...those last words of Tim's...it will all come back.

'Vroom....Vroooom.'

He stopped in his tracks, all thoughts banished, as the motorcycle zoomed past, it's rider audibly cursing above the roar of the engine.

'No dosh...no f.....g dope. Told the little shits. F.....g time wasters - all of them.'

As bike and rider receded to a small dot in the distance, Jack looked...started wondering. There was something...bike...rider...he wasn't sure...yet.

He broke into his jog once more.

# Chapter 11

June 12th. 2012.

The woman wiped sleep from her eyes, fastening the belt around her nightgown as she wandered into the kitchen at 7.45 a.m. She could smell the coffee.

'Mmm...Morning Tina. That smells simply....'

'Morning Jill. One mug coming up in a minute or so.'

'God. What a night that was, Tina.'

As Tina got up to prepare the coffees, Jill yawned long and loud as she leaned forward on the table...thinking...the evening before...

...Debs and Sula had come up from London, arriving at 1.30 p.m, followed by Marcel three hours later. At 5 p.m Jack looked round at the others in the lounge; nothing much was being said and the silences seemed to be getting longer - deafening. Everyone needed cheering up; each and every recent arrival seemed locked in their individual introspective space, eyes unseeing and staring around at some point where nothing existed, bar their own gloomy musings.

Suddenly he stood up.

'I have an idea, darling wife..'

'And what might that be, O husband of mine?'

'We must all repair, without delay, to the local hostelry for refreshment of spirit.'

'Great idea, husband. Right, you lot - off your arses. Now!'

Half an hour later, as they walked through the front door of the _Owl and Thistle_ , sound exploded in their ears. It was karaoke night and all comers were welcome to take a turn on the machine.

'My, my, my, Delilah...'

The wailing, discordant tones of Les Doolan, pub regular, rang out as they made their way to some seats at an empty table near the bar.

'I'll get these, if a certain French gentleman will gallantly accompany me. Any takers?'

Sula stood up, smiling...expectant...looking towards Marcel.

The latter didn't seem to hear; he was apparently transfixed by the performance on the small stage.

'Très intéressant, n'est-ce pas?'

As Sula started to scowl, he suddenly turned round, beaming.

'But Sula - all men of France are gallant, Oui? I help you now.'

'You are a very naughty boy, Marcel.'

Sula added as they made their way to the bar.

'Ah, Marcel. Miss Sula. How good to see you again. And what is your heart's desire this time? Please tell Joseph.'

As she looked into the smiling eyes of Joseph Coggins, Sula laughed, ordered the drinks, then looked towards the stage as she waited. The pub regular was now breaking out into an even more discordant sound with a second Tom Jones song, _Green, Green Grass of Home_ , to loud boos, cheers and much ribald comment from the crowd.

'Good heavens - that man is simply awful. What do you think, Marcel?'

Before the latter had a chance to reply, Joseph Coggins broke in.

'I'm sorry, young lady, to inform you that you have broken a cardinal pub rule.'

As Sula looked round - suddenly inquisitive and a bit alarmed - Joseph explained.

'Nobody is allowed to pour scorn on, or criticise, a performer. If they do so, then they must face a severe penalty - oh yes.'

'A penalty? What? You're joking of course.'

No. I'm not. Pub rules state that a person found to be criticising a performer must either apologise sincerely to him / her, or do a turn on the machine themselves.'

'Hmm. I'm not about to apologise to anyone, Joseph Coggins, so you can put that in your pipe or whatever.'

'Then young lady you must....'

As he spoke, Sula walked purposefully over to the machine where Les Doolan stood swaying and drooling as he looked at lists of songs. Soon, no doubt, he would break out anew into a fresh burst of unmentionable banshee lament.

'Excuse me, Sir. I just want to check what's on the machine. Won't take a second.'

'Why hello, young - whass your name? You pick a number, Miss, then you and 'Ol Les, here, can do a dooo...et. Waasay, young lady?'

As Sula looked up and down the lists, she shook her head a few times, tut-tutting.

'No. No. No. This is all...won't do...no. You carry on Les.'

Coming back up to the bar she looked straight at Joseph.

'I'll get these drinks to the table and then....'

'You apologise. Sing. What?'

'I'll let you know when I've had a word with someone. Don't rush me.'

'Could I ask a favour of you, Marcel - after we drop these off?'

'Of course, mon cher. I would be most happy to oblige. These strange rules...I think this Joseph he is, how you say, en tirant la patte, pulling a leg.'

'I know, Marcel. But he's not going to get away with putting one over on me.'

'So you sing - non?'

'The songs on that machine up there are simply not for me. I've only ever sang Gospel. My mother sent me to elocution and singing lessons as soon as I could walk, in the hope that I might have a career in singing. I sang in gospel choirs when I was at college and still do on Sundays, from time to time.'

'Mmm. I think, dear Sula, that a gospel song would be laughed at by this crowd, n'est-ce pas? Your Joseph he would have, as you say, put a big one over on you - laugh with the crowd.'

'Ha. I do know a tune, though, Marcel, that might just fit the bill - _Isle of Innisfree_ \- from the film, _The Quiet Man_. I was wondering if you knew it and could accompany me on the accordion you brought with you. If you don't know it, I can hum it and....'

'Non cherie. I remember... _L'Homme Tranquille_...now we fix this Joseph...oui?'

As they reached their table, Marcel reached down to give Jill a quick peck on the cheek.

'Cher Jill, your Marcel is now on a mission of mercy - _mission de miséricorde_ \- and he must leave you for a short while.'

'Where, in heaven's name, are those two off to, now, Jill?'

Tina looked at the departing pair with a puzzled look on her face.

'We'll just have to wait and see, dear Tina. Marcel's on a mission of mercy - whatever that turns out to be.'

'Humph - better be good - this I really have to see.'

As she spoke, the voice of Les Doolan could be heard, remonstrating loudly with Joseph, as the latter switched off the karaoke machine and proceeded to bundle the angry crooner off the stage.

'Ladies and gentlemen. Could I please have your attention? In a moment, young Sula Achebe will attempt to entertain you with her special rendering of _Isle of Innisfree_. Let's give her a big hand, everyone.'

'You go for it, girl.'

Tina stood up, clapping, as the petite girl, that was Sula Achebe, walked quietly on to the stage, taking up position in the centre before lowering her head in a graceful, demure bow. Jill, Jack and Debs joined in with Tina - clapping and shouting support.

'Go for it, Sula.'

By the time Marcel appeared from behind the bar, carrying his accordion, the sound of clapping was deafening; something about the beautiful, yet fragile creature on the stage stirred something within all of them. Joseph Coggins could be seen scratching his head, as he looked on - wondering, perhaps, how he had allowed all this to happen.

As Marcel sat down on a chair beside where she stood, Sula raised her hand in the air.

All fell silent in the room.

Marcel's accordion could now just about be heard over the silence - softly playing a short introduction.

Then...

'I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer...

* * * * *

The clear voice now carrying across the room, had a tenderness - a subtle fragility - in keeping with the haunting melody.

Some clapping could be heard.

It immediately died down.

Silence again.

Every single person seemed transfixed, as all gazed at the singer. The beautiful voice, expressing emotion, from soft, whispery tone to powerful clear crescendo, was something new to most of them. Tears fell down cheeks as they were transported...away...to some place they'd never been...not even dreamed of... hearing that voice...those words...

All too soon, it seemed, the last notes died away...

The singer bowed.

Straightened up, smiling at Marcel.

At first there was silence.

A single clap could be heard - Tina's.

Then another.

And another.

Everyone eventually joined in as singer and accompanist left the stage.

As she came up to the bar, Joseph Coggins grabbed her, hugging her for all he was worth.

'My word. What a performance. You certainly kept your light well hidden under a bushel, girl - and no mistake.'

'Well, Mr. Joseph Coggins. I have some very bad news for you.'

'And what news might that be, young Sula?'

'You have to pay a certain penalty for services - free floor show - rendered to your pub. Free drinks all round for members of the _Gurnings_ party.'

'And who says so, may I ask?'

'Oh. Didn't I tell you. It's a _Gurnings_ rule. Isn't that right, Tina?'

A stern-faced Tina, who had just come up to the bar, immediately pointed her finger at the publican.

'If you do not supply us with all we ask for, and deliver it to our table promptly, when asked, for the next couple of hours, you will have me to answer to, directly. Do you understand me fully - Joseph Coggins - trickster that you are?'

As he looked at Tina, he threw both hands in the air, grinning ruefully.

'Mon ami. You win some, then lose. I think you are, how you say, battu - beaten, n'est-ce pas?'

Marcel quipped.

'Okay, then. I agree - drinks all round.'

'Make mine a double. That okay with you, Mrs. Branz?'

'No trouble at all, little man.'

Bugsy Brennan, resident misanthrope, was not one to miss out on an opportunity; he had elected himself as honorary member of the _Gurnings_ household...

...'Penny for them?'

As she spoke, Tina placed a steaming hot mug of coffee on the kitchen table.

'Oh thanks. That smells simply...ohhh...yes.'

As she sipped the hot drink, Jill seemed to come suddenly awake.

'I was just thinking of that lovely singing from Sula. The girl has real talent.'

'I'm sure Joseph Coggins is now thinking the same thing - and rueing it.'

Both laughed as they recalled the doleful face of the publican, as he brought rounds of free drinks to their table.

Brrr...Brrr...

The phone began ringing in the hallway.

'I'll get it. You sit quiet, girl. Enjoy that coffee.'

Tina went off.

Jill held the mug with both hands, listening to the muffled sounds of conversation from the hallway. Eventually she heard the handset being replaced on the base.

'Who was it, Tina?'

'Your caretaker, Joe. He wanted to speak to you about finding a replacement for the P.E. teacher, who has had to pull out of helping him organise today's racing events, due to something unavoidable cropping up.'

'Has he found one?'

'No. I volunteered Debs. She told me last night that she would love to help out. Hope you don't mind.'

'Not at all. Thanks Tina. I really....'

Her words were cut off as Debs bounded into the room, followed closely by Marcel and Sula.

'Morning Mum - Tina.'

'Bonjour, mon cher - and you also, Tina. Ahh...coffee...merveilleux.'

As kisses from both visitors landed on her cheeks, Jill grinned. Getting up from her seat, she went across to Sula, giving the latter a quick hug.

'Great performance yesterday, Sula. Just the tonic I needed'...

...'Sports day again. Cheers to you both..'

At 9.15 a. m. a beaming Jane Madley plopped two steaming mugs of tea on the desk as she spoke. Dressed in white tracksuit and trainers, with hair cascading loosely over her shoulders and a positive bounce in her step, the woman was barely recognisable from her normal self as pert, buttoned-up secretary.

'Thanks lady. My oh my. What on earth has someone done to my adorable secretary?'

'Oh. Just thought I'd get in the spirit of the thing. Hope you don't mind, Jill?'

'On the contrary, you look just great. What do you say, Marcel?'

'I think I may have to change fiancée, N'est-ce pas?'

With that, Marcel bounded up and grabbed the smiling woman in a bear-hug, French-style, kissing her ardently on both cheeks, then pushing her slightly away and gazing into her eyes...longingly...winking mischievously...

'Right then. if M'sieu would be so good as to put my secretary down...'

As she walked out with Marcel on to the sports field an hour or so later, joining a line of people coming from the car park, Jill had a sudden recollection of being in a similar place, years earlier - the _Lyc_ é _e Briot_ in _Chataigniers_. Was this a presentiment of good things to come \- or of something dark and sinister lurking somewhere in the near future? She could not tell. Good seeds sown since that first encounter with people of the French town had since germinated and grown. She had believed in good outcomes then and would continue to believe so now. Period.

'Good morning, Mrs. Ponsonby. Pleased to see you - and your friend, of course.'

'Morning, Mr. Siddiqui. All of you. Have a nice day.'

As she passed on, she remarked to Marcel,

'I see a nice ethnic mix at Iqbal's stall.'

'Oui. What is special about it?'

'It wouldn't have happened before. Since the community hall was set up, with him as leader, relations between the two communities have improved beyond all recognition. That man has worked wonders...'

Loud voices from the refreshments marquee cut sharply through her train of thought.

'I think we had better check out what is going on in there.'

As they entered, a young man was shouting insults at a bewildered Ching Lan. Looking at the man's back - strangely bent, deformed - something triggered in Jill's memory. She had seen this boy / man before.

'That's it - the school playground, talking to that expelled pupil, Baz - yes.'

She was talking out loud...in spite of herself...thinking back...

'Qu'est-ce qui vous inquiète, cher? What troubles you so?'

'Oh, sorry darling. I think....'

At that moment pandemonium broke out at the serving hatch as an angry Ching Lan shouted at the uncouth customer facing her.

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young man. Your language and manners are those of an arrant bully - worthy only of the gutter. In my country you would be carted off and clamped in irons. Yes indeed.'

'I'll not take f.....g shit like that from a bleedin slant-eyed furriner like you. You call this tea. Its f.....g dishwater. And the garbage on this plate - that's just f.....g lumps of shit. You can have both. Now. In your f......g face - horrible bitch.'

With that the unruly X threw everything in his hands at a stricken Ching Lan, with all the strength he could muster, sending the crockery crashing against the wall behind, just as she dived to the side.

'Why, you little creep. You're going - right now..'

An enraged Lillian, Ching Lan's sous-chef for the day, leaped over the counter, to stand facing the troublemaker, pointing towards the entrance - her meaning very clear.

'F.....g bitches all. Bleedin...'

As X left, swearing to himself, Jill went up to the counter, putting an arm round the shoulders of Ching Lan and Lillian.

'Don't worry about breakages, ladies. Marcel will escort him off the premises immediately should he return to cause you any more trouble. Just ring this number.'

'Oui. I come for you, ladies. That man / boy. He is a foul-mouthed dog, un chien sale guele. N'est-ce pas?'

'Thanks, Jill - Marcel. Very grateful.'

...'And how can I help you Sir - Tea?'

Ching Lan and Lillian were back in business \- the incident way towards the back of their minds - as Jill and Marcel left the marquee, some minutes later.

X walked towards a bench on the edge of the playing fields and sat down. Taking a tin from his pocket, he took out a roll-up and put it to his nose.

'Smell of f.....g heaven.'

Lighting the joint of strong skunk he inhaled deeply; the drug would soon kick in - take proper hold - then the thoughts would come: ideas regarding fun for himself and torture for some others. Those bitches had already tasted his medicine - and he'd only just started carrying out orders he thoroughly enjoyed: causing disruption and mayhem to the school.

As he waited, he took a can of strong lager from a pocket, looked at it longingly for a second, before wrenching the ring-pull and emptying the contents in one long set of thirsty gurgles.

'Ahh...Satan himself, the dirty f....r, would be proud of this gear. Hell. F.....g magic, or what.'

Standing up, he threw the empty can away across the field with all the strength he could muster - he had to pay his respects to good order and tidiness in the manner of the honourable litter louts fraternity.

'Better...yesss.'

He sat down...thinking.

Taking out his mobile phone, he dialled.

'Hello. What do you want, Mister?'

A timid voice came over the earpiece.

'A little job for you, Lanksy - and your little f.....g tosser mate, Tiny.'

'Whh...what job?'

'I want you two little f.....s to make right clowns of yourselves - as and when I tell you. Got it?'

'Make...what?..clowns...I don't understand. Me and Tiny are going off in a minute. Sorry Mister. We're....'

'You'll be sorry alright if you don't do exactly as I say. Do I have to pay both of you a special visit to explain properly?'

'No...No Mister...but what...?'

'Don't worry, dumbbell. You just stay put and I'll give you instructions when....'

Around midday Jill found herself back out on the playing field where a large crowd had gathered; the laughs would soon start in earnest when egg-and-spoon and sack race contestants lined up beside Joe and Debs at the starting line, before the more serious business of individual track events began. She liked this particular period on school sports days; she could mingle for a while and talk with parents in light-hearted fashion, forgetting for a while her serious role as head of a school with all its problems and worries.

She felt a sudden squeeze on her arm as Marcel spoke, pointing in the direction of some vehicles parked in a line behind the crowd - at the top of a small hillock, known as _The Mound._

'Regardez. Là-bas, mon cher. Your name - on that van.'

As she looked across in the direction indicated, she could see nothing at first as she scanned the line of assorted cars and vans.

Then she saw it.

Hilary Ponsonby - Butchers Windale.

'Holy Shit..'

She gasped involuntarily.

Started to tremble.

Memories started to flood into her mind of all the good things she and Hilary had shared over those many, many years - a host of treasured memories. Then regrets and sorrow at how it had all crumbled into dust, like the empires of old.

A solitary tear welled up, started to fall down her cheek. She was just vaguely aware of its presence - its giveaway sign of deep emotional turmoil or sadness.

'To hell with this.'

She wiped away the solitary globule, as suddenly and vehemently as if it were the spittle of Satan himself. She was over the gloomy, needy meat merchant. He had his floozie and had made his pact with her; they could both go to the devil, for all she now cared. Any lingering doubts had vanished after hearing that late-night, sultry, satiated-sounding voice on the phone. God. She'd hated the woman then. Now she didn't care, but there would always be a dull ache - as from a past wound never entirely healing.

'Êtes-vous bien, mon cher? You look shaken.'

'Sorry Marcel. I will be perfectly all right from this moment onwards, I can assure....'

Her words died in her throat as she looked again at the van parked on _The Mound._

Hilary was getting out of the van and now stood waiting at the side of the vehicle. A woman came round from the other side, leant up to give him a quick peck on the cheek, before putting her hand in his and swivelling her pert bottom daintily as they set off towards the crowd.

'Did you see that, Marcel?'

'Yes. Your husband I presume. He looks to have, how you say - the fine figure. Non?'

'I mean the woman - you bloody French teaser. What do you think of her?'

As Marcel looked over, also, in the direction of the pair, Jill saw a twinkle in his eye.

'She is, also, of the fine figure. They're well suited. Oui?'

'You are, how you say, un vrai semeur de discorde, a true mischief maker, M'sieu Dupuis. Hmm... We'll have a word with them later, no doubt. But for now, dear, we must....'

'Hello Mrs. Ponsonby....'

'Why, hello and how are....'

The meetings and greetings now began in earnest...

...Brrr. Brrr...

'Damn bastards. Wonder who this is?'

'Listen hard. I now want you two young ladies to....'

The dry commanding tones of X came clearly from the handset. Lanksy shivered involuntarily as he listened to that voice; it seemed to come from some alien being with no feelings - cold, brutal and somehow terrifying; his hand holding the phone shook nervously as he listened to the instructions being given.

'Okay now - off you go. I'll have a little reward for you both - usual place by _The Tree._ I expect a good job. Don't let me down..'

X turned off his phone and made his way over to a small group near the starting line; he enjoyed being a sadistic bastard at times, especially if it meant keeping his little helpers in line.

'Put the frighteners on, good and proper, like. Add in some measly dosh. Winner or what? I'm a f.....g poet man.'

He was still chuckling as he drew deeply on a long, carefully-rolled spliff some moments later, stood to one side of an elegantly dressed elderly couple.

'Whaaoooh...whaaa...f.....g magic.'

He smiled, exhaling smoke in a fog of putrid, cough-inducing vapour over the couple.

'Where on earth is that simply awful smell coming from, Harold?'

The woman waved her hands before her face.

As her husband looked hopelessly around, looking for a possible source, X drew deeply again on his joint.

Exhaled loudly.

'Ahhh....'

'It's you. Do you mind putting that cigarette out, young man. The smell is simply horrendous - ghastly.'

The woman coughed as she spoke, waving her hands wildly before her face, as if to direct the smoke elsewhere.

'Sorry madam. I was forgetting my good manners. I should have offered you an alternative choice - this. He. He.'

With that, the uncouth X farted loudly before breaking into a bout of hysterical laughter at his own crude efforts at humour; he was, in his own honest opinion, the most gifted comedian ever.

'Why, of all the arrant cheek, young man. Did you hear that, Harold? This....'

Before her dutiful husband had time to turn round, X was already out of sight - lost in the crowd.

'Could all of you taking part in the next race please come over here to get your eggs and spoons? Hurry along please.'

Debs was shouting over her loud-hailer as contestants gathered near the point where she and Joe stood, by the starting line.

'Right mate. Let's get ours and get this f.....g race out of the way. Okay?'

'F.....g cosmic. We make fools of ourselves for that f.....g X. For what?'

'Let's not argue. Anyway there's fifty smackers for us after - for this little job. Then....'

'Then what - for f..k's sake?'

Tiny was getting angrier by the second. Reluctant to carry out the first of X's orders, the short, tubby teenager was now in openly rebellious mood.

'We've to enter the sack race immediately after this; he's watching somewhere to make sure we do what he says. We get another fifty for that. He's just told me that he'll come after us if we refuse, so I'm not taking any chances. The choice is yours. Coming or not?'

'F.....g hell. Okay I'll do it this time. Could do with 100 smackers. He'd better pay up, mind.'

'Oh, I don't think he'd dare to cross you that way, Tiny mate. Right then. Let's get this over with.'

It always paid to pump up Tiny's ego just a little, was the thinking in Lanksy's mind as they lined up with the others in due course.

'On your marks. Get set. Go!'

On Deb's order, the dozen or so contestants, set off.

A blonde-haired boy was soon way ahead of the field, holding the egg in the spoon with such apparent ease that it appeared both items were simply glued together; he streaked down the field to come in first before the rest had reached the halfway mark.

Then it happened.

A few laughs - tittering - from somewhere in the crowd.

A few more - building up.

In no time, it seemed, the whole crowd was in uproar.

Jill, stood beside Marcel, saw the cause - a solitary, short, tubby figure who had dropped his egg and was now in the process of returning to the starting line. At one point the figure seemed to lose patience with the crowd.

'F..k off, you lot of motherf.....s. See this...'

Giving an angry two-finger salute to the crowd, the figure restarted his race as the last of the other contestants reached the finishing line.

Jeering and laughter from the crowd now increased as the unfortunate lone figure stopped, from time to time, to shout insults and give his special salute to everyone with his free hand.

'Got a wobble on there, fatso man.

Keep it steady, silly man.'

The jeers and laughter continued.

As Jill looked on, she remembered...that face...in the playground, with his taller comrade in petty crime - Lanksy. What was the name? Tiny. Yes. That was it.

'Marcel. I know that young troublemaker down there. I just wonder...why on earth is he making such an arse of himself? It simply doesn't make any sense.'

X, from his vantage point atop _The Mound_ , stood up for a moment breaking into fits of uncontrollable high-pitched laughter - his default setting when watching results of his own very special plotting. He sat down, reached in his pocket and took out a small tin from which he extracted a long, carefully-rolled spliff. Lighting this up he drew heavily, luxuriating in the feeling as the drug gradually took hold.

He opened a can and drained the contents.

'Whooaah.'

'All taking part in the sack race please come up and get ready by the starting line..'

A woman's voice came shrilly over the loud-hailer...

Jill watched as the figures in sacks set off, bouncing in their bags.

'We see you out there,

Worse than ever, fatso man.'

The crowd had spotted Tiny once more and were now in full voice - shouting insults and jeering at the reluctant contestant as the latter began to swear and give them his two-finger salute.

'F.....g motherf....rs, the lot of you.'

As he reached halfway, swearing and jabbing his fingers in the direction of the crowd all the while, he suddenly lost balance.

For a brief moment he seemed to sway from side to side, like a pole bending in the wind, before tumbling to the ground.

'Flat out, fatso man

Get up if you can.'

The crowd were now a deafening chorus of jeers and taunts that rang out, filling the air as the prostrate figure started to rise up - out of his bag.

'Right. You...'

With a roar, the furious figure stood up, casting aside the bag, before making a beeline for the crowd of laughing, jeering onlookers.

As he dashed headlong at them, a gap started to form as some in the crowd moved aside in order to let the angry youth through; his shouted insults were turning the air blue as he came towards the gap, like an escaped bull charging along the streets of Pamplona.

Suddenly he was through.

Gone.

'I really can't understand that strange boy \- poor thing - Marcel dear. I mean...'

Her words were cut off as a familiar figure materialised from the crowd by her side.

'Enjoying the races I see, my dear.'

'You whh...what?'

Hilary was stood grinning at her.

Jill was suddenly at a loss for words as she shook the proffered hand and looked at the woman by his side, the latter grinning also with her arm wrapped firmly round Hilary's.

'I've brought Angela with me - you remember?'

As Jill reached out to shake hands with the latter, she looked her up and down, quickly, from top to bottom, before holding her gaze for a long moment. The woman was, in Marcel's words - of the fine figure. There was something, though - a neediness, or element of the coquette - in those big blue eyes. She remembered them from her last visit to Windale.

'Hello Angela. I'm glad you came.'

'Likewise Jill. Hilary wanted to come. We're...'

'That's fine. I'd like you to meet Marcel - my husband to be, when all necessary matters are sorted.'

Jill decided to cut the woman off quickly - assert an authority over the other at the outset; the latter would understand the move perfectly.

'Bonjour.'

'Bonjour.'

Marcel was curt - indeed taciturn - in his greetings to the pair.

As the brief introductions were being made, Jill suddenly had an idea.

'I'll tell you what, Hilary. You must come over to _Gurnings_ later for tea.'

'I don't know...we were thinking of...'

Angela was dismissive of the idea. Her idea of hell, no doubt, Jill was thinking.

'You're coming - no arguments. Tina would love to see you both. Okay Hilary?'

Jill was adamant.

'Okay then - if I must.'

'You most definitely must, Hilary.

'Sorry Angela dear. It'll only be for a short...'

'Okay. We'll all meet at your van when I close down the show here.'

As the couple walked away, Jill smiled as she saw the dark looks Angela was now giving her ex-husband.

She took out her phone.

Dialled.

'Tina. I have some news. Hope you don't mind...'

She talked into the mobile for a few minutes.

'Bring it on girl.'

As she switched off the phone she looked at Marcel.

'Mauvais fille. You are a bad girl. Now you make poor Hilary and Angela suffer. Now they are in, how you say, les puits de désespoir, pits of despair. Non?'

'Serves them right. Allons.

Prizes to hand out. Races to see.

What a wonderful day it turns out to be'...

...X was sat on a stump by _The Tree_. He'd just seen off his 'little helpers' with dosh and a giant flea in the ears of both.

His phone rang.

'Dom here - young man. I would be greatly obliged if you could come down and see me. How are you fixed for, say, 2.30 - half an hour from now? Usual place..'

X held the phone away from his ear for a minute or so - thinking.

'Dunno. Not really in the f.....g mood.'

X played with the man at the other end of the line. Never make them think you're hungry for their f.....g dosh . This was his enduring motto and abiding principle.

'I'll make it really worth your while, young X. Why - don't I always? Ha. Ha.'

'I'll be there. This better be good.'

Entering the _Nags Head_ at the appointed time, X spotted the two councillors at a table in a quiet alcove and went over.

'Ah. Hello there. So good of you to come - and right on time too.'

Dom was beaming as he half rose from his seat, welcoming X.

'I'm f.....g here now, so cut the flannel and let's get on with it.'

'All in good time. First Bertram here will get you something to drink. I believe _Foresters Best_ \- 2 pints - is your absolute requirement as a starter before any discussions begin. Right, young X?'

'Right.'

As they waited for Bertram to come back, neither spoke. Dom knew any small talk at this stage would only serve to rattle the recalcitrant man / boy facing him from across the table. Indeed, at that very moment, the abominable creature was humming with a high-pitched sound like some animal in pain - a cow maybe - accompanying the awful sound with erratic loud finger drumming on the table top.

'Eeeaaaoooaaahhh.'

The sound stopped in an instant as Bertram plopped the drinks on the table.

Jumping up, X reached down, lifted a pewter tankard to his lips and proceeded to down the liquid in one long set of loud gurgles. Putting it down, he lifted the other, draining the contents in similar fashion before sitting down and belching loudly.

'Now Mister. What is it you wanted?'

'You visit a certain John 'Basher' Gulpin, from time to time, I believe?'

'Yeah. What's it to do with you?'

'Quite a lot right now, young X. I want you to give him a message - exact details of what I want you to say are on this sheet.'

With that, Dom passed it across.

X studied the printed sheet of A4 for a long minute, humming and hawing at intervals.

'A lot of stuff...Ponsonby...idiot retard Gulpins...I'll need to put this past my boss first. I've to tell his son this load of garbage. Don't believe a f.....g word of it. Bloody f.....g dangerous shit for me to start spreading around...'

'On no account, young man, do I want you to get in touch with your boss about this particular deal. We need a highly intelligent person like you to carry this out - on your own, with no interference from anyone - your boss included. I also want you to contact a Mr. Blethyn soon. I'll let you know what to say when the time comes. So there's 500 smackers here - do the job - not a word to anyone. Deal?'

'Get fatso there to get me another drink and I'll consider this. Yeah...'

'Why - you little...'

'Ok, Bertram. Calm down. Just get the drinks \- for heaven's sake.'

X remained mute as he waited for the drink to arrive.

As Bertram placed the drink on the table, X grabbed it, put the tankard to his lips, downing the contents in one,

'1000 smackers - and we've a deal. Shake Mister?'

'Okay. You drive a very hard bargain, young man. Shake.'

X stood up, swirled like a dervish - arm straight up in the air - then goose stepped out the door. Ripples of laughter followed his departure...strange bent figure...muttering nonsense...cackling...

As he left, three men in grey suits rose up from a table at the far end of the room and came over to join Dom and Bertram.

'What an utter clown. Goodness Dom. What....'

'Enough. That boy delivers - that's all I care about. Now let's get down to the business in hand. Are you three in?'

Two hands shot up.

'And what about you, Dan? Change of mind?'

'I'd like to see some of this filthy lucre. So far its promises...promises.'

With that, Dom opened a briefcase, drew out some envelopes and passed them across, in turn, to each of the three men.

'That's just the beginning gentlemen. Now can I have a show of hands again?'

Three hands shot up.

'Okay. We move soon - whatever the result of the recent Ofsted inspection. Vote for a full council meeting. We now have a majority. Very soon, gentlemen, those envelopes will swell...swell'...

...'Mr. Gulpin. I need to see you. Summat you should know. Its like this....'

'Say no more. Come to my house this evening. Be here - 6 on the dot. I'll tell you what I want doing then.'

'Thanks Sir. I'll be there.'

X put the phone in his pocket and rode the Harley out of the _Nags Head_ car park...

...'Congratulations, Cissy. Well done. No slowcoaches catching you up today I see.'

'No Miss.'

As Jill presented the final medal of the day \- winner 1500 metres track event - she hugged the girl briefly.

'Marcel. I think we might as well make tracks. Collect a certain two individuals. Yes?'

'Oui, ma chère femme. The lambs to the slaughter - agneaux a l'abattoir. Non?'

'Of course, Marcel'...

...'John - a visitor for you..'

As Basher followed Brian Atkins down the corridor his thoughts were pleasant ones: impending release - a new life.

Little did he realise how his mind was about to implode with thoughts of an entirely different nature after his meeting with the visitor.

'Hi.'

# Chapter 12

June 21st. 2012.

The bombshell dropped. At 6.45 a.m.

As Jill and Tina, dressed in their nightgowns, enjoyed their customary early morning chat over cups of tea and slices of mouth-watering buttered toast, a humming could be heard outside the front door, followed by scratching, then a plop, as young Travers, the paper-boy, pushed morning papers through the letter-box.

As Tina went off to collect the items, Jill munched contentedly as she thought of the Ofsted report awaiting her at school; a brief phone call from Mary Crozier the previous afternoon, confirming Grade 1 'Outstanding' had caused her to jump for joy. She'd done it. Overcome the final hurdle. Now, surely, the future of her beloved Bruneigh High was secure. What a blessed relief. She started to think...plan. Pity Debs and Sula were back in London - she'd give her daughter a ring later...

'This has to be a total f.....g joke. Pardon my language, Jill, but - just take a look at this garbage. I'll go upstairs to get changed while you get your head round that little lot.'

Banging the paper on the table, Tina stormed off.

Jill began to read...

Bruneigh High School To Close...

Majority of councillors are now in favour of a PFI project at Windale to be undertaken by Gargan Consortia Construction PLC. A special meeting to be held shortly by the council to confirm the change in direction.

An anonymous source, speaking on behalf of 'Friends of Bruneigh' told our reporter. The Friends further stated that a school stumbling from one crisis to another did not present a realistic model for continuing...

Jill read on to the end - dropping the paper from listless fingers - shocked, in total and utter disbelief.

Who were these so-called _Friends_?

What was their agenda?

Something was terribly, terribly wrong - somewhere. But what could she do? For the moment she felt completely powerless. She drummed her fingers on the table...thinking...trying to stop the tears coming.

'Heavens girl. You look like you've seen a ghost. Now I've been thinking; I'm going to give this my undivided attention - starting with the council itself as someone there has questions to answer. I want culprits and answers girl - and, believe me, I'll get them. You can count on it. Meanwhile I want you to do one thing for me.'

'And what is that, dear Tina? I'm lost for....'

Jill looked up at her friend through a mist of tears, seeing her as for the very first time. Gone was the carelessly 'thrown-on' nightgown of minutes earlier. Instead, a smart trouser suit and high leather boots completed an outfit that matched a certain steely glint in the eyes of the person looking down on her - Tina, in this mode, cut a formidable figure - errant officers at the office would surely fall in due course. Jill was comforted.

'I want you to carry on with your school duties as if nothing is amiss. Do nothing and speak to no one - with the exception of the incomparable Jane Madley - until I've done some proper digging. Okay?'

'Fine by me, Tina. Gosh I really don't deserve you.'

With that Jill stood up and hugged her friend, holding her tightly for a few moments.

'Right, then girl. Some breakfast before we go to war. Full works.'

'No arguments from me.'

As both women left _Gurnings_ around 8 a.m, Jill went towards her car. Wisps of white cloud floated in a clear blue sky, birds chirruped noisily in the trees towering over the back of the house, and as she looked down the drive, a small grey squirrel darted up one of a line of trees bordering it. The little animal was now looking at her - shaking its tail. Was the little devil smiling? Perhaps. The omens were good this bright new day.

Tina pulled up on the Bruneigh Council Office car park at 8.20 a.m. The space marked in clear white lettering, _CHIEF EXECUTIVE,_ was still empty as she got out of her car and made her way into the building.

'Morning Mrs. Branz. Lovely day innit?'

'A very nice morning, indeed, young Dana. All the better for seeing your bright and cheerful face.'

Leaving the young receptionist smiling in her wake as she went towards the lifts, Tina stopped dead in her tracks as she was about to press the lift button.

Bang. Bang.

'Bloody damn scrapheap.'

Bang. Bang. Baaaanggg.

'Gotcha - old bastard. Shut at friggin last.'

Tina laughed, in spite of herself, as she heard the pandemonium outside. Yes, this would be Dave Storr, Chief Executive - thoroughly decent, disorganized in matters practical and utterly in love with his battered old Jaguar. His pride and joy certainly turned many eyes when parked in its eminent space; the old relic looked like it was about to give up its very soul any minute - such was the effect of faded paint, rusty metal and ill-fitting doors, windows and everything else.

'Morning Dana. Why hello there, Tina. Going up?'

'Yes. I see your old friend is still keeping you on your toes.'

'Damn thing. I really will have to change her one of these days. Trouble is, Tina, she's like an old friend.'

'Can you spare me a few minutes this morning, Dave? Its very important.'

'Of course, Tina. You know I'm always there for you. How about 9 - that's just over fifteen minutes.'

'That will be fine. I knew I could count on you.'

At 9 a.m. precisely, Tina knocked on the door.

'Come in.'

'Hello Dave. It's about this. Look.'

With that, she placed a copy of the Bruneigh Recorder on his desk. As he read the article he gasped. Getting to the end he placed the paper to one side - lost for words and shaken.

'This is damned out of order. Nobody has told me about any of this. Who has been saying this rubbish to the paper? Who are these _Friends_? Any idea of which councillors might be behind this, Tina?'

'Not at this moment in time, Dave, but I intend to find out. Jill Ponsonby - the headmistress, and a good friend of mine - is frantic with worry at this very minute. All her hard work over five years seems about to go up in smoke - just at the time when she has got results for her school that would have been unthinkable at the time of her appointment. There are some very bad apples in our department connected, in some way, to the so-called _Friends_ We must find out...'

Her words were cut off as Dave spoke.

'I agree Tina. We've got to get moving on this - but how? If some councillors have indeed changed their minds, I would be powerless to act against a majority decision, should the threatened meeting be called. It was always around 50-50, so our problem is getting a majority of councillors on board before any such meeting has a chance to get off the ground. I can't be seen to be influencing people in any way. I wonder...'

'I've an idea - about influencing them. A protest by concerned parents. And our friends across the water in _Chataigniers_. Mmm...it might work.'

'I'll back you all the way on that, Tina - a protest, I mean. But _Chataigniers_ \- our twin town?'

'Oh - yes, the group of ramblers from there were a massive draw with the councillors when they came here towards the end of April. It could...'

'Great idea. I'll leave the protest stuff for you to arrange. Meanwhile I'll start to do some digging...'

'Okay. I'll get started straightaway. See you, Dave.'...

...'That bloody Ponsonby woman. She should...'

Tina heard the voices from an office at the end of the corridor, moments after leaving Dave's office. A man was talking - lower now. Her ears had pricked up as she heard her friend's name being mentioned, so she was curious - damned curious.

Looking round quickly she stopped, checking to see if she was alone.

The corridor was empty.

Good.

Peeling off her boots with stifled gasps - the damned things were harder to take off than put on - she crept along, silent as a cat.

She could now hear clearly what was being said from inside the open door, just a few feet in front. A man was talking.

'Those three buggers soon changed their minds after I gave them the dosh - greedy little bastards. Did you see the eyes light up when I promised...'

The voice inside now lowered to a whisper. She could just pick out fragments.

'Big payout...Gargan...PFI.'

The voice was now louder - clearer.

'...that damned Bruneigh High is shut down - and it will. Then they can sod off - for them, the party is over. Eh, Bertram, old friend?'

'Yeah, if you say so, Dom.'

Tina now recognised the voices

Dominic Saviour and his number two, Bertram Little.

'Jesus, oh God!'

A sharp intake of breath and inaudible mumble from the listener.

There was more.

The first man, Dominic, was talking again - low, very low. She crept right up within inches of the opening - had to catch....'

'With a bit of luck the Ponsonby woman will have run out of options - after the meeting.'

'So when are you calling this meeting?'

'I've that set for Monday July 16th. Now for other business. We'll have to visit...'

Tina had heard enough - for now, at any rate.

Tiptoeing back up the corridor, she sat on a window sill round the corner to pull her boots back on. Going into her office she sat down, thinking. The obnoxious little man, Dominic, had arrived with his sidekick, Bertram six months earlier as replacement for the retiring Jeff Bartlett. Neither man had made even the remotest effort to be friendly or get on with their colleagues at the office. Indeed, they both had a tendency for abruptness bordering on outright insult, which led to the pair becoming shunned by all and sundry from early on in their office tenure. As she digested what she'd just heard coming from the mouth of Dominic, she exploded. To think of all poor Jill had suffered at his hands already - and those words about options.

'Mmm. Little creep. - I'll have his balls. And that fat numpty of an assistant, Bertram. I'll have both of the slimy, greedy bastards. By God I will.'

She banged her fists on the dashboard. It was now time for action - to crush these vermin, once and for all - or her name was not Tina Branz.

'Dave Storr...Hello.'

'Its me, Tina. I'm sending you a text shortly. Bye.'

As she finished sending the text, Tina grabbed her jacket and dashed from the office. She had to get to _Gurnings_. Sitting in her car she phoned a number.

'Marcel here. C'est Tina. Non?'

'Yes Marcel. I want to meet with you now. Where are you?'

' _Gurnings_. What...'

'I'll tell you when I get there - fifteen minutes.'

* * * * *

June 23rd.. 2012.

The morning sun shone warmly on the solitary figure sat at a table outside _Les Fleurs_ café as the latter picked up his cup of black coffee and drank - the hot, aromatic brew wakening his dulled, sleepy senses to a new _Chataigniers_ day. He was waiting for someone - an old and trusted friend.

As he looked out over the picturesque little square, _Place de la Republique,_ he could feel a sense of bustle and lively activity at this - for him - quite early hour. It was just after 7 a.m and a delivery van was pulling up outside the nearby _Pharmacie_ ; as the driver jumped out and started to noisily unlock and wrench open the back doors of his vehicle, a young couple came round a corner opposite, strolling arm in arm. Passing by his table, the woman looked up at the man with an intimate, tender look as she listened to something he said.

'Young love - aahh.'

The coffee drinker sighed longingly as he looked at the young lovers - the romantic in him ached; he just wanted, for a fleeting second, to be part of their bliss - know, share somehow.

'Votre petit-déjeuner, monsieur. Bon appetit..'

'Merci Pierre. C'est tres bon.'

As he spread butter and jam over the French farmhouse style bread and began to eat, a group of cyclists with their machines came over, placing the expensive-looking items carefully against each other on the café wall.

'Bonjour monsieur.'

'Bonjour.'

'Bonjour.'

'Bonjour tout.'

The drinker replied as the last of the group went past him inside the café to order their breakfasts. As he looked across the square, a man carrying a small chair, easel, board and large bag came walking along opposite before stopping, looking around and finally sitting down on the chair. This man - obviously an artist - then proceeded to set things up before sitting down again. He then pulled a thermos flask from his bag, filled a cup and started to drink. Seeing a man from the café staring, he waved gaily - shouted.

'Bonjour monsieur.'

'Bonjour.'

The man shouted back - waving also.

The cyclists emerged from the café, carrying cups of coffee.

'Bon matin encore. Où vous roulez, messieurs?'

The solitary drinker addressed the group.

'Tarbes, puis Pau. Puis nous arrêtons pour la journée.'

One of the group, presumably the leader, replied.

'Vous êtes tous beaucoup plus courageux que moi.'

The solitary one shook his head sagely as he made his admission.

'Non. Mon ami. Nous sommes, tout simplement, plus fou.'

The leader laughed as he came over and shook the other's hand.

The solitary one then rose, and went over to the cyclists' table, shaking the hand of each - firmly, adding,

'Très heureux de vous avoir rencontré.'

As the group chatted, the solitary one continued to look over the square; the artist, dabbing away on his canvas, was now standing up and moving back a few feet, bending down a little and peering at the easel, then across the square, as if trying to work out some particular detail - of perspective, perhaps?

'Au revoir, monsieur.'

The group shouted as one before mounting their cycles and setting off.

'Marcel.'

As the solitary one looked up, the unmistakable figure of Monique came into view, dashing past the artist as she shouted and waved.

'Pierre. Un café supplémentaire, s'il vous plait.'

As the latter went back inside, Marcel, no longer the solitary one, stood up as he was grabbed in a huge bear hug - Monique style.

'Ah. Mon ami. So you recover from your journey I see. Bon. Très bon.'

As she spoke, Marcel remembered the events of the previous two days as a succession of events that segued into each other - seamlessly - in one long blur...

...the consternation in Tina's face as she told him about the apparent volte-face by the council...subsequent early morning trip the next day to catch the 07.55 a.m Eurostar to Gare du Nord... dash across Paris to Montparnasse...Toulouse...Tarbes...17.16 arrival...picking up by Monique and driven to his lonely house...fabulous meal at the Auberge de l'A... with Monique and her husband...bed...thoughts of his darling Jill...oblivion...

'Venez. Le mairie.'

Monique was keen to get down to business.

As they walked the short distance in silence, catching snippets of conversation from around them - blessing of cattle herds, an open mass somewhere, ski, canoeing, hiking trip plans - they were locked in thought, letting the busy buzz of humanity float caressingly over them.

'Bonjour Marcel.'

'Bonjour Monique.'

As he walked through the door of the mairie, Marcel found himself shaking hands with a welcoming committee of about a dozen people. Madeleine Duval flung her arms round his neck, kissing him warmly.

'Ah Marcel. C'est triste. Votre pauvre Jill.'

'I'm glad to see you all. And thank you for coming.'

'And now, friends, we must make our plans for how we can help our dear friends across the water. I'll start with....'

Monique opened the discussion.

By midday everyone was fully in agreement regarding the course of action they would take; after a show of hands the meeting was brought to an end.

' _Les Fleurs_ everyone. I pay. Allons vite.'

'Oui Monique. Quelle bonne idée.'

As he followed the others back to the café, Marcel felt a slight tug on his arm. As he looked round, Madeleine was looking up at him - a wistful expression in her eyes.

'What is it, my dear?'

Marcel was curious.

'You love Jill. Oui?'

'Then you must tell her. All this...(Madeleine flung her arms wide)...it will work out - one way or another. I worry for you. Non?'

'Ne vous inquiétez pas, ma cherie. Notre amour, entre Jill et moi - elle progresse.'

* * * * *

June 27th. 2012.

'Nnnn...nnn...nnn.'

The woman reached across to the small bedside table to turn off the alarm - 6..30 a.m. Yawning, she got out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and went to the bathroom, emerging fifteen minutes or so later, showered, refreshed and ready to tackle a fresh new day. Back in her room she dressed carefully before going downstairs.

A tantalising smell of cooking - sensuous, exotic - wafted up the stairs as she came down.

Coming towards the kitchen she laughed; someone was scolding loudly in French.

'Morning Monique. What are you cooking? Smells sensational - out of this world.'

'Ah, dear Jill. Venez ici, pauvre enfant.'

She found herself laughing and choking as she was gripped by the smiling Frenchwoman in a typical Monique bear hug.

'Asseyez-vous, Jill. I now make you 'full English' - French style. Oui?'

'Anything from you, Monique, is a rare treat for me.'

As she tucked into the delicious fare moments later, listening to Monique as the latter hurried about the kitchen, she allowed her thoughts to wander back to the previous evening at the _Owl and Thistle_ \- what she'd seen, and what she'd been told of events there before her arrival...

...the coach from _Chataigniers_ had arrived at _Gurnings_ around 7 p.m, dropping off Marcel, Monique and Madeleine before going on to the _Owl and Thistle_. The party immediately went to the rooms prepared for them for a quick wash and change of clothes after the 12-hour journey, before sitting down to a hearty and greatly appreciated meal. After finishing, the mood was sombre around the visitors' tables - they were thinking, perhaps, of the serious business the following day and waiting for Marcel, Monique and Madeleine to rejoin the party. In the event, they merely nodded, answering in monosyllables to the friendly questions put to them by pub regulars.

'What ye been a putting in them there's grog, Joseph Coggins? They all looks ready for a funeral, so they does.'

'I'll tell thee, Bugsy Brennan to mind your...'

As the publican began, his words were cut off as the group from _Gurnings_ arrived, Tina in the lead.

'Drinks all round for everyone, Joseph Coggins. Snap to it. And don't forget our very good friends at the tables over there.'

As the cheers went up, she, Monique and Jack went over to say hello and sit near the erstwhile subdued visitors; Marcel and Madeleine busied themselves, meanwhile, with getting drinks to the table. Soon all were sat comfortably talking, and as the drink flowed, the mood amongst the visitors lifted - mellowed.

At a certain point Tina looked at her watch \- 9.14.

Getting up from her seat, she went across to the bar.

Spoke quietly to Joseph Coggins.

The latter picked up the bell by the bar - rang loudly a couple of times.

'Could I have your attention, please, everyone. Mrs. Tina Branz would like to say a few words to you all.'

Tina began.

'Let me start off by welcoming our dear friends from _Chataigniers_ , who have come all this way to help us. Let's have three cheers. Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

'Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

The cheers got louder - deafening.

'I'd like to thank all of you who helped by going out distributing leaflets about tomorrow's protest, knocking on countless doors to get signatures of support. Now I'd like you to hear a few words from Jill, headmistress of Bruneigh High and valued member of our community.'

As she got up and went over to stand by Tina, the group of _Chataigniers_ visitors rose up as one - clapping vigorously, in ebullient mood, waving everyone else to join in.

Everyone did - people at table after table rising, clapping.

She bowed ever so slightly, then waved with both hands for silence.

'Like Tina, here, I'd like to say how grateful I am to all of you for your most welcome support. Thank you - once again. Now to the unfortunate business in hand. For some time there have been dark forces - evil people - abroad in our small town intent on destroying things good and decent. They wish to have our precious school - so lovingly restored these past few years - reduced, at a stroke, to dust and rubble. I see the hand of Judas in this, the sacrifice of Bruneigh High for pieces of silver \- large payouts, bungs, in this case. I say to all of you that we must not let this evil prevail. We must take our fight to the council. Show them how we feel. Yes?'

'Yes. Yes. Yes.'

All rose from their seats - shouted as one, the shouts continuing as she, the speaker, made her way back to her seat, Tina following close behind.

Then - the calm after the storm.

Everyone, including the _Chataigniers_ group, seemed to be talking in muted tones - whispering even - as if unsure of how they should follow on from before, perhaps afraid to insult, somehow, the dignity of the occasion.

Suddenly it happened.

A figure stood up - banged loudly on a table.

Monique spoke.

'Why all the droll faces? Qu'est-ce que c'est? Non? Feeble spirits never win wars. We need entertainment. La Musique, n'est-ce pas? Marcel - l'accordéon, les chansons. Venez vite..'

'Good for you, girl. Let's give a cheer for our visitors once again. Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

The crowd followed Tina's lead, continuing to cheer as the group of visitors made their way on to the small stage and waited for Marcel to appear.

As he came on to tumultuous applause from everyone in the room, at a sign from Monique, Madeleine came across to join the _Chataigniers_ group on the stage.

Bursting into the lively _Luci e Ombre_ , Marcel's fingers simply flew across the keys, as Monique, Madeleine and the others formed a line, dancing in front of him.

More cheers from the crowd - subsiding as they gazed on the tantalising moves and sudden swirls of the dancers. The _Tanzenade Polka_ , _Tico Tico_ and other lively dances followed, the crowd bursting into loud, uproarious applause at intervals.

The music and dancing came to a stop at a certain point, quite suddenly. Everyone looked up at the stage - wondering, expectant.

Monique came away from her line - addressed the room.

'Now we have a merry song - Je vous donne Madeleine.'....

...And so it had gone on until closing time...songs, dances, funny stories...

...'Ah. Les pensées profondes. You look lost, dear Jill. Venez. Tell Monique.'

'Oh nothing important Monique. I was just thinking how happy everyone, including myself, was last night at the _Owl and Thistle._ I just hope everything goes well for all of you today and really appreciate what you, Madeleine and all your wonderful friends from _Chataigniers_ are doing to help me and the school. I feel something positive needs to come out of all this - if only for all of your good sakes.'

'It will, my dear. You have the word of Monique Berger. Oui?'

'Thanks. I'll be off to the tree house for a couple of hours - a few phone calls to make and things to work out before I go to school. I've already told Jack and Tina.'

'Bon. Ma chère fille.'

Monique leant down to hug her before leaving the room...

At 8.30 the small group from _Gurnings_ arrived at the _Owl and Thistle_.

'Good morning. Tina...Monique...Marcel...Madeleine.'

Joseph Coggins addressed each member individually.

'Drinks?'

The publican looked at Tina as he spoke.

'Lime and lemon for me, please, Joseph Coggins - and a round for all here present.'

'Merci Tina. You are, le meilleur, how you say, the best.'

Josef Grandet, one of the _Chataigniers_ group, spoke for everyone in the room - regulars and visitors alike.

As the publican began passing drinks across the counter, Bugsy Brennan, stalwart at the bar on all occasions, was heard to mutter.

'Not so bleedin sad, now - these furriners - wi drinks on the house pourin down their gullets.'

Monique, who had moved up behind the dour misanthrope to collect drinks, heard the comment.

'We will be even less sad, Bugsy Brennan, when we dress you up once again, for your cheek - singe méchant que vous êtes. Cheeky monkey.'

'I wuz only jokin. I'm not bleedin goin anywhere wi you lot again. Once was enough for 'ol Bugsy here - and that there's a fact.'

'We'll see about that. Ready Tina?'

'Right on, girl.'

With that, the small grumbling one, found himself being whisked off his seat and carried aloft with great ease by the two women through a door behind the bar - querying all the while the terrible fate they had in store for him.

'It's not fair. Let me down. Bleedin bully wimmin. Let me...'

His cries faded.

Sounds of scuffling...murmurings...somewhere in a back room followed.

All at the bar waited - expectant.

Then the door behind the bar began to open slowly - very, very slowly indeed, as Tina emerged, followed by Monique - then some total stranger.

With a stick-on moustache, beret - French-style - and wig of black hair in some outlandish style, Bugsy Brennan was the Frenchman _parfait_. All that was missing to complete the caricature was a string of onions round his scrawny neck.

'Why I never saw you looking so good, Bugsy. You make a great Frenchman. Three cheers, everyone, for our new visitor.'

Joseph Coggins raised a glass to toast the new 'arrival.'

'Well I must be off to work now. See you all later - and best of luck.'

Tina went off.

By 9.30 a.m. a large crowd had gathered outside the hostelry, lines of figures converging from all directions. Anticipation was in the air; headgear from men and women alike fluttered in the freshening breeze as they turned their gaze in one direction - the door of the pub.

They were soon to be rewarded.

Marcel came out first.

Monique came next, followed by Madeleine, the _Chataigniers_ group of six men and six women with another strange-looking individual bringing up the rear. The group immediately formed a line with the odd figure in the middle, Marcel and Monique on each side of him; the others took up positions on either side of the middle trio.

'Hip Hip.

Hooray.

Hip Hip.

Hooray.'

Cheers rang out as the group stood outside the _Owl and Thistle_ door. Somewhere in the crowd a camera started flashing; the wide, blue velvet sashes, with words emblazoned in black - _Chataigniers_ \- Ici pour Lycée Bruneigh \- draped over each individual, commanded instant attention.

Monique stepped forward slightly - held her hand up.

'It is good - très bon - to see you all.

Merci. All of you good people - bonnes personnes.

Now we go. We have serious business to attend to - affaires serieuses.

Suivez-moi..'

Monique was a woman of few words when the occasion demanded.

With Marcel and Monique on either side, Bugsy Brennan now found himself at the head of a procession moving across the square towards the town hall. Trembling slightly at the fear of discovery, he kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead; if the ruse worked he'd have the last laugh, however - pulling the wool over all their silly eyes. Yes. He felt better already. He was certainly not about to divulge to anyone the fact that he secretly fancied the pants off the big, bossy Frenchwoman who was now smiling at him. Those dreams of her, he'd had. Jesus. If any of those got out. He laughed to himself.

By 10 a.m. the crowd had arrived at their destination.

'Bruneigh High.

Save our school.'

'Bruneigh High.

Save our school.'

The chanting from the crowd was getting louder by the minute; Don Blethyn, at the front of the crowd, somewhere to the _Chataigniers_ group's right, was busy snapping away with his camera - a juicy front page had to be found somewhere here today, he was thinking.

As he watched, Monique walked up a couple of the town hall steps - then turned round, addressing the crowd.

'Now we, visitors from _Chataigniers_ \- your friends - go inside to present our petition. Please wait for us. Attendez-vous..'

The group then started to go up the steps, in groups of three, Marcel and Monique with Bugsy Brennan between them as before - leading.

Pushing through the large glass entrance doors they entered the wide reception area.

'I do believe you are expected, ladies and gentlemen. Gosh. You all look simply...fantastic. Please follow me.'

The group warmed instantly to the friendly young receptionist - Dana Feather - as they followed the latter up the wide marble stairs facing the entrance, then across a landing before stopping in front of tall, handsome mahogany doors with gleaming brass fittings.

'This is as far as I go, I'm afraid. Best of luck. Probably best to knock lightly. Yeah?'

The young woman put her finger, knowingly, to her lips as she spoke, before going back downstairs.

Monique looked at the retreating figure - thinking.

'Soft knock, frappe doucement - Oui?'

She looked at Marcel - grinning, before balling her fist, patting it, then pulling her arm back and banging...

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

The single door rocked violently inwards three times as the savage blows beat against it.

Silence.

Bang.

B....

'Come in.'

A voice sounded from inside.

They entered the Lancastrian Suite, a large ballroom, used for dances, official functions, open day exhibitions, plays and the occasional concert, when some eminent artiste or the local brass band were invited to perform.

'Pleased to see you all. I feel I have to ask if you normally make such a grand entrance?'

Dave Storr, standing in the middle of a line of twenty-two councillors, grinned broadly as he spoke.

'We make our entrance 'grande' when we have something important to say, n'est-ce pas?'

Monique looked ruefully at her balled fist as she spoke.

'I believe you have some items to deliver, Madame Berger - items of possible grave concern to this council. Is that correct?'

Tina, stood beside Dave, came forward, extending her hand to Monique.

'Yes, Mrs. Branz. Marcel. Le rouleau, s'il vous plait.'

As Marcel handed the item across to Tina, the latter accepted it with thanks, before going along the line of visitors, ceremoniously greeting and shaking the hand of each member of the group. She then went over to a large message board, unrolled the scroll of paper and began pinning it in place. Once finished, she stood back - turned to Dave Storr.

'I think all the councillors should have a look at this. What do you think, Mr. Storr?'

As the latter came over and read the message, he winked at his second in command before turning back to the others.

'I agree with Mrs. Branz. I want you all to have a look at this - now.'

Attention: Conseil Bruneigh.

' _Vous devez trouver ces soi-disant <<Amis de Bruneigh>> et vite._

(You must find these so-called 'Friends of Bruneigh' and fast.)

Alors les détruire.

(Then destroy them.)

_Maintenant - entre Bruneigh et Chataigniers - Villes Jumel_ é _es._

(At the moment - between Bruneigh and Chataigniers - Twinned Towns)

Vous choisissez PFI? Abominable - à nos yeux.

(You choose PFI? Abominable - in our eyes.)

Si c'est le cas, ensuite nous déchirons cet accord.

(If so, then we tear up this agreement.)

Nous esperons que vous comprenez bien..

(We hope that you understand fully)

Jacques Babin

Le Maire, Chataigniers

(Mayor)

One by one, each in the line came up to read the message from the French mayor.

'What?'

'Not this - surely?'

'We can't...'

'Well, I, for one, never...'

Gasps and exclamations from the councillors followed, as they read and considered the sense of outrage felt by those in the French town - their erstwhile happy twin. As Dom and Bertram - last in the line - came up, casting a glance over at Marcel, Monique and a weird little Frenchman, they otherwise kept their eyes lowered as they read the message.

'What do you think of it, Dominic?'

Tina addressed the latter as he came away from the board.

'I..I don't really know...I mean...'

As the flustered man struggled to reply, he caught - for a split second - his questioner's steely gaze.

He froze - for a moment.

'I don't know...I mean...What is all this about, anyway?'

The wily trickster recovered quickly from his 'off-balance' moment.

'We are currently working on some information given to us by a source, who wishes to remain anonymous. We hope to bring those responsible to book very shortly, so you needn't worry, Dominic.'

As she spoke, Tina came closer, giving him a look that completely contradicted her words. She saw the fleeting terror of something in the little man's eyes - discovery perhaps?

'I...well...all should work out...give us a shout...you know...if we can be of help...Bertram and me...'

'Believe me, Dominic, I'll come knocking on your door very shortly - so don't worry.'

With that cryptic reply Tina dismissed the quantity surveyor, watching him closely as he rejoined his crony, Bertram, in the line. The latter, head lowered, was already listening to some hurried whispering from his senior. By the increasing frown on his face, it appeared that he didn't much relish what was being said.

'Good. Suffer you sods. I've only just started.'

Tina muttered _sotto voce,_ anger and pure hatred in every fibre of her being as she looked at the pair of contemptibles. They could wait, however.

'And now I believe you have another item, Madame Berger. Is that correct?'

'Yes, Mrs. Branz. Le deuxième rouleau s'il vous plait, mon petit Français.'

Not understanding a single word of what had just been said, but feeling a sharp poke from Marcel and the latter's finger pointing at his scroll, he held it out - as rehearsed earlier in the day - to Tina.

'Come help me, mon petit.'

A few titters amongst the councillors followed as the tiny 'Frenchman'waddled across to the message board with Tina - his strange Brittany sabots, striped shirt, beret and bewildering moustache, adding a piquant sense of burlesque or comedy to the otherwise serious occasion.

As Tina finished pinning the item to the board - a list of over one thousand signatures of support for Bruneigh High School - she stood back.

'What do you think, petit garcon?'

'Zay Zay Bone.'

The little fellow muttered in a strange guttural drawl of the worst French accent imaginable.

'Bravo - little man. Bravo.'

Everyone laughed - cheered loudly.

Tina turned round from the board.

'Over to you, Mr. Storr.'

'I'll leave you all to have a thoroughly good look at this; it should give any potential PFI supporters amongst you food for thought. Meanwhile, Mrs. Branz, if the offer's still open, I'd very much like to join you and your good French companions for a meal and some fine local liquor at the inn you mentioned.'

Dave Storr came over to the group of visitors.

'Follow me, Sir.'

Tina led the way.

As they all came out and stood at the top of the Town Hall steps, a huge roar went up from the massive crowd in the square.

'Three cheers for the good _Chataigniers_.

Hip. Hip.

Hooray.'

As Joseph Coggins stood outside the front door of the _Owl and Thistle_ and saw the horde of people advancing towards the pub, he blinked once or twice, hardly daring to believe his eyes. Rushing inside, in a state bordering on frenzy, he started...blurted...

'Get ready, you bloody lot, for the mother of all f.....g invasions: Simon - barrels, Samantha...glasses, everyone else - just pray to whatever f.....g God you've got. Jesus.'

Brr...Brr.

Brr...Brr.

Tina's phone started buzzing.

Listening to what Jane Madley was saying, as she walked along beside Dave Storr on her way to the _Owl and Thistle_ with Marcel, Monique, Madeleine et al, a lurking fear started to fill her thoughts, grow steadily by the second, as she considered the chilling words she'd just heard.

Jill was missing.

She had to be found - and fast.

In a daze, she glanced at her watch - 10.45 a.m.

Some minutes later she turned to her boss.

'Sorry Dave. I really have to go now - attend to something. Can you do the honours for me at the pub?'

'Of course, Tina. May I ask what...?'

'Not at this moment. I'll let you know later, when - I actually know myself. Marcel, Monique, Madeleine - can I have a quick word, please?'

'I've just heard...'

* * * * *

June 27th. 2012.

X pulled to a stop at the end of Belchers Drive at 6.45 a.m. Propping the Harley on its stand he walked over to the tree stump and sat down. Reaching inside his jacket he took out his tobacco tin, picked out a spliff and lit up.

'F.....g more like it.'

As he exhaled slowly, feeling the drug relax his irritable senses, he opened a can of strong lager, rubbing some froth from around the top.

Glug...glug...glug...

The lager went down in one long, sustained set of angry gulps.

Throwing the empty can away into the woods, he sat down to think; this was going to be one of his special days \- he could feel it in his waters. Someone was about to suffer. Pure 'mother's milk.' Mmm.

'I'm a full-scale f.....g adrenaline junkie, man

That's what I am.

He. He. He. He...'

He broke out into loud piercing cackles, leaning forwards and backwards on the stump, doubled up in paroxysms of mirth at his own apparently brilliant humour. Some small birds suddenly flew out of the trees, up into the sky and away - far away. They could not abide this screaming devil in their midst.

'Sir.'

'Sir.'

'Excuse me - Sir.'

The cackling one turned round.

Two boys were looking down at him; he hadn't heard them approach.

'What the.... Late as usual. Have you two dumbos got it? Yeah?'

'Yes Sir. Here. Have a look.'

As Lanksy handed over the item - a camera - X took a long moment, looking up at the two boys - a scowl, then a leer spreading over his face.

'What's up mate? Summat cosmic? - staring at us like that.'

Tiny was annoyed - bewildered.

'Why you little shit bag. I'll...'

As X shot up from the stump, Lanksy jumped between them, raising both hands.

'Sorry, Sir. Tiny didn't mean anything bad. He's just confused. Aren't you, Tiny mate?'

As Lanksy prodded his partner, the latter managed to mumble.

'S'pose so.'

'This better be f.....g good.'

X began twiddling buttons on the camera, cursing and swearing at odd moments.

The boys grew uneasy as the swearing got louder; at one point X started to stamp on the ground in apparent fury at something or other in the images he was seeing.

Suddenly he swung round.

Coming up very close, he stood before them - staring into the eyes of each.

Seeing them tremble, X burst into another fit of maniacal laughter.

'Here. Take this. Now f..k off out of here - Now!'

As they looked, some moments later, at the notes X had given each of them - £40 - Tiny swore.

'You're on your own from now on, Lanksy. I'm not dealing with that f.....g loon any more - not if he offered me a thousand smackers. He's f.....g dangerous.'

'Mmm...Yes, mate. I'm thinking along the same lines myself. Mmm...'

At 7.05 a.m. a large Ford Transit LWB pulled up silently on Windale Road just before reaching two large pillars.

'This it then?'

The taller man, Y, asked of his partner as they both jumped out of the vehicle and walked towards the entrance.

'Sure. Let's go up through the trees. We now watch and wait. No f.....g prying eyes. Could be a long one.'

Some minutes later, they came through to the edge of the trees and took a good long look. The house, _Gurnings_ , was quiet - not a being stirred within; the dawn chorus of the earlier hours was now mostly stilled. A lone owl hooted from somewhere in the trees at the back of the building. Finding a suitable vantage point behind some dense bushes, they sat down on a fallen bough to wait. X took out a spliff and lit up, then produced a couple of cans from the bag he was carrying.

'Here - have one of these. Take the f.....g edge off - this bloody waiting game.'

Passing the can across to Y, he opened one for himself, downing it in one.

'Thanks.'

Y was a man of very few words.

As X drew deeply on his joint, both men sat in the woods - together, but worlds apart, thinking their own thoughts, oblivious of the other's presence...

...At 8.05 X looked at his watch - yawned.

'Shouldn't be long now, mate. I think...'

The words died in his mouth, that very moment, as the front door of the house - _Gurnings_ \- swung suddenly open.

A group of three women and a man came out, talking with some apparent passion, gesturing and finger-pointing at each other as they discussed some hot topic or other. To the watching pair in the trees, the words spoken by the group were indistinct, sometimes foreign and just out of earshot.

X took out a pair of binoculars and zoomed in on the group, studying each member closely.

Eventually they got into a large black saloon car and set off down the gravelled drive.

The pair waited, sheltering behind dense bushes, as the car came grinding noisily over the gravel, passing by, mere feet from their place of concealment.

They could now hear with great clarity the voices within.

'Avant nous allons

Le bon combat

Oui.'

'You give it to them, girl.'

In a matter of seconds the fierce animated voices had passed by, well out of earshot, as it came off the path and on to the main road.

'Let's move on up - careful. Keep in the trees.'

X was in stealth mode - catlike - his trainers soundless as he crept along through the shrubbery.

'Wait.'

Another - lone - figure had just appeared, coming from the house, as the pair were about to emerge from the trees. As X put a restraining hand on Y's arm the man at the house locked the door then walked towards a small Renault Clio parked nearby.

Craaaack.

The twig snapping under Y's foot made a sound - sharp, piercing - in the otherwise quiet and tranquil street.

The man - Jack Branz - looked round.

He'd heard the sound.

Looked towards some bushes bordering the street..

One had just moved.

Someone was there.

At that moment, to his amazement, he saw two men - a tallish young man and a strange-looking youth - emerge from the bushes.

They were now striding boldly towards him.

'Mornin' Sir.'

The taller one spoke first.

'Good morning to you, too. What, may I ask, are you doing here?'

Jack enquired, looking steadily at the man.

'I'm sorry. We're looking for a Mr. Gentian. We were told he lived hereabouts and were coming up to find if anyone at this house could help us.'

'Well I can assure you that no person of that name lives round here. Anything else I can help you with?'

'No Sir. And thank you for your trouble. We'll be on our way. Bye.'

With that, the two turned sharply round and walked away down the drive without another word.

Jack looked after them, the odd-looking one catching his attention as the latter stopped and bent down to pick some object from the sole of one of his trainers.

'Hmm...damn nice trainers...something not quite...why not use the path?'

He mused, lost in thought as he got in the car and drove off.

'Right then. Let's get to it.'

X spoke as he watched the small Clio disappear into Belchers Road.

Getting out of the van they retraced their steps back up through the trees and shrubbery. All seemed quiet as they made their way up to the front of the house. Creeping along in opposite directions they ducked as they reached each window - popping up for a second to check inside, before moving on to the next.

'Nothing doing downstairs - not a bleedin' sausage.'

Y commented dryly as they met by the scullery door at the back of the house.

'This lot are loaded; that f.....g set-up - must have cost a...mmm...'

X mused, gazing through the scullery and beyond to the main kitchen with a wistful expression on his face.

'Who's bothered, mate? We're not here to admire the f.....g fixtures and fittings.'

Y was champing at the bit - eager to get on with the job in hand.

'Mmm. This one should be here. We'd better have another look round. Then break in - I've brought along glass cutters and grippers - less noise.'

X studied a small photo as he spoke.

'What about checking the outbuildings over there by the side of the garden, first, and that? - up there in the trees, over at the end.'

Y pointed at the elaborate tree house arrangement.

'Yeah. That's certainly worth checking out. Best keep our voices down, from now on.'

Silently they made their way across the garden.

'Stop. Look up there - at that window.'

Y whispered hoarsely, gripping X by the shoulder.

As X looked up he could see a mane of long, blonde hair; a woman was sitting with her back to them - for the moment. What if she turned round right now - saw them. He couldn't take that chance. They must rush right now to the bottom of the steps leading up to the canopy - out of the woman's line of sight.

'Come. Follow me. Now.'

He dashed across the hundred or so feet of space to the steps without another word, Y following.

'This is it, mate. Right?'

'So we take this woman. What if..?'

Y's doubtful words were cut off as X replied \- finger to lips.

'If it's her, on the photo here - we take her. If not - we make up some excuse or other. Pretend to be loonies or something. Agreed?'

'Yeah. Let's get up there - find out.'

Creeping silently up the steps, gripping the handrails firmly in fear of some awful creak that could give them away at any moment, they got nearer and nearer.

Phwaaatttt.

The small cracking sound echoed sharply in the stillness; surely the woman would now hear them and rush out...

For the two figures on the stairs time stood still.

They stood rooted to the spot.

Waiting.

All remained still as before.

The pair moved on again - up towards the small door - inches away.

At a signal from X they burst into the small room.

Jill turned round, startled and disbelieving at the sudden intrusion by two total strangers; deep in study at her laptop with papers strewn out over the small table, she had been little aware of sounds around her.

Coming to, she jumped up - indignant.

'Who the hell are you two? What are you doing up...'

Before she could finish, she found herself gripped in strong arms. Trying to struggle free, she began to kick out - frontwards and backwards - at her attackers.

'Let me go - you godforsaken pair of idiots. I'll...'

All at once she found a hand over her mouth, cutting off her words. As she writhed and moaned helplessly in the large one's iron grip, X, reached inside a holdall on the floor before him, taking out a large roll of tape and scissors. Cutting off a small length, the strange looking youth turned round, facing her.

'Mind your tongue, lady. Me and my mate here can't abide bad language. Shows bad rearin' - so it does.'

With that he slapped the length of tape across her lips, standing back for a second afterwards to admire his handiwork, careful to avoid her kicking boots.

'Wow. I'm a f.....g artist - a true genius. He. He. H...'

As the deformed individual broke out into a bout of insane cackling, his partner cut in,

'Let's get on with it. Now. Grab that.'

Pointing his head downwards at two leather straps dangling from his jacket pocket, Y's meaning was clear.

'Okay.'

With that, X, came over and fastened the first strap securely round Jill's wrists, then secured the other round her flailing boots, doing the latter part in the manner of a blacksmith shoeing a jumpy horse.

'Done.'

'Right. You go in front - I'll follow.'

With those few words, Y hauled the writhing captive on to his shoulder in one single, mighty heave before heading for the door after his partner.

'Keep f.....g still, lady. Tryin' to kill us both or what?'

Y shouted as he stumbled with his load on the way down from the tree house.

'Nobody around - all clear.'

X remarked as they passed the empty house.

Wasting no time they made their way down the drive to the Transit van. As X opened the back doors, Y dropped Jill inside on the floor before jumping in beside her.

'Let's go.'

'Okay.'

As he went round to the front and sat in the driving seat, X took out his tobacco tin, extracting a long, fat spliff containing the ugliest, strongest skunk on the planet. Lighting up the evil joint, he took a long draw.

'Now the f.....g real fun begins. Mother's milk or what - phaoww.'

As the burning, acrid fumes filled the cabin and the drug began to take hold, X set off, cigarette dangling from lips, the leer on his face getting wider by the second at the thought of what lay ahead for the 'little' lady in the back.

Stopping the van sometime later he got out of the vehicle.

Going to the back to open the van doors, he glanced at his watch - 9.34 a.m. - they'd reached their destination in twenty minutes.

* * * * *

Brr...Brr.

Jack picked up the phone as he sat in Jill's office, where he was acting as head for the day.

'Jack Branz here. How may I be of help?'

'Hi Jack. Joe Deakin here. I'd like you to come over to the library when you have a minute; some shelving's in a bad way - needs urgent attention.'

'I'll be with you in five minutes. 9.10. That okay with you, Joe?'

'Thanks Jack. I'll wait here.'

Some twenty minutes later, after some brief discussion on the faulty shelving, Joe went off to make a start on the necessary shelf replacement work. Left alone, Jack wandered round the empty library, checking shelves...pulling the odd book out...looking at the covers...lost in thought.

All was still in the room; sounds of scurrying feet in the corridors outside barely carried through sufficiently to disturb the pleasant feeling of monastic solitude within.

Walking up the central aisle towards the reading table he sat down in one of the seats. Raising his head towards the large stained-glass windows he was dazzled all of a sudden by sunlight pouring through, lighting up the figures in the glass. He found himself gazing at one figure in particular - a biblical king. As his eyes travelled downwards - crown, head, torso, legs - he dwelt for a moment on the sandalled feet of this particular individual.

'What the....'

It was changing. Getting bigger. Massive...

... He was back in the street, by the apothecary shop, watching fleeing figures - mainly women - on horses, galloping through enormous portals to a terrifying doom.

Rivers of molten metal with sulphurous fumes consuming these figures as they came through, before his very eyes.

Phutt. Ssss. Phutt. Ssss....

They were disappearing down...down...

Flaming beacons.

Extinguished.

Deafening cries of agony - final screams, screeches.

Piercing.

Wrenching at his very soul.

He was now joining them, somewhere behind.

His turn would surely come - soon.

He would scream.

Not yet.

He looked up.

A figure - tall, giant amorphous mass - dark grey.

Gap in the grey.

Gigantic legs...massive body...demon head.

The ground trembled with the figure's heavy tread.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Pain - hot, searing.

Just that moment.

Felt.

Flesh falling off.

Pure pale bone, skeletal feet - his.

Whole body melting.

Sinking.

Slowly.

Inexorably.

What had he done? Why was he here?

He was passing out.

The pain.

Lower body gone.

He looked across.

About to swallow...one last time...the molten liquid...life about to end...God...

Then - in a flash.

A mighty thud somewhere near.

A massive hand swooping down from the flame-filled sky.

He was being lifted - rising.

Out of the molten grave.

Intact.

Then.

Whoosh.

Catapulting through the air.

Soaring.

Up. Up.

Flying weightless, he looked down one last time on the scene below. The demon looked up, smiling, waving a giant hand in farewell. He waved back, looking at his own hand for a second or two as he did so, to check it was still intact.

He was being saved for something. His not to wonder why, but he was nevertheless very grateful to some fate or other for his release as he continued to soar in the cool, clear air. He looked down moments later on a different and truly wondrous scene. He was over a forest that stretched for miles; a town was directly below so he dived downwards, landing in a street near some trees.

He'd been in the street before. Cars whizzed past smoothly without sound or exhaust smell. All seemed deserted as he started to walk towards a familiar door with sign,

Offnen. Zimmer.

Vernünftigen Preisen

(Open. Rooms. Reasonable prices).

As he approached the guest house, he saw an old woman - dishevelled, hag-like - sat at a table outside, with her hand on a large bottle, clutching the neck tightly as if her life depended on it. Seeing him approach, she grinned widely - a grotesque, toothless grimace - making him eager to avoid her as quickly as possible without giving offence.

'Guten Abend, junge Kerl. Trinken?'

(Good evening, young fellow. Drink?)

As he hurried past, muttering a cursory greeting, he heard the woman address him once more.

'Setzen Sie sich. Jetzt.'

(Sit down. Now.)

The words, spoken in a sharp, guttural snarl, pierced the silent air like a fine blade striking soft flesh.

He looked round.

The woman pointed a long withered finger at a chair with one hand, the long fingernails on the other beating sharply on the table top as she awaited his response.

'Nur eine Minute - danke.'

(Just for a minute - thanks.)

As he sat down the woman pushed the large bottle across the table.

'Trinken. Jetzt.'

(Drink. Now.)

He looked round; there were no glasses on the table. Seeing his look the woman scowled.

'Aus der Flasche, dummen Mann.'

(From the bottle, silly man.)

Not wishing to offend the strange creature, he wiped the bottle carefully with a sleeve, rubbing around inside the neck with his finger for good measure, before sniffing inside the top of the dusty, dirty looking vessel.

'God...what...?'

Strong alcoholic fumes stung his nostrils; this stuff would put more than hairs on his chest. He'd have to be careful.

'In den Hals - schwacher Mensch.'

(Down your throat - feeble man)

Putting the dreadful thing to his lips he began to sip slowly - very, very slowly.

Then it happened.

In a flash the strange harridan figure was behind him, her hand on his - pushing, forcing.

Glug. Glug. Glug. G....

He was struggling to swallow - avoid choking \- as she forced the awful burning liquid went down his throat.

Suddenly she let go.

Gasping for breath, he leaned forward, burying his head in his hands on the table, remaining in this position for some considerable time after.

'Schauen - verschlafene Mann. Sie haben schlechte Manieren haben.'

( Look up - sleepy man. You have bad manners)

He should have been angry - very much so.

But no.

As he raised his head from the table and looked across, he felt different. A warmth - deep, relaxing - was spreading through his body as he groggily gazed at his unbidden enforcer. The horrid liquor from before had an aftertaste - sweet, rich, intoxicating, mysterious.

She was changing form before his bleary eyes; greasy, matted grey hair was stretching down behind - lightening - now luxuriant blonde tresses. Rising from the chair, the formless, withered shape in beggar's garments swelled as the threadbare items fell off, revealing skimpy leather bras on fulsome breasts, and, further down, the minutest of cute leather thongs on rounded ivory hips. Black leather boots now covered legs belonging to a true goddess.

The Aryan beauty looked down on him.

'Kommen Sie. Folgen Sie mir.'

(Come. Follow me.)

He followed, powerless to resist. Eyes glued to ivory hips, powerful thighs and rippling calves, he was barely aware of where he was headed or what he passed on the way. He was becoming aroused; he wanted the dominant figure of beauty walking before him to use him as her slave - as a mere tawdry possession, to be treated with the utmost contempt and thrown away when...

'Sitzen.'

(Sit)

His thoughts were interrupted by the woman's sharp voice in his ear. She was pointing to a leather seat with a finger. He sat down. They were in a room he remembered from before. Arousal was now giving way to a feeling of trepidation. He should go right now but he couldn't; a feeling of inertia or acceptance of his fate at the hands of this woman was overwhelming his senses for the time being.

'Sieh dir das an. Mannchen.'

(Look at this, little man.)

With that she whirled to the other side of the large, spartan room in one continuous rapid cartwheeling manoeuvre that left his senses reeling.

She now stood staring at him - then indicating something with waves of her hands.

She wanted him to undress.

'Abstreifen alle Kleider. Jetzt.'

(Strip off all clothes. Now.)

As he watched her place a boot on a small footstool as she waited for him to obey, his feelings of anxiety or concern vanished in an instant. Her poise with the suggestive, exaggerated gap between powerful thighs brought on an arousal; as the last of his garments fell to the floor, he stood before her - naked, with a full throbbing erection. He was now truly in her power - at her mercy entirely.

Swisshhhhh.

Crack.

Swisshhhhh.

Crack.

The dreaded cat o'nine tails sliced through the air with ominous menace as the Aryan conqueror pointed with her other hand.

'Dort. Schwach ein. Knien vor mir. Arsch in der Luft.'

(There. Feeble one. Kneel before me. Arse in the air.)

Trembling, he looked at the whip.

'No. Please. No.'

'Dort. Jetzt.'

Swisshhhhh.

Crack.

The cat o'nine tails began to thwack down on the chequer-board patterned tiles - slowly at first, then quicker and quicker until he felt his head would explode from the awful sounds ringing through his brain.

He knelt down as ordered.

'Küssen meine Stiefel.'

(Kiss my boots)

He bent down....

The boots were changing.

A pattern - a signature stripe - was forming on the black leather.

Getting bigger.

Now a solid shape.

Detaching - rising.

He grasped at the disappearing object...

...Looked closely.

He was looking at the stripe again.

On a shoe.

A Paul Smith Osmo trainer.

He could hear words...vague...disconnected...

'This for your part...expel...Baz...Gulpin...yeah...that bitch Ponsonby...next. Just wait till Basher...out...his treat... _Friends_....'

He looked up.

No splendid Aryan calves in supple black leather.

No.

He was looking at dirty jeans...then further up...a strange deformed individual...talking to someone...out of sight...behind somewhere...

More words.

'Lets kick the...'

'No. Leave it....'

He saw the stripe...trainer.

It was being pulled back...back.

Then - a thud...awful pain...in his stomach.

He was passing out...unconscious...a deformed youth was bent down...leering...the ugly visage just inches from his face...

# Chapter 13

June 27th. 2012.

Rrmm. Rrmm.

Rrmm. Rrmm.

'Goddamn noisy f....r.'

The man, groggy with sleep, poked an arm out from beneath the sheets in an effort to locate the small bedside clock...turn off the irritating sound.

'Whew - better.'

Sitting on the side of the bed he took a few moments to come to terms with the new day. With his mind clearing he began to shake with anger at certain thoughts taking hold inside his head. Ever since that meeting with X, fifteen days earlier, his brain had been in a state of flux; the awful words...that sheet of paper...

Eating away...gnawing...deep within...

Before...a fresh new world awaiting...positive...Shirley Goodall...coping mechanisms.

'When I see that bitch...'

Revenge - getting even; that was all that mattered now.

Jangling of keys sounded in the corridor outside.

Someone's day of reckoning had arrived.

'All ready then, John?'

A smiling Brian Atkins stood in the open doorway.

Rising from the bed, grabbing his holdall, the prisoner cast a last, lingering look on the room that had been his home for the past few years.

'Hmm.... Okay, Sir. Just checking...'

'I understand. It's been some time. Just remember what I told you yesterday. Right son?'

'Yes, Mr. Atkins - and thanks, by the way, for - everything really.'

The prisoner smiled to himself.

If the officer could but read what was going on in his mind at that moment.

As they walked along the landing - quiet for the time being - Jonah Madders suddenly appeared, carrying a mop in one hand and a bucket of steaming hot water in the other.

'Mornin' Sir - Basher.'

'Good morning, Jonah.'

Two voices answered as one.

'You did some good work with that young fellow, John.'

The two continued on down the corridor as Jonah broke out into song - happy in his work.

'Shut the f..k up, you little pigeon-farting nonce.'

'Yeah. Right now. Or...'

The insults continued unabated, to the accompaniment of kicking of doors and general din, as the pair - officer and departing prisoner - made their way along the landing.

Boots on metal stairwells, metallic clattering of keys in locks and clanging of steel doors - all normal prison sounds - seemed to echo more harshly, penetrate more deeply inside the head of the departing prisoner, making him strangely uneasy...

Subliminal message...

Vague warning in the sounds...

Reminder...

Long, long hours in the solitude of his cell...

Alone with darkest thoughts...

Despair...

Wishing hard for dawn to arrive...

Days...months...years...a lifetime...

Oh to now fly by...

Evaporate in the mists...

At last be free...

Breathe in cool, clear air...

Prison gates receding...

Away...

Forgotten...

As the last door clanged shut behind him he knew he must never return. Revenge would be sweet but could not come at any cost; he'd have to be careful.

'Hello, Basher, old mate.'

Boxer was standing by the large entrance door, grinning, as they came through.

'Hi.'

A second later they were outside. Time 08.15.

As both men waited, a large Bentley convertible pulled up across the road. A finely manicured hand from the driver waved across at the waiting pair.

'Who's that - waving?'

Boxer was intrigued.

He was even more so as he saw the driver - an elegant lady in her mid-forties - get out of the car and walk towards them.

'Oh John, dear...Oh...You look so pale...oh...'

As he finally pulled himself free from his mother's long and tender embrace, Basher spoke, pointing at Boxer.

'Would you mind giving my friend, Boxer, a lift, Mum?'

Mrs. Gulpin walked over to a somewhat perplexed Boxer, extending a hand.

'Pleased to see you, Mrs. Er...'

'Janine will do fine, Boxer. Any friend of my son is most welcome to ride in my car. Jump in - both of you.'

The car set off.

'You alright, dear?'

The comment by his mother some minutes later brought him out from mixed thoughts. Boxer was gone and he felt somehow alone...vulnerable.

'Oh - fine. Yes.'

He was free - the fact was taking time to sink in.

That damn sheet X had given him.

Waves of anger were building up.

The leather squeaked luxuriously under him as he turned in the seat. His mother was looking across at him with concern in her eyes. He caught a quick whiff of expensive perfume - exotic, caressing.

'Just thinking, Mum. Sorry.'

After a twenty minute drive the car pulled up outside 166,Windale Road, Bruneigh Heights, the Gulpin home - a large, detached property. Set back from the road in an acre of land, with grassy lawns on both sides and tallish, neatly-clipped hedges around the perimeter, it exuded a strange feeling of aloofness from the world.

' I'll fix breakfast while you put your things away - have a wash, shower - whatever.'

With that she jumped out of the car, heading indoors straight for the kitchen.

As he started up the stairs, the living room door suddenly opened.

'Good to see you, my boy.'

Coming across, the giant of a man that was Barney Gulpin put out a hand to shake his son's - firmly.

'And you, Dad.'

'You have something to eat son. Then I want you to come with me. We leave sometime after 9. I'll tell you about it on the way.'

'Okay Dad - but I'm not really ready for...'

'This can't wait - sorry about the timing. So just be ready. Okay?'

'Fine - no trouble, Dad.'

Going upstairs, Basher headed straight for his bedroom. As he put things from his holdall away prior to having a shower and change of clothes, he heard someone come up the stairs.

Barney was entering the small study at the end of the landing.

Yanking a set of keys from his pocket the latter went over to sit down at a large mahogany desk. Running his hands over the embossed green leather inlay for a second or two he seemed lost in thought.

Suddenly coming to a decision he unlocked a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper with the official Bruneigh Borough Council letterhead:

We authorise Friends of Bruneigh to...

Enclosed payment of...£ in pursuance of said...

Signed:

Dominic Saviour (Quantity Surveyor)

Bertram Little (Assistant Surveyor)

'Mmm.....'

Reaching down he opened another drawer taking out a large buff envelope. Placing the envelope flat on the desk top he took out a biro and wrote down an address in firm, clear capitals: _Dave Storr, Chief Exec..._

Taking the first document he placed it carefully in the envelope. Reaching back inside the first drawer he took out other sheets of paper, similar to the first, and placed them in the envelope also, followed by the remaining contents of the drawer - audio and video recordings on disc obtained by X. The final item: a separate sheet of paper, already printed out but still unsigned, he regarded for a moment or two, scanning carefully for errors; he could not afford any misunderstandings with this.

Mr. B. Gulpin

166, Windale Road,

Bruneigh Heights

27th. June 2012.

Dear Mr.Storr,

I, the undersigned, Barney Gulpin, feel it is imperative that you be made aware of certain nefarious dealings by some of your colleagues at the council. Enclosed please find evidence of said dealings in the form of receipts, tapes etc.

Also regarding...

... _Yours sincerely,_

Barney Gulpin

(Time 09.15)

Signing the letter and adding the exact time \- in biro - he put this in the envelope before sealing it. Locking the drawer he smiled grimly as he walked out of the room and downstairs, the envelope tucked carefully under his arm.

Sounds of shouting were coming from the kitchen.

'Sentence plan, eh. I've a little plan of my own. Bushy-tailed - I'm no f.....g squirrel. I'm telling you, Mum, I've a good mind to...'

'Show me that, my boy.'

Barney took the offending letter from his son as he sat down at the breakfast table.

Ampshire Probation Trust

65,Hartley Street

Windale

Dear John,

Just a reminder to let you know an appointment has been arranged for you to see me at the above offices on June 29th. I must point out that failure to attend this or any future meetings could have serious consequences and be seen as a failure to comply with the terms of your parole. There are many issues I wish to discuss with you, including a properly worked out sentence plan, so I shall expect you to arrive at 9.00 a.m. bright and bushy-tailed for our first meeting.

Yours...

Deirdre Catchpole

(Probation Officer)

'We'll deal with this later son. Meanwhile - when we've both finished breakfast - I've things planned for the next few hours that should take your mind off that annoying little letter. Okay, my boy?'

'Fine. I...'

'Will both of you stop yapping and do some eating.'

Mrs. Gulpin interrupted, looking on disconsolately at her son's full plate and wan pallor.

'10.20. Time to go now, son.'

Barney came in the lounge where his son and Janine were sat talking some time later.

Sitting in the car some moments later, he began,

'Its like this son. As we speak, a certain...'

He described events that had taken place earlier...kidnapping...

Then...something else entirely...still to come...barbaric...cruel.

As his father finished, Basher sat rigid - stunned.

This was...

Anger building over days...burning desire to get even...punish.

These had been his constant thoughts for days...weeks even.

But this...

What he had just heard...

He thought long and hard for a few moments.

'And I...do...final drop...yeah?'

'Yes my boy - but not before myself, X, a friend of his and two specially invited guests come in. I'll give you a sign - like this. Get it?'

Barney demonstrated with a vicious slash of the hand - guillotine fashion. The meaning was clear - very clear indeed.

They drove off.

'Just a moment son, while I deal with this.'

Barney took a large, bulging envelope from the back seat and got out, striding purposefully towards the Bruneigh Post Office.

'Mmm....'

Basher mused as he watched his father emerge some minutes later. He'd not query - question. That was the way between them.

Afterwards they drove on silently towards their destination - one calm and single-minded, the other growing in uncertainty and inner turmoil as the few short miles flew by.

* * * * *

'Come on girl. Let's see you do that one.'

'Hear. Hear.'

Some regulars at the bar in the _Nags Head_ egged the woman on. She was on the pull, dressed to kill - all fired up and ready to rumble. Her body fairly tingled with excitement at the thought of doing what she loved most - dancing striptease. Pushing her naked body through skilful dance routines never failed to have her audience gagging for more - ache to possess her. She'd get a week of 'tricks' from one good performance.

'Sure you feeble lot of oldies are up to the excitement? Yeah?'

Dressed in a skimpy red mini, revealing white see-through blouse and top patterned sheer leg stockings, she jumped off her stool, reaching down to pluck at a shoe - a low-heeled black Shoesissima Caren.

'Right Malk. Let's have the track.'

The barman pressed a button on the disco machine as the woman went over to the small stage at the side of the bar used frequently by visiting singers and bands.

As the sounds of Shakira's _She Wolf_ came through powerful speakers, the woman began to twirl round - slowly at first, then speeding up as she got into her rhythm.

'Come on Betsy - show the legs girl.'

'Yeah. Come on Bets darling. More.'

The regulars were warming up to the performance.

Now the woman on the stage seemed to be in some sort of frenzy. In a rapid movement she jumped up - then landed on the floor, legs spread out in a perfect acrobatic split. As the sounds of moaning came from the loudspeakers she began to mimic the emotion by raising her hands to the heavens - mouth fully open - then dashing her head on the floor with hands spread out by her sides.

Repeating this a few times, she now jumped straight up, moving her hips in sensual, provocative motion from side to side, grasping at her mini as if to wrench some vile, offending incubus clean off her body.

The music tempo on the machine grew fast - furious.

With a mighty sweep the red garment came off \- flying through the air to land on someone at the bar.

Pert hips peered out proudly from the thinnest of thongs - a black lepel fiore.

'Bravo girl. More. More.'

Running round in a circle the woman now threw her whole body into a perfect set of cartwheels before ending in a kneeling position on the floor.

'Ahhhh. Ahhhh.'

She moaned, rocking backwards and forwards.

Words from the machine were now coming at a rapid, staccato rate.

As if on cue, the dancer ejected herself from her prostrate position.

Now standing straight.

Leaning back...back...back.

Hair touching the floor behind.

Staccato sounds halt.

Stop.

Music building up again...faster...more furious....

The dancer now wrenching at her blouse.

Firm, fulsome breasts standing out.

Nipples erect through sheer fabric.

Music from the machine reaching a climax.

Crash.

Another sweep of the arm.

Flimsy white garment flowing through the air.

Fine gossamer on morning dawn...

Floating...

Weightless...

Light...delicate...

Coming to rest...

Somewhere...

On a beer tap...

Forlorn...

Bereft...

Sad...

The music building up again.

'Bravo our Betsy. Come on girl. Nearly there.'

The group at the bar were now in a frenzy of their own as they watched the sensuously contorting near naked figure before them, breasts bouncing - hips swaying.

Dropping to the floor for one last time, the dancer grasped at the pillar near the centre of the stage, performing a perfect erotic pole dance as she rose up, gripping and hugging the pillar - a perfect balletic display of feminine curves...silky stockings...mysterious spaces...now glimpsed...now gone.

'Ahhh...'

The music stopped.

It was over.

'Three cheers for our own Betsy. Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

'Now someone owes me a drink. Who's the lucky person then. Eh?'

'Drink barman.'

'Drink...'

'Drink...'

The shouts continued along the bar.

Starting to get back into her flimsy garments, Betsy smiled. She was somewhat out of breath from her exertions but felt better - much, much better...

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

The deformed, bent figure that was X entered the pub, slow handclapping as he approached the bar. The strange creature was now looking intently at his watch as if to imprint the time, 10.05, permanently on his brain.

He looked up again - taking in the scene at the bar.

'Show's over. You lot of smelly f....s can put your dicks back in your pants right now. I've business - very important - to discuss with Miss Dancing Feet. F..k off with the lot of you - now.'

The regulars left the bar without argument, muttering sotto voce amongst themselves about the 'loony in their midst; nobody thought of crossing Barney Gulpin's top lieutenant. Betsy turned on the late interloper - spoiler of innocent fun.

Furious.

At that moment she couldn't give a fig's ear for Barney Gulpin or Satan himself; she felt demeaned - cheapened.

'Of all the bloody cheek - you thin-farting, gob-spitting, crippled excuse of a man. You...'

'Listen, you cheap filthy whore. You'll do...'

His words were cut off as the woman jumped off her stool to stand before her adversary, looking down on him; she was fully an inch taller.

Smack.

The cutting slap to X's cheek resounded through the bar; the regulars dropped their gaze to their pints of ale, unwilling to risk taking any part in the altercation, waiting for the outcome of a different floor show altogether.

As he rubbed his sore cheek, X gazed upwards at the angry face glowering down on him. The woman was raising her arm again.

'Listen - crazy bitch. Look at this - 1000 smackers for you.'

X shot out a hand, gripping the woman's wrist, as he pulled open his leather jacket, revealing a thick wad of notes in an inside pocket.

'What. You for real. Taking the piss more likely - you ugly little bastard. You can take your money - I'll just give you a little prezzie before you go. Take th...'

As she struggled to free her arm and strike again, X tightened his grip, pulling her close, whispering in her ear.

'Listen Betsy - it's serious. My boss wants me to do a job - right now, in about half an hour's time. I need your help. There's another 2000 for you by the end of the day. Please. I need you. And after - we meet up for the night - usual arrangement. Then I was thinking of a trip - on me, of course.'

'Mmm...You'd best not be pulling my leg, hun. A trip you say - to where, may I ask?'

'They say it's nice in Paris this time of the year girl. Deal?'

'Just tell me a bit more, hun. What exactly...?'

X whispered...

'Okay hunbunch. Deal.'

They shook hands.

'Barman.'

X shouted across the bar.

'Tomato juice with Worcestershire sauce for me, Sir. Lime and lemon for the lady. And you can get all of those back there a round on me. It's worth it - seein's I gets so much pleasure out of insulting the thick sods every time I come here. He. He.'

'Okay, sir. Drinks coming up.'

'He He...'

X broke out in a fit of uncontrollable cackling laughter as the barman got the drinks. Eyes from all tables were drawn - mesmerised - to the source of the hyena-like sounds for a second, then averted quickly; to dwell too long on the sight of the madman at the bar might risk contamination of some awful sort.

'You okay, hun?'

X's companion looked suddenly uncertain.

Getting out his mobile, the latter dialled a number.

'What in blue blazes? Not now. I'm in a...meeting...people around. Understand?'

The words came over the phone - a loud whisper - hoarse, urgent.

'I'm waiting for you and your big, fat slob of a mate at the _Nags Head._ Come straightaway - no arguments. Else my boss and some of his little helpers will have to go and collect you. Some of them are big boys now - all grown up to be very unfriendly to those who cross them. I leave here at 10.30. Be here Buster. Got it?'

'But what's the hurry...I mean...'

The voice, still a whisper, was now pleading.

'Be here. That's a f.....g direct order from my boss. Get your arses over here now.'

'Oh my god. Oh...just give me a second to...yes...we'll set off right away, young fellow, if its so very...'

X turned the mobile off - he didn't want to hear.

* * * * *

The man came to.

'F.....g hell.'

It was all coming back to him as he sat on a bench in the school library, eyes blinking, at the sun streaming in through the stained-glass windows...

...The time it happened.

He remembered walking along Belchers Road at 5.15 p.m. He'd just come from a meeting of the school governors, where he'd been explaining his recommendation to Jill Ponsonby, a week earlier, that a certain pupil, Baz Gulpin, be expelled for consistent pestering of some girls - particularly one Cissy Blackstock. The boy had been got rid of by the headmistress after careful deliberation on hearing the accounts of all concerned.

'Thank you, Mr. Branz. You may go now.'

The august figure of Lady Persephone Carruthers dismissed him summarily when he'd given answers to various questions put to him by the board.

He was walking along past the car park when he heard voices coming from somewhere behind.

'Yeah - that's...'

He heard the dull pattering thump of trainers on hard ground; the sounds were getting nearer but he scarcely noticed - they would have nothing to do with him.

'Let's do him.'

The walker began to turn round; he'd heard the words but they didn't seem to register in his brain. He was curious.

Had he heard...?

Then - shadowy figures - right behind.

Bang on his head.

Sudden pain.

Everything dimming.

Blackness.

He was coming to.

Hearing voices.

'The bitch Ponsonby - next. Yeah.

When Basher gets out of clink.

Present on behalf of _Friends of Bruneigh_ \- a fond farewell. He. He.

Those things she's been saying about the family. Yeah.'

'Cut the crap, X. We're done here.'

'I'll give this bastard another...kick the...'

'No. Leave it...'

He saw the stripe...trainer.

It was being pulled back...back.

Then - a thud...awful pain...in his stomach.

He was passing out...unconscious...a deformed youth was bent down...leering...the ugly visage just inches from his face...

...He jumped up.

The sun still streamed through the windows way above his head.

Those words from the strange creature.

Now shooting into his head like menacing killer bullets.

It was all coming clear...making sense...vendetta... _Friends of Bruneigh..._ fires...

One important fact - Jill was in danger. He'd have to get in contact straightaway - warn her.

He took out his mobile.

Dialled.

No answer.

'She should be in the tree house. Maybe she'd gone back inside.'

He muttered, thinking for a second.

Dialled the main _Gurnings_ number.

Waited.

Nothing.

The phone buzzed at the far end into an empty house...

...Lonely, hollow sound

Small fragment falling from roof in empty sepulchre

Unseen

Unheard by skeletal figure in stony tomb within...

The man held the phone to his ear for what seemed an age.

Thoughts ricocheting through his brain.

Uncontrollable...random...fantastical.

That deformed youth face - cruelty personified...evil...unforgiving...merciless.

'Jesus. It can't have started...surely...not yet. No - please God.'

He rushed from the library.

'Jane. Oh Jane.'

'Christ. You look like you've seen a ghost. What in heavens...?'

As Jane Madley flew across the room to sit the ashen-faced, shivering figure down in a seat, she felt as if some cold shadow had passed across her very soul; portents of dark, sinister happenings seemed to emanate from every trembling muscle of the person facing her.

'Now tell me what it is, Jack. Take your time.'

'It's Jill. I think she may be in extreme danger. I've been having these dreams...'

'Whoah. Just let me think for a second. This is simply...'

Jane listened intently - even feverishly - to her deputy head's every word. She began to shake - with fear and utter apprehension at first - then blind fury.

Some bastards were about to do unmentionable things to - possibly hurt - her beloved Jill. What they'd already done was unpardonable...despicable.

Well then. They hadn't counted on her.

Time for action.

'Jack. I want you to drop everything right now.'

'What...I mean...'

His words were cut off as he looked at the formidable figure of the school secretary he admired so much. In her present form he wasn't about to argue.

'It's 9.55. I want you to go to _Gurnings_ right now and check every room, outhouse, whatever \- then ring me back. Okay with that?'

'I'm already on my way.'

As he left the office he bent down to plant a soft tender kiss on her forehead.

'You're a treasure.'

Jane buried her head in her hands after Jack left. She had to remain positive; there could be a perfectly simple explanation and Jill could walk through the door at any moment. Yet there was too much for mere coincidence in what she'd just heard; something evil and dangerous seemed to be descending with frightening inevitability.

She thought on for a moment, then went over to the filing cabinet and opened the drawer G - I. Riffling through the folder tops she got to the one she wanted and took it out.

'Yep. Basil Gulpin. Mmm. Let's see.'

Browsing through the pupil's record for a few minutes to get a clear picture - refresh her memory - she found a phone number.

Dialled.

'Windale Prison. How may I help you?'

The voice at the other end of the line seemed brusque - uninviting.

'Jane Madley here. Secretary Bruneigh High School. I wish to...'

After waiting patiently on the phone for some twenty minutes she finally had the information she dreaded.

John 'Basher' Gulpin had been released on probation that very morning at 08.15.

She put the phone down.

Looked at her hands.

They were shaking.

'Please God - no. No. No.'

Burying her head in her hands once more, she wept silently.

* * * * *

'Jill. Jill. Are you there? Anybody.'

Jack walked through the silent house, as Jane had requested, room by room. As he went in the kitchen he caught whiffs of exotic odours from some food- à la Monique - laid out in readiness for the group's return sometime later on after the protest meeting.

'Jill. Jill.'

He continued shouting her name.

Outhouses, garage, gardening shed - nothing.

All empty stillness.

There was only one place left - the tree house.

Rushing up the steps he stopped outside the small door.

Panting, heart beginning to race in feverish anticipation of what he might find inside, he crossed himself.

'Dear God. Don't let.....'

Paused.

Putting out his hand he gripped the handle as if it were some burning demonic orb about to shatter his very sanity.

Pulled back - instantly, as if stung.

Anger began to well up at his own timidity.

He gripped the handle again.

Burst into the room.

Empty.

As he looked around the small, cosy hideaway \- scene of so many happy moments - a fear began to well up - fill his entire being. Her laptop, papers and an empty mug sat neatly on the desk. Pencils, computer mouse and other paraphernalia strewn across the floor beneath, however, told another story altogether. A struggle of some sort had most certainly taken place. Jill had been seized by some person - or persons - before she could cry out for help.

That same person or persons, had crept up silently and...?'

'Jesus.'

He gasped.

Sat down on a chair.

Taking out his mobile, he dialled.

'Jane. Its me - Jack. I've just...'

* * * * *

Jane listened to the voice of the tortured soul at the other end of the phone line.

She'd heard enough.

'Come back here - immediately my dear. There's much to be done and not a minute to lose. But take heart - we'll find her, or my name's not Jane Madley.'

'Thanks Jane. I'm on my way.'

She picked up the phone and dialled a number.

'Why hello Jane. I wasn't expecting....'

'Is Jill with you, by any chance, Tina?'

'No. She's probably in the tree house at the moment. She told me she'd be back in school for the afternoon. Do you need her? I'll give you her mobile...'

As she spoke Tina found herself suddenly - and loudly - interrupted.

'Please listen, Tina. I've some disturbing news. Jack and I have...'

She went into details - leaving nothing out \- of her and Jack's current fears for Jill's safety.

Silence at the end of the phone.

'You still there, Tina?'

'Yes Jane. Sorry. Let me think. Let...'

'I'm here...'

Her voice trailed off.

Tina, meanwhile, was digesting the facts she'd just been fed; two facts seemed to loom hugely - the _Friends_ and the Gulpin family. She had no doubts about connections between a certain shady couple of her colleagues and the strangely named _Friends_. She'd just given one of them the evil eye; she'd start with the nasty little twerp right now.

'Give me a few minutes, Jane and I'll get back to you. Okay?'

'Fine, Tina. Please don't take too long.'

'Anyone seen Dom?'

Tina looked around the group of councillors walking towards the _Owl and Thistle._

'He and his mate went off about twenty minutes ago. They seemed in a terrible rush.'

Deirdre Barber came up to join her and Dave Storr.

'Thanks Deirdre. Sorry Dave. I really have to...Monique, Marcel....'

Back in her office a few minutes later, she picked up the phone.

'Jane. Could you give me details of an address. Its....'

She put the phone down.

Waited.

'I've got it here Tina - 166....'

'Thanks Jane. You hold the fort there with Jack. I'll get back to you later.'

Turning round to Monique, Madeleine and the group of four sturdy _Chataigniers_ men stood behind her as she put the phone down, Tina spoke quietly - her voice barely registering.

'You've got the coach ready, Josef?'

'Oui, Tina.'

'Then we all go now - there's serious business to be done.'

'Ne vous inquiétez pas, chère fille. Nous sommes avec vous tout le chemin.'

Monique hugged her friend tightly.

'Marcel. We'll find your Jill for you. And when we find those scumbags responsible...'

Tina spoke quietly - her voice barely above a whisper.

The group looked at the formidable figure with admiration. The steely gaze seemed to look beyond them; those eyes full of venomous hatred would seek, find and then destroy their target with ruthless efficiency - without mercy or aforethought whatsoever.

'Bien dit, Tina.'

'Bien dit.'

The group murmured their sincere assent.

'Good. Let's go.'

They set off.

* * * * *

The Corniche pulled up outside the derelict factory building at 10.50 a.m. As the front passenger door opened, a man got out and went towards the small wicket-style door.

The other man remained in his seat, hands across the steering wheel and eyes pointed firmly ahead - seemingly oblivious of the other's purposeful stride...his mission...

# Chapter 14

June 27th. 2012.

She felt the sharp sting from the slap to her face. Putting a hand up to dab at her cheek - ease the throbbing pain - she noticed blood on the tips of her fingers. A small trickle was beginning to ooze from her nose; she could feel a smooth tickling sensation down the right side of her face as the small stream made its way down...down...

'Why - you insolent bastard. I'll...'

The woman was now angry - livid, as she flicked a tongue out, tasting the salty red wetness at the edge of her mouth. Lunging forward to strike at the man facing her, forgetting for a second that her hands were tied securely behind her back, she suddenly found herself helpless...toppling over the edge...looking down...way, way down below...the chair she was bound to at the ankles going with her.

'Not so soon - silly bitch.'

A hand shot out to grab her, just as she was about to drop fifteen feet or so on to the hard concrete floor beneath. Lifting her and the chair with indifferent ease, the angry young Adonis placed her back safely in her original position before storming off immediately down the steps to talk to another young man.

As she sat in the hard chair, staring bleakly round, she longed to reach down to rub at her ankles which were beginning to chafe from rubbing against the rope; wriggling her knees around a little seemed to ease the problem as she listened to the men talking in low whispers. Panic began to set in as she thought about what was happening to her; the muffled tones of the men told her nothing. She could hear the sound of their voices but could not make out a single word.

What were they saying?

How was this going to end?

She had to think.

Hope.

Maybe this was a hoax of some kind.

As she listened to the mysterious murmurs from below she tried to remember - hard - every detail since her kidnap from the tree house...

...The awful bent and deformed creature that had seemed to take such inordinate joy from taking her captive; she remembered him from somewhere...

She began to think...back...yes. She'd seen him talking with the two problem pupils, Lanksy and Tiny.

What was his connection - if any - to all the strange happenings at her school of late?

Maybe nothing - just some sort of coincidence.

She didn't believe this.

Just thinking of the creature.

'Ugh.'

A dark, coldness spread through her.

Something of pure Satanic evil.

She could feel it in her bones - her very marrow.

The deformed, prematurely bent youth had gleefully set about making her as uncomfortable and on edge as possible from the very first moment of their unfortunate acquaintance. As they entered the old factory where she was now sat, he'd pushed and prodded her from behind as they walked across the floor and up the steps to this platform, as if demented somehow \- urged on by inner demons to cause pain...suffering...misery.

'Get the f..k up them bleedin' steps, lady. We haven't got all day. So be good and f.....g spritely for old X now. Faster. Faster.'

The strange youth had immediately broke out into loud, animal-like yelps and cackles like some tortured soul from Dante's Inferno - doubling up and gasping for breath as if the bout of uncontrollable laughter was about to end his pitiful life.

'Cut the f.....g crap, X.'

'Okay. Okay Y. I'll let you look after her from now on - tie her up...whatever. I've got to go out - bring the audience for her final performance. He. He. He. He.'

With that the creature from hell immediately broke out into another bout of cackling and slapping of his thigh as he sat down on an upturned crate.

'Final performance? I'm no damned freak show. Why, you little pervert - I've a good mind to...'

With that the woman made a sudden effort to free herself - strike out at the laughing one.

'Hold steady, there, madam. Never mind him.'

Y finished fastening her ankles to a small upright wooden chair, working quietly - gently. She didn't try to struggle or kick out; there didn't seem to be any point.

Taking a tin from one of his 'hoodie' jacket pockets, X took out a long, fat spliff made up from the strong skunk marijuana weed he mostly favoured and lit up. A strong smell soon spread across to where she sat.

'What in heaven's name is that awful...'

'F.....g manna from heaven lady. Want to try a puff?'

Shaking her head, she looked straight at him.

'Would you mind...?'

Her words were cut off as the smoker started to cough and wretch loudly. Jumping up from the crate, he ran over to a large barrel and leaned against it, coughing up phlegm - green and brown - in painful spasms that rocked his entire body as he spat...spat...spat.

Suddenly he stopped.

Flicked the cigarette on the ground.

Stamped on it.

Walked off down the steps and out of the empty building.

'I'm thinking that you're friend needs to see his doctor - and very soon at that.. Are your names respectively, X and Y?'

The woman was feeling on edge.

The strange creature.

His words - final performance.

To whom might he have been referring when he spoke of 'the audience.'

She wanted to find out - hope against all odds that her growing fears might yet prove to be unfounded. _Friends_...strange happenings...a link? If so, what now?

Establishing some sort of rapport with this quietly spoken, modest Y was crucial at this stage; knowledge was essential.

'Yes. I'm Y, madam.'

'What am I here for? What's going to happen to me?'

'Don't know.'

'You must have some idea surely. Please tell me. Please...'

'As I said, madam, I don't know. Please don't ask me any more questions.'

'Okay Y - for now, anyway.'

Looking away from the non-committal one, she began to cast her eye around - take in her surroundings; anything to ease a panic setting in.

Those thoughts...

Again...

'I'm cold. Is there a heater anywhere in this...'

She suddenly felt cold - shivery.

Without uttering a word Y walked over to the far end of the platform and pulled out a Calor gas cylinder and fire from behind a barrel. Carrying both items back to where she sat, he turned on the heater and walked off down the steps.

As she felt the warmth spread through her body, her gaze was drawn to two large barrels with long planks going across the tops, from one barrel to the other, forming a gangway - and something else altogether, hanging above.

Sinister.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She started to shake.

Uncontrollably.

She was looking up at a hangman's noose.

As she looked up at the awful portent of her own likely doom, her thoughts racing wildly, a loud bang followed by a crashing sound came from below. As she turned her head round she saw a powerfully built young man bursting through the small wicket-type door down below. He appeared to be extremely agitated.

The newcomer stormed up to where Y stood.

'Where's the f.....g bitch?'

Y pointed.

The young man looked up. She could see the anger written in every line of his face. She could feel, if not actually see, his eyes boring into her, wishing to wrench the very life from her body.

As she looked down, holding his gaze for what seemed an age, she saw him pick out a sheet of paper from his pocket, and hold it out in front of him - jabbing a finger at it as he looked up at her.

The paper shivered visibly in the hand holding it.

The man was in a raging fury at something.

As she looked down, she saw the finger was no longer jabbing at the sheet of paper.

It was jabbing fiercely and with utter menace directly up at her.

She froze.

That glare - that expression - seemed to contain all the hurt, anger and utter hatred that any one human being could feel for another; the hard, set line of the jaw, open mouth and eyes barely open left her in no doubt of the powerful emotions behind that look.

He looked away - vacantly into space - for a few moments, murmuring something she couldn't hear. The sheet of paper still fluttered ominously in the hand, now held down by his side, as he whispered quietly to Y.

The latter flung his hands out wide, a look of bewilderment on his face.

He seemed to be saying something low, very low, as he moved back towards the wicket door.

'No...Oh no...not surely, Bash...?'

The words came faintly to her ears.

Some more words lower still - almost a whisper - she couldn't hear what was being said.

Was he pleading for her life?

She wondered.

She began to tremble anew.

The young man was looking up at her again.

Just looking, for what seemed an age.

No expression whatsoever on his face.

Then.

So suddenly, it made her jump in her chair.

A vicious slashing movement with a hand across his throat.

She gasped.

Unzipping his black Lacoste tracksuit top, the man slowly and lovingly took the garment off, flicking at some speck or other before placing it carefully over a chair. The light vest he was wearing couldn't hide the gym-toned physique of the man; muscles rippled over his powerful body like waves on a turbulent ocean.

Now, as in a dream or awful nightmare, she saw him smile - begin to ascend the steps.

'Oh God, please...'

The woman started to pray, salty tears beginning to well up, run down her face, as she heard the dull sounds of feet approaching.

Thud. Thud.

With every single beat on a step she could feel her life blood begin to ebb away. Bit by bit...away...no hope.

As if in slow motion, she saw a head, then shoulders and finally the full body appear on the platform.

Then.

In a flash, the black Lacoste tracksuit bottoms and Hugo Boss trainers were right in front - inches from her face.

The man had sprinted across the platform.

She looked up slowly, unsettled and startled by his sudden turn of speed.

'So you think you'd get away with this, lady?'

'With what, may I ask?'

'Read it - now.'

He thrust the sheet of paper down at her - holding it inches from her face.

She looked closely - began to read:

' _For the attention of:_

In my opinion:

Gulpin family - slobs

Pure and simple

Young Baz.

Disgrace to the school

Best rid

On way like his brother

To prison

Like so many other wastrels

Gulpin family - waste of time and effort

Ne'er-do-wells

Not fit to live

Exist.

In a decent world.

Would have been better

All

Drowned at birth.

I rest my case.

Jill Ponsonby

Headmistress Bruneigh High School.'

She finished reading the short, coarse diatribe.

'What the hell is this? More importantly - who wrote this garbage? And in my name, too. Tell me.'

Jill was livid.

All fear and uncertainty vanished at the thought of the rank injustice being perpetrated by someone. In a second she recalled some words of Tina's.

'Can't surely be...'

She was thinking aloud.

'Are you denying this - what's written on this sheet?'

He pulled the sheet away as he spoke.

'I most certainly am - young man. I emphatically deny all knowledge of this contemptible and slanderous nonsense. Why a trained monkey could have written a better and more convincing piece than the person responsible for this drivel. Furthermore, it would appear that someone is trying their best to treat you like a fool - expecting you to believe this muck.'

'You what...? Stuck-up bitch. Fool eh? Believe this.'

He slapped her hard - quick...

...The two men had finished talking.

The newcomer, Basher, was walking towards the steps once more.

'You can't deny you expelled my kid brother. Can you?'

He was bent down, looking into her eyes - inches away. For a second, he glimpsed beyond his present obsession \- his present duty to his himself and his family. The woman was damned attractive, even if her hair was now blown wildly round her face like she'd just encountered fierce gales on some high moorland walk. There was something foreign, exotic, in her features also...

Duty could wait - for a little while at least.

'I don't deny it. Your 'kid' brother, as you call him, was a source of great bother to the school. I had no choice in the end; he totally disregarded numerous warnings given to him over the course of a year and so had to go.'

'And this. You have no idea?'

He waved the paper in her face.

'Oh I have ideas all right. The writing on that sheet of paper is just one in a succession of nasty happenings over the past few months - all directed at my school. I must tell you, however, that whilst I'm stuck here, trussed up like a chicken, I'm hardly in a position to confront any of the people I suspect.'

He smirked.

This woman had spirit; in his mind's eye he momentarily had visions of her as some fine thoroughbred mare galloping at speed over open plains - free - far, far away.

Abruptly he came back to the present.

'I know nothing of this. I've just been released from prison this morning and my father seems to think you are indeed responsible for the comments about my family.'

'I'm sorry but I never met any of your family apart from your mother, whom I saw on the odd occasion when she came to see me about your brother, Basil. I'm afraid your name and situation must have slipped under the radar somehow. Did your father tell you about a vendetta against the school, organised by a mysterious group of people calling themselves _Friends of Bruneigh_?'

'No.'

'What did he tell you?'

'That you must pay for this.'

He fluttered the sheet of paper, close, tickling her nose.

'If I was responsible for one word, letter, comma or even the tiniest dot on that sheet - or indeed any such sheet - I'd be happy to hold my hands up, confess, and take what was coming to me. As things stand I have to tell you that I honestly know nothing whatsoever about that disgusting thing you're holding in your hand. You don't seriously think...'

'Shut up, lady. Let me...'

He'd cut her off, mid-sentence, as he stood up straight and walked over to the end of the platform where he stood leaning on a barrel.

As she looked at the bent back she felt a sudden sadness. A hint of something noble in the spirit of the young man, bruised by circumstance, now about to face some ultimate ruin, called out to something deep within; her years of teaching had sharpened an awareness of the good and bad in people, be it students or staff. There was more good than bad in the young man; of that she felt sure. She must draw it out - her very own survival could depend on it.

His survival also - in a different, but very real way could depend on something positive coming from the interaction between them at this moment in time.

Was there was some truth in the rumour, or maybe something she had read, about the special bonding that could occur between captive and captor?

Perhaps.

She dismissed any such thoughts for the time being. Her ankles were beginning to chafe once more; her captor was on a mission of sorts, tasked with making her suffer - pay in some way. She would have to convince him of her innocence somehow.

But how?

She had to keep focussed.

'I heard the other young man call you Basher. Would you mind telling me your real name?'

'John.'

'Did you hate your time in prison?'

'At first. Yeah.'

'And then - what? Did you get to like it? Put up with it? What?'

'You're very f.....g curious about everything, lady. What gives?'

'I'm genuinely interested, John. I've never met anyone before who has served time.'

'Call me Basher - everyone else does. Okay?'

'Fine. I stand corrected.'

'Well, seeing as you're asking - I hated everybody when I first went in and wanted to grind their faces into the ground. A few fights and some seriously injured prisoners later and everyone got the message.'

'What message?'

'To leave me well alone - or suffer.'

'How did it all change then?'

'Being Billy no-mates for a couple of months became a real drag so I gradually made one or two friends. Then there was Brian....'

'Brian who?'

'Brian Atkins. He was the prison officer - a regular good guy - who made me see some sense. He brought me out of myself and got me trained up as a listener, through the prison shrink, or psychologist - helping other prisoners sort out their problems.'

'Wow. A real sea change from beating up everyone in sight.'

'It was common sense - earned me parole. I played the game - okay? And now, lady, if you don't mind...'

With that he walked off across the platform and down the steps.

'Its like...'

She could hear the murmurs once again - sibilant meaningless sounds echoing with ominous portent round her eardrums; where was the soothsayer now who could foretell? Those sounds of words she could not hear whirled deafeningly round inside her head - tormenting her very soul.

'Please God - if you're up there somewhere - deliver me from this...'

She prayed...

'Right, let's...'

She heard footsteps across the floor down below.

Someone was now coming up the steps.

Two sets of footsteps.

She began to panic.

As she listened with lowered head her heart began to race wildly, thumping against her chest; she could taste the sweat now beginning to run down her face.

Raising her head, as in a dream, she was aware of the two men standing in front of her.

They acted swiftly.

Releasing the ropes that tied her to the chair, without further ado, they carried her aloft between them across the platform to the two barrels.

As Y climbed on to one of the drums, she found herself being handed up to him by Basher - as easily and with as little effort as if she were a simple bag of shopping. She looked down at her feet; she was stood on some planking, with barrels on either side filled with liquid, probably water, as there was no smell.

'What?..No....Please...I jus...'

Her words died in her throat.

Suddenly she felt a rope going round her neck.

Tightening.

* * * * *

'Wait here.'

The _Chataigniers_ coach was pulled up outside _Gurnings_. Tina glanced at her watch as she dashed off round the side of the house on her way to the large outhouse at the back. 10.55 a.m. Unlocking the door, she headed straight for steps leading to the loft. Going up these, two at a time, she ran across to some wooden shelving, walking up and down in front of the rows a couple of times, peering at the various tools and implements, laid out randomly - looking for one item in particular.

'Ahh...'

Grabbing the tool, she rubbed her hand caressingly across it for a second or two as she looked across the empty loft- locked in thought.

She had to get the next part right.

Would have to be...

Mmm...

Hard.

Clinical.

Yes indeed.

Retracing her steps, she was just passing the back of the house when she had a sudden idea. Letting herself in by the kitchen door, she placed the tool carefully down on the floor by the sink before rushing upstairs to her and Jack's bedroom...

...In the coach Marcel felt a sudden tug on his arm.

'Regarder. Là-bas. Qui va?'

Monique was pointing at someone leaving by the front door of the house.

'Mon dieu. Qui est cet inconnu? Et qu'est-ce qu'elle tient?'

As everyone in the coach looked, the tall figure - object of their scrutiny - began to walk rapidly towards the coach.

'Vraiment magnifique, n'est-ce pas, Marcel?'

'Qu'entendez-vous, Monique. Je....'

The words died in his throat as he looked at the smiling face of his friend, before directing his gaze back to the woman approaching.

Dressed in a shiny, tight-fitting black leather suit that set off her toned, svelte figure to perfection, with a black balaclava pulled down over her face and neck and black _Harley Davidson_ _Joni_ biker boots - the latter sporting three leather harnesses and evil four-inch spike heels - on her feet, Tina cut a startling yet wholly magnificent figure - a veritable explosion of dark force. Carrying the tool in one hand, she opened the coach door and promptly jumped back into the driving seat.

'Here, Marcel. Hold this - we may need it very shortly.'

'Oui - très bien, Tina. And all this...'

Marcel pointed at her outfit.

'Ne pas interroger, Marcel. You look great, Tina, my dear friend. Je pouvais repérer votre silhouette partout..'

Monique nipped Marcel sharply as she spoke.

'Pardonnez-moi, Tina. Je...'

'Its okay Marcel. In my younger days I used to wear this gear to rock concerts - and still do when a suitable occasion arises - like now.'

Smack.

Banging a fist - hard - into the palm of her other hand, she made her point.

'We understand, Tina. Allons - à la bataille..'

Monique spoke for the others.

Starting the engine Tina set off, picking up speed rapidly along Windale Road...

...'158...160...162...164...166. This is it folks. No time to waste. Let's go.'

The group of figures, Tina in the lead with Marcel close behind carrying the 'tool', made their way past large open gates and proceeded up the central drive between grassy lawns. The smell of newly mown grass - fresh, pure, innocent nature - tickled the nostrils of the advancing troupe; a solitary lawnmower silent under a tree way over to their left seemed to dare any would-be intruder bring anything but solace to the tranquil scene.

'Très calme, n'est-ce pas?'

Marcel quipped in a low whisper behind the leader.

'Its going to get much less so, in a minute or so, if I don't get some answers.'

Rap. Rap. Rap.

The heavy door knocker made a clattering sound - deafening in the silent air.

There was no answer.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Tina banged the knocker a second time - much louder.

A pair of birds nesting in a tree to the side of the house suddenly flew off in a fluttering of wings.

Still no answer.

Then.

Sounds of swearing from somewhere inside; footsteps were approaching the door.

'Stop that infernal knocking. Right now. What do you want?'

A woman's voice came from somewhere inside.

'I must speak to you now - Janine - and I really mean now. Do you understand?'

Tina was in no mood for any small-talk or lengthy introductions; Jane Madley had brought her up to date about the woman of the house - a 'lady' with pretensions to grandeur and an overriding tendency to haughtiness.

'And who might you be?'

'I'm Tina Branz, deputy leader, Bruneigh Council. I'll just tell you once more - I need to talk to you right now.'

Silence for a second.

Footsteps could be heard - going back from the door, somewhere inside.

'I'll give her ten seconds, everyone. Ten...nine...eight..seven....'

Footsteps from inside - coming back towards the door.

'What are you doing here? I don't recognise any of you. I don't answer the door to strangers. If you don't get off my property this very minute I shall call the police to come and have you arrested.'

'I'll ask you once again - nicely. Can you open the door as I urgently need to talk to you. Now!'

No reply from inside - still.

Silence.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Nothing.

Tina leaned down and peered through the letterbox.

The woman was picking up a telephone in the hallway, feet away inside.

'Right Marcel. Now!'

'Bien. Reculer. Stand back everyone.'

As Tina stood aside, Marcel lifted the tool \- a battering ram, or enforcer, as used by elite members of the police force - and swung it at the door with full force.

Nothing happened; the door remained intact.

Marcel looked at the wooden barrier as if weighing up a mortal enemy, his eyes full of rage - adrenaline coursing through his body.

Moving back he rushed at it a second time, shouting like some demented demon as he swung the enforcer.

'Ouvrez. Mère de tous Satan...'

Then.

In a flash.

The door burst open as the enforcer struck.

Mayhem.

Marcel ran straight in, still carrying the tool, as if shot from a cannon, before coming to a stop somewhere inside the hallway.

'Can I speak to...'

Janine found the phone being suddenly wrenched from her grip.

Looking round over her shoulder she found herself looking up into dark, ferocious eyes behind a face she could not see - hidden, as it was, behind a black woolly covering of some sort, straight out of a horror movie.

'Right lady. I asked you nicely before - now you're for it.'

'No. Please. I...'

Tina looked down on the smaller woman for a second, pulled her arm back.

Smack.

The woman rubbed her face - in disbelief.

As she looked at her hand she could see blood.

'Why, you bitch. No one's ever...I'll show you...'

As she flung herself at Tina, the latter stepped quickly aside, tripping her adversary.

The contest was over in a second.

Tina straddled the woman as the latter fell to the floor, placing her hands round the latter's throat.

She began to squeeze.

Janine thrashed around under her - beginning to panic as reality dawned, her anger dissipating as fear took hold.

'What do you want? I haven't done anything, I...'

'Listen, Janine. Listen good. As God is my saviour, I'll kill you here and now if you don't help me. I need to know where your son is. I know he was released from prison this very morning. Speak.'

'I don't' know - honestly I don't. I...'

'Not bloody good enough, lady. You'll have to do better - much, much better.'

Tina squeezed harder on the woman's throat.

'Help...I can't breathe...I...'

Tina released the pressure a little.

'He went out somewhere with my husband in the car after breakfast. They could have gone anywhere. Why is it so important?'

'I believe your son is about to do awful things to a lady - the fiancé of this gentleman and very good friend to all you see here. At the moment we don't know what lengths your son will go to. We need to find where he is without delay.'

'C'est vrai - very true, lady. I speak for all of us. A good lady's life is in danger.'

Monique pointed to the _Chataigniers_ group as she spoke.

'I'm awfully sorry. I had no idea. Let me think...'

'You'll no doubt think better stood up. No tricks, mind you.'

Tina jumped off, helping the woman to her feet.

'Follow me.'

Janine headed up the stairs.

'Marcel, Monique - you come with me. The rest of you stay down here - keep an eye on the gates at the bottom of the drive. They may come back.'

'Any of this help?'

Their host had led Tina and those following her into a small room or study at the end of the landing.

'Has to...mmm...let's get started. A pile apiece. Yeah?'

As Tina handed out a bundle of papers, letters and odd scraps to Marcel and another to Monique from neatly arranged piles held together by bulldog clips on the large mahogany desk taking up pride of place against a wall facing the door, Janine went over to the window, finger to lip - thinking - trying to recall...

'C'est impossible. No, how you say, clues from this, n'est-ce pas? Je n'ai rien mais assassiner dans mon coeur maintenant - pour ceux qui la tenant..'

Marcel was getting agitated - desperation creeping in as thoughts of his beloved Jill at the mercy of jailbirds capable of heinous crimes began to take its toll.

'Keep trying Marcel. We'll get Jill. You have my word - okay?'

'Écouter Tina, mon cher.'

Monique piped in.

Tina looked at the distraught face of her friend with pity in her eyes; she knew she would have to find their friend fast and that time was running out. All of the group must not detect any hesitation or indecision in her; she was the leader and must point the way for them all - find...

'I wonder. Could it be? Possibly...'

Tina looked across at Janine.

The woman was slapping a hand on her thigh, muttering to herself.

'What is it Janine?'

'There is this place....'

'What place? Tell me Janine - for God's sake.'

Thuds of bulldog clips falling on desktop and floor followed as three heads turned suddenly towards Janine; all three were thinking as one.

Could Jill be there?

At the place Janine mentioned.

'Barney, my husband, took me to this place once - an old factory type building - to check on some work that had been done. He said he would make a packet when he did it up and sold it on later.'

'And where is this place, Janine?'

'Its on the Windale Road, about thirty miles...'

Tina went into action mode.

'There's no time to lose. I'll need to use your phone Janine.'

'Fine. Glad to help. Really.'

Tina went up close, looking into the woman's eyes; she knew nothing at all about this person.

What if...

Hmm...

The advice of some sage came to mind: keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.

Which was the woman?

'You come with us, Janine. Stay here while I make this call.'

Picking up the phone she dialled a number.

'Bruneigh High. Jane Madley speaking. How may I...'

'Listen Jane, It's me here - Tina. Can you get in touch with Tom Barton immediately and tell him I need his assistance, with some police backup, at a disused factory building just outside Windale. Its address is...'

'Have you found Jill yet? Is she...'

'We honestly don't know, Jane but it's the only lead we've got at the moment and we've no time to waste. Just mention that Jill cannot be contacted and that we feel pretty certain she's been kidnapped by the group calling themselves _Friends._ Mention also that she is very possibly in real danger. Okay?'

'Fine. I'll make the call and do as you say, Tina. My God. If those evil little so and so's damage as much as a single hair...'

'You leave them to us girl. Ta ra for now.'

Putting the phone down, she turned to the group.

'My good friends we must now go. I feel it's only fair to warn you that things could turn nasty when we get to our destination and...'

'Nous ne sommes pas peur. Nous allons aider un ami très cher.'

Josef Grandet spoke for the group - his voice very low, but the meaning clear.

'Oui - pour moi aussi.'

'Et moi.'

'Moi.'

The sentiment was echoed by Marcel, Monique and every single one of the three other _Chataigniers_ men.

'Janine. Lock up now. To the coach everyone.'

A sudden eruption of squawking from a skein of geese flying high overhead rang out in the still morning air as the group made their way sombrely and in silence down the drive. Tina looked up at the birds now disappearing rapidly out of sight; if this was an omen, it had better be a good one.

She looked at her watch before starting the coach. 11.01. Would time be on their side? What was happening to Jill at this precise moment?

Questions...questions...racing through her mind...

Starting the engine she slapped her foot down hard on the accelerator.

# Chapter 15

June 27th. 2012.

The Ford Transit van was doing a steady 70 on the speedometer as it went along the bypass towards Windale. X glanced through his window at a field where hay was being scooped up and baled by a large farm machine; as he looked on for a moment or two the driver waved to him. He waved back before focussing once more on the road ahead.

'That could be you and me, Betsy, someday. Yeah - cool.'

'You and me - what?'

'Me a farmer and you - a rosy-cheeked farmer's wife with a massive bum and tits like ripe melons. He. He....oh...'

Bursting into a fit of laughter at his own comic genius, he seemed unaware of the vehicle veering out of control towards the opposite side of the road - into oncoming traffic.

'Mind the road. Look. Bloody idiot. You want to get us killed or what?'

His companion had gripped the wheel just in time to avoid a potential disaster.

'Sorry, old girl. Guess I'm too funny for my own good some times. Yeah - that's it.'

X stared ahead - his face solemn, all humour gone - dissipated.

'And what's this about me being a farmer's wife? I think not. Not for you. Not for any motherfucker on God's earth. - cheeky sod.'

As he looked across at his companion he felt again that familiar stirring in his nether regions. Dressed in a light green suit that seemed to accentuate the graceful curves of her body she looked stunning. A black Jaeger Breton top, black leather sneakers and pale cream silk scarf, with one end carelessly thrown over her shoulder, completed an outfit more in keeping with the opera goer than frequenter of the sleazy bar or bordello.

'You look great girl. You could be Eliza Doolittle - a regular lady - no trouble. Am I forgiven?'

'Just don't mention farmers and wives. Ugh.'

Taking out a smartphone, she inserted an earpiece.

'Listening to a tune or two, Hun. Okay?'

X drove on.

A banging on the panel behind roused him.

'How much further, young man?'

'Nearly there. Shut the f..k up with the racket back there. Got it?'

'Sorry young fellow. Just checking.'

Pulling in off the road minutes later, he parked up in the yard near the large factory entrance. Going to the back of the vehicle, he opened the door to let the 'suits' out.

'Wait here. And tell that monkey to behave himself in front of my boss. Comprendez?'

'I'll do for you, you little f....r - one of these days.'

An enraged Bertram leapt down from the van; the bumpy half-hour journey in the back of a vehicle with hard wooden boxes - rusty nails sticking out in places - for seats, had tried the big man's patience to the limit.

'Easy, easy, Bertram.'

Dom patted his friend on the back, calming the latter down.

'If I get one more insult, one more...'

His words were cut off as Dom gripped him hard by the arm.

'Look over there.'

As Bertram looked over in the direction pointed out by his colleague, he involuntarily gasped.

'What in heaven's...'

A gleaming black Bentley convertible was parked about thirty feet further along the yard. As both men looked on they could see X approach the car and open the door. Standing respectfully aside, the latter held the door as a tall powerfully-built man in a finely tailored dark-grey suit got out.

'Good morning, Sir.'

'Everything in order - as arranged?'

'Yes. I've brought them along.'

The words carried clearly across the yard.

'Good. Now listen - hard. I want...'

The big man was now talking in low tones, finger pointing rapidly at X as he appeared to emphasise some point or other.

'Who the hell is that guy, Dom? And what would he be doing with a little toerag like X?'

'Haven't a clue, Bertram, old chap, but I'm afraid we're about to find out - right now.'

As he spoke, X and the large gentleman began to walk over.

The stranger stopped when they got near - ten feet, or so, away.

X came over, putting his hand on Dom's shoulder.

'This is Dominic Saviour, Mr. Gulpin.'

'Jesus...I thought...'

Dominic gasped, the words dying in his mouth at the surprise - shock - of meeting the person before him.

Thoughts raced through his mind...he'd always meant to use the man anonymously...later discard him...never...ever set eyes on him...

This was not part of his plan.

Suddenly things seemed out of control.

No.

He hadn't come so far to let his dreams slip away. He'd always prided himself on his quick thinking.

Yeah.

He'd play along...find things out...then...

'Pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Gulpin..'

Rushing forward he extended his hand.

The big man looked down on the small executive, ignoring the offer of a handshake.

'I'm not in the mood to shake your hand. Put it back. Now!'

'You heard the man.'

X moved threateningly near, balling a fist.

'Okay...okay...didn't mean to offend...sorry.'

Dom found himself shaking as he looked up into the eyes of his nemesis - Gulpin; there was something cold...unfeeling...dangerous...lurking there. He'd have to be careful...dissolve any relationship at some future point... for now he'd just play along...galling though it felt at this moment in time...

'I've brought that friend, also, Sir.'

X spoke low, the words barely audible.

'Let's see her then.'

As X walked over to the van to get Betsy, Bertram suddenly flew into a rage.

'Who the hell do you think you are? Refusing a handshake. Here. Shake this - or else.'

Rushing over, he now stood before Barney with his hand out - his whole body quivering with anger. The contrast between the two men could not have been sharper: Bertram at 6', flabby and out of condition, Barney at 6'2", hard, with sinewy muscles barely concealed under a close-fitting suit.

'Else what?'

'Bertram, calm down. Don't get yourself in a state.'

Dom patted his colleague on the shoulder.

'I said - else what.'

'Else this - you arrogant bastard.'

As Bertram lunged forward, Barney stepped back - grabbing the latter as he went past before delivering a hard, crunching blow to the side of his head. Bertram collapsed in a heap.

'Oh Bertram - you poor sod.'

Dominic knelt by his fallen comrade as the latter began to moan.

'Great. I've been meaning to do that for ages, Sir.'

X came up, smiling at the wailing figure on the ground, with Betsy following close behind.

'Thanks for coming, Betsy. It's very much appreciated.'

As he looked at the well-presented woman, Barney wondered if he'd perhaps misjudged his lieutenant somewhat; little did he know the chameleon-like nature of the utterly prepossessing female figure before him.

Betsy looked up into the man's eyes as she shook the proffered hand.

She liked what she saw; danger certainly lurked there somewhere behind those shiny, limpid pools of dark, white - and what was it? - pale green?

But wasn't she the girl who relished a good challenge?

'Pleased to be of service, Mr. Gulpin.'

She smiled broadly, squeezing the broad hand holding hers a couple of times.

'Hmm. The pleasure is all mine.'

He smiled back.

She detected a sudden hunger in his eyes - hidden from everyone else.

She was hungry too - their time would surely come. Yess...

Sounds of angry voices came loudly from somewhere behind, near the van.

'Get up. Now. Move it, mister.'

X was shouting at Bertram, as the latter struggled to get up, aided by his colleague.

'Patience, young man. Patience. Patience.'

Dom, puffing and panting, finally got his big, lumbering friend on to his feet - the latter moaning and grumbling with effort as he tried to regain full control of his faculties and some degree of composure.

'Will you two f.....g big girls get a move on?'

As he spoke, Bertram came over to face his cripple tormentor, leaning down so he was looking into the latter's eyes - moving close - a mere razor's width away.

'I'll have you, you ugly, little piece of shit - very, very soon, when your big friend is not around to help his little pipsqueak. That's a promise.'

As he finished speaking he felt a hand on his shoulder begin to grip - hard and painfully.

'Wha...'

'If I find you threatening me or any of my men once more I'll finish you. Do you understand?'

'Ye...yes...please stop...that hurts...'

'If you have any doubts about what I mean, you'll be fully enlightened shortly.'

With that, Bertram found relief as the hand gripping his shoulder was withdrawn.

'Thanks. I only...'

'Shut up.'

Barney was in no mood for excuses; much more important things were occupying his mind.

'X - see to the car. We go in now. Follow me Betsy. And you two - would you mind getting a move on.'

* * * * *

Someone - the tall youth Y was up on one of the barrels tugging at the rope; she could barely breathe. Had her end arrived? Thoughts began to rampage through her heightened consciousness - so fast she could not keep track - blurry out of focus images: people, incidents, countless questions, no answers.

'Easier, lady?'

The whisper in her ear, barely audible, gave her hope - so much hope, easing in a second her descent into utter despair and abandonment to cruel fate.

The rope was now loosened. Y jumped back down.

She moved her head rapidly from side to side a few times, relishing the extra freedom. The young man, Basher, had moved over to the other end of the platform and was now looking vacantly down in the direction of the door.

A creak sounded from below.

As she looked she saw the wicket door open.

A smartly dressed woman stepped gingerly through, looking round in apparent amazement at what she beheld, as a large man followed close behind. As the two stepped clear of the door a small, thin individual appeared at the opening.

Jill's eyes widened from her position way up on the balcony. Even from this distance she could not forget that sly, oily face; he'd paid her a visit at school, offering her some shady deal or other, before she'd sent him packing with a flea in his ear. As she continued to look, the unmistakable figure of the latter's big, chubby partner in shady deeds, lumbered clumsily through the opening.

'Come down here, son. I want a word with you before we go any further.'

'But why drag it out. I thought you wanted to...'

'Down here. Now!'

'Okay. Fine. Whatever you say, Dad. As always.'

Jill looked at the man giving the orders. She began to shake uncontrollably - then slip. The tension since arriving here...the growing realization of her possible fate...then this rope round her neck - all were now taking their toll.

She felt herself falling...

In a flash it seemed she was being gripped - held.

Y had jumped up on the barrel beside where she stood on the plank.

'Easy girl. Easy now.'

'Thank you Y. I can see you have kindness in your heart. I felt faint just then. However, from now on I'll be damned if I'm going to give any of those bastards down there the satisfaction...'

Her words died in her throat as she saw another figure dart through the wicket door - her erstwhile captor, X. What had he said earlier about some show - audience. So maybe this was the show - her hanging - and those down below were her audience. Well then - let them bring it on. She'd have a few choice words for them first. She now felt rage develop within her - an adrenaline rush of pure hatred for the sheer injustice of what was being done to her - and all, no doubt, for pure greed.

She was the proud daughter of good Norse Rasmussens and was not in any mood to let her ancestors' good name down.

X was now at the bottom of the steps, waiting for Basher to come down.

'You down there - giving all the orders - Mr. Gulpin, I presume. I would be greatly obliged if you could kindly answer a few questions. I must warn you at the outset, however, that I'm not in the least afraid of you or any of your associates and that if anything untoward happens to me, you will be dealt with in due course by the appropriate authorities. I've already had the misfortune of having had to meet with that little weasel down there and his buffoon of an associate. I must say I don't like the company you keep, Sir.'

'Point taken, madam. And very well spoken, if I may say so. I admire your courage.'

As he spoke, Jill felt an odd sensation of something being ever so slightly askew - out of place - in the words, or the person uttering them. Looking hard at the man from her high and rather awkward vantage-point, she could tell very little; the man had a countenance that gave away nothing - that face could right now be hiding a monster's soul or one pure as the driven snow.

'What is going to happen to me? I've already explained to your son that I had nothing whatsoever to do with those awful comments about your family on the sheet he showed me.'

Barney turned his back on her for a moment or two; he was saying something in low tones to the two councillors. She could not make out a single syllable and found it maddening.

'I was addressing you, Sir. Would you mind affording me the courtesy of a reply?'

The talking continued for a few moments longer, the big man gesticulating vigorously as if ramming home some point or other, before he stopped - turning round to look up at her.

In an instant she froze.

Before a word had left his mouth she had her answer in the blank, vacant look.

She was beyond redemption - that look seemed to go through her - to a place far, far beyond as if seeking something there - some inspiration. It was now the look of a judge in earlier times after donning a black cap before passing sentence of death - no remorse, emotion, just cold hard decision. Inspiration if sought before had now been found.

'Business, dear lady - merely business. Rest assured that for you I have the greatest respect. But now my business here is done and I'm afraid I have no option but to leave you in the hands of these two gentlemen.'

He pointed a finger at Dom, letting it linger for a moment before pointing out Bertram.

'But I thought he...our agreement...'

Dom rushed up to stand in front of Barney, pointing at Basher.

'Yes Dad. I thought...'

'Shut up, son. I'll explain in a minute - outside. Capiche..'

The fierce glare of the father, whilst giving his order, silenced the son.

'My son has no further interest in the lady. If you wish I can get my two men up there on the platform to set her free right now, Mr. Dominic Saviour.'

The latter looked down at the ground for a full minute.

'Okay, X, Y. You may free the lady. Now! On my count: One, two....'

Barney shouted the order.

'No. no. Stop. Stop. Let me think...'

'Well? What's it to be? We haven't got all day.'

'That f.....g high-minded bitch up there has been nothing but trouble to us all at the council - a real thorn in the side - standing in the way of progress. She has tried to block us at every turn. As you've set it all up, I'll be happy to go up there and finish her off right now.'

'Okay. Is that your final decision?'

'Yes. I'll go up right now..'

'Just one last question - to your buddy. Do you also want the lady to hang?'

Bertram looked on - ashen-faced.

'No. I'm no f.....g murderer. How could you, Dom. I...'

'Right. You come with us.'

Barney shouted.

As a shaken Bertram lumbered across, Barney addressed Dom once again as the latter stood at the bottom of the steps.

'Right Mister. We're off. As a parting gift I'll leave my two trusty lieutenants to clear up the mess, evidence, whatever and get rid of the body. Bye. Sorry, dear lady.'

Jill had been listening meanwhile - dumbstruck - to the exchange between the men concerning her fate. A trembling took hold of her whole body and she could feel cold sweat begin to run over her forehead, down her armpits and over her whole body as the four turned round and began walking towards the door. Her fate was now truly sealed. She moaned softly. Tears began to roll down...she hardly noticed...it was all unreal...somehow...

Then.

Out of the blue.

The woman whirled round - walked back to the bottom of the steps, pushing Dom aside, before looking up at her.

'You okay lady? This is some joke. Yeah?'

'I don't think so, dear. I think they're going to...'

'Going to - what?'

'Hang me.'

'Over my dead body they are - Jill isn't it?'

'Yes. And you are...'

'Betsy, for my sins. I...'

'Get your fat arse out of here - right now. Filthy old whore.'

X shouted from his position beside one of the barrels on the platform.

'You shut up - you thin piece of horrible gob spittle.'

Betsy gave a vigorous two-finger salute to the bent creature on the platform.

All of a sudden Jill found herself laughing.

Insane. Ridiculous.

This moment with a rope tight round her throat.

'Oh my God...'

Her spasm soon died.

She heard the large man shouting to his son.

'Get that woman. Now!'

'You wait now - bloody great oaf. I've not finished talking to the lady.'

'Well - be quick..'

Basher stood back.

'They'll have to kill me before I let them get away with this, Jill. Don't you worry, Hun.'

'Thanks Betsy. You're a wonderful and kind lady but you really mustn't get yourself in trouble with this lot on my account. You mustn't - and that's an order. From me.'

'Oh Jill. You really don't know me. I'm no lady. I'm an escort - a whore - to the punters, like that X up there beside you. I do what I do to get by, but I can assure you I'm not proud of it. I'd really like to be a full-time dancer.'

Jill breathed deeply, moved by the honesty and spirit of the woman addressing her.

'If by some miracle this...'

She waved a hand round expressively.

'...all goes away, I make a solemn promise I'll do all I can to help you achieve your dreams, girl. I'm a teach....'

Her words were cut off mid-sentence.

The big man, Barney, roared,

'Now! Do you hear?'

'Yes Dad. On our way.'

With that, he grabbed Betsy. In a lightning movement he bent down and hoisted the latter over his shoulder with the greatest of ease.

'Put me down, you great lumbering bastard. Put me down. Don't despair, Hun. 'Ol Betsy'll get you out yet. Get your f.....g hands off...'

Her shouts echoed round the empty building, dying as she disappeared through the wicket door with the others.

Silence followed for some time after - the silence of the tomb. As Jill watched the little man climb the steps and turned her gaze to the two figures standing silently on the floor behind her, she was reminded of the legend; if the silent figures were her _Charons_ , or ferrymen, where was the _obolus_ or _danake_ \- the coin she needed between her lips for her final voyage...?

* * * * *

'Where's it gone?'

Basher was looking round for the car as he carried the screaming, squirming woman aloft.

'Follow me. As for you - lady - all will shortly be explained. You may put her down now, son.'

'It had better be good - Buster. Like the good lady inside back there, I'm not about to be frightened by any of you lot. Your little friend, X, has felt the sharp end of my shoe a few times - he's got the bruises to prove it.'

As they sat in the car, parked safely out of sight by X earlier, Barney began to explain.

'Its like this...'

As he finished he looked at his watch.

'Mmm. I'll just give that little pantomime back there another fifteen minutes or so to work itself out. Then...'

He stopped mid-sentence, putting a finger to his lips.

'Listen. Hear that...?'

* * * * *

Dom came over to stand in front of the plank on which she was stood.

Ignoring her, he gave the plank a push.

Nothing.

No movement.

Cursing, he pushed once again - much harder.

The plank moved back.

Panic.

She was leaning slightly forwards - on her toes.

Another move?

It would be over for her on the next push.

He looked up at her.

Smiled.

As she looked down at the face of the small man about to be her executioner, she could only see the ugliness of a mean, cruel soul peering through every small line and lineament; the very smile seemed cloying like a true disciple of Satan - false \- strained. There would be no point in begging - appealing to his better nature. He didn't possess a single iota of the latter quality.

'Marcel...'

She found she was sobbing out loud, muttering the name. Memories were flooding in of better times - innocent pleasures. This awful thing should not be happening. Something badly...

'I'd be lying if I said I was sorry for what I'm about to...'

He didn't get to finish his valedictory oration.

Sounds from below.

Someone was trying the wicket door - turning the handle.

Nothing.

Then.

Bang.

Crassshh.

The large door flew wide open.

Figures were running in - dark, spectral - silhouetted against the sunlight now streaming through the opening. Sounds of police sirens - loud, getting louder - filled the air.

'You - at the plank up there. Come away. Right now!'

The single voice pierced through the air - sharp, commanding.

As Jill turned her head, fearful of the movement lest she lose her footing and drop, she saw the speaker - as for the very first time ever.

'Wow...'

She choked slightly as she looked down at her friend, Tina...

Clad in true biker style - all shiny black leathers, mean looking boots and black tousled hair flying wildly over her shoulders, the latter had a lethal glare in those steely eyes as she now pointed a long, tapered finger up at the diminutive figure of Dom.

Commanding.

Magnificent.

A true goddess Athene - come to the rescue.

'Did you hear me - Dominic!'

A fired-up Tina had sized up the situation accurately as soon as they burst through the door. The scene up on the platform left her in no doubt about what was taking place.

Images - biblical: crucifixion, pain, suffering, sacrifice of a saviour - flooded through her brain.

She looked at Jill.

Was her friend already choking?

Even before that flimsy-looking piece of wood beneath her feet gave way.

No...she could not let this go on any further.

She waited for a response to her question.

No reply was forthcoming from the diminutive one but an effect had been produced.

He was trembling, causing the plank to wobble.

'C'est abominable. Laisse aller droit là-haut.'

As she began to panic, she heard Marcel - caught a glimpse of him from a corner of her eye.

'Wait Marcel. I'll go up first. Talk with him.'

Tina put a restraining hand on the latter's arm.

Going over to the steps, she began to ascend.

One...two...three...four...'

'Stop. I tell you...'

Dom shouted, his whole body atremble.

The plank was beginning to shake; the person upon it was dancing for dear life - trying to maintain a footing.

'Mr. Dominic Saviour. I'm police sergeant, Tom Barton. I must insist that you come down here immediately before you cause harm to the lady. Do you understand?'

Jill could see Tina's head begin to appear; so too, apparently, did Dom.

Snarling he moved back.

Then rushed at the plank.

It fell to the ground with an almighty thud.

The rope suddenly tightened sharply - painfully - round her throat; she felt her feet floating in mid-air.

That awful second.

Before death.

Jesus's words...

'Forgive them for...'

Oblivion...sure to come...follow.

* * * * *

'This bloody lot turning up weren't part of the plan.'

Barney was peering round the corner of the building at the melée near the factory doors as police cars drove up and officers rushed into the building.

'What now, then, Dad?'

'Let me think, son.'

'I just hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Gulpin. What if X and the other guy make a mistake? That lady's very life is in danger. I don't know about you two but I'm off to help.'

Betsy began to move off.

'Hold it girl. Nothing bad is going to happen to the good lady - you have my word on it. We'll all move in \- together. Now.'

As the group of three, Barney in the lead, came suddenly round the corner, they were spotted by an officer.

'Hey. You three. Stop. What are you doing here?'

The officer rushed up, putting a hand up to stop them.

'I can explain...'

Barney began...

'You can do all that later. For now I want all three of you to come with us....'

The officer led them to a waiting van and promptly locked them inside.

'We'll take statements, whatever, later.'

'But a woman's life is in danger. You need...'

The officers walked off, ignoring the plea or warning from the smartly dressed female.

They'd heard it all before.

* * * * *

Jill felt a strong arm round her waist; a hand reached up somewhere above - she could hear the rope being sliced in quick deft movements as her body shook in rhythm to the cutting motion of her rescuer's right hand.

A final slice by Y, who had gripped her as she fell into space.

She was collapsing.

Being lifted to a chair - the very one she'd sat in earlier.

X, diving on Dom as the plank gave way, was now straddling him, cursing and swearing, as Tina and Marcel came on the platform.

'Oh Jill - darling girl.'

Tina was beside her - hugging her for all she was worth.

'Cher. J'ai été hors de mon esprit - désolé.'

'Help someone...help me... please.'

Dom's plaintive wail began to irritate Tina.

'You there. Yes you.'

She pointed a magisterial finger at X.

'Wha...what you want lady?'

'I want you to get off his back right now...slowly mind.'

She winked at X - holding the latter's gaze for a second.

'I have plans of my own for that little bastard...'

She performed a vicious, slicing motion of her hand across her throat.

'I...understand...mmm...perfectly madam. So I does \- yeah.'

As X obeyed, Tina went over to Marcel as the latter consoled Jill.

'Ah, mon cher. Triste. Triste.'

Monique rushed across the platform, followed by Madeleine.

'Hello Mrs. Branz. Excellent work on your part, from what I've been hearing. Tip-off and everything. Mrs. Ponsonby, I'd like to...'

Tom Barton had followed the others up on to the platform.

As the former began taking some preliminary details from Jill an officer shouted from below.

'Hi Tom. We've detained some trespassers who say they have important information. Do you want a word with them now - or at the station later?'

'Bring them straight in. I'll be interested in hearing what they've got to say.'

'Okay , Sir.'

The officer went off.

'And you, Sir - are under arrest. I must warn you that anything you say...'

Tom grabbed a protesting Dom from X's grasp \- slapping handcuffs on the former gentleman as he spoke.

'But I can explain. I...'

'I don't want to hear. You will have plenty of time for all that later. Now belt up. Understand?'

'Yes.'

Dom answered in a whisper...deflated...beaten.

'And you, Sir. What, may I ask, was your part in all of this?'

Tom addressed Y as the latter stood on the platform looking vacantly into space.

'Just obeying orders, Officer. I admit to kidnapping the lady with the help of my associate, X, over there. The lady was never going to suffer harm. My boss will explain.'

'Who is your boss? And how will he explain all this - near-hanging? Eh?'

Jill suddenly broke away from talking with Tina and Marcel and came over.

'I, also, shall be extremely interested in hearing what this man's boss, Mr. Barney Gulpin, has to say, Tom. As things stand, it would appear that he left me to die at the hands of that insidious little scoundrel over there.'

She pointed at Dom, before continuing.

'However, I must point out that this gentleman - known apparently as Y - was at all times extremely courteous and attentive towards me during my short period of captivity. He behaved throughout like a true gentleman and saved my life a minute ago.'

'Alright, Mrs. Ponsonby but I'm afraid I'll have to arrest him at this moment in time. Your hands, Sir. I must warn you...'

'Fine by me officer.'

'And now you - X, I believe?'

'Yessir. I knows you.'

'Ahh. Yes. Well, you and your mysterious _Friends_ have been leading us all a merry dance for some time. Haven't you, X? Well, as I said to your mate, I will have to arrest you and must warn...'

'You can f..k off with all that officer. Keep it for them as gives a toss.'

With that the surly young rascal spat on the ground - an ugly dark brown blob of the most disgusting foul mucus \- narrowly missing the officer's feet.

As he was being led away, handcuffed, by one of the officers, he suddenly broke out into a loud deafening cackle.

'What seems to be so funny mate?'

The officer looked at his charge - startled by the sudden burst of piercing, mad laughter. Was the strange looking individual a recent escapee from some local hospital psychiatric ward?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Either way the officer decided he'd have to keep his eyes open.

' _Fat-arsed f.....s now you be_

_Putting handcuffs_ _hard on little me_

Think a minute - boys in blue

Listen f.....s - think it through

After this you set me free

I'm invincible.

I'm the X - you see.'

The officer looked on in growing consternation at the cackling hyena at his side; the latter continued laughing as he was led away, rhyming and extemporising all the while - a true comical genius in his own eyes who simply didn't give a farting f..k for the officer beside him, the handcuffs on his wrists or the whole crazy f.....g world he found himself in.

He and X moved off from the bottom of the steps towards the large door.

'What the...?'

Jill gasped as she turned her head round.

A new sound reached her ears from the large open door below; a feisty - and extremely angry-sounding woman - was volubly berating an officer as he led her in handcuffs through the entrance.

'Take these f.....g things off me. Now. You great oaf. Or else...'

'Tom. Get the officer to free that woman immediately. She's a truly innocent soul and not party to any of the present shenanigans. Can you bring her up here as I wish to speak to her?'

'Fine Mrs. Ponsonby. I'll have to interview her, though, very shortly. Okay?'

'That's fine Tom.'

'Betsy. Come on up here girl.'

'Oh Jill. Am I glad to see you Hun - or what? I thought you might be a goner. I'll come up when this bloody great idiot gets what he calls a brain in gear. Come on - don't take all day. You...'

'Look Tina....'

Jill nudged her friend.

As both women looked down at the spectacle below they suddenly burst out laughing; the unfortunate officer was suffering a torrent of abuse from the woman as he began unlocking the handcuffs.

'Where in heaven's name did they find some useless lump like you? You utter imbecile. Have you simply no...?'

'Will you keep still lady. For crying out loud. I only put these on for my own protection - wildcat. So there.'

The cuffs suddenly came loose.

'At last. Good.'

With that the redoubtable Betsy bounded up the steps to fling herself in Jill's arms.

'Hun. I really thought you might...I dunno...guess...'

'Steady girl. You are a true friend. I was truly in despair back then when...'

Jill hugged the woman, pulling the latter close as she remembered for a second...that rope...the waiting for some awful...release...pulverising fear.

She was about to die then.

Was she ready?

She couldn't think of that.

She was a trembling shambolic train wreck about to hit the sidings.

Living in a moment.

Her whole life behind.

What in front?

One second?

Two?

If she lost her footing.

'You okay, Hun?'

Betsy gently pulled loose - concern in her face.

'I'm fine Betsy. Just remembering. That's all.'

'I must tell all of you the real story. I'm still not sure of the details but it goes something like this...'

As Betsy began to address the small group on the platform, she found herself cut off mid-sentence.

'Darling. Oh what...?'

Janine, stood below beside some of the _Chataigniers_ group, suddenly darted across the factory floor towards a group of three men being led in through the door by some officers.

'It's okay, dear. Calm down. There's nothing for you to worry about. All will be explained - in due course.'

Barney Gulpin leant down as his wife put her arms round his neck, clinging on for dear life, as Basher and Bertram came up behind.

'Easy now, dear. You stay down here.'

As she pulled away, tears in her eyes and looking distraught, Barney turned to the officer in charge.

'Can you get someone to look after my good lady?'

'No problem.'

The officer waved to a colleague.

'Now! If you don't mind.'

'Patience please, Mr. Gulpin. Your good lady will be looked after in the proper manner.'

'Good. Pleased to hear it. Now I must speak to Mrs. Ponsonby. It's of vital importance.'

'Tom. Shall I send this gentleman, Mr. Gulpin, up there? He wishes to speak to Mrs. Ponsonby.'

'No. I'll take him - along with these gentlemen,'

indicating X, Y, Basher, Dom and Bertram,

'to Bruneigh police station straightaway. I'll take their statements and decide afterwards on what actions need to be taken. I know that you've been through a harrowing ordeal, Mrs. Ponsonby, but I'm afraid I will have to ask you - and everyone present - to accompany me, also, so that I can take your statements. Okay with that - everyone?'

'Yes Tom.'

'Fine by me.'

'Moi aussi.'

'Aussi avec nous.'

The _Chataigniers_ men added their voices at the end as everyone began to leave the building...

# Chapter 16

June 27th. 2012.

'To the _Owl and Thistle_ everyone. All aboard.'

As she started the engine of the _Chataigniers_ coach - having been declared honorary driver for the day - Tina looked at her watch. 5.30 p.m.

Pulling up a few minutes later outside the pub they all got out of the vehicle and looked around.

'Listen.'

Tina whispered aloud, putting a finger to her ear.

'Oui. C'est vrai. Pas de son. Rien.'

Monique responded in similar low tone.

All was indeed strangely quiet; not even a solitary bird could be heard to break the stillness of the calm sunny evening. A faint rustle of leaves in some trees off to their left seemed to echo loudly in the ears of the listeners as a portent - an omen.

They walked up to the door.

Stopped just outside.

Listened.

No sounds were coming from within.

'The hell. Follow me.'

She turned the handle and pushed the door.

An explosion of sound from inside the pub - packed to the rafters - followed.

'Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

'Phwee. Phwee..'

'Hip....'

'Phw....'

The whistles and roars continued as they made their way to the bar.

'And how are our gallant heroes? Hello to you all. Mrs. Ponsonby. Corblimey Tina. You look...'

'Don't bother with the compliments Dave. It...'

'I was going to say striking. Yes. Striking.'

'Drinks for everyone Mr. Coggins - barman. On me.'

'Hurrah. Hurrah.'

The roars went up once more around the crowded room.

'But how did you...'

Her query was cut short as Dave Storr continued,

'Tom Barton called around 2 p.m. asking for some information. There was an email with attachments waiting for me when I got back to my office about an hour after you left so abruptly on our way here earlier. I couldn't believe....'

'And this...?'

Tina pointed round at the reception committee of noisy, expectant pub regulars.

'Oh I rang the school around 3 p.m when you hadn't returned to your office, to see if you'd perhaps gone to see your friend, Mrs. Ponsonby. A certain Jane Madley - an extremely capable-sounding woman - informed me that your group would be heading here after you had finished giving statements to the police. She brought me up to date on what had been going on. You'd apparently informed her....'

'Yes...yes, Dave. Speak of the devil...'

Tina had just seen two people enter the pub \- her husband, Jack, followed closely by Jane Madley.

'O husband of mine. You poor, poor thing. You look like you've seen a ghost. Come here.'

'Darling wife. I'm so, so glad to...'

As he kissed his wife and led her off to a table nearby, Jane dashed over to Jill, hugging her friend tightly.

'Thank the Lord. You must have been through hell. I want to know all about it - every single detail. Only when you're ready, mind. You must take things easy for a bit. Do you hear me girl. I'll be your willing slave for as long as it takes. Now there.'

'Oh Jane. What would I do without my own best - very best - friend. Of course I'll tell you - before the night is finished. I promise.'

'Good.'

'Dearest husband. I'll be right back. I just want a quick word with Monique.'

As he watched his wife chat to Monique and Dave Storr he found, like the latter, that she looked particularly striking and beautiful.

That outfit.

His mind went back to a time - the day he first met her.

Images flooded through his brain.

He began to...

...he was back walking out of some fine woods to find total silence around him. Cars passed by without sound from engine or driver / passenger. Where were the distinct bird cries of the famous Kolkrabe raven and Dreizehenspecht woodpecker he'd heard so much talk about earlier?

They'd no doubt spread their wings and taken flight, like everything else, from this place - this tomb-like spectral scene from whence sound, smell and even life itself had seemed to vanish.

He blew in his hand.

He could feel the gentle brush of air on skin.

No sound.

He walked on.

Some lights up ahead - a neon sign over a doorway.

He came nearer.

Offnen. Zimmer.

Vernünftigen Preisen

Tannenzäpfle (Rothaus-Brauerei)

(Open. Rooms. Reasonable prices. Tannenzäpfle Rothaus Brewery))

As he came nearer he saw a cowled figure - a monk perhaps - sitting at a table outside in the darkening dusk.

'Schonen Abend ehrwürdiger Vater.'

(Nice evening reverend father)

He addressed the monk as the latter gripped a tankard of ale with bony, gnarled fingers and turned a pale skeletal face with sunken eyes - mere piss holes in the snow - towards him.

'Guten Abend junge Mann. Trinken?'

(Good evening young man. Drink?)

The monk spoke in a whisper, pushing a flagon across the table with one hand whilst indicating with the other, in conspiratorial style, that he wished the visitor to lower his head.

What secrets were about to be disclosed?

Perhaps the raven and woodpecker would be interested in hearing some forthcoming words of wisdom that would facilitate an early return to their beloved habitat?

'Sie benötigen diese.'

(You'll need this)

The hooded figure pushed an old battered pewter tankard that had seen better times - much like its owner - across the table.

'Danke. Ich möchte Sie einem Drink zu verbinden. Alles ist so ruhig hier herum. Ja?'

(Thanks. I would like to join you for a drink. Everything is so quiet round here. Yes?)

After pouring the ale and watching the froth settle on top, he raised the tankard in the air.

'Prost..'

'Prost..'

The monk responded in kind, lifting his tankard and grinning as he did so - a knowing grin that seemed to convey some hidden meaning - vague, cryptic.

'Was ist das? Unter der Plane drüben..'

(What is that? Under the tarpaulin over there.)

He addressed the monk, pointing over towards an object by the door of the hostelry. A motorcycle wheel glinted weakly in the dim light coming from the neon sign; the rest of the bike was covered in a heavy canvas tarpaulin.

'Es ist ein Motorrad - Harley Davidson FLH. Ja?

Noch nicht alles ist, was es scheint.'

(Its a motorcycle - Harley Davidson FLH. Yes?

Yet all is not what it seems).

The monk put a finger to his nose as he spoke, the gesture like his earlier grin - cryptic and mysterious.

'Aber was...?'

(But what...?)

'Trinken. Jetzt.

Zu viele Fragen.'

(Drink. Now.

Too many questions)

As he spoke, the monk grabbed his tankard, put it to his lips and began to swallow, drinking in loud gurgles until the tankard was empty - drained to the last drop.

'Wie so - junger Mann. Sie dran.'

(Like so - young man. Your turn)

'Dann rechts. Ich werde ihnen zeigen - ein Mann des Geheimnisses..'

(Right then. I'll show you - man of mystery.).

Picking up his tankard he put the vessel to his lips, slowly and deliberately - tasting the liquor for the very first time; it hit his palate sharply, he could feel a sensuous warmth spreading around within.

A gorgeous, wanton harlot dragging him down...in...

'Zum Teufel mit diesem - schlürfen.

Mal sehen, die volle....'

(To hell with this - sipping.

Let's see the full...)

He tipped the vessel back and began to swallow - slowly at first before picking up speed and gurgling for all he was worth until he, also, had drained the tankard of every last, lingering drop.

'Wow, mein Freund. Das war einfach....'

(Wow, my friend. That was simply....)

He looked across at his drinking partner, waiting for a reply - a response of some sort.

None was forthcoming.

The monk remained silent - impassive.

All of a sudden the silent one came alive, jumping straight out of his rickety wooden chair and waving madly with both hands.

'Aufstehen. Jetzt.

Kommen. Folgen Sie mir.'

(Get up. Now.

Come. Follow me).

The cowled figure began walking towards the hostelry door, limping and gasping at the effort; he seemed to be suffering from some painful condition of the joints.

'Helfen Si emir, bitte. Ich möchte um die Abdeckung zu entfernen.'

( Help me, please. I want to remove the cover).

'Naturlich. Erlauben Sie mir..'

(Of course. Allow me.)

Going past the suffering one, he grasped the tarpaulin with both hands and pulled - hard, moving backwards as the canvas began to slide off.

'Fest ihre Augenauf, dass - Prachtstück deutscher ingenieurskunst..'

(Feast your eyes on that - magnificent specimen of German engineering.)

As the cover fell off the BMW K1200 LT motorcycle he had to agree with the smiling monk. The gleaming machine seemed to beckon somehow; it didn't belong under covers - hidden away from the light, its throbbing engine unfelt...its powerful roar unheard...its...

'Sie mögen es. Ja?'

( You like it. Yes?)

The monk abruptly interrupted his thoughts.

'Aber ich dachte, Sie sagten, es war....'

(But I thought you said it was...)

'Erinnern. Was ich vorhin gesagt.'

(Remember. What I said earlier)

'Sie sagte, es war eine Harley. Sie belogen. Ja?'

(You said it was a Harley. You lied. Yes?)

'Denken. Ich habe Sie gewarnt. Ja?'

( Think. I warned you. Yes?)

'Sie jetzt in Rätseln zu sprechen. Ich glaube, ich habe genug von ihrem Unternehmen hatte. Ich werde gehen..'

(Now you talk in riddles. I think I've had enough of your company. I'll go.)

As he turned around to go, he found his legs begin to fail.

He was falling.

Down.

Down.

The ground suddenly came up at him; he was staring at the label on a discarded bottle on the cobbles before his eyes - _Tannenzäpfle - Rothaus Brauerei._ He felt someone lifting him, felt his heels scraping along the cobbles...his body going numb...lifeless...

'Trinken. Jetzt. Nicht straiten..'

(Drink. Now. Don't argue.)

The voice pierced through his unconscious mind.

As he came to, sitting in the chair from earlier, his gaze was drawn to the tankard placed on the table in front of him. The monk was sat across - also in the same chair the latter had occupied before.

'Was ist passiert? Ich erinnere mich nur fallen....'

(What happened? I just remember falling...)

'Mach dir Sorgen. Sie gerade in Ohnmacht gefallen. Trinken..'

(Don't worry. You just fainted. Drink.)

Reaching across he gripped the tankard; his arms and hands trembling as he lifted the vessel to his lips. Sipping warily at first, he quaffed the contents fast and furiously until nothing was left. Sliding the empty tankard across the table, he watched idly until it came to rest opposite the monk. Belching loudly he rubbed his chest, enjoying a warm glow that was starting somewhere within...spreading...

'Besser. Mehr. Heilige.'

(Better. More. Holy one)

He pointed at the monk, then at the tankard.

'Eine weitere. Ja?'

(One more. Yes?)

'Bitte. Dann kann ich fliegen...fliegen...weg...mit der Kolkrabe Raben...Ja....'

(Please. Then I can fly...fly...away...with your Kolkrabe ravens...Yes...)

As he spoke he looked across as the monk began to fill the tankard; in the manner of a true sommelier the latter took great care with the pouring and, after wiping some rich froth from the top, passed the tankard across, smiling beneficently.

'Gute Gesundheit. Mit diesem Getränk der Götter warden Sie sicherlich fliegen mit den Sandalen von Perseus und den Flügeln des Pegasus. Trinken..'

(Good health. With this drink of the gods you will surely fly with the sandals of Perseus and the wings of Pegasus. Drink.)

'Vielen Dank. Wir werden sehen...wir warden sehen....'

(Thanks. We'll see...we'll see...)

As he put the vessel to his lips and tasted, he closed his eyes for a second...

It burned his tongue...bringing thoughts...visions...naked female figures cavorting before his very eyes...flaunting themselves...strumpets - nay goddesses...for his pleasure. Had he entered Valhalla on the backs of these true Valkyries...?..what...

'Trinken..'

The voice pierced through his thoughts like some massive sword slicing the air around him.

'Es tut uns leid. Jetzt trinken ich. Ja?'

(Sorry. Now I drink. Yes?)

He drank.

Was barely aware of the burning, stinging liquid passing his lips.

Down his throat.

Down.

Down.

More.

More.

Then.

'Kommen Sie. Folgen Sie mir. Jetzt. Junger Mann..'

(Come. Follow me. Now. Young man.)

In a daze he rose from his chair. He felt light - weightless. Jumping up for a second to test the sensation he found himself floating up...up...up...

'Kommen Sie..'

He looked across the table at the monk as the latter beckoned to him with a short hand movement.

'Ja.'

Had he moved up in the air a second earlier?

'Sie flogen. Ja? Jetzt haben wir wirklich für eine Fahrt zu gehen. Bereit?'

(You were flying. Yes? Now we truly go for a ride. Ready?)

The monk walked briskly across to the motorcycle; gone, apparently, were the aches from painful joints as the latter proceeded to jump astride the machine, kick the stand away and bring the beast to life.

'Halten Sie an. Ich komme.'

(Hold on. I'm coming)

Getting up behind to ride pillion he had barely time to get in position with feet secured on the foot pegs before the monk shouted.

'Halten Sie sich fest. Um meine Taille..'

(Hold tight. Round my waist)

Closing his eyes, the passenger did as he was told and waited for the other to move off.

Vroom. Vroom.

The machine shot forward like some demon released from hell.

He pressed his eyes shut even tighter.

Gripped the monk's loose robes hard - harder.

He was slipping back.

The robe - coming loose.

The bike - going fast.

Heart beating like some demon in his chest.

Hands sliding...bleeding...sharp pain.

Any second now.

Falling off...

Squashed.

Amorphous pink mass.

'Schauen Sie..'

(Look.)

The voice cut through as from somewhere far, far away.

He began to open his eyes - slowly, very slowly.

Could not believe...what?

The figure in front - dressed in black?

He tried hard to focus his eyes.

He was no longer falling.

He was gripping the back of a leather-clad figure.

Startling, gorgeous.

Familiar.

They were pulling up in front of a country pub.

He remembered.

Divine relief.

'Is it truly you - darling wife?'

He felt someone shaking his shoulder.

'Jack. Jack. Wake up. Wake up, darling.'

Other voices filtered through the fog before his eyes - vague figures, blurry, indistinct - talking in whispers.

All of a sudden everything before him was now in sharp focus; the scales from before had fallen from his eyes.

A deep personal enlightenment?

Or conversion?

'O husband of mine.'

His beloved Tina was hugging him tightly.

'Darling wife. I've had a dream. Remember that pub...all those years ago, when we first met...'

'Yes darling.'

Those clothes.

'Yes.'

'You wore them then - right?'

'You remember dear. That's sweet.'

'Shall we collect your motorbike? Burn some rubber.'

'When? Where to?'

'Back to that pub - now.'

'Oh husband. Not now - but I'll make a promise. Are you listening, dearest one?'

'For you, darling, I'm all ears - forever.'

'When I know you're fully recovered I'll take you there - and on my bike, as you requested. Okay? Now I must mingle - meet and greet.'

Walking back up to the bar, Tina stopped suddenly in her tracks; an interesting conversation was in progress between a certain diminutive misanthrope, one Bugsy Brennan, and the barman.

'I'm a-telling you, Joseph Coggins what all these damn furriners are interested in. So I am.'

'And what might that be, friend Bugsy?'

The barman fairly shouted his reply as he grinned knowingly, first at Bugsy, then at everyone round the bar. All ears pricked up.

'To draw attention to themselves as big French heroes and drink our best Bruneigh _Foresters_ for free \- all at the same time. Now that's my opinion, Joseph Coggins, and I'm a-stickin wi' it - so there.'

All of a sudden a solitary handclap could be heard from behind the small man.

Tina came up to the bar - still clapping.

'Did you hear that, everyone? You - Monique?'

She winked at her friend as she spoke.

'Oui, Tina. J'ai entendu très bien. I hear what he say - the little horror. Quel imbécile..'

'What would you say, Monique, if I were to suggest that we show our true appreciation - a little outfit he could wear, maybe?'

Tina conveyed her meaning with some deft hand movements.

'Oui Tina. Allons-y. Maintenant? We go now? Yes?'

With that, the two women advanced on the diminutive one, hoisted him off his stool, and carried him aloft between them through to the back and upstairs, pushing a started Joseph Coggins out of the way as they brushed speedily past him.

'Put me down. Help someone. Help. I haven't done nought. Hel...'

His protests faded away to nothing.

Jill, talking with Jane Madley and Dave Storr, smiled.

She'd seen enough.

She knew her friends Tina and Monique.

'What's up Jill? You're smirking. Give.'

'All in good time, Jane. All will shortly be revealed, I'm sure.'

'And while we're waiting, could you tell me more about what went on at the police station? How does Barney Gulpin fit into all this? Shall we retire over to that nice alcove seat for more privacy?'

Moments later, as they sat in the relative privacy of the alcove, Jill began.

'Well, I might as well tell both of you, although you know most of it already, Dave. It went like this....'

...'Mrs. Ponsonby.'

'Yes. Mr. Barton.'

'Can you please follow me?'

'Of course.'

Jill immediately got up and left the group sat in the waiting room - Tina, Monique, Madeleine and the wonderful group of _Chataigniers_ men who had come rushing to her aid earlier on in the day.

'Take a seat, Mrs. Ponsonby. I'll now begin...'

'Thanks Mr. Barton. Pray continue.'

'I've just released Mr. Barney Gulpin and all of his associates involved in your kidnapping and will not be pressing any charges against them.'

'But they did kidnap me; surely something...'

'Indeed Mrs. Ponsonby. Let me now explain.'

'Of course. Please go on.'

'Mr. Gulpin asked me to phone David Storr, Chief Executive, at Bruneigh Council to corroborate a story of his. Interestingly, he said I would have to wait until Mr. Storr checked his emails.'

'So - what then?'

'When I phoned I was informed by someone at the council offices that Mr. Storr was most likely quaffing an odd ale or two at the _Owl and Thistle_ after some protest meeting at the Town Hall. I gave my phone number and told the official, in no uncertain terms, that he must get Mr. Storr to ring me on the latter's return from quaffing or whatever else he was currently doing.'

'I bet Mr. Storr would love to have heard you. So - what followed?'

'Mr. Storr rang half an hour later - confirming everything Mr. Gulpin had already told me. As a result of the information received the council will be taking action themselves against Dominic Saviour, Bertram Little and some other councillors. Further information, in the form of signed letters and taped conversations, has been posted to Mr. Storr directly which will reveal all - in particular the fact that the so-called _Friends of Bruneigh_ never existed, but were dreamt up by Dominic Saviour as a cover, allowing him to pull out all the stops in his efforts to have your school fail its Ofsted inspection and be closed down - thus allowing the PFI project to go ahead. Of course all concerned in the vendetta against your school will be brought in for questioning by the police and charged accordingly.'

'How did Mr. Gulpin get involved with all these scoundrels at the council? He came across as quite the gentleman - in an odd sort of way, like his associates. Regarding Y, I think I've already given an opinion and I'm sure you saw how I liked the gutsy lady - Betsy Keller. And that strange, mercurial creature calling himself X? A true enigma - if ever I saw one. But how did this odd collection of individuals get involved in the first place?'

'I'm afraid it goes back to a deal made between Mr. Gulpin and Dominic Saviour shortly after the latter was appointed to the post of Quantity Surveyor, bringing along Bertram Little as his trusty assistant. The deal involved the sale of a considerable number of run-down properties belonging to the council in a private deal between the two men after Dominic approached Mr. Gulpin, having heard through the grapevine that the latter was a man of considerable means and not particularly averse to the odd shady deal or two. A price for the job lot of all the houses was suggested by Dominic and accepted by Mr. Gulpin a few days later. With me so far?'

'Yes Mr. Barton. But I can't see any problems - any cause for enmity between them. It all sounds like a normal business transaction.'

'Except, Mrs. Ponsonby, that Mr. Gulpin found himself cruelly gazumped by Dominic as the latter upped the price originally agreed on by over 30%, just as he was about to put his signature to the deal.'

'And what happened then? Did the deal fall through?'

'No. The buyer protested strongly at first - to no avail, as Dominic stuck to his guns. In the end, the deal went through at the higher price.'

'How did Mr. Gulpin feel about that? - being, in effect, cheated.'

'He swore he'd get even - if it was the last thing he ever did. In the event, he used his contacts at the council and elsewhere to find out all he could about the person who had taken him for a fool. Rumours of the latter's dealings with a consortium interested in doing the building work, should a PFI deal go ahead, soon reached his ears. As a result he set a trap for Dominic, using the latter's obvious greed and single-minded ruthlessness to draw him in - create his own downfall. In the end it worked.'

'No doubt - but I got the biggest scare of my life. It could have gone...so awfully wrong.'

'I know...I know, but he assures me he had your safety in mind at all times. He's promised to write to you personally offering his apologies for the suffering you were subjected to'...

...'That's it, I'm afraid. I brought Tina and the rest of the _Chataigniers_ group up to date just before we set off back here.'

'It? I'll tell you one thing, Jill Ponsonby.'

'And what might that be, dear Jane?'

'Give me a fright like that again. Then I promise I'll hang you myself.'

'Oh Jane...Jane...what would I possibly do without? What on earth...'

As Jane and Dave looked across the room to where Jill was pointing, a loud cheer went up. Tina and Monique had re-entered the bar with a small stranger, dressed as the perfect Frenchman in Brittany sabots, striped shirt, beret and a strange bewildering moustache, seen by all not long before, delivering a certain scroll to councillors at the Town Hall.

'Three cheers for our Bugsy.'

'Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

'Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

'Bleedin' furriners. Making me a friggin' Frenchie. Zay Zay no friggin' bones.'

The little man was muttering to himself as he was whisked round to the front of the bar as laughter from everyone continued.

'Le joueur d'accordéon. Musique, s'il vous plait.'

Monique shouted, clapping her hands before grabbing the diminutive 'Frenchman' at her side and whisking him off towards the small dance area to the side of the bar.

Sounds of the lively _Retour des Hirondelles_ could be heard as Marcel suddenly appeared from behind the bar carrying his accordion.

'Maintenant, mon petit. You dance with Monique, like a true Frenchman - un vrais Français. N'est-ce pas?'

'Zay Zay Bone.'

The guttural reply, in the worst French accent imaginable, was heard by all, causing renewed cheers around the room as the little man took to the floor, grumbling all the while.

'Bugsy boy wi' two left feet

Give us all a nice new treat.'

'Bugsy...'

As the diminutive one stumbled and tripped his way across the floor, in a vain attempt to follow his partner's footsteps, the roars from the crowd grew louder and louder.

'Come on Bugsy

Two left feet.'

'Come on Bugsy

Two....'

Then suddenly.

The music stopped.

The dancers moved apart.

At a sign from Monique, Marcel began once more, his fingers moving slowly over the keys.

Bugsy moved to the centre of the floor.

Then started to dance some steps - slow, in time to the music.

The accordionist speeded up - his fingers beginning to fly over the keys.

All eyes turned to the solitary, diminutive figure now standing stock-still in the centre of the dance area.

The accordionist suddenly stopped - the last note lingering faintly...off-key, somehow.

The silence in the room was absolute.

No pin could be heard to drop.

No single whisper.

'Maintenant. Petit.'

Monique's command - sharp, clear - cut through the silence like a powerful foghorn through thick mist on an open sea.

Then.

As Marcel started, fingers moving at top speed across the instrument, something magical appeared to happen.

Bugsy was dancing across the floor, feet flying in perfect time to the music, to rejoin his partner.

The crowd were stunned - mystified, for a time.

Then.

'Bravo, our Bugsy

Three cheers..'

'Bravo....'

The cheering continued until the end of the dance when the odd pairing, dancing in glorious synchronisation, treated their audience to a final elaborate, sweeping flourish where a large moustache was seen to reach down to the floor.

Monique gripped her partner in a tight hug for a second; a small, harmless secret between them would remain just that - a secret.

'Vous avez bien fait, ma petite grogne un.'

(You did well, my little grumbling one)

'Zay Zay Bone.'

Sat at the bar some ten minutes later the small misanthrope smiled, fondly wiping condensation from the outside of his ice-cold pint of _Foresters Best_ as Joseph Coggins rang the bell above the bar.

'Attention everyone. Monique wants a word.'

All heads turned towards the small dancing area - scene of the previous dancing performance.

Monique, stood beside an elderly gentleman and a young woman, began.

'Merci, Joseph. May I now introduce to all of you a great friend of mine, whom you've seen round here for the past day or so - Josef Grandet.'

Tina suddenly jumped up, waving her hands wildly in the air and shouting.

'Three cheers for Josef - our good true friend from _Chataigniers._

Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

'Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

The crowd responded loudly as one.

'And now may I introduce to you this lady - Madeleine Duval, whom you also know - his daughter.'

Cheers followed as before from everyone, led by Tina.

'Bien Madeleine. A quick change. N'est-ce pas?'

Monique spoke quietly.

'Yes Monique.'

As Madeleine went off, Monique continued.

'Josef has been, how you say, immergé, or steeped, in flamenco from when he was this small....'

She indicated with a hand - down towards the floor.

'He will shortly play for you a Soleá, accompanying his daughter as she dances to the music from his guitar. This piece is about suffering...pain...ecstasy. You'll feel the magic or duende, experience...'

As she was speaking, a figure emerged from the door behind the bar, making her way to the dance area.

'Wow.'

The crowd gasped in unison.

The figure came up to where Monique and Josef were stood.

'Monique. Père.'

Madeleine stood before them - transformed.

Gone were the casual jeans, sweater and trainers from before; now the wearer sported a long, black sleeveless flamenco dress with frilled black and red polka dot hemline and red suede Begona Cervera flamenco shoes. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a bun with a red ribbon; a matching ribbon round her neck and dangling red earrings completed the stunning outfit.

'Chère fille. Ravissante.'

Monique hugged her friend.

'Allons Josef.'

Walking over to some chairs at the edge of the dance area Monique and Josef sat down, the latter reaching down to lift a guitar out of its case, placing the body between his legs and giving the instrument a gentle strum across the strings.

All eyes now turned to Madeleine as the latter swung her arms up in stately pose - dramatic, eyes flashing behind dark eyelashes - expectant.

Two sudden claps from Monique.

Josef began.

Tapa. Tapa. Tapa. Tap.

The dancer started, Monique clapping in time.

Slowly - very, very slowly the dancer tapped her heel on the wooden floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tapa. Tapa. Tap.

Raising her arms and continuing the rhythmic tapping, the dancer moved steadily around the perimeter of the dance area as Monique clapped along to the same rhythm.

The tempo began to slow down to a stop.

The dancer now moved to centre stage, leaning backwards for a moment.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Standing still.

Then.

'Eee Ahh.'

'Ahh Ahh.'

At the shouts from both women rang out, Josef's guitar sprang to life.

Fast, furious strumming.

The tempo - fast.

Rapid picking on the guitar strings.

A fresh lively melody.

'Eee Ahh.'

The dancer began to swirl round on the spot.

Feet tapping.

Furious.

To fresh cries, the dancer now in pain.

Anguish, suffering etched in lines - tautening.

Tightening - on the face.

The guitar tempo - faster, faster still.

Reaching a climax.

The dancer whirling on the spot.

Feet tapping at lightning speed.

Tapa. Tapa. Tapa. Tapa. Tapa. Tapa.

Stop.

The guitar silent.

The dancer straightening up.

Fully erect.

A sudden twirl on the spot, polka-dot hem rising.

Glimpse of white beneath.

Sheer.

Stockinged leg.

Shapely.

For a brief second.

Glimpsed.

Gone.

Expression on face.

Haughty.

Total disdain.

'Ee Ahh.'

At her fresh cry - pouting lips.

Rruummm.

The guitar - single strum.

Tap. Tap.

A new melody - guitar now picking up speed - fast.

Tapa. Tapa. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap....

The dancer was now whirling round the floor, arms, hands flailing - feet tapping furiously.

Round and round.

Faster.

Faster.

Guitar going crazy.

Suddenly.

Guitar fallen silent.

The dancer, feet stationary, raised her arms up one last time, performing an elaborate, low bow to the audience as Josef, guitar in hand, rose from his seat along with Monique.

They bowed also.

Cheers from everyone in the room, led by Tina, rang out.

'Let's hear it for our wonderful friends.

Hip. Hip.'

'Hooray.'

# Chapter 17

July 16th. (Monday)

At 7.15 the _Place de la Republique_ in _Chataigniers_ was quietening down from the bustle of earlier on. A fresh breeze was stirring - balmy, soothing; a few people could now be seen enjoying the crisper air as they sauntered slowly by, stopping occasionally to glance in shop windows or point at something taking their interest, before moving on. All around were peaceful, whispery sounds: low, barely audible conversations, a window shutting with a sharp slap somewhere up above, a fluttering of wings from some birds near a fountain or the occasional raised voices from patrons of the nearby café, _Les Fleurs._ A glorious sunset would soon bathe everything in magical light, casting caressing shadows across the square before giving way to rich darkening hues of dusk.

'Bonjour.'

A couple, looking at some paintings, turned round on hearing the voice behind them.

'Why hello - sorry, bonjour.'

'Ne vous inquiétez pas. I hear you talking. Vous êtes Anglais, n'est-ce pas? I now speak to you in your lingo. I have excellent English like these, how you say, pigeons. Oui?'

The speaker held out a hand as he pointed to some birds pecking at scraps of bread on the ground nearby.

The woman laughed out loud as she gripped the other's outstretched hand in a warm handshake.

'I'm afraid I speak the most awful French myself so I'd be grateful for your kind offer to speak in my native tongue. Merci beaucoup. Please allow me to introduce my husband.'

'Bonjour, m'sieu.'

'Bonjour.'

The original speaker, sat before an easel, rose up, placing paintbrush and palette carefully on a small table, before going over to some paintings on boards of various sizes resting against a low wall.

'I have more hidden behind. See?' Feel free. Verifiez - les tous. Check. Compris?'

As he pulled one back the woman gasped.

'Good heavens. Why there must be at least ten behind each...'

'Oui madame.'

'I'd like to look through some...'

'No problem. I say, would you do me a favour? Une - petite faveur.'

'Wh...what do you mean?'

'Could you look after my things, mes choses, so I can get a coffee - while you look, choose? Je suis desséché. Parched.'

The woman looked at him.

Put a hand on his arm.

'Of course. I'll have a good browse whilst my husband keeps watch for you. Go on. Get your drink.'

'Merci madame. I promise you the good bargain. Oui?'

As the artist went off, the husband sat down on a small stool opposite the easel.

'Bonjour.'

'Bonjour.'

The odd passer-by looked over at times, shouting a greeting. Perhaps they thought he was the artist? Ah well. C'est la vie - was his conviction as he replied to each person, smiling broadly.

The woman, meanwhile, wasted no time in getting on with the business of examining the paintings. Pulling out one board after another, carefully, scrutinising each and standing back a step or two at times, muttering to herself all the while, she worked her way slowly through the collection. As she looked at the subjects of one particular batch, glancing at the back of each panel for brief details of the painting, she could detect a pattern; this particular set were depictions of some local event or custom. As she got to the end she made a mental note to ask the artist what the batch of paintings were meant to represent.

'No. Can't be. Surely.'

She gasped, holding a painting of an entirely different ilk in both hands a couple of feet away from her face.

'What's the matter, dear?'

Her husband rose up from his stool and came over to stand beside her.

'Do you recognise anything familiar in this? Look closely - take your time.'

The woman stood back as her partner took the painting from her and began to study it, grimacing and grunting for a few moments as he tried to find something he could recognise.

'No, darling. Can't see...but hold on...maybe...yeah...could be. Yes.'

He handed the painting back to his wife.

'Say no more, dear. I'll buy this one when the artist comes back. Come to think of it I didn't get his name - and we didn't give ours.'

The woman put the chosen painting carefully to one side as she spoke.

'Well, he rushed off so quickly...'

Her husband's words were cut off as the artist rushed up, holding three large plastic beakers of steaming coffee - beaming broadly.

'Si. J'apporte café pour trois. I bring the coffee for all three of us. I hope you don't mind. There is sugar, the sachets, n'est-ce pas, if you want them - and milk. Ah, I forget my manners. Je m'appelle Pierre. I'm Pierre.'

'Oh thank you, Pierre. I'm Mary Crozier - and this is my husband, Tim. I'd very much like to buy this painting. €350. Is that correct?'

'I give you for €300, Mary, Tim. You help me. I help you. Oui?'

'I meant to ask you, Pierre, about these paintings. They seem to be....'

'Ah. Le fête de Transhumance, feast of transhumance. Every year we have the big event in the town. The sheep are blessed by the priest in the village square, moved on to pastures in the hills. We have parades of giants, or big heads, demonstrations of sheep shearing, Basque games, Basque songs. It goes on all day - into the evening and beyond. We drink, enjoy and be merry. Oui?'

'It sounds great fun, Pierre. And...'

They talked. Time flew.

'I'm afraid we must now leave you, Pierre, but we'll be back in a day or so to choose one of the paintings we talked about. Bon soirée.'

'Bon soirée, a vous deux.'

Turning off into a small side street ten minutes later, they stopped before a modest three-storey detached house with a brown painted door and matching brown shutters opened on either side of the property's six windows.

'Let's just hope this works, dear.'

Mary pointed to a large door key she'd just taken from a zipped jacket pocket. Inserting the key in the lock, she looked at her husband for a second, smiling tentatively, before turning it - ever so slowly.

The lock tumblers moved with a crunching, gravelly sound.

They pushed the door open and entered. Going through a small vestibule, they found themselves in a wide hallway with stairs facing, a door at each side and another one further back by the side of the stairs. The door to their left was open so they walked through.

'Wow!'

'Unbelievable.'

Two voices pierced through the silence of the empty house. In a fireplace that looked like it had been installed way, way back at the time of _The Creation_ a coal fire was burning; someone had lit it an hour or so earlier.

'Now that's simply...'

Mary dropped her rucksack on the floor, placing the wrapped painting on top of a sideboard by the open door before moving across to sit on an old, leather chaise longue by the side of the fire. Tim stood for a moment just inside the room looking round before placing his own rucksack gently down on the floor. Walking over to the large window he reached up, turned a small key and pushed the window open a fraction.

'Better. What a place. Like stepping back in time - apart from these modern windows, of course.'

He spoke softly, coming over to sit in an old wooden armchair opposite his wife.

'Yes indeed.'

Mary had been looking round also. The rustic charm of polished wooden floors, waxed woodwork, pristine white walls and ceilings had a simplicity that touched her. Here, in this room, this house, one would be able to think, be oneself - happy or sad - sans distraction. That hefty, ancient-looking table - over there - beneath the window, with six sturdy chairs keeping it company. What tales could it tell - of the many figures once sat round it?

All now forgotten - gone to dust.

She let her eyes wander further round the room, her mind filling with thoughts...

'I say, dear...'

Tim suddenly sat up in his chair.

'What Tim...?'

'Just a minute.'

Going over to the table he picked up the white object - an envelope - that had caught his attention a second earlier. Coming back he glanced at it, then handed it to his wife, commenting wryly,

'It just says, 'open', in big capital letters. I think I'll let you do the honours, darling.'

'Okay. Mmm...let's see....'

Ripping the envelope open, she took out a small handwritten note and began to read...

... _Mary and Tim_

Bien accueillir.

Welcome.

I hope you like the fire I start for you.

When you get this note - ring me

On 0....

_Immediatement_ !

Votre ami

Monique

'Well then, dear. I see we've got our orders. I'll ring her. Right now.'

Going over to the table she picked up the vintage rotary-dial black telephone and began dialling...

'Bonjour. Qui est-ce? Une certaine Marie, peut-être?'

The unmistakable voice of Monique came through the earpiece, crisp and clear.

'Yes Monique - correct. We loved the fire, by the way, and can't thank you enough for your wonderful...'

'Ce n'est rien. I bid you both welcome to our little town and hope your stay will be a happy one. I'll be over in an hour with a little surprise - une petite chose à manger. You will be tired after your journey so you must not trouble yourself with cooking. I order you - no cooking. Oui?'

'Of course Monique, if you insist - but you really needn't....'

'Trié. I'll see you shortly.'

As she put the phone down, Tim was already on his way out of the room.

'I heard it all, darling. That woman's lovely but she's got a voice fit to sail ships by. I'm off now to have a quick look round - freshen up. Shall I bring your bag with me?'

'Yes. Ta. I'll just sit here for a bit - follow you up later.'

She was remembering...

...the phone call to Jill two weeks earlier to arrange a mutually convenient time for her to visit _Gurnings_ with Tim...

...news of the kidnap on June 27th...

...shock...

...disbelief...

...then...

'I'd love it if you and Tim could come over tonight. Those wonderful people I told you about are coming over for a farewell party but I'll just have to check with....'

She could hear a voice in the background - one she recognised from one of her many meetings with Bruneigh Council executives - that of Tina Branz, deputy leader on the council. She had always admired - yet was more than a little fearful - of the woman.

'Hello Mary. Tina Branz here. Jill has just been telling me about you. Now I insist you and your husband join us this evening. Do I make myself clear, lady?'

'Wh...why, yes - of course. Thanks Tina.'

'So now you're told, Mary.'

Jill laughed.

'How can I refuse, Jill?'

A pleasant evening had followed, as she found herself introduced to all members of the _Chataigniers_ group by Jill and Tina. The last person of the group to be introduced she would never forget.

'Ah. La petite examinatrice. Belle. Ravissante. Permettez-moi de vous embrasse..'

A woman of huge girth stepped forward, introducing herself briefly as Monique Berger before hugging her in a tight embrace that threatened to choke the life out of her.

'You are a good friend to our dear Jill, so you are a good friend to all of us. Compris?'

'Whew. Just let me get my breath back. Pleased to meet you Monique.'

Introductions over, the evening developed into the most pleasant one she'd ever experienced. Music from Marcel and Josef accompanying song and dance from Madeleine and women of the _Chataigniers_ ensemble went on into the evening, with just one long interlude when all sat around the large dining room table for a meal served by Madeleine and Marcel under the watchful - often wrathful - eye of the chef, Monique.

'Garcon mécréant. Fille bâclée..'

The shouts from the kitchen rang out at intervals to general laughter from those sat at the table.

'Poor Marcel. Poor Madeleine.'

The laughter and whispers would die out, however, each time the chef deigned to peer out imperiously from the kitchen door - only to resume immediately after...

...an hour or so later, sat by the crackling fire and watching the flames as they waited for their visitor, they talked. The 3' x 2' oil painting they'd bought earlier and unwrapped, was now occupying a spot - dead centre - on a slate mantelpiece devoid of any other objects.

'I just hope we're not being too...'

Mary was looking at their handiwork - feeling they had somehow intruded - invaded somewhere private...pristine.

'Don't worry dear. It looks just fine. I say...'

'Vous. Imbecile. Frapper à la porte. Mwah.'

A loud, commanding voice boomed from somewhere outside.

Then someone knocked lightly on the front door.

'I do believe I know that voice. I'll go.'

Mary went out of the room.

'Why hello Monique. And...'

'Bonjour petite. This is my husband, Bernard. He waits...waits...he doesn't know when to open doors.'

'Pleased to meet you, Bernard. Goodness, what's all this...'

Bernard was pushing a trolley laden with food as his wife rushed past Mary, clutching a large, steaming casserole dish, as she made her way to the kitchen.

'Bonjour, m'sieu.'

'Bonjour, Bernard.'

Tim laughed at some comical antics by Bernard as the latter pushed his trolley behind a shouting, gesticulating Monique. The kitchen door was quietly pushed shut as the pair went inside. A secret confab was now taking place; the sounds subsided to short, sharp whispers, with the occasional loud outburst from Monique - then silence.

Mary and Tim, standing silently by the lounge fireplace, waited.

'Bon. Tous fini.'

Monique's voice sounded clearly.

The kitchen door could be heard opening.

'Venez ici. Je vous salue bien.'

Monique rushed across to Mary, enveloping the latter in one of her massive hugs, squeezing the smaller woman tight.

'A..an...and...I'm...really...glad...to see you too, Monique. I daren't ask about what you've brought, what...'

'I've just got everything ready, petite, for when we leave. You just, how you say, sit down and fill the face, n'est-ce pas?'

'Oh thanks, Monique. You're simply too...'

'Assez dit. Now I must greet Tim.'

Introductions over, Monique walked over to the fireplace.

'Hope you don't think...'

Mary began.

'Ne fait pas. A minute...I do believe...Marcel. Non?'

Monique walked backwards and forwards as she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the painting.

'We're not sure, either, Monique. We just bought it from the artist on the square, and thought we'd like to give him a present for the great favour he is doing us - allowing the use of his lovely house for free, during our stay here. We felt it was the least we could do, as he refused, point-blank, to accept our many offers of payment.'

'Non. C'est Marcel. He considers you a true friend of Jill and would never accept, as you say, the payment. But this painting - this likeness; it seems the artist saw him, caught him unawares. He would love this gift, I'm sure. But now we must go, let you eat...rest. Tomorrow I pick both of you up - bright and with the bushy tails. Bien.'

* * * * *

At 9.15 a.m an ungainly bent creature was sat at his immaculately clean kitchen table, sipping tea and thinking - trying to reach far down into his tormented soul for an answer.

Click.

The De 'Longhi toaster on the worktop to his left shot up two slices of toast - sweet, aromatic, tickling the taste buds.

'F.....g ungrateful little tart.'

Mumbling as he got up to prepare the toast, he continued to dwell on the problem that had been irritating him for the past fortnight. He'd been to her place six times, knocked on the door, waiting patiently for an answer on each occasion - all to no avail.

No welcoming turn of the key in the lock...

Quick caress at the door...

Inside...

Wine...

Passionate lovemaking...

The memories...

That was all that now remained.

The woman had gone.

Vanished.

'Bitch has become a f.....g ghost.'

What had he done to scare her off?

Had something happened to the bitch?

Thoughts tumbling riotously through his brain were suddenly interrupted by a sharp knocking on the door.

'What the f..k. Hold on. Hold on.'

Opening the door, he glared at the person standing there.

'Letter and this package for Mr. X. Could you sign here please, Sir?'

The postman beamed as he put a small electronic signature device in his hand.

Scrawling on the small pad, he handed it back - scowling all the while.

'F.....g modern shit to deal with - at this hour. Ta. Now you can f..k off.'

'You want to watch your tongue, young feller. If you speak like that to me again, I'll...'

The postman's angry response was suddenly cut off as he found the door being slammed suddenly in his face.

'Cheeky little bastard. I've a good mind to report...'

The postman continued muttering to himself as he walked down the path; his day was off to a bad start, he was upset.

'Morning Bert. Nice to see you.'

A neighbour of the cheeky horror greeted the postman.

'Why hello Mr. Tomkin. Looks like we'll have another scorcher.'

The postman found himself to be no longer at odds with the day.

'What the f..k is this. Some sort of joke? Why of all the.... Dirty rotten old f....r.'

The ungrateful young man had just unwrapped paper from around a picture and was studying it. Breaking into a fit of laughter that continued unabated until - spent from the effort - he put the picture down and opened the letter...

Miss Elizabeth Keller

Gurnings

12th. July 2012.

Dear X,

Sorry to have been out of touch for the past two weeks. I don't live in the flat off Dunon Drive anymore but at the address above. I've been offered a job with Bruneigh Council as trainee officer - housing. I was given the job by Mrs. Branz, Deputy Leader on the council, who just happens to be the awesome woman in black leathers you saw rushing on to the platform that awful day in the factory.

Mrs Ponsonby, that lovely lady you'd all strung up like a trussed chicken, poor love, put in a good word for me to her friend - the same Mrs. Branz - saying it was a shame I had to earn a living the way I did.

Mrs. Branz, or Tina, as she likes to be called, looked me up and down, weighing me up or something (She's a hundred times more frightening than you, Hun.) and began asking me about a hundred questions in a sharp angry tone. I felt like running away as fast as my legs would carry me. In the end, she turned to her friend, saying, 'She'll do nicely, Jill.' She put out her hand, nearly breaking mine as she squeezed really hard. 'Welcome aboard, Betsy. I'll have to square it with my boss first. That shouldn't be a problem, though, as he always does what I tell him to, anyway.'

She insisted, as part of the deal, that I leave my flat and come to live with her at her house. I didn't really want to give up my little place - but I'm glad I did in the end. I now live rent-free with a lovely room all to myself in a fabulous house as long as I do some jobs around the house - cleaning, gardening and so on.

Mrs. Ponsonby said I have potential so she's arranged for me to be enrolled on evening classes next term.

I'm afraid, Hun, that I won't be able to see you like before - our arrangement, I mean. I've a new life and feel I must better myself - starting from right now.

_I think you should do the same - try to better yourself, I mean. Do you really want to be a lackey, doing dirty work - shady deals - for Mr. Gulpin for the rest of your life? Do you want to risk going back in prison for another stretch? For what? So you can throw your money at every whore who enters the_ Nags Head _or knocking shops like it?_

If you do, Hun, you'll end up like the old man in the painting.

I'll now finish, wishing you well and hoping my gift to you ends up making you think about what you're doing with your life.

Your true friend,

Betsy

xxx

...X went over to the mantelpiece, placing the framed print carefully on the centre, before standing back a little to look. An old man, bare-arsed, was being spanked by a young lady \- presumably a prostitute - with a whip. The lady had one thigh bared all the way up, exposing possibly more of her body to the old man. _The Cully Flaug'd_ , the title on the bottom right of the picture had some lines of verse printed underneath...

What Drudgery's here, what Bridewell-like Correction.

To bring an Old Man, to an Insurrection.

Firk on Fair Lady, Flaug the Fumbler's Thighs

Without such Conjuring, th' Devil will not rise.

...'The old f....r's past it. That's what. The dirty old...Can't get it up without...'

He looked at the painting for a long, long moment - thinking.

Could that - obnoxious, impotent and lecherous old bastard - be himself, X, when he was an old man?

Who was he?

Did the only friend in the world think that of him?

He felt a fluttering.

The hand holding the letter was trembling violently.

'F..k this. I'm the X, the f.....g maddest damn bastard on the planet.'

Taking the letter in both hands, he proceeded to rip it, over and over again, into the tiniest pieces possible.

Going over to the window, he opened it slightly and threw the tiny pieces out. Watching them flutter away on the breeze, this boy with a heart of iron gave not a single thought to the tender heart of the person who had written the letter; instead he pushed the window fully open, rubbing both hands gleefully together and shouting,

'I'm the X. All you women watch out. I'm a-comin' down the f.....g track - fast.'

Inane, hysterical laughter rang out through the window; it went on and on for what seemed an age, audible down the length of Dunon Drive - a demonic cackling, portent of evil afoot.

* * * * *

July 17th. (Tuesday)

'Phew.'

Jill stretched up to open the small tree house window, letting some fresh evening air circulate refreshingly through the small cabin.

'Better.'

Reaching across, she unzipped the Wenger Swissgear Saturn messenger bag she'd just placed on the table, pulling out a laptop, folder, assorted papers, pens and other miscellanea. The bag had been a gift from Hilary back in the day; she felt a momentary twinge of nostalgia as she looked at the treasured item, but the thought was gone, vanished, on the instant it had occurred. She was over her ex and had much, much better fish to fry.

'Mmm. What first...'

Opening the folder she extracted three files and placed them carefully in front of her: Betsy Keller, Basil (Baz) Gulpin and John (Basher) Gulpin. Starting with Betsy, she opened the file, studying it for a few minutes before starting up the laptop and tapping away on the keyboard...

Mrs. Jill Ponsonby

Bruneigh High School

July 17th. 2012.

Dear Elizabeth,

I'm writing to inform you that you've been accepted on Course...

Yours faithfully,

Jill Ponsonby

(Headmistress)

...As she sealed the envelope, she thought of her brief interview with Betsy, shortly after the horror platform incident. The girl had achieved English, Maths and three other subjects before leaving school, but had unfortunately followed this up with a downward spiral of drink, drugs and a succession of unsuitable boyfriends. On probing the girl as to the possible cause of her decline it emerged that her parents had split up at around the same time as her standards had dropped off the cliff. The recent brief association with a certain Mr. X had merely been another broken rung in a faulty ladder heading for a painful drop. The girl was bright and decent-natured and should now, finally, have a chance to realise her hopes of a future career in one of the performance arts; she'd have to work hard - but a certain Tina would, no doubt, keep a keen eye on her new protégé's progress. That was Tina.

Then there was that moment - just before the girl left the room.

Betsy had stood there - at the door - looking back.

'Dearie - I really thought you might...that time...just at the end...'

As she started to sob, Jill found tears in her eyes also - more at the sight of the distraught girl than from any memories of the incident at the factory. Rushing across the room she pulled the sobbing girl to her, hugging her tightly for a long, long moment, as they both let the tears fall...

...As she opened the second file - that of Baz Gulpin - she grinned involuntarily as she got to the end.

That meeting - a week earlier.

With Lady Persephone Carruthers and the Board of Governors.

When she informed them of her decision to reinstate the young troublemaker....

' _But really, my dear Mrs. Ponsonby. Do you think a young renegade such as this is a good advert for what we are trying to achieve at the school. You've done a simply tremendous job so far, securing a future for Bruneigh High in spite of the considerable odds stacked against you when you took up your present position. We are all truly grateful for your efforts and have great admiration for the dignity and integrity you bring to your office. I feel I must point out, however, the dangers inherent in reinstating a disruptive pupil of this calibre - at this particular stage. All your good work - it could be undone in next to no time.'_

...In the end she'd persuaded the Board and the august Lady Persephone that her decision to give the youngster another chance would not spell certain doom for everyone as she'd given his parents notice that any repeat performance of previous misdemeanours would result in immediate - and permanent - expulsion.

That other meeting.

On Thursday 5th. - a few days prior to the meeting with the Board.

Jane Madley had entered her office with a serious look on her face, looking for a long moment at the wall behind her desk.

'What is it Jane? Wall need straightening? Give!'

'I don't know if I shouldn't just tell all three of them to go away - this very minute. Yes.'

'Who? Pray tell me woman who you think must vanish on the inst.'

'Its that awful little sod - Baz, or something - outside, right now, with his parents. I thought I'd seen the last of...'

'Send them in. Now Jane.'

'Are you sure, Jill. I mean, I could...'

'Now!'

'Okay. It's your funeral - mind.'

As they entered her office, Jill cordially invited them to sit down.

'To what do I owe the honour of this visit?'

'I think I'd better. It's like this.....'

As the tall, elegantly-tailored man began to explain, asking his wife, Janine, to corroborate some tiny details from time to time, Jill found herself warming to both parents somewhat. The woman had a certain fragility. She seemed desperate to come across as more lady than mere ordinary housewife. The haughty expression on her face as she looked disdainfully at her son or the occasional preening gesture as she answered questions put to her - all seemed to say very loudly that she deserved to be anywhere but here.

The man continued,

'I honestly think, Mrs. Ponsonby, that most of the recent problems in my family - including the behaviour of this young miscreant',

pointing at Basil,

'is down to my obsession of late with those scoundrels at the council - Saviour and Little. I'm just glad that my trap to stop them in their bid to close your school worked. As regards...'

The meeting went on for some time; the man pulled out documents, talking about his elder son, John, after having exhausted his bank of pleas on Basil's behalf.

'I cannot promise anything at this point in time but I will let you know shortly...'

Jill ended her meeting with the Gulpins on a pleasant note.

She now began tapping on the keyboard once again...

Mrs. Jill Ponsonby

Bruneigh High School

July 17th. 2012.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gulpin,

I'm pleased to inform you that, after a meeting between myself and the Board, it has been decided that your son, Basil Gulpin, be re-admitted to the school. I have to point out certain conditions....

Regarding your elder son, John, I've secured a place for him on one of our evening courses. I've been in touch with his Probation Officer, Deirdre Catchpole, who kindly offers her support. This should help him on the way to....

Yours faithfully,

Jill Ponsonby

(Headmistress)

'Ah well. That seems to be all nicely sorted. I'll just give this little lot to Jane in the morning for typing and copying to the main computer hard drive.'

As she closed the laptop, putting everything on the small table carefully away into the messenger bag, she closed the cabin window. Glancing at her watch, she had a sharp intake of breath as she noted the time - 12.15 a.m.

'Phew. How time has flown.'

Clutching the handrail with one hand she made her way slowly down the steps from the tree house in the dark. The only sounds to be heard were her footsteps on the stair treads; as for the rest.

Silence.

Then.

An owl hooted.

She looked round - then up. The sky above, a magnificent black mass stretching away into infinity with countless white stars twinkling, seemed to draw her in - force her to witness another world up there - mysterious...magical...beautiful. The serene tranquil heavens seemed to hide so well the true reality of what they were - harsh, burning infernos, where life could not exist and even light itself could be constrained. That beauty in the heavens she was now looking at in so much wonderment was the ultimate illusion. A beauty that was purest Hell in the latter's worst possible incarnation. At some point in time, some unknown moment in the future, a more direct knowledge of the vastness above would be suddenly revealed.

She continued to look up...

From there would the revelation come...

A straight line out towards that bright star...

Beyond, still shooting along the line...

Speed of light...

To infinite distance...

Coming back...

Same line...

A being...

Sinister...

Strange...

With message...

What...

Visions, sinister and threatening...

To earth, she was sure, an awakening.

'Mmm...'

Sitting down on the bottom step she placed the Wenger bag by her side.

The tumultuous nature of the celestial world....

Cosmic forces...

She continued to look up, gazing at the heavens - rapt...

Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Hercules, Hydra, Canis Major, Canis Minor, Orion...

Twinkling masses at distances far beyond normal comprehension...

Her little school...

So big in her mind...

A mere dot...

In that black vastness above...

'Whew.'

'That up there might be unfathomable, beyond the ken of man in its heavenly grandeur - but this is reality, girl.'

She shouted out defiantly at the Universe, tapping the Wenger.

Moving on up the garden she quietly entered the sleeping house, making her way to the kitchen where she switched the kettle on to make some tea. Tina was away for the day with Jack - somewhere mysterious; they were due back tomorrow. She had a call to make to someone so, a few minutes later, found herself creeping towards the library - tea in one hand, the Wenger in the other.

Entering the room she shut the door, switched on the light and went towards the desk. Sitting down in the leather armchair she began to sip tea, letting her mind go blank - relaxing.

Then.

Out of the blue...

Thoughts flooding in...

'My God.'

She was recalling...

Late one night, sat in this chair making a call...

Waiting for the person at the other end to pick up the receiver...

Expectant...

Longing...

Loving that person to death...

In that moment...

Then...

A sexy, sultry voice... of some unknown woman...

Some wanton, cruel harlot...

Crushing, overpowering misery...

Hate...

Now abandoned...

'To hell with that. In the past - girl.'

She found herself shaking...remembering...trying hard to forget - push the memories far, far away.

'God I need a drink.'

That nice unopened bottle of red, she'd spotted in the kitchen earlier?

Creeping back to the kitchen she grabbed a glass and corkscrew.

'You red beauty. Your turn.'

Casting the mischievous grin of a very naughty schoolgirl round the dark kitchen, she returned to the library...

One delicious glass...

Warming...

A second glass...

Warmer still...

As she sipped on her third glass, Jill looked at her watch - 1.05 a.m. She'd give it another fifteen minutes or so.

'Better - ahh.'

Twirling the wine glass in her hand, her thoughts turned to the school and its hopefully brighter future. It had come a long way from those early days and she could not afford to let things slip back.

That image of Cissy Blackstock...

As described by her mother...

Pale, bleeding - traumatised from the shock of an episode she might never forget...

'God - this wine.'

She thought on...

Current news...

The past...

Holocaust...

Pol Pot...

Wars...

Man's brutality...

Mother Teresa...

What was her quote: 'spread love everywhere.'

Guernica. The great Wars. Vietnam. More. - where was the love?

Somewhere in man - a malignant canker - an evil mutant gene.

Incessant strife.

Another quote from the wise lady: 'be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.'

What would be the small thing she could be faithful to?

She would have to ensure her young pupils received the best possible chance in life.

A truly wonderful education in a school that had risen - majestically - like the Phoenix from the ashes.

'Yes Mother Teresa. I'll be truly faithful in that small thing. Cheers.'

'God. I need another. Blame it on a stray - evil and mutant - Rasmussens gene. Ha.'

Lifting the bottle, she poured the last of the wine into her glass.

'Ah well. Down the hatch - drunken hussy.'

Downing the glass in one, she sat for a moment before looking at her watch. 1.25 a.m.

Picking up the phone she dialled a number.

Waited...

'Hello. What...?'

The slightly startled voice of Mary Crozier came on the line.

'It's me - Jill. How are things in _Glocca Morra_? Speak now, girl, or forever hold your peace.'

'Hello Jill. Gosh. Have you been drinking? You sound...your voice...Ohh.....'

As Jill listened she could hear hysterical laughter at the other end of the line. She suddenly felt very much out of kilter - tipsy. Surely she didn't sound that...?

'I'm sorry Jill. I'm a very bad mannered girl. Tim and I have had the most wonderful day with Monique, her husband and some friends of hers. We've just got in about ten minutes ago ourselves after having enjoyed a lovely meal at ' _L'Auberge de L'A..._ I've been drinking and letting my hair down a bit also. That Monique. What an utter scream. You should have heard...'

'Good. Very good Mary. I'm truly happy for you both. I've been a naughty girl myself tonight. Yes - very naughty. I've got this big, empty bottle of red to prove it - so you'll have to bear with me somewhat. You okay now girl?'

'I'm fine. Oh Jill - I can't wait to...'

The conversation and laughter went on into the night until unpardonable hours. As she finally put the phone down she thought of the impending visit of her daughter and friend, Sula, in the morning.

'Now my cup truly runneth over. The barman's gone to bed and so must I. Cheers.'

* * * * *

July 18th. (Wednesday)

At 01.40 a. m all was silent in the _Shepherds Rest_ car park. A full moon shone brilliantly down on the vehicles - shiny spectres of grey in a mystical world of silence and dark shadow. One vehicle in particular seemed to stand out from the rest of the ghostly mass; the Harley Davidson FLH 1200 Electra Glide motorcycle, parked there since 5 p.m. the previous evening seemed, from its jaunty tilt and gleaming metal parts, part of something more adventurous - more exciting - than that of its more commonplace four-door companions.

Its riders had indeed experienced an exciting, high-octane dash on their beloved machine earlier on in the day before arriving at the hostelry...

'Ah Mr. and Mrs. Branz. Table 12. Follow me....'

After being shown to their table, Jack and Tina had taken some time to pore over the meal menu before eventually deciding to order the same meal for both...

Starter - Chef's Soup of the day: vegetable

Meal - Fillet Steak (6 oz) with watercress, chips, onion rings and flat mushrooms

Sweet - Mixed fruit cocktail

...'And we'll have a bottle of Malbec Red, please.'

After the meal they had gone in the lounge where they spent the remainder of the evening in relaxed conversation - intimate, warmed by pints of _Foresters Best,_ measures of brandy and soda and the physical closeness of each other. They'd both changed out of their biking gear on arrival in their room and were now dressed coolly in casual attire: Jack in a black and pale blue striped polo neck shirt and sand coloured cargo pants, Tina in a striking black _Ben de Lisi_ V-neck dress cut just above the knee and stone coloured moccasins.

At 11.00 p.m. the barman rang the bell above the bar.

'Time, ladies and gentlemen, please.'

As they walked into their room, Tina headed straight for the small ensuite shower / toilet room.

'Just going for a quick change, darling. You can warm the sheets for me.'

As he listened to the sounds of splashing water, Jack began to undress...

...'Ready darling?'

'Ye...yes...dear.... I....'

He was suddenly lost for words.

A whiff...

Exquisite...

A perfume...

Guerlain...

Vol de nuit...

He knew exactly...

She'd used it here...

In this very room...

Those many years ago...

It was special...

Very, very precious...

She'd not used it since...

It was kept in a drawer by her bed...

A talisman of sorts...

A symbol...

Undying love...

She was still stood across the room, watching him as he continued to stare - gulp in her loveliness.

He did not deserve to see this vision of perfection before him...

Even less to dream...

Possess...

This tall creature with the body of a goddess now began to swivel her hips slightly, stretching her arms up, sighing gently...

'Ahh...'

Smiling, she turned slowly round with her back to him...

Those hips...

Shimmering in the light...

Sheer stockings...

Garters...

Suspenders...

She turned back round...

Blew him a kiss...

Then slowly, peeled off one garter...suspender...stocking...

All the way down...

Off...

Twirled it aloft, above her head...

Let go...

Fine nothingness...

Landing on the footboard...

The other...

Same...

Suddenly she came over to him.

'Tonight, as then, I am the hussy, darling.'

They both crept under the covers...

Hungry lovemaking...

Over and over...

She was now his Amazon...

Dark, dusky...

Overpowering him...

Black lips...

Power...

Now his Aryan beauty...

Cruel...

Sinking her teeth in...

Smothering...

Now she was...

This wonderful, gorgeous...

Wife...

He was truly in Valhalla...

With the Gods...

In ecstasy...

His dark dreams gone...

Forever...

She was content also...

...Later they lay there...panting...spent.

'Did the ground tremble for you, O husband of mine?'

'A veritable earthquake, darling wife, did shake me utterly to my core.'

