

# The Great Indoors (Three) a Thing by Cavanagh.

# Contents

I Wanna Stand Next to Your... 1

The Inter-Credence Non-Terrestrial Emergency Summit 5

Communicatorlobes are go! 11

Twelve seconds 30

Waterloo Sunset 36

Away Alone 75

The Literal Interpretation of Things 83

The Great Indoors 91

Waiting in Vain 117

Quinoa 2.0 124

A Life in the Day 130

I Put A Spell On You 133

Gate 326B 162

Gone Viral 171

Man of the Match 176

When Moor is Less 199

The Pre-Tinder Tender 211

Acknowledgements 226

#  I Wanna Stand Next to Your...

I have these thoughts all the time. Inside my head, I can express them perfectly but with the others, just like the others, nothing comes out beyond grunts and sounds. I am sure if we could manage to articulate the feelings that populate our minds effectively, we will make progress. Pruddle, the name I have given to an imaginary being with oversight powers on our group, knows we need it.

I have managed to give names to most of the objects and states that comprise my frudd cycle. Maybe I should explain, frudd is when the skyball is out (not necessarily visible, but out), that part is known as (by me) clear frudd. When the skyball is replaced by the shineorb, that is dark frudd, the entire process is a frudd cycle. Sometimes the frudd is longer, sometimes the frudd is shorter. What I do know, and I assume my companions do too, is that when the frudd cycle is shorter, and the skyball can barely be seen, is when we all feel pruntt. Sometimes the pruntt is so bad that weaker people cannot continue and stop their frudd cycles. This makes me sad; I hate the pruntt and we all long for the days of the longer frudd cycle when we all feel the nice spulk.

I have pondered long and hard about how to make spulk in all the frudd cycles. I have seen, in the intense days of the longer cycles that the land dries and becomes spulkee, sometimes it becomes so spulkee that it turns into fire (that's the name I am least pleased with and hope to think of a better one soon). This fire is an amazing sight, though sadly, it is present mostly when we don't need it, due to the pervading spulk of the period. My theory is based around creating fire in the pruntt days, so that the weaker people would not get so ill and the rest of us could have year-round spulk.

When I should have been out hunting or collecting, I made detours to seek out dry land. However, the skycry and skysneeze meant that the land was soggy and even with the aid of skyflash would never lead to fire. I decide to protect the land from the skycry by taking into the dwelling. There it would dry out and, ideally, once I found the way to make fire, could be used. Then the pointing started, pointing and grunting. I knew what they were saying, "you don't pull your weight, pissing about on the land, you should be getting food for the group, Pruddle knows there is never enough." My sharechugger, a group member who is like me but softer, looks at me as if to tell me to leave it, we don't need fire, we've managed for this long without it, but she can't convince me. All I can imagine is the dwelling with fire in the middle, everyone laughing and grunting of smile, and me in the corner, content that I made the fire.

I risked their wrath. I wanted some kind of award, not that awards existed. I tried everything to get the land to react as fire. I threw animals at it. I did the brownout on it. I had enough knowledge to that the greenout would have the same effect as skycry so didn't bother. I sat on the land for half frudds, noticing that the land would get warmer with the contact of my body. If I moved my body, then the land became even warmer, but the more I moved the polecover around my body became broken and would cause the lifesoup to spill. I knew this was bad as I had seen people who had been bitten by animals who had become infected, their lifesoup turning bad and eventually leaving with Pruddle. Life was precarious enough without making things worse.

The shorter frudd cycles would soon be upon us and I was still no closer to making fire. Sharechugger, sensing my despair, did the dance of no others look for me but it did nothing to raise my spirits. I was a man before my time, it would seem.

Just before the last of the spulk left us, a terribly spulkee day came upon us and made fire to taunt me. I watched in awe, wondering if I could take some continuous fire to the dwelling where it would remain forever, with the group taking a bit whenever they needed some, but it was impossible to move. It gave the group quite the laugh when I tried, holding the burning stick in my hand and running to the dwelling, only to drop it before I got even close. Undeterred, I took non-fire stick and tried to get the end to burn, then create newfire in the dwelling. After six attempts, I managed to get a fire inside the dwelling, delighted, I showed the others. One had a near Pruddlemeet and stepped on the pathetic smouldering mound before it could take. I returned outside, grunting sarcastically at their ineptitude.

The next thing I saw was a life changing experience. I thought I was going to have my own Pruddlemeet after it. A nosy snoutsmell got to close to the fire, perhaps an investigative soul like me, and became trapped. The squeals were unbearable as we tried to save him but knew that saving him would mean a firey goodbye for those who tried. Soon the noises stopped, and we knew he was no more. Between us, we grunted to leave him until he was cool, but then, the smell. Nothing like it ever. We had all eaten snoutsmells begrudgingly many a time, cold, tough, a very distressing experience. But now, it smelt so, I don't know, I was going to have to invent some new words. My rationale was that if it smelt that good, it would taste pretty good too. I took a sharp stone and managed to cut myself a chunk, burning my hands with my eagerness in the process. I took a bite, it was wonderful. I shared the rest with the chugger and then the group feasted. I had to control fire.

Pruntt everywhere and skycry. I became disheartened as everything I tried came to nothing. I had perfected a technique to dry the land but could not create enough spulk to make it into fire. Angered, I threw my stone at the mound and made haste to collect berries. The stone collided with another that sent a small amount of light, was it fire? that connected with the dry land. After some pruddleticks, there was smoke arising from the land. I took the stones and bashed them together as hard as I could, the, I needed a name, fireflashes, jumped all over the place, some landed on the land, some went annoyingly nowhere of use, but there was more and more smoke. I sought out other stones, some were useless, some the most fearsome fireflashes. A few pruddleticks later, the mound was one fire. Stupidly, I put it out and started again. It worked. I showed it to my sharechugger and then the group.

Despite their initial reticence, the hitherto unseen pruntt made fire even more attractive. There was a thought at the outset that the more fire the better, but we soon learnt to dominate the fire so that we could have just the right amount of spulk at all times. I never had to hunt again; I suppose that was my award. I taught people to make fire, and they wandered across hills and valleys, showing the other groups how to make fire. I would sleep next to my sharechugger with a belly full of snoutsmell and think how lucky we were to have made this step forward. We were soon trying other animals and even fruits on the fire; we became quite discerning in no time.

Sadly, my endeavours and experiments had led to all sorts of bruising and scrapes. Much as the old group member would try to cure me with plants on my sores, I soon didn't need the fire to feel spulk, despite the frudd outside. I smiled at my sharechugger, taking in the sight of the group feasting, fed and warm thanks to me, as I drifted away and into the arms of Pruddle.

#  The Inter-Credence Non-Terrestrial Emergency Summit

Satan looked angrily at God for making that hurtful comment. "Well, it's not like any of your bright ideas have come to fruition since the 16th century or so." He snarled.

"I crossed a line, I'm sorry." God responded. "It's just I am at my wits' end. It seems like nothing will stop them." God continue, forlorn.

"How about....?" Satan smiled.

"You've got that look on your face." God said, giving him that knowing look. "But, we could, so to speak, put the fear of God up them so that they have to react to save themselves."

"Still doing your own PR, I see?" Satan joked. "Do you really think that they are not beyond saving now? It has taken their combined work of two centuries to undo millions of years of harmonious discord between us. What are your thoughts? Another prophesising son may not cut much rug with them like it did two thousand years ago. What is most dear to them?" Satan continued.

"Their freedom, I'd say. By that I mean their concept of freedom, which is, as well we know, is as far removed from freedom as you can get. They confuse freedom to be, to propagate, to exist or to opine with freedom to live. Our surreptitious control elements work to an extent but chaos is never far away. Joining forces was obviously a smart move but now we need something a bit more next level. Any ideas?" God was good at this, identifying problems, but not offering solutions. He wrote the book on it, Satan thought to herself.

"The dirty lady?" Satan suggested.

"Is she still knocking around? Last I heard of her was her 'Bubonic' works in the sixteenth century. She had quite the stench about her. She was effective though, I might suggest maybe too effective for this crisis. We don't want to lose 20% of them." God asked.

"I heard she was posing as a young Swedish girl these days." Satan joked.

"Oh! You're are incorrigible at times!" God retorted. "In all seriousness, the dirty lady and her dirty parts may be just what we need right now.

"She has had five centuries to clean them up, I am sure they have made boundless leaps towards hygiene. Shall we summon her?" Satan asked and God was in agreement.

ENTER THE DIRTY LADY

"Thank you for coming. We realise that you must be very busy, but the world below has become as dirty, as, well, you. We were wondering if you could weave a little magic on them, so they are rustled into shape a bit. Not the full service, not like last time. Just a nudge, Any thoughts? Oh, and by the way, did you ever decide on a name? In this day and age to call you the 'Dirty Lady' seems a bit off, we've had enough bad publicity as it is, what with all the priests and stuff. Funny how my lot always get dragged down whereas yours seem to get away with murder." God gestured to Satan.

"My friends call me Seerohna. You like that?" The Dirty Lady asked.

"Works for me. Satan?" God asked.

"Perfect. So, Seerohna, what can be done?" Satan asked.

"Well, we have come a long way since the dark ages. My R&D+I department has been perfecting what we like to call an in-and-out solution. Casualties are always a necessity but the real artform here is making them so afraid, so petrified of their own demise, that they will be forced into action. They will not even fear for their own lives, as most of them will believe whichever news outlet tells them they are not in a risk category, but they will fear the accommodation of the life they have become adept at disappearing. They believe they value life more than death, but they don't, I am over-generalising, but within hours of anything happening, perhaps even before anything happens, you will be able to see the groups form. All we need is for my daughter to plant a seed anywhere on that planet, and just watch it grow into the most massive and hideous snowball that you have ever seen." The Dirty Lady said.

"Perhaps a modicum of clarification might be useful." God interjected.

"Our powers transcend theirs. With one touch we can make and take life. With one flick we can paralyse their movements. Force them to take a step back, lead them to the point in which they will believe all is lost, then flick in the other direction and wait for the dust to settle. By the time that happens, enough of them will have changed their ways to begin to rebuild society, just like I did under the guise of Madame Peste. The thought of them losing the delivery of free-range avocados will force them to act. There will be dissenters, there always are, but the longer it goes on, the less their voice will be heard. Ideally, people will be falling over themselves to outdo each other on their modern bibles, social media, did you like that one, big G? Threw it in the pitch for you. Anyway, pick a place, I believe it's your turn Satan."

"Anywhere in the world? Have your boffins not devised an App for this?" Satan asked bemused.

"Of course, I could randomly select a place on the planet using this handy algorithm if you don't have a preference." The Dirty Lady said.

"It would seem fairer." Satan said.

"You're getting a bit soft in your third 'official' millennium." The Dirty Lady laughed, pressing a button on a device. "Wuhan, China. Give me a month or so." And with that she was gone.

"Think you might get a testament out of this? What would you call it? You used up old and new too soon. Future testament? New 2.0?! You should get in touch with your editor." Satan joked.

"Stop it! Get some popcorn or something. The results are coming in. It's like when we watched the Eurovision Song Contest together." God said.

"Budge up. So, what's happening." Satan asked.

"Not a great deal, unfortunately. The Dirty Lady has spread her germs and they are taking. Several doctors and leading luminaries are warning of a possible spread but quite frankly, everyone outside Wuhan thinks it does not affect them. Where is that device she left? Shall we look at the options?" God said.

Satan extracted a tablet that showed the elaborate game play of "Covid 19". There were a series of future Covid scenarios, ranging in colours from white to red along a scale of seriousness. "It really wouldn't be cricket to go straight to apocalypse, would it? What does the 'transport' button do?" God asked.

"We can move it across the globe. It seems like the west will lose no sleep if a few Chinese die. Italy grab you?" Satan asked.

"Sounds nice. Your go next." God responded.

And so they played and fiddled and twiddled with the different scenarios and while people died others saw the sun and drove to a National Trust site that they literally were dying to see, some of them did, because they would not be bally well told where they could go. Satan and God watched bemused as people flaunted regulations while others stuck closely to the rules enforced. "Want to take it to the next level? Full-scale infection?" God asked.

"I'm bored already with this lot. We're not getting any younger, let's leave them to it. Did you ever have a look at those plans I sent you for Mars? That looked doable." Satan said to God.

"You know, I had forgotten all about that. We've wasted too much time on Earth. It almost drove us apart. Still, it was good for business until they got ideas above their station. Shall I call the scientists in? All we need to do is slightly divert the course of the Earth so that Mars can receive the right dosage for an Earth-like atmosphere. We can run it at x64 speed this time and have a voucher to join the game after the dinosaurs. The only concern is whether they notice that the trajectory of the Earth is changing, or they destroy it themselves before it happens." God added.

"If I were a betting man... " Satan joked. "Popcorn?".

#  Communicatorlobes are go!

London, 2033

Ed's communicatorlobe gave off a high-pitched shrill to inform him that one of his three trusted contactors on his list urgently needed to speak to him. Wife, son and work. He only had those three. His son, Tim was just fourteen and only recently been fitted with his, he was touched that he had included him on his list so felt duty-bound to do the same. This time it was work. He had only got in off the night shift three hours before and was hoping for a day in the sack before trusted contactors two and three returned home around five.

It had been a quiet shift. And yet those were the ones that caused him greater difficulty when he made it to his bed. As if doing nothing was more tiring than fighting fires. Not that Ed was about to complain. Long gone were the days of risk after risk, night after night. Now, the drones could be sent in to do most of the dangerous stuff. The downside of this was cutbacks, Ed was continually having to justify his own worth as to avoid the ongoing staff culls that were becoming an endemic in the industry. Sometimes, mechanical failures were almost greeted with cheers (as long as no harm came to anyone) as it proved that real firefighters were still needed.

He connected the device via his glasses and greeted the Station Master.

"Hey, Chief." Ed managed to say, still half asleep. He was waiting for the request that would inevitably accompany this call. The Chief is not big on social calls.

"I hate to do this, Ed. But there has been a bomb in a primary school. Ward 13, did you hear the explosion?" The Chief asked.

"I was dead to the world." Ed replied.

"Well sadly, so are a number of children. I've called everyone in. You know you don't have to, but... Well." The Chief pleaded.

"Chief! For the love of God, you think I am going to tell you I need my sleep when a bomb has gone off in a school. Locatialise me via the lobe and give me ten minutes. Will I need clearance?" Ed responded.

"You're a good man, Ed." The Chief said.

"I'm a father. Once you're in that club the rules change." Ed quipped.

"I know." Replied the Chief, overlooking the cheese on the last comment. "I'm on my way, too. Mark is waiting at your door."

"Sounds almost planned!" Ed made his last joke of the morning.

Ed put the uniform he had only just taken off back on went to the door via the kitchen. Grabbing a shift meal, he expelled the contents into his mouth. The equivalent of a three-course meal without any effort or pleasure. Sea bass with broccoli, chicken soup and pineapple for dessert. He activated his internal sleep debilitator and made his way outside. Mark beeped to attract Ed's attention despite the fact that he knew he was there, and he was in a regulation fire service vehicle blocking the entire street.

"Have you heard?" Mark asked as Ed entered the vehicle. Careering off before he could even put his seat belt on.

"Bits." Ed replied. "Terrorists?"

"You would not believe it. Former pupil. Captain of the cricket team. Home-made bomb on family sports day. What is going on with the world?" Mark answered.

"Casualties?" Ed asked.

"Unknown so far. Went off in a class full of seven-year olds though, they were getting changed with their parents for the sack race or something. Looks pretty bad. Main crew has arrived, all the back-up, including us should get there in about, well, now." Ed smiled and brought the vehicle to a halt.

The area were the emergency services entered had been cordoned off, meaning that the streams of people fleeing the scene blocked by the hordes of idiots trying to a catch a glimpse of it were sent the other way. Their kits were laid out waiting for them as the Deputy called them over.

"Chief should be here in a bit. In the meantime, well, you know the drill. Unfortunately, we always thought it would only ever be a drill, but this is real. Too real. You're gonna see things in there that might stay with you forever. Be strong. We're all going in. No excuses and no ranks. Let's get those kids out." Deputy Andy said.

It was hard not to get caught up in the emotion of it all, but Ed knew this was a time for heroes with heads, foolhardy actions could cause more damage than good. Firstly, they needed to get the drones in to survey the situation.

The drones merely confirmed the gravity of the scenario before them. All the technology in the world was not going to be much use now. The drones relayed images of charred bodies on the floor. Heart-breaking scenes that caused more than one firefighter to rush in without the proper equipment. Seconds later, one of them returned, empty-handed and as a result of the lack of vision inside the building, after crashing into a wall that hitherto had threatened to collapse, and now went through with the threat. The falling wall was accompanied by screams. Screams that became silent as the intense heat stifled them.

Andy was somewhat direct in his appraisal of the unprofessional nature of the first reconnaissance mission and made it patently clear that everybody would follow his orders. Four seconds later, the actual Chief arrived and made it patently clear that everybody would follow his orders.

The drones were capable of locating movement and determining were the survivors could be found. Once they were located, it was down to the firefighters to extract them safely. Their suits could withstand the temperatures inside, but all knew that the clock was ticking as those inside, could not.

Ed followed the drone and received the information on the airscreen that it provided him with. The scene inside was not a pretty sight. The drone's progress stopped by bumping into charred bodies that littered the floor. Ed knew that an application of dousefoam would have this under control in no time, but that had never been tested when there were potential casualties still inside. This would have to be an old-school rescue in a new-school that was supposedly fireproof. Ed had been in so many fireproof buildings that he wondered just who was in charge of the racket selling the stickers. The temperature in the room was well over 200ºc, the drone indicated two people moving to his right and was informed that their estimated survival duration would be less than one minute.

The drone found them and told him they were kids, youngsters caught up in the midst of something they could not comprehend and might prevent them from ageing a day more. Ed was the second, as far as he knew, to break protocol. He got to them in twenty seconds, giving him forty to extract them, maximum. Forty-five total would be better.

The kids were too scared to move and there was no time for explanations. Ed grabbed them in a manner that would lead to social services' intervention under normal circumstances and dragged them the best he could towards the doorway were dronestrechers were in position to remove them to intensive care. He had to shake one of them who was so panic-stricken that he could not move, just to assure himself that he was still alive. His eyes seemed to have left the building before he did, as if he had accepted his fate. On the second shake he stirred and lashed out unwillingly at Ed. With the same action, the boy disconnected the oxygen strap that was protecting Ed from the fumes.

"The dosage will be negligible." He thought to himself as he made his way out, ensuring that the kids were on their way to care, he checked the drone one final time. Then he heard a sound. He was not protected, but he was much more protected then the child whose sounds were uttered. Half-holding his breath, he rushed in, sensing that his equipment was decomposing as he worked, desperately, perhaps even dangerously, he searched for the body that was making the noise. He found him, pulled on his cindered leg and shuddered as chunks of skin and bone came away in his hand. The screams loudened, he managed to get hold of an unburnt part and load the kid onto the drone crudely, there was no time for etiquette. His mask was now burning and would melt his skin. He had no choice but to remove it and make for the door the best he could.

Once outside, he was hosed down and taken into an ambulance. Removing the rest of his equipment, how many times? He tried to utter. How many times had he told them that the equipment was not up to the job? Our trading partner for fire products now was Bolivia. Hardly a nation at the forefront of cutting-edge technology. But since the changes in the trading regulation and the ban imposed by the EU on sales to the UK, we have had to look elsewhere for our suppliers. Gone is the state-of-the-art German equipment and we can't afford the American or the Japanese equivalents. So, Bolivia it is, and the name of the firm is Quemachungo, which basically translates as something like shitty burns.

The kids were incapable of speech, gazing at the burning building with a mixture of fear and longing to return. Ed knew something was wrong. Ed knew the drones had missed something.

The girl managed to utter, at a reading that troubled the decibel meter, "Baby Gary".

"Fucking second-rate machinery." Ed screamed. "There is a baby still in there."

"Leave it. It's too dangerous." Another said.

"Don't ever refer to a baby as it in my presence." Ed barked, and before anyone could respond, he was inside and unprotected. Without the drone's assistance, he was unable to locate any lifeforms, but assumed that the baby would be close to the place where he had rescued the others. He began to feel light-headed but remained steadfast in his quest, until he saw a tiny hand jutting out. The creature was still alive, barely, as he rushed to the exit that used to be an entrance with him in his arms. As if his miniscule frame had adapted itself to survival in such harsh conditions, the relatively clean air of London seemed to trigger a reaction that caused liquid to seep from his mouth, liquid that soon became blood as baby Gary turned lifeless.

Ed looked at the two he had saved with a face that said he had failed them and fell to the floor, his body finally informing him that that was quite enough for one day.

Ed was taken to the nearest hospital that had activated the emergency protocol which meant that it could take patients irrespective of their insurance status for a period of seventy-two hours to perform services on 'near-death cases'. Once their NDS (near-death-status) was below 50%, these patients would be sent to the billing department to view whether their stay could be extended, those with sufficient health insurance allowed to stay and complete their treatment, those without it, left to the acquiescence of what remains of the public health system.

The health system was just one of the aspects of British life that had taken a battering in the decade of the twenties. A decade most people hoped would soon be forgotten as the bright future they were sold nearly twenty years ago finally took shape. In the meantime, a series of draconian measures, initially put forward as necessary means to curb the tide of economic disaster, were put into place that in the long-term had the effect of curbing civil liberties, even more, and making people willingly surrender their remaining freedoms into the hands of the government through the agreement to terms and conditions hastily scrolled down to the bottom of in order to sign them and gain access to voting rights on the next singing sensation.

But it was not all bad news. Progress had been made in many spheres of life saw vast improvements that made life in the thirties much more comfortable. Great strides were made in the area of retro-active criminal proceedings on the breach of civil liberties in the past. The Department of Post Intentionality Denouncement made it possible for any work of fiction, piece of music or film to be tried in accordance with the standards of the day and sent for re-editing. This process meant that any mistreatment on the grounds of gender, sexuality, race or belief could be redressed and have the work updated to be more in line with the reality of modern Britain. Highlights of their work included the addition of a true ethnic picture of Paris and London into Dickens' 'A Tale of Two Cities', the removal of any reference to homosexuality being a no-go area in the bible, and the inclusion of a representative number of toads in the 'Frog Song' by Paul McCartney.

Technology in this area had seen major investment, far more than any other item on the Government's budget, which meant that leisure consumers were able to highlight violations deemed serious via Twitter and the Department would set to work on adapting it accordingly. The idea was that by 2040 nobody would be able to be offended ever again by anything in the Arts, but that was too good an idea to overlook and so all the rewrites and tweaks featured the new 'third-level adverts' which meant that a company was able to purchase a word and once the reader or listener came into contact with it, an image of the brand would be flashed into their consciousness. The more the companies invested, the common the word they could purchase. Coca-Cola owned the world 'health', McDonalds owned 'walk' and Apple, who refused to participate initially, were allotted 'Android' as a punishment. Google, the official cyber-partner of the Government, controlled every preposition in the English language and alternated their subliminal adverts in accordance with logarithms based on user habits.

At first, many people considered that the quality of entertainment suffered, but in the end the 2031 version of 'To Kill a Mockingbird' featuring a black lawyer defending a white civil servant for cultural misappropriation of the standard blues time signature was eventually considered an improvement. Manuel was promoted to the post of hotel manager in the re-edition of Fawlty Towers, and the members of the 1966 England world cup winning side were 'proportionally re-coloured' to represent the current demographic of the nation.

Despite Europe being essentially taboo, a flourishing black market meant that those with enough financial power could enjoy their brie and Rioja still, while those who were forced to make their purchases at official 'Britmarkets', which only sold UK and Commonwealth products, made do with the consolation of doing their bit. Following the departure of the nation from the Union, the effects on agriculture were felt immediately, yield fell and alongside it, quality standards. By 2028, the percentage of actual dairy product in milk, cheese or yoghurt had fallen by sixty-three percent. In real terms, skimmed milk in 2016 now seemed like gold-top in comparison.

Yet Europe and one of its success stories, IKEA, was responsible for Britain's favourite gameshow. 'IKEAWANG' was a show in which contestants fought to put a product to the trade name of items for sale in the popular store, popular in the sense of technically contraband. Fierce battles took place as regular members of the public locked horns to compete for bookcases and dining sets that they could show off in their modest homes. If you wanted to win the star prize of a fully furnished interior for a 42m2 flat, you really had to know your Färgrik from your Råskog unless you wanted to go home with just a Kallax.

Back on Ed's ward, what he thought was the worst day of his life up to now, was about to get more than a trifle worse. The children that he had saved, and the one he failed to save, lost their parents in the tragedy. Under the terms of the Last Contact During Tragedy Act (2027), all three became the responsibility of Ed. This meant that he was responsible for organising (by that we mean paying for), first off, the funeral of baby Gary. Given the circumstances of his death, a full investigation and autopsy would need to be performed and these things do not come cheap. Ed was still in an induced coma, so it was his wife who was informed of this new state of affairs.

Any equity owned by the children's parents may be liable for seizure should they be posthumously be deemed as having put their children at risk by entering a zone declared on the potential incident list. This list was far from exclusive and places as innocuous as primary schools regularly entered the list due to their location within the proximity of two kilometres of a known suspect. A known suspect did not actually have to have committed a crime, whistle-blowers were paid ten pounds for a positive denouncement, with this figure rising as high as twenty for suspects of an Islamic background.

In all likelihood, the children's parents would be found guilty of misadventure and their remaining family members would have to nominate a person to serve the sentence on their behalf or pay the corresponding fine. As the school was in a Band C income bracket catchment zone, the maximum salary that they could earn would mean it would take eleven years to pay off the most lenient scenario. Unless they had a surprise millionaire sister (not that a million pounds was a big deal anymore), this tragedy would have a long-lasting effect on those left behind.

Ed's wife, Kate, looked on anxiously as the situation was explained to her. They would have to take charge of the surviving children in the scenario that there was a posthumous misadventure ruling, as this would mean the next of kin would be deemed unfit to care for the infants. The government official simply told her that the best scenario would be to hope the other two died as well, as three funerals would be vastly cheaper. At first, it felt like the words had not registered in her head, then they did, and she smashed a stool over the official's head. Another charge to add to the list.

Kate was arrested and had the right to updates to her husband's status removed. The kids, Paul and Sarah, got better, as did Ed, this meant that all three would be discharged at the same time. Having to house two more people in their dwelling meant that they would also be liable for an overcrowding fine under the terms of the 2030 Urban Dwelling Act. When Kate's mobile infostation was reactivated, her first notification was the bank signing on their behalf the credit for costs of disposal for baby Gary, the repayment terms being eight-hundred pounds per month.

And so, Ed returned home. His actual son, Tim, having to share with Paul, his new state-assigned brother, and Emily on the sofa in the meantime. The loan covering baby Gary meant the idea of finding anywhere bigger was wholly unfeasible, as was the possibility of extra income while Ed continued to recuperate. Although his pay in the meantime was reduced by twenty-five percent, still they struggled to make ends meet.

The Chief came to visit him two days later to assure him that the fire service would give him its full backing and that he needn't worry. The only possible downside could be a police investigation into any negligence on the part of the fire service in response to the incident. The Chief, once again, gave him his utmost assurances that this was not even a possibility and bade him farewell, despite having sent a list to the newly-founded government inquiry of members of his team whose actions could be considered questionable, if not negligent, and with Ed's name being top of the list.

The children never recovered. Asthma was the least of their health problems, and the unclassifiable psychological scars preventing them from sleeping and relating with other children. The loan was doubled as costs soared. Both Ed and Kate went to see the Borough Infant Office but were told time and time again that the children were their responsibility and that if they abandoned them they would be sent to prison. The children's maternal grandparents tried to take them, or at least help financially, but now Ed and Kate's bank account was monitored and any unauthorised payment would be diverted to the government and added to the total owing on the loan. The grandfather devised a plan to escape to France with the children but was detained at the border. Anyone over sixty-five could now be myocardically deactivated and the cost of the old guy's deadly heart attack was now added to the bill.

It had been a tough six months when Ed was deemed fit to return to work by the medical commission. He looked forward to having a normal life once again. There had been the rigmarole of his public service award, a medal for bravery and recommendation for promotion in a Band B district. But that was just noise. Upon his return, he was told that he would have to perform office duties pending the findings of the commission, and that this meant his pay would be reduced. For the first time, their combined income would be less than the repayments of the loan. It was hard to put on a brave face.

The kids were young, but not too young to see what was going on. Tim rebelled and Paul and Sarah knew their presence was the reason for all this misery. Paul, still not even eight, decided to escape on his own during the night and made it one hundred metres before a tram ran him over. Once again, Kate and Ed were told that they had been lucky as only Sarah remained.

Tim's rebellion culminated in an obsession with fire. Ed had never had to practice his trade at home but was awoken by a tell-tale aroma during the night as Tim set fire to all of Sarah's possessions. They were forced into temporary accommodation in Band E.

By the time they got into Band E housing, the inquiry had found Ed to be negligent and dismissed him from the fire service. Forcing him to return his medal and with the Wikipedia entry on the event updated to enhance his culpability and that of his colleagues.

Dismissal meant that he was not eligible for employment for a period of six months and would then only be able to opt for menial Band E employment. The only thing Tim ever said to Sarah was that he hoped she would die soon too, and Sarah never spoke again.

She chose not to speak at first, then this decision was vindicated as her continually frail health took a tumble. Now there was no option to extend the loan, which was facing foreclosure on the next defaulted payment. First she sneezed, then she coughed, then she shook. Within minutes she was in a coma from which she would never exit. The doctors claimed on the medical certificate that the coma had been caused by insufficient parenting, which meant Ed and Kate were liable for the outcome of the scenario.

"Let's run." Kate said to Ed. The year was 2034 yet the Band E hospital would have made Florence shudder. Sarah had irreparable lung damage as a result of the explosion, along with inadequate care in the meantime. The latter was also the basis for charges against the couple. "Let's take Tim and make it to France." Kate begged.

"We'll never make it past the border controls." He responded with a tone of resignation.

"I'd rather die trying than continue living here." She told him.

They said their goodbyes to Sarah and drove into the night. They had no money to pay the clandestine groups operating to remove British citizens to places like Syria and Libya, where they could live in peace. They would have to appeal to the benevolence of one of the few resistance groups still in operation that took it upon themselves to rescue people from the curse of Britain. The resistance had a panoply of scalps to its name, helping many liberals and intellectuals flee to continue their work in far-flung corners of the globe.

Following a series of fortunate circumstances that meant making contact was by far the easiest part of this story, they were taken to its headquarters just outside Dover from where it ran voyages across the Post Disattachment Straits.

There was not a dry eye in the house as the tale was told, Ed having to stop to cough little globules of blood into his last remaining handkerchief as his body continued not to allow him to forget that fateful afternoon. There was no doubt that they would be taken away from the United Kingdom, well, there was one doubt.

"Are you on the default list?" The Head of Operations asked Ed.

"What does that mean?" Ed responded.

"If you have suffered a foreclosure of a loan issued as part of a Last Contact During Tragedy Act event, then you will have been treated with a substance that potentially makes you allergic to saltwater, a clever means of preventing people from escaping by sea. Once you come into contact with saltwater, it is basically as if sulphuric acid had been thrown over you. Even minor doses in the air can be fatal and incredibly painful as it burns through your lungs and outwards. We have to get you back inland so we can arrange an airlift. Be patient, in France we can have the treatment reversed. The weather is on the turn, so we have to head back quick." Came the explanation.

Kate and Ed looked at each other and tried to muster the energy to be disappointed once more. As they were taken outside for transportation (the good sort), the waves began to climb higher and higher. They were told to run for it. Ed took Tim in his arms and rushed towards the hill at the top of the road, but the wave was faster than them and knocked them off their feet.

The three of them lay on the ground as Ed lost his grip on Tim. The child turned around to look at his parents as he caught them writhing in agony. The Head of the Resistance asked Tim if he felt any pain and he said he didn't. That meant Tim had not been treated. "Don't look at them!" He was told as his parents screams were muffled by the acid eating away at their tongues and throats. Tim was shielded from the ghastly sight unfurling and taken towards the boat. "You will be looked after. There is nothing left for you here now. Don't make their deaths worthless. Things will get better." He was told. In the distance he could see them covering the smoking bodies of his parents as the rope was untied to set the boat to sail. All he could see was the black distance as he was informed that he was sailing towards some semblance of freedom in Syria.

#  Twelve seconds

This was my routine. I mark out my path. Like for like. Tomorrow, this will be for real. Everything will be repeated to perfection, I even have my revolver with me, loaded and primed to take out my target. I'm a killer. It almost loses its meaning when you say it like that but that's my job and that's how I make somewhat ridiculous amounts of money. I don't kill just anyone, so you can take that look off your face before you start. I do thorough background checks on my mortal clients and only take on a task if I am sure the person soon to be departed has outstayed their welcome.

I know where they will be tomorrow at exactly this time, and will have, according to my meticulous calculations, twelve seconds to eliminate them. This routine is unnecessary, but it has become part of my murderous make-up. My gun is in my left pocket, for the real job it will be in the right, so when I reach the spot, I extract my phone and take a photo of the square.

Some kind of rap concert is taking place. Dreadful summer events with people enjoying themselves and ruining it for everyone else. Then I see him, gosh he is clumsy. He is a killer, but not a killer like me. He is a bad killer, and up to very little good. I can see from here he is wearing a vest, remember when vests were unpleasant things old men wore who hummed? Well this was something quite different. This kind of vest would make even less friends. I put my phone back in my pocket and changed hands.

These were now my twelve seconds. The clock was ticking. He hadn't seen me. The Dickens with this, I will be a bally hero. I pull out my gun and hear the bang. That is that. Now, there would be some explaining to do.

Thankfully, he fell to the ground and dropped the detonator. My first reaction was that shooting him would merely involve a double death. When it was clearly visible that my endeavours had been for the greater good, the applause rang out.

"Are you injured?" A police officer asked me. She was a lady, but I was not sure whether describing her as such would be an affront.

"I'm fine." I said. Like I killed people every day of the week.

"You understand that you will have to come with us to the station. Purely routine, but there will be some paperwork to complete." She smiled.

"Of course." I responded, not thinking about the amount of questions that could be coming in my direction.

"Would you like to say something to press before you come with us. It's sort of breaking with protocol but I'd say you deserve it." She said. I was taking quite a liking to this lady.

Thinking that I should enjoy my fifteen minutes, I beckoned the newshounds over.

The questions came thick and fast. I gave them my real name. First mistake. Actually, the first mistake was shooting the terrorist, technically. But I took them in my stride, and they seemed delighted to have a happy ending rather than a bomb killing loads of innocent people. Maybe that would save me.

I was told that that was enough and escorted into a police car. Fourteen years a killer, and this was my first ride with the cops. They kept making a big deal about this being a formality and that I was not being treated with any disrespect. I thought to myself 'don't check out my LinkedIn, guys!'

I was taken to a room and asked if I wanted coffee and the like. They came back with chocolate digestives. Rolling news was on in the background and I was all over it. Perhaps this could cause me more issues than I had envisaged.

Four obvious bigwigs came into the room and they all shook my hand profusely. They said they didn't have the words to express their gratitude and proceeded to spend eleven dull minutes bombarding with collections of letters that could well be described as words.

My main concern now was getting out of here before the questions came at me. Actually, only one question concerned me. Why were you carrying a gun? A question I could only give one answer to, and that I could not give.

Some lesser mortal police officers then entered and assured me that I would be on my way in the briefest of junctures. They just had one question.

"Why were you carrying a gun?" The first officer asked.

"I'm sorry." Was my pathetic response.

"I think you heard the question." The second officer added.

"Oh, that. Yeah. I know I shouldn't carry it. I'm into hunting, but hey, as the press have said. Lucky I did. Right?" Did I really think they would buy that?

"Well, the thing is that the type of weapon you were carrying is not particularly popular with hunters. Yet, it is with whoever perpetrated this curious selection of unsolved murders. All of them were killed with munition compatible with this rather special EX KGB piece. Would you like to comment on this?" Officer one smiled.

"Well, how about this tack? They were all cunts who deserved it, and thanks to my swift actions hundreds of innocent people who didn't deserve it are still alive. Let's call it quits?" Would that count as a confession?

"It doesn't really work like that though. While your actions today have undoubtedly been heroic, that does not afford you the right to go knocking people off willy-nilly because you do not approve of their actions." Officer two said.

"Willy-nilly, no. For money. Surely, we can reach some sort of deal? Think of the negative publicity for the police. People love me now. Look at the news." I said.

They looked at the TV and it showed spontaneous marches from all over the country, eulogising my actions, suggesting I be knighted and given one million pounds. "You really want to send me down for a couple of misdemeanours?" Was my plea.

"Murders, not misdemeanours. And it's seventeen, that we know of." Said Officer one.

"There is only one way to find out." Said Officer two, extracting his phone and typing something. Then they both left, and another goon cuffed me to the seat.

I was left alone with the rolling news. They turned the sound up. The word 'BREAKING' appeared on the screen, followed by "Bomb thwart hero really contract killer'.

"How fucking sporting." I mouthed to them through the window and watched my good work turn to nothing just because I killed a few people. Brilliant. Suddenly, I was the bad guy. The people at the marches stopped chanting my name and called for me to be sent to the gallows (nice temporal political awareness guys). I read the dossiers on those guys, they may have seemed like the charming Member of Parliament for Solihull and the hard-working CEO of that charity, but the truth was something else. Within twenty minutes, one talking head on the news suggested that it might have been better that I had not turned up where I did. I was led off to what I assumed would be somewhere less comfortable then the abode of a gentlemen with a knighthood and a million quid. I made a mental note never to be a world-saving hero ever again, even though the opportunities for the same would now appear to be greatly reduced; and awaited my fate.

As I am taken into my cell, one of the officers whispered to me "if it was up to me, you'd be home now son, but, it's not." And with that, the door behind me gave a loud clunk.

I awoke on the floor, a paramedic giving me CPR and forcing life back into me. Around me, pandemonium, bodies lay strewn on the ground, screams came from every angle, intermingled with sirens. I instinctively reached inside my jacket to make sure my gun was still there, worryingly pleased to stroke the piece. The paramedic asked if I was OK as she had other people to attend to. I told her I would be once I got the air in my lungs. I made my way to my feet and hobbled slowly to the riverbank, there were so many people milling about with great haste that nobody was going to pay any attention to me. Making sure there was sufficient depth by chucking my phone in, I got rid of my beloved weapon and headed home. I might not have prevented a massacre, but I still had a profession, so, every cloud.

#  Waterloo Sunset

London, 1969.

Jeremy sat at his desk and looked out over the ever-burgeoning London skyline. To the east, he could still make out the parts where the city left behind its metropolis urge to return to the terraced housing that saw his parents birth. But that view would not be there for much longer, soon to be swallowed by development as they buildings overtake the city. His dad never saw any of this, the war put pay to that. Jeremy, a child of 1940 as the result of a hurried final weekend in late 1939, only saw him once before he was sent back to form part of the Normandy landings' pilots. By the time he was old enough to remember his dad, the rest of the world had forgotten him and moved on.

Soon after the end of the war, there was only time to think about progress. Many families actually knew greater hunger than during the times of conflict, and as news trickled on, either veracious or false, of a German recovery, people often wondered who the real winners were. In East London it was not hard to tell it was the Americans, ration books still an everyday feature as black marketeers attained a foothold for the moment they could become legit. Jeremy's mother was a lady who turned heads, the sphere of the modern widow being a competitive one in a market for the remaining male attention, so often older or infirm. He hated his name, he wished he had been called Jack like his dad, what was with the desperate aspirational attempt to head towards a better life with a middle-class name when the pinnacle of his young dreams was just acquiring corned beef.

He allowed his head to be filled of the heroic acts of the fighter pilots. In all honesty, he did not know where the line between truth and reality blurred but was convinced that had his father not been snatched from him, their situation would have been vastly different. The hardest part for his mother was the expectation that she could just shift from war mode to peace mode, the latter meaning increased financial hardship or reduced moral standing. She fought the temptation to give in for a while, but hunger hurts more than pride, and young Jeremy needed guidance.

Thus, there was a hole in his heart and his house that he was forever trying to fill. His mother strove to continue but soon the plaudits shifted from hero's widow to wanton hussy as she sought to find a life for herself in post-war London. Did the Germans shoot two people down in that plane? Just because her husband was lost, did that mean the end for her life too? She was expected to wear black like some macabre Lorca play, never being free of the terms the state placed on her, Mrs Jack Thompson. She wanted to be called by her own name in an official letter just once. She never was, no letter ever arrived with her name on it. So much so that years later, Jeremy actually had to force himself to remember her given name, he never recalled anyone using it in his presence.

"There is a future waiting for us, Jeremy." She would tell him as she huddled closer to him on cold nights. It sounded comforting at the time, as he always assumed it meant an immediate and good future.

When she began in the company of what his family would call a spiv, she looked older than her actual accumulation of solar cycles due to lack of nourishment and the constant fear of becoming homeless, while ridiculing the word home with their dwelling. A bit of attention and a glass of something, and yes, she was smitten, but still had enough nouse to keep him at a distance.

His aim was to fatten her up and get her at her 'working weight' as he called it. "You look like you just stepped out of the gas chamber." He laughed. That turned her stomach, despite being one of his better gags. She formulated a plan in which she used him to improve her appearance and then find a job as a secretary or something and move up the ladder. His plans were quite different but when he realised his investment was not going to bear fruit, he passed her on to a 'colleague'. Her new beau was not so keen to allow for a grooming period and showed her his discontent at her refusal to perform the tasks that were asked of her.

Ironically, she had managed to avoid entering into the act itself, though had been tried and found guilty on numerous occasions by the local residents' association for her crimes against morality. She removed all the mirrors from their hovel as she knew the route she was taking and no longer wished to look at herself. Her only joy was Jeremy, the only person that she laughed with, the only smile that was ever sent her way without expecting anything in return. And yet by the time Jeremy was eight, he was an orphan. His mother had fallen foul of the attentions of an unsavoury character who aimed to capitalise on her athletic appearance for financial gain. She was prepared to accompany friends of this fellow on engagements, but under her terms, no more. Her eyes did not see the same as these 'clients' and one took particular Umbridge at being overlooked. Whether his intention when he pushed her was for her to fall down the stairs is unknown, but fall she did, and it was a fall from which she would never rise. They said she was rotten from the inside out. They said lots of things and Jeremy heard them all time and time again when he was shipped to live with his aunt in Pembrokeshire.

Both his mother and his father's last words were "be a good boy, Jeremy." He wondered what the point was in that since it had not served either of them.

Jeremy awaited the arrival of his aunt after sitting at the kitchen table for nearly two days, the time that had elapsed between his mother departing and his aunt arriving. There had been a knock at the door, but he had always been told not to open the door if he was only on his own, so acting as quietly as he could, he waited until the policeman left. And waited more. His aunt was only allowed in after verifying her identification. Jeremy thought this a pointless exercise as he had never seen the woman before, nor were there any photos of her at home. She could be anyone, but she seemed to know enough to warrant entry. He was told to gather together his belongings, he did, and she asked him if he had understood, he said he had and that this was everything.

"You are to come with me, where you will live and have a good life. You will be provided for." She told Jeremy, making him feel like even more of a disturbance.

They left together and took a room at a hotel next to Paddington with the intention of taking the train the next day. In the meantime, she took the boy to an outfitter's so that he would not look like some Dickensian leftover. Jeremy was immediately fearful of this woman and kept seeing Dorothy's aunt every time she appeared. He finally plucked up the courage to ask when his mother would be joining them and she said 'soon, dear.' He hadn't expected the word 'dear' at the end. It humanised her and at the same time made him miss his mother more. He heard her crying at night as she tried to sleep, he wanted to comfort her but had never been in such a comfortable bed and had no powers to leave it, it consumed him, and he slept.

His mother was not even given a proper funeral and Jeremy learnt of the true scenario on that train to Cardiff. The police took advantage of the unfortunate push to close the case on a series of prostitute murders baffling the capital meaning that a horny mechanic with a short temper was hanged for an act of the God who had abandoned him. In the pub next to Scotland Yard, the officers and detectives patted themselves on the back over many 'Double Diamonds' with something on the side.

That part of London had seen the demise of four ladies of the night in as many weeks. At first, the police had no leads as it seemed every time a shred of evidence appeared, some administrative error occurred that made it disappear equally swiftly, or witnesses had a collective onset of amnesia regarding certain topics. With pressure from upstairs to bring this to a closure due to money being withheld from pimps for protection that was clearly not being offered, the police stepped up their inquiries in the hope that the perpetrator would slip up. He soon did, but it was not going to provide closure to this matter without leading to a much more serious one. It was a Minister, no less, who took out his frustration from a hard day at the Commons by slicing up some commons. When Jeremy's mother's accident came in the next day, those privy to this information jumped at the chance and the Minister resigned citing personal reasons and was never heard of again. Whether he committed another crime is not known. He certainly did not in the capital and that was seen as a victory for the Yard.

Hundreds of miles away on the west coast of Wales, the funny boy from London tried to fit into life in the idyllic village. At first, the space seemed to crowd him as he actually missed the squalid conditions he was used to, but as time went by, he took a liking to his new surroundings and realised he was fortunate to spend his childhood there. By the time he was ten, he had almost forgotten London, it held no charm for a young boy surrounded by fields and the sea. The house was always warm in winter, and in summer he tried ice-cream for the first time. Yes, his aunt was not the loving creature that had given birth to him, and she made sure all his actions were as far removed from her as they could be, but she was not a witch and had his own best interests at heart. At the time, he wondered why she did not have children of her own, given that she was such an effective mother by proxy, only discovering close to the end that she had once given birth, a still birth, that almost took her with the baby, the doctors told her that there would never be another chance, and there never was, until Jeremy.

"You're my baby boy, now." She would say after a glass of sherry, the pair looking out over the coastline.

His aunt had spent years overcoming grief on her own to get into a place where she could manage being. When Jeremy entered her life, this brought everything back, her child, they never even told her if it was a boy or a girl, was born just seven days before Jeremy. She wanted to love her like he was her own, but every day he reminded her of what had been taken from her.

Jeremy was not a bad teenager per se. No worse than what any of the mothers had to put up with, quite often a lot less. He was generally helpful and obedient, but at thirteen their interests began to diverge, in the sense the route that she had been guiding him down now presented a bifurcation with other types of music offering themselves. His aunt had been distraught by the death of Kathleen Ferrier in 1953 and endlessly played her 78s to drown her sorrows. She could not begin to fathom the music favoured by Jeremy who took his uncle's guitar and learnt the chords to 'Your Cheatin' Heart' by Hank Williams. If that was not bad enough, his entire departure from good 'Christian' music was confirmed by the appearance of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.

"Let's see what you can do with it then." His uncle told him when he was discovered 'in flagrante'. He excepted his uncle to be angry but he just added: "Don't let your aunt twig on." while laughing and joining in for the chorus.

Thus, his uncle secretly nurtured this new interest, acquiring the partitures for songs rarely heard in the cities, let alone in their part of the country. Jeremy did not exactly have a talent for music but enjoyed it. When his aunt discovered this, her first instinct was to be angry at the pair, but that turned to jealously as she saw what they had. After a while, the jealousy gave way to a begrudging admiration, which eventually became sing-a-longs.

Jeremy experienced something similar to his aunt's grief when Charlie Parker left him. Then he heard Chuck Berry and decided that jazz had had its time. She watched him play, becoming frustrated with himself as his taste outstripped his talent, wondering how far his dreams would take him, Llanelli? Swansea? Cardiff itself? It was soon clear that the answer was as far as the train line went, leading him back to Paddington.

At Christmas 1956, she told him that she had not been honest with him about his mother, painting her as the villain of the piece. She was no saint, but she had been born in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were two reasons for this change of tack, firstly, it was becoming evident that sooner or later he would seek out the truth, so it was best it came from her. Plus, his aunt had been born seventeen years before Jeremy's mother and her pregnancy at forty-two had been something of a mystery, not unlike her own mother when she gave birth two Jeremy's father when his sister already received the right to vote. His aunt was approaching sixty and feeling the ravages of time. Jeremy promised he would not leave them, but as he watched the doctor's car pull out of the drive time and time again, he knew it was not he who would be leaving first.

His aunt leaned over the turkey she was basting and called Jeremy over, notably in pain to tell him: "I hope I have done good by you. It was hard for me at the start, I know it was hard for you. I'm proud of you, Jeremy and hope you have the life you deserve. I have no complaints. You came to me late in life, initially I was reticent to let you into my life, you were already made, you were your mother's boy all right. I fought that for a while, until I realised I was fighting myself. Now help me with the stuffing and hurry your uncle up." She told him as he left the kitchen.

It was not until he was seventeen that he received any contact from his mother's side. By that time, he had ingested all of the tales and heard them so many times that they had practically become fact to him. He received a letter on his birthday that contained a card, it had been sent by a cousin of his mother. For some reason, despite the opening up of relations with his aunt, he felt the need to hide it to prevent confiscation. Once, he felt it could be safely opened, he read the letter. The cousin included a poem, written by his mother that formed part of a collection that she hoped to have published. Jeremy had never taken an interest in poetry before, besides music, little interest he had shown in anything, but these words flew off the page. He could not believe that his own mother had created this and wondered whether some of her gift had been passed on to him.

His uncle sensed something was up and gave him a solid piece of advice: "If you can't work out where your thoughts are going, put them to music." He said, squeezing up next to Jeremy on the piano stool. Jeremy tried to follow this advice but still needed more answers.

He wandered down to the local library and sat at the big tables with a book on the theory of poetry. If he had experienced magic when he read his mother's words, this magic soon dissipated as the thoughts of theoreticians set about assassinating poor magic. He had a distraught look on his face. If he had the gift inside him, he would need to know how to use it, yet he knew nothing of poetry. He tried to scribble together something resembling a poem and compared it to the words his mother had created. It was a poor second; realising he had no gift, he set about having the most miserable life in the history of humanity.

An old man on the next table saw his plight. "You cannot learn poetry. Well, that's not completely true, you can learn it but the only point of learning that theory is if you have nothing to write about. If you have it, find your voice. It's not like a hot water tap, you can't switch it on every time you want a bath. Find your voice." The old man said smiling.

"But how?" Asked Jeremy.

"Well, if I knew that I would be on the fucking telly not babbling in a provincial library, wouldn't I?" He said, taking his hat and his leave at the same time.

He thought about that phrase along the walk home, only shifting them when he saw the doctor's car again, and an ambulance. He rushed inside expecting something like a fall to have befallen his aunt, but she sat in her chair, pale, as if she had seen a ghost. He looked up as they removed the ghost on a covered stretcher. Instantly he knew and felt the pain he had missed out on with his mother.

For a while, Jeremy stopped even listening to music, asking people to turn off radios in public. For an even longer while, he never picked up a guitar or sat at the piano again. Even songs that had been written after his uncle's death conspired to remind him of him. His aunt became more and more frail as the weeks passed and realising that she had little left to do, she told Jeremy to be whatever he wanted.

"Don't feel like you have to stay here, Jeremy, but don't ever feel like you have to pretend you are not from here. Take a little piece of where you were raised wherever you go." Was one of her typical utterances in the final months.

His uncle died in January, with his aunt following him just eight weeks later, with Jeremy scheduled to take his 'A' levels a year early. Organising two funerals in three months was not an ideal revision plan, but he passed two and decided to resit them at a leisurely pace in London. As soon as he had taken his last exam, he officially got the house. Offering help in the form of intervention, a local lawyer took charge of the paperwork for a quick sale, to him, and the seafront property would three years later be converted into a lavish B&B. Jeremy didn't care too much. He had thousands and thousands in the bank and was heading towards the rest of his mother's poetry.

He would now have the funds to publish the works himself, still convinced that none of her talent had been passed on to him, and unaware of the quality of the rest of her oeuvre. On the train to Paddington, he feared that maybe his response to the poem was simply because he knew it was his mother. What if nobody else felt the same? What did he know about poetry after all? His interpretation was that of a mere amateur. The more he read it, the less he understood it, the words eventually taking on a senseless nature as the landscape shifted from non-descript to urban sprawl.

As he disembarked at Paddington, his provincial mind realised it had made now allowances for the sheer size of London. He may have felt like a pretty cool muso in the Welsh village but on the mean streets of the capital, people could see right through him before he even got on the bus. First off, he had no idea what to ask for. The only time he had taken a bus was with his aunt, to Swansea, and she paid the fare. He let the first bus go past because he was too embarrassed to ask. He turned to an information desk inside the station and asked how to get to "Wimbledon bus station in the Borough of Merton." He tried so hard to say it like someone who had a clue what he was talking about but must have sounded like he was from Mars to the guy on the desk. He now had to telephone the house of his mother's cousin and tell them in about forty-five minutes he would be there.

He looked at the public telephone. When he was in Wales, people just had numbers like 28, the butcher's, 102 his aunt's friend Gladys. Now there was a plethora of numbers. He dialled all the numbers he had been given, including the 01 prefix and got nowhere. Then he decided, looking stupid in a village in Pembrokeshire was a big deal as everyone would know in five minutes, doing it in London with however many millions of people were there meant he would probably never see the person again. He asked three people who all ignored him or acted like he wished to extract their hearts from them while alive. The fourth person he asked was a bobby, who, true to form, unravelled the mysteries of the telephone system to him. He thought it was quite a shame that he would never see this person again after all that. He spoke to his mother's cousin and made his way to the bus stop. "Piece of cake." He thought to himself as he took the number 36. It was good fortune that he overheard someone and realised he was on the right bus in the wrong direction. Alighting at the first stop, he made his way back to Paddington and then asked everyone in the city, twice.

When he disembarked in Wimbledon his expectations were further shattered. He did not know what to expect, but somehow imagined London, what he knew of it, would simply stop and turn into several versions of the village he knew. His first shock was the cosmopolitan nature of the place, inevitably, this introduction to several cultures cohabiting in the same place instilled his teenage body with distrust. He had only ever seen Welsh people and English tourists were the only outsiders he had had to deal with. Now he realised that he was the outsider, and yet he was the one looking at them, almost aghast as they went about their business.

It did not take long for his mother's cousin to recognise him. You can see lots of odd people in London on any given day, but Jeremy had a simple oddness about him that transcended the others around him. He was from Wales but could easily have been from outer space. She walked over to him resolutely before he could be abducted by other aliens and introduced herself. They walked the fifteen-minute journey to her abode almost in silence as Jeremy felt the need to stare open-mouthed at every single door, wall, lamppost and person.

He barely glanced at his mother's cousin, he wondered what that made her to him, as he entered the house and began ransacking it to find the poems. She told him that they were on the table waiting for him. He read them once all the way through, barely looking up from the text as he eagerly consumed the works. Unsure as to whether he had truly enbibed the meaning, he repeated the task while his mother's cousin slowly lost the battle against tiredness in the comfy chair. Upon his second completion of the volume, he claimed to have understood everything and decided that from this day on, his birthday would change. He had never felt so alive, drinking in with delight every word, though soon his joy would disappear and was overcome with a sense of foreboding.

His second cousin said that she felt the same when she read them. Post-orgasmic was the term she used. Jeremy extracted his dictionary and concurred after a quick leafing. "You need your muse." She told him. "I never found mine."

"How do I go about that?" Jeremy asked. "How can I possibly find a muse in this place with millions and millions of people? It would take forever. What I am supposed to do, individually look for each one? Interview them? What did you do to find yours, Maureen?" He asked pleadingly.

"Maybe I didn't do enough. Maybe I didn't give them a good enough chance, but I always felt that if it was the muse, I would know, and I never knew. Your mother knew, I saw that in her. Of course, at first, I was just a kid, three years younger than her and I thought she was from some faraway place. Even then, I was in awe of her and wanted to be her with every aching bone in body. She wrote in secret, your grandparents did not approve of that sort of enterprise for a woman, and yet hypocritically allowed her brother, your uncle, who you never met, join a jazz band and fritter his life away to heroin. She hid the poems in a hollow by the fireplace; at first, she didn't know I knew about them, but I would take risks to sneak into the house and read them. They were like a drug, pure fulfilment. I tried to urge her to write more, in a way that did not reveal that I knew she was writing, but every word that came out her seemed to leave her weakened. When she finished a poem, she would spend days in a fever-like trance. It seemed that it was her life, though that it could kill her at the same time.

Once, when she wrote the poem I sent you, she was so bad that she fell out of consciousness. I sat by her side; she had only just met your father at that time and held her hand as she recovered. I decided I had to tell her that I knew, however angry or embarrassed that would make her. When she discovered that I had unearthed her secret she seemed relieved. She made me promise that I would try to continue her work, she assured me that we all had the gift.

As the years went by, she wrote less and less, she had enough for a volume but put all her energies into raising you, which with the war on, was something of an arduous task. The works were safe, but it was never the time to continue. Then the time ended with her accident. I don't know how much you know about your mother but she was not a harlot, lots of people did things much worse and were never called a name, she was unlucky, dreadfully unlucky, and paid with her life, the world losing out more than it could ever know." Maureen concluded, with tears in her eyes.

"So why did you not publish what she had left?" Jeremy asked.

"I thought about it, but it scared me. The more I tried to find my own muse and continue her work, the more I feared being outed as a fraud. I sought out the way to publish under a false name but never went through with it. It somehow didn't feel right. So, I decided to wait until you were over sixteen and maybe thrust the burden onto you. Sorry." She continued.

Unaware of how to find a friend or even a lover in the big city, he set about finding two things, a muse and an authoress. The authoress was not necessarily required to be any more living than the actual creator of the works. All he needed was someone under whose name he could publish the first volume while the former inspired him towards a second collection. He wondered whether, during the creation process, he would also have to endure the same physical agony in the furtherance of art. He sincerely hoped not, this year had been tough enough on him as it was, he did not fancy having to undergo poetry induced trances involving spasms and near-death experiences.

The obvious choice for the ruse would have been Maureen. However, Maureen was afflicted by a terrible condition that made her wholly unsuitable for the post; she was honest. At least, she was honest enough to consider her performance in the charade immoral, later time would prove that her honesty did not stretch to refusing to accept any of the ill-gotten gains from the venture. In the meantime, Maureen tried to hook Jeremy up with someone who could pose as his mother, within reason, in the eyes of an editor, with Jeremy himself acting as her agent.

Ines was an opium fiend whose parents had escaped Venezuela in the mid 1930s. She was so delightfully removed from real life that it made her the perfect candidate to be Jemima. Jeremy began putting the final touches to the manuscript and prepping Ines. They were very fortunate to find a publisher who was both successful, but, also tired of having to deal with a surge in pretentious writers demanding they be treated like royalty, the idea of a semi-autistic and severely shy poet appealed to him, sensing the chance to capitalise on her mystique. Who is Jemima? The public would ask. Only her poems could tell you that.

"There is more?" The editor asked.

"There will be." Jeremy lied.

With that, Jeremy began a quest to ensnare a woman who resembled his mother, in the hope that through her itinerant soul, the magic could be passed on to him. The publication of the first volume was released to the sound of a ripple in October 1960. It was issued by the same publishing house who were dealing with the newly arrived Ted Hughes and his poet wife, and the editors deemed a meeting of minds between Sylvia and Jemima might lead to further creative outpouring. The former would later claim to have never been so disappointed in her life when she first encountered the fledgling British writer, even for someone as perturbed as Plath, it was difficult for her to envisage Jemima as the true composer of these works. The lack of progress towards a second collection also meant questions were appearing on the veracity of Jemima. Jeremy up his quest yet remained no closer was he to finding his muse or writing a single stanza of the second volume.

Then she appeared. Propping up a bar in the East End. Jeremy did not believe in reincarnation until this moment. She needed little convincing to have a drink with him, then another. One of his mother's poems mentioned Waterloo bridge, and with her half-cut, he took her down there with his note pad. He sat with her on a couple of deck chairs that he had procured and waited for the words to flow.

Still nothing flowed. He got her to read the poems aloud, but his powers could not be invoked. He told her to wait where she was as he would obtain another bottle of sherry for her in the hope that might kick-start the poetry revolution into gear. London was not famed for earthquakes, even tremors were rarely heard of, but as Jeremy handed over his money for the libations, the earth moved, not in the way that he had hoped, and everyone adopted a rather silly look, should it prove to be their last. Seconds later, everything retuned back to normal and Jeremy set about finding his muse, who he was sure would probably have absconded by now after the sobering experience.

As he descended the steps, he could see the outline of her flowery skirt fluttering in the evening wind, her long hair creeping out into view. Holding the bottle up so that it would be the first thing she saw, he apologised for taking so long and passed the thing to her. She did not respond. Jeremy continued to look at her legs despite attempting to communicate with her mouth. Then his gaze turned upwards and saw her properly. The tremor had dislodged a stone from the ancient bridge that had landed right in the middle of her forehead. Unfortunate, real fate business, she was not meant to be there, and he had taken her there. If he hadn't been so concerned about the setback to volume two, he would have felt quite sorry for her. What he did know was that this was not an ideal scene, and his presence in it could be quite bothersome.

He set about gathering his things when he became transfixed by the trickle of blood slowly making its way down her body, over the chair and onto the pebbled ground below. As the pool became larger, the blood made its way into the Thames, then Jeremy felt something that he had never experienced in his life. He could not remember when exactly he took the pen in his hand but by the time he realised, he had written two poems. When he read them back, he felt physically sick and vomited. Not the response he had hoped to instil in the reader, but on the second attempt, he realised they were of the standard. He took a swig of the sherry and came up with another three. Five poems in a single sitting; he was pleased, but exhausted. There was no way he could do them all now and did not want to kill someone who looked like his mother every time he wanted to write.

Now thoroughly spent for the evening. He cleared a space in the rough to hide her body and returned home. Sleeping like he never had before, he reappeared in the evening with a new hat that he had purchased for his lady friend and began to write. He poured her a drink and asked her opinion on the works. He assumed that her silence was indicative of her approval and continued. This process continued for the next three nights, by which time he had amassed forty-seven poems for the collection.

Maureen began the task of transcribing the works and passing them on to his/her/their remarkably impressed editor. She asked how many poems would be needed and was told if they went down the illustration accompaniment boulevard, seventy would be more than enough for now. The reading public was desperate for the second volume . Jeremy, reluctantly returned for three further evenings to enjoy the sunset and write in the company of his muse, churning out poem after poem, heading towards the completion of the volume. After a week, the stench of the decaying wench almost threatened to overcome him as he hurtled towards the last three poems.

As he corrected the punctuation for the last poems, her rapidly decomposing body omitting vile odours that could potentially denounce him, he decided that she be sent into the Thames. Weighing her pockets down with stones, he watched as night fell on the capital and she sunk into the filthy river.

He read a selection of his favourites to her as the last of the bubbles disappeared from the surface and he was without muse. Advance sales suggested an initial run hitherto unheard of for a modern poet. Jemima was already featuring on "O" Level syllabuses throughout the land, with the Joint Matriculation Board spearheading her appearance. Jemima made a frightful television appearance during what could not have been far from an overdose and took time off due to the enormous stress of the creation process.

The second volume led to a poetry revival in the UK that would last almost a decade. The team worked well in tandem, Jemima actively enjoying the role of tortured poetess into the bargain. Her enigma threatened to sell more copy that then the actual poems that she had never even read, let alone written. Jeremy did not trust his creation and feared that one day their ruse would be up. He listed his actions since arriving in London and came to the sound realisation that despite creating an imposter to publish his dead mother's works, lying to publishing houses, the national press and television, finding a muse who he accidentally killed and remaining with the decomposing corpse until the work was finished and then continuing the charade while he watched Jemima become the doyen of the gossip section, he had not actually committed any crime. This was a major relief to him, but despite his millions, he could not simply remove Jemima from the state-of-play.

In 1965, now two years after the publication of the second volume and without a single verse leaving her, she announced her retirement. The entire western world was understandably devastated, almost as much now for her persona as her poetry, yet academics still maintained that the latter was the highlight on the century by some distance. Everyone wanted to meet her, the Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys and not least, Timothy Leary. Jeremy saw an opportunity with LSD and counterculture to remove Jemima while not tarnishing her reputation, any more that is, and maybe even enhancing it as a tortured poet.

After the meeting, Jemima was invited to attend an event that was disguised as a mind-enhancing experience, but in real terms was just a sex and drugs free-for-all. He knew that she would not be able to resist the most fashionable craze of the moment and set about a plan to trick her into a lethal dose that would, as his readings had informed him, not kill her, but fry her brain to such an extent that if she ever mumbled a coherent sentence again, let alone the truth about their venture, she would be given some more sedatives and pushed round the grounds in her chair.

No restrictions were in place in the VIP area, but people were told of the dangerous nature of the narcotic. This information was either taken on hand to the extent that some decided they would prefer a glass of sherry, or others, like Jemima, decided the announcement was a sort of challenge. For some reason, a bitter contemporary of Jemima, we will never know if she was coaxed by Jeremy or not, teased her and said "I bet you can't take four at once!" Four would have been a highly dangerous dosage for a novice under any circumstances, but Jemima duly obliged by laughing "Four? Give me twelve." Someone from across the room heard this folly and tried to rush over to her before she could ingest the product, but to no avail. The process could not be reversed. Jemima's final lucid, relatively, half hour passed, and the organisers panicked. They took her into Richmond Park and called Jeremy.

This gave Jeremy the opportunity to look like a hero, rescuing her from these awful people, who, somewhat the worse for wear aimed to head back to San Francisco. He could have had them stopped at the airport but chose to take her to hospital and wait a day before informing the police about what had happened. By this time, everyone was back home and the doctors' only consolation was the offer to make her as comfortable as possible.

Inevitably, the demise of Jemima led to another upsurge in her sales. Jeremy hurriedly put together the scraps of bits that were not chosen for volumes I and II and padded it out with some anecdotes and hitherto unseen photographs. The final collection, despite the world knowing it was a step down in quality, was snapped up and outsold the second best-selling book of the year by almost three to one. Jeremy also decided to retire from public life and invest his money wisely.

Of course, the world thought it would never recover from the loss of Jemima, but summer 1967 was the ideal homage to her. The world moved on, as it always does, finding new things to obsess over and Jemima was relegated to the annals of history. Jeremy visited her for a while, wondering whether he should feel guilty about her confinement, but then convinced himself that he had given her so much in those years that she could never have aspired to otherwise, that she should be grateful to him. The visits stopped soon after, a clause in her contract paying her a weekly allowance which was now used to cover the expenses of her medical care. Jeremy donated the revenue from the first volume for 1967 to the healthcare facility and with that enjoyed a wholly cleansed conscience.

As the sixties drew to a close, Jeremy and Jemima's venture only appeared in the news when end-of-year lists were published that showed her still in the public's favour. Maureen and Jeremy went their separate ways even before Jemima was interned. They made a pact never to talk about the matter again and kept it by never talking about any other matter ever again.

In a classroom in the North of England, a bored child listened to the English teacher's dull rendition of a poem. If there was one thing he did not like it was English class, and the worst thing about English class was the teacher reading poetry. The voices she put on, pretending she could fly across the classroom. The longest hour of the day. No poem would ever speak to him in the way that it spoke to her, none of the kids would feel this way, why could she not just tell them the answers and move on? But no, on she went with her rhymes and metrics, convinced that there was something beyond this randomly assorted cluster of words.

The boy, Kenneth, was almost asleep when he heard words that stirred him. He interrupted the teacher to say: "I've heard that before." He began. "When we lived in London, I was only six but can still remember the couple who wrote it, under the bridge."

"What are you talking about? What couple? This is the work of Jemima, I know you don't follow my classes very closely but please tell me you know who she is, at least." The teacher responded in amazement.

"Name rings a bell." Kenneth said.

"We'll talk about this after school." The teacher responded.

A detention was hastily arranged. The teacher being convinced that this boy, this urchin she considered almost illiterate, may have been close to Jemima when she wrote that poem. She produced a photo of the artist and began her interrogation.

"This was the woman you saw?" She asked. "But you say it was a couple. Maybe she was with this man?" She showed him a picture of Jemima and Jeremy together at a book launch.

"I was a kid maybe, maybe seven, I can't really remember that far back, but I will never forget the words." He responded.

"Please try. I am writing a book on Jemima and this information could be priceless." She begged him.

He looked closer. "He was there. I am sure of that. But he was not with this woman. The woman he was with said very little and had very long hair. I remember her hair as I was peering over the bridge so that they couldn't see me. Then she got up to take a bottle and I shot back. Through the gaps in the structure, does that thing have a name, I caught a proper glimpse of her. It is coming back to me now. Heck, it seems so clear all of a sudden." He continued.

"Ledgers." She said, knowing that even if she was not right, he would never know.

"Sorry?" Kenneth said.

"The gaps. Hang on a moment. I have a biography of Jeremy in my office. I'll be right back." She left and returned with a hefty and unfriendly looking volume. After a few minutes furious searching she showed him a dated, black and white photograph. "Was it this woman you saw?" She asked.

He scrunched up his eyes as if that would make him see better, and after a long moment's deliberation he announced that it was her.

"That's incredible." She said. "In the actual sense of the word. As in it cannot be believed. That is his mother, she died when he was seven. The poems appeared more than a decade later. Take another look." She beseeched him.

He did and said: "This is so strange, but it is like I am there again with them. She does not move or speak. It is only him, the words come out of his mouth, not hers." Kenneth said, visibly shaken.

"What you have told me is very serious. Have you ever been hypnotised?" She asked, watching her career either end or begin.

"What's that?" Asked Kenneth and the teacher smiled.

The next evening, she organised a hypnotism session with a friend and her husband, a detective in the local police force. They explained that the process was very safe, and that Kenneth would be taken back to that day on the bridge. He seemed reticent at first, but when he was offered ten pounds, his fears soon abated.

The teacher's husband, the detective, thought this was quite a ridiculous charade and was angered at missing darts night at the local. The hypnotist counted the boy down and in a dreamlike slumber, his body shook as he returned to that fateful evening.

"I can see them." He said and was told to describe the scene. "The smell. Oh my god! The smell. I didn't know what it was then but now remember when a fox died in the garage when we had been on holiday, when we returned and opened the door, I was sick."

"Try to get closer, use your hand to cover your mouth." The teacher insisted as her husband looked at his watch.

"It's the woman from the photograph." He continued. "The mother? She is not moving and covered in blood. She has a wound to her head. I think she is dead. He is there, his mouth covered like mine. There are sheets of paper on the ground. The wind blows one towards me. I take it and read it."

In all your life there was no moon,

For want of a moon I did become loon,

Aside from grief there is no belief.

Kenneth's body began to move violently, and, not wanting to explain how one of her students had died on her couch, told the hypnotist to bring him back.

"Did I remember much?" Kenneth asked.

"Bits and bobs. I'll fill you in later." She said handing him the note and putting him in her husband's car for a lift home.

When her husband returned from darts, she explained the significance. "The lines he recited have never been published, they are in the notes to the biography which I managed to get hold of from the publishers as research. There is no way that he could have known them. It also means that Jemima was a fraud, a front. If Jeremy had written the poems, why did he publish them under the name of Jemima? What was the need for such pretence? You need to investigate." She told him.

"You are aware that in our trade there is an expression 'circumstantial evidence'. Another popular phrase is 'would not stand up in court'. While your story is indeed fascinating, there is nothing I can do. This crime would have taken place in London, not rural Yorkshire. I do not have any jurisdiction there. I am up for promotion, if I appear with this story I will be laughed out of town. I have nothing to go on here. I think you want to believe there is a story here more than there actually is." He responded, trying to look like he had not just destroyed her world.

"If you won't help me, I will investigate on my own. It's the start of the summer holidays tomorrow. My first point of call will be the bridge where Kenneth saw them. Do you think he would like to come with me?" She said.

"I will consent to this folly, but please do not add kidnapping to your CV. Just investigate. The minute it gets fishy, call me and I'll speak to someone I know at the MET, who will probably have me sectioned." He responded, feeling the need to score points.

"I love you." She said, and he smiled, knowing he had avoided the spare room.

The teacher, Gloria, arrived in London early. She knew where Jeremy's offices were but did not see the point in confronting him, just yet. He had evaded the law for around a decade so why should he fear a provincial English teacher? She thought to herself. "Because she knows the truth!" She said aloud without realising it and managed to make Londoners think she was odd in her first hour in the capital.

She found the bridge that Kenneth had told her about and began to investigate. She was an English teacher in a school twenty miles from Bradford, she had watched Perry Mason but that did not furnish her with the skills needed for this task. Why did nobody seek out the long-haired woman Kenneth had seen Jeremy with? Did no-one miss her? Could a person simply vanish in this city of millions and not a sole remembers them? She asked in a couple of shops. Everyone knew Jeremy, that was cheating, but none remembered the woman.

After crossing the bridge three times, she wondered if Kenneth had been playing along with her, telling her what she wanted to hear or making something up to mock her. Maybe if he had not recited the poem, she would never have embarked upon this quest. There was no way that he could know that verse, and it was clearly a sign. A deity with a twisted sense of humour, any old god could chuck in one of most famous stanzas, that would require no work, but that piece, literally the worst thing she, was it she? ever wrote.

She felt like she was getting nowhere, so decided to take a moment to herself in the drinking establishment across the road. The place was far removed from the local in her village, but she felt no fear as she entered. Taking a stool at the bar, she ordered a drink and asked the ageing barman if he recognised the woman.

"Now that is a blast from the past!" He laughed. "Thrown her out more times than I care to remember, then one day, she never set foot in the place again. The strangest thing." The man said.

"Did you ever see her with this man?" Gloria asked, seizing the moment to show him a picture of Jeremy in his early twenties.

"Sort of rings a bell, but you get a lot of people in here." He responded, trying to look sorry.

Gloria took out her purse and unfurled a note. "That wasn't the route I was going down, dear! Put your money away. I meant I genuinely don't remember. The last time I saw Lucy was what, seven years ago? Maybe more. To be honest, I was glad she was out my pub, a troubled soul, but she also attracted trouble. I tell you what though, if anything worth seeing happens in this place, Beryl will now about it. Buy her a port though." The barman said.

Beryl took her drink and looked at the photo. "Thought he was a kiddy-fiddler at first. She didn't seem his type, he had money, flashed it about too. She had been all around the houses, through the yards, out the back gates and back again. But when he saw her, it was like he had found the love of his life. They left and she was never seen in these parts again. He got her knocked up and eloped with him to Scotland, I heard. Turns out it didn't work out for them. Never saw him in here again." Beryl concluded.

"You know who he is? I mean, who he is now?" Gloria asked.

"The publisher guy. The guy with those poems and that loony." Beryl replied.

"Do you think this Lucy had something to do with the poems?" Gloria asked, again.

"I'd be surprised. She never had much to say for herself. Certainly could never say no. Talking of poetry, my glass is looking forlorn." Beryl said, gesturing to the bar.

Gloria got another round in and continued her conversation with Beryl, but the latter had exhausted her source of information on anything of interest and was now babbling about someone from somewhere who did something. Gloria did not wish to appear rude so listened for a short while more before thanking Beryl for her input.

That evening, Gloria phoned her husband Tom and told him her findings. He was not usually a man who acted on impulse but decided to take two days' leave and join her, arranging a meeting with his pal in the local force for the day after. "We don't have enough to take him down, but I reckon he is up to his neck in it." Tom said, talking like a policeman.

He arrived in London and Gloria met him at the station. Convinced that nobody would remember anything more than the barman or Beryl, they made the wise decision to confront Jeremy. This was the real reason Tom came down to, he was still far from convinced but knew that Gloria would tell him she had no intention of seeing him, then go to see him. Tom's input in the conversation would provide more insurance.

Gloria phoned and made the meeting with Jeremy. He would not see just anyone, but when she gave her name as Lucy from the Red Lion by Waterloo Bridge, his interest was aroused. They sat exchanging glances with his secretary while wondering whether he would be alone, accompanied by hitmen, lawyers, a big case of tenners aiming to buy her silence. What Tom did say before they went was that they weren't to break the law, too much.

"You know, for years now, every time the phone rings, every letter that comes in the post, every time I switch on the news, I half expect to encounter someone who has put two-and-two together. Ten years of Jemima has afforded me a life most people can only dream of given in their allotted amount of years. Can we assume here that you either a) do not have enough information to take this to the forces of law and order? or b) you are in the mood for some swindling?" Jeremy began.

"Our plan was to force you to confess. Now, thanks to your confession we don't have a plan. My husband is a police officer." Gloria said, asking herself why on Earth she threw in that last bit.

"Expectations mean I have been prepared for this moment for some time. If you do not have a set of conditions, may I propose the following: I know about your book so how about I give you the exclusive, my full and unabridged story, the truth behind Jemima, the truth about Lucy, the truth about the poems. Every last detail, it's all written down here, have a look at them and take them away, write your book. It will make you for life. In return, I ask you to wait twenty-four hours before handing over this second set of memoirs to the police, you hold on to the first ones and will have a story to shake the world. You will never hold a piece of chalk again. I have made arrangements for myself, and Maureen should she wish, to begin a new life far away from this and have the means never to be found. Or, you could do the decent thing and turn me in now.

Of course, without the memoirs, you would have to prove everything in court, and there would be a lot of publicity, your book would never be the same, and imagine if I got off. All you are doing is withholding the information on me for a day, by that time I will be long gone. It's a tricky one, I'll admit. But my way allows you to do the right thing and get your book. It's not like I killed anyone, as you will see." Jeremy said smiling.

"It's highly immoral." Said Tom, believing someone had yet to shout 'cut'.

"Yes, it is. It is the story of how I unscrupulously became who I am. Morals would seem superfluous in this situation." Jeremy responded.

"We would not get into trouble for taking so long to report you?" Gloria asked, by which time Tom knew she had made her decision.

"You take the memoirs away, start to the read them. The first part is deliberately dull, but you, a meticulous scholar, know you cannot overlook the slightest detail, so plough through. The interesting stuff is one-hundred pages in, the moment you get to that part, you phone the police, appalled. They come for me, but I am gone. You had no reason to believe it was this serious. You just spoke to some rambling old drunks in a pub. I don't see how you can lose." Jeremy said.

"What about if I drag you down the station and you confess?" Tom roared.

"Please allow your wife to do the talking." Jeremy answered. "The memoirs are resting on this contraption that has a trap door into a pool of sulphuric acid. Should I become bored, I will destroy them, and you can try your luck with the courts, I have the best legal team in the land."

Gloria gestured to Tom that his input by aural from now on, though without seeming like she was shutting him up. "He might never go down. This way, at least his memory is tarnished. At least the truth is out there." Gloria said smiling.

Tom knew this moment would define the rest of their lives together but agreed. Once outside, he asked why they could not phone the police now, with the documents safely in their possession, but Gloria told them they had made an agreement and that she was sticking to it. Tom realised that this was not the place for an argument, and they made their way to the hotel, duly returning to their room, checking out and checking into a different one. Tom admitted that this was rather foolish, as if they were being followed, the people following them would know of this straight away, but it made him feel better.

The pair read in silence. Tom charged with the task of finding nothing interesting in the first hundred pages while Gloria tried to extract as much information from the juicier parts as she could. She still had to devise a way that would mean she was privy to the information that she was supposed to be turning in. Then, the phone rang.

It was Jeremy, he told her to say that Maureen had made a copy and sent it anonymously to Gloria before absconding. He admitted it was kind of flimsy but was unable to come up with something better. When it arrives, Gloria should phone her local police, who will take an eon to contact London, who will send someone, who will retrieve it, by then it will be too late. Even if they tried to put a restraining order on her, it could not be enforced unless he was being tried. She then had to get the book out before he was found, which he hoped would be never.

It was a glorious morning the next day as Tom and Gloria took breakfast on the balcony. She arranged her notes and checked one last time that the two texts were identical, the seventh verification, before sending Tom off to meet his colleague with one copy of the memoirs under his arm. She travelled back north and began working night and day, aiming to finish the thing before the school holidays were over. The police held off releasing the story to the news, under the impression that Jeremy may still be in the country, his passport had not been used was their thinking behind this and would be easier to find. But he never appeared, and the press got hold of it.

Gloria was eventually praised for her work in unveiling this cad but preferred to stay out of the limelight. With the book finished, Jeremy's parting gift being two poems from his mother's initial collection that he had kept to one side, Gloria cut the deal with the publishing house. She did hold a piece of chalk again, accepting to stay on until they could find a replacement for her, but by half-term she had moved to London with Tom where he had been reassigned to Scotland Yard.

She never heard from Jeremy again. Maureen returned and gave herself in at the end of 1975 as she could not handle life abroad anymore. She was sentenced to twelve years for her part in the sham but served only ten, going on to make lucrative television appearances upon her release. The real Jemima was unearthed, still catatonic from her experience but left to eke out her days the best she could. Later editions of Jemima's poems were reissued with Jeremy's mother's name, and slowly, the name of Jemima was reduced to the memory of an ever-dwindling few. Gloria went on to have a hugely successful career as a literary academic, only pausing for a two-year break when she gave birth to her daughter, Jemima.

#  Away Alone

"It's been tough, but it's been worth it." Jim wrote on a piece of paper that would soon serve as his epitaph. Then he scribbled it out. Only part of it was true, the first half. He sat in a dingy bedsit trying to make out the uninspiring view of the sprawling urban mass that was only barely visible through the difficult to define marks covering the glass. He wondered what was potentially better, the view or the dirt. Deciding on the latter, he flicked the last of his Pot Noodle to join the other stains.

This would be Jim's last Christmas. But there is no heart to give, nor any takers. He has no say in the matter. Terminally ill and poor is a bad combination, and in Dundee, when you throw into the mix a raging horse habit, well, there is no need to reach for the shades. He shivered and looked at the scabs on his arms, wondered where his next burst of intense agony would manifest itself and slowly wandered into the kitchen to seek out desert. Then he had the proem of a rather wonderful idea.

He connected to LinkedIn via his phone, using up the last of his data allowance and then precariously leaning out of his sixth-floor window to try and catch an ironically named hotspot on a sub-zero evening. He would send the following message to as many local wealthy types he could and see how it plays out from there.

"Good evening.

You don't know me, but I am poor and dying. You will probably discard this message or not even read it. I would do the same. This will be my last Christmas, so I offer you the chance to use your wealth to make it special for me.

Best wishes. Jim."

Jim counted one-hundred and sixteen messages sent before resigning himself to his own stupidity. He then devoted the next hour to searching for blue ticks as the last fifty pee ran out in the meter. Darkness befell. With only sixteen percent battery and no chance of recharging until tomorrow. He turned in for the night.

"In dreams, I walk with you...." There was no candy-coloured clown in Jim's dreams. They took on the delightful role of extending the misery that was his day into the night beyond his consciousness. All of those things he need not fear while awake and sober, could run riot on his nocturnal psyche. He would gladly exchange the chimera of that lass from Aldi with a limp and the weeping sore in below her neckline than the vile conflagrations that appeared to tease him in his slumber. He knew it was early, he knew it was freezing, but he preferred to get out. As he put on his time-served Doc Martins, the sole finally gave way on the left boot, with that the rains started. He could not feel his feet anyway, so why miss them, he thought as he headed out.

Naively, he pressed the lift button, expecting to be whisked to the ground floor, but secretly hoping for it to be mended upon his return, upwards was not his favourite direction. The lift came but he realised he had left the phone. It was off and probably drained of battery, nor was it likely to contain any joy, but he insisted on leaving this world as a modern resident of the same, attached to his device.

By the time he returned to his original position, the lift had gone, and managed to break down. He plodded down the stairwell as the device slowly came to life, mirroring the cold and awkward movements of its owner as the little life it had left in it began to dissipate.

Eventually, he reached the ground floor and the interesting notification that he had one new message. He was sure that it was just some rich twat taking the time to tell him to swivel. Ah no, worse, it was from Vodafone. As a special yuletide treat, he was being given an extra giga so that he could, in their words "share the joy with friends and family." Out of that trio, the thing he had most of was joy, and he was fucking miserable.

With potentially an amount of internet at his disposal that he could not measure, he looked again at his messages. One.

"Dear Jim,

Fuck it. Why not? I'm away in the Caribbean till around the seventh of January, but if you can get to the Lemmings Statues for ten, you can have my town pad for the time I am away."

Jim knew it was a joke, and not a funny one. He was so sure that it was a wind-up that he took just nineteen minutes to get to the Lemmings Statues. He was three hours early.

He sat at the bus stop awaiting ten o'clock to come around to finalise his misery. A message.

"You are keen! Get yourself in that café across the road and use the code 'Maureen a fry up in Charlie's honour. That should keep you warm till I get there. I'll try and be swift."

Feeling like an utter and gullible fool, he entered the café and uttered the magic words. She asked him if he wanted two sausages and black pudding. That made all this worthwhile. Jim told her he had no money, she told Jim she would not take it.

Jim dipped the corner of his toast into the runny yolk and smiled. 'I'll miss this when I'm dead.' He thought to himself. As he polished off the last of the feast and Doris filled his mug for the third time, a man in a chauffer's uniform appeared at the door and asked sir if sir was ready. Sir fucking was.

Jim no longer cared if it was a practical joke. He sat in the back of that plush Merc and the driver asked him if he had any musical preferences. "Got any Big Country?" Jim asked, to which the driver nodded and connected his phone.

Before the end of 'Fields of Fire', they pulled into a lush apartment block's car park. Jim had seen them from afar when labouring before he got ill, when there was work. The driver parked and opened the door for him. "This way, Sir." He said. Jim liked being Sir.

They took the lift to the top apartment. A penthouse. For the first time ever, Jim knew that it was not what the French might call a 'mag de jazz'. Inside was a guy his age, and with two elbows. There the comparisons ended.

"You must be Jim, come in." He said. "I felt touched by your message. Indeed, there is a group of us who try to make an effort, above all at this time of year, to use some of our good fortune to help others. This year has been so busy though that the season has somewhat crept up on me and I had made no plans. You kind of gave me the push I needed, so thank you for that. Oh, will you look at me? Rabbiting on and I've not even let you get inside. I hope you won't mind the haste, my man here, Chambers, will tend to all your needs during your stay and has done a brief background check regarding your size etc so that you will have some more comfortable attire. Now, I beg you to make yourself at home, treat everything like it was your own, and have a Christmas to remember. Oh, what a poorly phrased sentence, I mean, well. I mean with your illness; I should have been more tactful. I do hope you can forgive me." The man said.

Jim's inner dialogue said something about giving it a go but not promising and his outer aura just smiled from head to toe.

"Any culinary requirements, let Chambers know." (inner dialogue 'I almost got a bone on over a Pot Noodle yesterday'), he is a trained chef as well as rather good company. Should you require him to bring any friends or family to make your stay more enjoyable, then he will be delighted." (inner dialogue 'I am not letting those cunts anywhere near this). "Do you have any questions?"

Jim had millions but none made the trip from his head to his mouth. So he just nodded and said 'sound'.

"Well, you will have to forgive me. I am running dreadfully late. Please enjoy yourself. We'll speak in the New Year. Happy Christmas." With that, the man was gone. Seconds later, Chambers was pouring a hot bath from gold taps and bath gel that cost more than his dole cheque. Jim bathed and then Chambers shaved him. Chambers asked if he preferred casual or something smarter and Jim opted for a nice three-piece suit.

"Any thoughts for lunch, Sir?" Chambers asked. Jim was still stuffed from the breakfast, and his stomach was not used to these influxes, but remembering it might all end in a second, he asked Chambers for recommendations.

"I do a rather stunning paella. Have you ever tried the Portuguese green wine 'vinho verde'? It makes a delightful bedfellow. (inner dialogue 'I once had a can of Tennant's Super out of a glass, does that count?). Jim said that sounded utterly delightful. Even he was speaking like a nonce now.

Lunch was the happiest Jim had been in his life, not that there was much to compare with. He insisted Chambers eat with him and the pair talked away like old friends. Chambers pouring Jim a brandy before drifting into a delightful siesta bereft of dreams. What kind of dream could match this?

He almost felt angry with himself for sleeping and wasting this time. His strength was waning, what did he have left? Weeks? Days?

"I took the liberty of procuring a supply of medicines and the like that will make your stay more comfortable. I am aware that at this juncture pain can be an issue." Chambers smiled. (inner dialogue 'Morphine for dinner then.)

"Would Sir like me to call anyone?" Chambers asked. Jim thought that he would love to show every prick on the estate just where he is now. Make them believe it. Make them jealous. But there was nobody. "Maybe you would like another sort of company?" (inner dialogue 'would a black and white threesome see me off?)

"Aye, why not? You only live once, eh?" Jim smiled.

And so Christmas came and went. There was the odd message from the mysterious man, but he never reappeared. Chambers brought in a selection from the United Nations, but Jim soon found more solace in their chats, entering his final days as an apprentice chef, attentively copying Chambers in the kitchen and creating a series of succulent dishes.

"You have a talent for this." Chambers said as they took a souffle from the oven.

"Who knows? In another life...." Jim smiled and stood up to raise a glass. His head went giddy and he fainted. He came to in the bed he had made his own, but with a nurse and drip now seemingly attached to the same. Chambers entered with some soup, balancing the phone between his neck and shoulder.

"You are very weak, Sir. I have prepared you some soup. The doctor has seen you but laments we have now entered the pain management stage.

"It's been tough, but it's been worth it." Jim said to Chambers who came over to the bed. Jim's breathing was shallow, and Chambers nodded to the nurse that there be no more pain. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Jim caught Chambers' gaze and continued "I have never known happiness, but in your company, I have come the closest. I used to have lots of anger for this world but shall leave it with a different face. I owe you my life, Chambers, pity that there is not much to it. Please thank your boss for me." Jim said.

"He knows what it means, so do I. You do not need to thank us. Having the chance to do so is more than enough reward." Chambers looked whether to continue or not, but Jim had gone.

"Time to take down that tree then." Chambers said to the nurse.

#  The Literal Interpretation of Things

Their hike along the top of the cliffs was always the highlight of these summer breaks. How long was it they had been coming here? Was this really their forty-second summer? Of course, other attendees had come and gone but Geraldine and Simon had never missed the last week in August on the North Devon coast.

Yet in her heart, Geraldine knew that Simon had technically missed all of them. She can't remember the last time he uttered a coherent sentence or the last time any of her suggestions were not met with violent contempt. That was her lot, she assumed. She had given birth to a son with severe autism incapable of expressing himself clearly, incapable of creating a normal, family life for her and hers to enjoy. And so, in the wake of an abnormal family life, Simon's only brother absconded from home at an early age to tick the boxes marked 'estranged' after tiring of those marked 'strange', and her husband and Simon's father, who threw in the towel before the lad even spent his first painful days in primary school.

"Routine." This was the word on everybody's lips. A routine will help you. They said. They said a lot. They seemed to have a great deal of knowledge on how Geraldine should raise her son from the comfort of the medal enclosure on school sports days. Perhaps they were right, but as the seventies became the eighties. Geraldine was only certain of one thing; she was not going to abandon Simon like the others had done.

Geraldine didn't have an internet to guide her through every turn. She had Basildon local library, and that did not boast an extensive selection that would help her. Trial and error became staples of her existence, trying desperately to please Simon at first, then to raise him, then to please herself. As she sat alone in the evenings, not knowing whether to read the book again or drown herself in wine, she wondered how different her life would be if it were different. Yet whenever she was asked, her response was that everything was fine. Other people were worse, they never hit rock-bottom.

But it wasn't different. And it didn't get any better. She put on a brave face, still it was a struggle. Then somebody recommended a holiday. She knew he would never board a plane, but trains had been an obsession of his since she could remember. With that, they chose a destination and every year he would make the journey to the railway station and return with the entire timetable for the Southern region, marking the possible routes from their home to Barnstaple, meticulously picking the date and time so that they were eligible for excellent deals. She watched him scour over those train times and felt a mixture of relief, contentment, jealousy and anger. Why could he not see her in the same way? Did he not know how much she did for him?

When she approached the local council with a view to receiving assistance with Simon's upbringing, she was told during his primary phase that it was too soon. By the time they discovered something that might possibly help him, she was told it was too late and he should have been treated pre-school. So he was left to wander through school, to be abused verbally and often physically, to learn nothing and to leave an angry young man.

The only highlights were the weeks in North Devon, and more often than not these were only highlights in comparison. While they (she) enjoyed her cream tea, she wondered what the other holidaymakers thought her game was. Did they view her as some insatiable harlot who had fled the shackles of her suburban misery with her young beau? She allowed herself to fantasise with the luxury of a complicated life, by that she meant a life that she complicated, not one that came pre-packed with endless complications not of her volition. At times she would find herself laughing out loud in public, before convention obliged her to take a hold of her emotions.

In his twenties, Simon showed signs of improvement. The new millennia offered gateways into new and hitherto unheard-of worlds that were furnished with gardens of hope. New treatments were unveiled and Simon was always first on the list as the local guinea pig, but for every improvement, there were many more setbacks, so much so, that for his thirtieth birthday, Geraldine gave him the gift of no more doctors, they would make do with the little that they had.

Geraldine, fearing for her own sanity, was encouraged to put her thoughts down in writing. She became, unwittingly, the forerunner to bloggers that would share their thoughts / be a scourge on society (delete as applicable) a decade later. Her musings were part fact, part fantasy and often involved the pair working in tandem as detectives solving dastardly crimes. She became successful, and it pleased her, but at the same time she always felt like she was taking advantage of him. Once she had enough for their needs, she tidied her plume away. Every month, a royalty cheque arrived that allowed for Simon to be comfortable in his mental discomfort.

They could have gone anywhere in the world, but that little B&B outside Barnstaple meant a lot to them. Colin took them in his taxi from the train station. Now, Geraldine, in her seventies and despite feeling the left hip, still looked forward to this week. She was asked, if he is better there, why don't you just move there? People had so many questions, nobody ever offered her answers. She knew that Simon would not become 'normal', she hated that word and it never appeared once in the four books she wrote, if he stayed in the town. It didn't work like that, she knew that. She did not know how it worked, only how it didn't.

Simon's pace had always been slow, in kinder times it would be described as steady, but it was slow. Now he was beginning to leave Geraldine behind him, occasionally remembering his hiking partner and waiting for her to catch up, which she did, at a forced pace, meaning that when she reached him, she was out of breath as he sped off again.

That day, they walked together in tandem, taking in the view as they crossed the top of the cliff. There are moments that you don't see coming. Their pleasant walk soon became a downward hurtle as the pair stepped on a hole in the path that saw them plummet into a dark, dank cave. Both hit the side and rolled to a stop at the bottom. There they lay in the dark, aching and frantically searching for her backpack. She found it and extracted the portable lamp she thought she would never use.

She shined the light towards Simon and instinctively asked if he was alright. She knew well enough not to expect a response.

"I'm a bit shaken but I'll live. And you, mum?" Simon said.

Geraldine could not speak for a moment. He had never called her mum. She wondered if she had banged her head.

"Come over here, you'll freeze to death!" Simon said.

"Simon, this is." Geraldine still failed to find the words.

"It's nice to be able to express things. I've been meaning to have a chat with you for, well, around forty-nine years. Obviously, you can't count the baby years, unless you count them up to forty-nine. Will you not come over here? Get that blanket out of that rucksack. Good job you always think of everything!" Simon continued.

"I can't believe it. Is it a dream?" Geraldine managed to utter.

"Well, it isn't a nightmare." Simon joked. "Every day I have practiced this speech in the hope that just once, I would get to say it. Looks like that day is here, mum. You know that thing I do, with my eyebrows? The thing that you have grown to hate?" He asked.

Geraldine nodded.

"That was my way of saying thank you and that I appreciate everything you do for me, and everything you have always done. The hardest thing for me was not being able to tell you. Seeing your face and you thinking that I was not grateful. I was, I am, I always will be. Whatever life I have had, you have given me it. Whatever life you have not had, I have taken it from you. That hurts me. I wanted you to think I would be fine on my own, even if it was not true, so that you could have some time for yourself." He smiled and held out his hand so that she could take it.

"I wouldn't have gone." She laughed.

"I know." He responded. "It is a pity though that it has come to this. That this place that has, in inverted commas, saved us, should be the place where we finally both bid our farewells."

"Why do you say that? Someone will find us. I mean obviously there is no way of communicating with the outside world from down here as there is no mobile signal, but they have the means. Someone will realise at the B&B, someone may have seen us. You can't give up hope now." Geraldine beseeched her son. Now she was turning to him for the answers.

"I am not so sure, we have fallen quite far down, then rolled further out of view. Even if someone had seen us, how long would it take to get someone down here? Have you also thought that perhaps we did not survive the fall? That might make more sense than this? And anyway, it seems that the drought that has affected the area has ceased, the rain is coming, soon this chamber will flood. We have this time together though." Simon continued.

"I won't let it be so!" Geraldine screamed. "I won't let them bring you to me now, just for you to be taken away. It's not right. Geraldine tried to stand but where they had ended up was indeed too low, and she gave herself another nasty bump on the head.

When she came to, she was in Simon's arms, he stroked her forehead and told her of his favourite moments that they had spent together. She gazed into his eyes as he recounted their lives together and for the first time, saw happiness in them.

"And you remember the time that you threw me that birthday party when I was nine. And you invited the entire class. I didn't even have any friends, I couldn't. Yet you insisted and they turned up and for one brief moment, I stopped being me, when you played that song that I loved, what was it called again? For that short while, I sang along to the song while everyone looked at each other and confirmed their suspicions that I, you, well we, were all quite mad. And you laughed to yourself. Then someone turned off the music and I was returned to silence." Simon said, singing 'Dream a Little Dream of Me' to her.

The rain began to fall heavier but she felt no cold. Simon helped her to her feet, and they walked forward, the chamber now furnishing them with enough room as they looked at each other and smiled, the water slowly rising past their lips and covering their noses.

#  The Great Indoors

Barry sat nervously as he watched the other candidates enter. When he applied for this post, he was pretty sure the job was his. Who had his contacts? Who had his experience in Stoke in 1978? This wasn't London. Yet, the informal meet and greet he expected was clearly something quite bigger when he was told to take a seat and complete a form. He was 27, a fine age for an architect and a left-sided midfielder, not that Stoke had many of either, and yet here he was surrounded by specimens whose acne still showed signs of persisting, the ink still wet on their certificates, the part on the their CV where it says "Professional Experience" blank or embellished with delusions of grandeur at having once put up a tent successfully. Why did the owner not just tell all these kids to go home via Whimpy and state the position had been filled? Why was Barry made to wait? He felt his delightfully prepared dialogue turn to mush the longer he was sat outside.

They called him, and in he went. The owner was delighted to see him. They had both studied at Birmingham together. Together in the sense of apart, Barry was a fresher and Simon completing his MA project, but the rub of fellow alumni would surely count for something in Barry's eyes. They had been at events together too, Barry embarrassingly trying to sidle up to Simon and get an introduction, failing miserably and pretending he never wanted to meet him in the first place, taking solace in the free and largely unpalatable wine that he managed to sink. When the opportunity came for them to share some words, Barry's were inarticulate and bordering on profanity. Simon smiled a condescending look and carried on with his importance.

Barry told himself there was no way that Simon would remember that, after all it was three years and Simon must meet drunk idiots every day. Composing himself, he entered.

"Barry!" Simon said with worrying glee. "I trust you have only been at the mineral water today?" He joked.

Spiffing. Barry thought to himself, suddenly bereft of any decent expletives. He took a seat and enjoyed that awkward moment as Simon perused his CV like he had never seen the thing before. How could he have called him to an interview if he hadn't even seen the CV? Barry pondered as he felt his wrists sweat. He had been expecting the palms and the pits, that was a given, but the wrists were a new one on him. He wanted this job, he wanted to stay in the Potteries. He was in no mood to uproot to London and slowly die a dystopian death every day of his life. There were some lovely places in the vicinity, of course, the town was dreadful but maybe this job would be a means of changing that.

"I'm so glad you could come in to see us, Barry." Simon said. Barry knew what was coming. He was on the shelf at twenty-seven, usurped by a spotty upstart virgin. On the shelf before he had even been taken out of his packaging. Why was life so unfair? Why did he have to be born in this backwater that failed recognise his flair, his talent, his artistry? Oh how he wished he had been born within the sound of the Bow Bells and could swap the Hammers for Vale. Then they would see his worth, but nobody ever would as he was effectively dead.

Instinctively, his hand went into his jacket pocket. Cutting a wholly unprofessional pose with the assistance of the sweaty wrist. Therein, he felt the jeweller's box containing the engagement ring, a square inch of hopes and dreams that would now be better placed at the tip or smelted down to make a badge that just said 'LOSER'. To end up like this was a particular disgrace. Now he had to return to his family members who told him he was wasting his time by studying architecture, by studying anything, suddenly repairing washing machines was above him? They took his stance on education as a personal affront on those hard-working upstanding members of society who put the hours in, did the shifts and accepted their lot. Not the flowery post-hippy generation who shunned the idea of hard work. Barry wanted to work. He wanted to put the hours in, but someone had to recruit him first. That stung, he never got the chance to shine, he never even got the chance to screw the bulb in. And this evening, he would be in the local, withstanding a barrage of 'I told you sos' as he watched his darling finally abscond into the arms of the local cricket team captain, the barrister.

As Barry sipped on his disappointingly warming pint of mild, he felt his grip on her loosening. His insipid tales of the catch he took at silly-mid-off slowly winning her over as she opted for security over happiness. She would remain in touch with his parents and send them postcards from their villa in Menorca, his mother admonishing him for allowing her to slip through his fingers. He noticed that there was a barman's position vacant. Would that not be beneath him? He would now have to serve the people in whose attendance he frequented the bar beforehand, now he would be their underling, pouring their pints at the hope of hearing the magic words, "take one for yourself." He decided he was still far away from bar work. Why not go to Manchester? Or Liverpool? Or even London? Because this was the seventies and the streets were paved with white dog poo and nothing more.

What had punk rock taught him? He listened to the Clash but wanted to be an architect. He was not invited to the punk party. He wore beige corduroy for pleasure. Did he really think Joe, Paul and John were directing their vitriol towards a provincial architecture graduate? Not good enough for punk, not good enough for her. He took another sip of the drink, but it almost refused to go down his throat. His stomach felt tiny as he watched a world go by in which he was now not even a participant. He wondered what the dreams of the people on the other tables were, peeping into their stolen moments, a lifetime of happiness before them, or a lifetime of felicity to reflect on. And him, with warm mild.

He refused a top up and decided to walk home. It was a pleasant evening and the spring air would clear his head, he thought. At a delightfully equidistant point between the pub and his parents, where he would be ensconced forever, the heavens decided to play a trick on him, opening up and pouring their discharge angrily. He had left his jacket behind; such was his rush to escape the hell of modern life. Wind and rain buffeted him mercilessly as he disproved the theory that you get less wet if you run, walk or stop. Beginning to shiver with the cold that pervaded his body, he took shelter under a tree. From there he could see the new-builds that everyone in the town dreamed of, a garage and front and back gardens, three bedrooms, fitted kitchen, downstairs lavatory, the stuff of dreams, but not the dreams of potential barmen. The shelter from the tree was disturbed when the weather took a further turn for the worse, and lightning struck it. Barry remembered where he was.

"I feel dreadful about keeping you waiting so long. But we wanted to make sure that your assistant would be up to the challenge. We have had some fine candidates and hope that under your auspice to implement a mentor system to foster future generations of architects. Who knows, in a few years, we can really put Stoke on the map. I assume you are in?" Simon asked.

Barry needed proof that this was not a continuation of the dream and forced his key through the lining of his trouser pocket, so it broke and pierced the skin. That would do him. With perhaps less eloquence than he had hoped for, he accepted the post.

He had long played out the scene in his mind. His victory march. His chance to rub everyone's faces in it. All those times he had had to endure their endless sermons on how he was wasting his time, how he was flushing his youth down the drain. Now he could sit back and enjoy the glory. Except he couldn't. He hadn't even started work. He could lose the job in two weeks and be back with his tail between his legs. His paranoia would prevent him from gloating.

He walked home past the new builds. Declining the relative comfort of the number 43 bus. Stoke looked different today, Stoke looked like a place with a dream. His dream.

The first year at work was a learning curve. Him and Simon fought for government sponsored housing and building contracts that would drag the city into the late twentieth century before it was indeed too late. The hours were gruelling, half the time he devoted more of his efforts to fighting with accountants and making budgets meet than designing anything. As his assistant, Marjorie, became more adept at her tasks, she relieved the pressure on Barry. Thus, the ideal team was formed, Simon loved galivanting around in his Scimitar coupe, impeccably dressed, heading off to Italy to invest in a vintner's, taking the credit and generally being the face of the organisation. To suggest he did not pull his weight would be cruel though, Simon was no slouch. Barry was the creative brain and Marjorie the engine. As the seventies became the eighties, the face of Stoke grew, as did the company, taking on more staff as it received accolades.

It was a joyous time for Barry. He married Susan and moved into something far superior to the new builds he had previously dreamt of. He moved his parents into his former dream so that they would be more comfortable. As the company became more successful, they took on a share of glamorous cutting-edge projects whilst reserving an amount of their time for social housing and works that would benefit the region as a whole.

Awards and plaudits followed, as did tempting offers from the capital, but they resisted the lure and continued to work towards their dream. It was a dream that had never been clearly defined, still the fruit of the dream was theirs to see. They became more selective over the years. Barry remembering the very day when he used the cash machine to check his balance and saw a plus sign followed by a million and a bit pounds.

He set about designing his dream house. Located on the lands adjacent to the Westlands, Barry made a conscious decision to design his, and Simon's with sufficient space between them to ensure neither would ever ask the other for a cup of sugar. They had worked together almost day-in-day-out for fifteen years but if you asked Barry to describe five things about Simon not related to their work, he would struggle. Barry did not need to know Simon on the golf course, in the wine bar or at the lodge. The two enjoyed a harmony in their workplace like Lennon and McCartney, but in Stoke, in the sphere of architecture. Barry would revel in the stats, fireproof certificates, clean energy before people even mentioned dirty energy. Houses of the future, now. Barry hated that tag line, but it worked, and he never set foot in the domain of Simon nor vice versa. That was the key to their success.

The house took a year to build. Barry stealing moments from work when he could, but most of the endeavours were performed in his free time. Susan enjoyed the decorating aspect and the twins, now in their teens mucked in as much as they could. The fear was that it would remain a great unfinished project, that time, constrictions and the sheer scale of the endeavour would make it unviable as time went by, a Potteries Petrocelli. Business also suffered in the nineties as depression threatened the construction sector, but even when it looked bleak, they came out the other side, councils and governments knowing that what the pair could offer was something extraordinary.

The rise of the Internet also offered opportunities and challenges to a firm that tried its hardest to stay ahead of the game. The problem now, was that the game was changing so fast that by the time they had implemented the latest development, a new one came to take its place. The decision was made to expand the staff and recruit an IT department, spotty nerds in Iron Maiden T-shirts with dubious haircare routines who spoke a language unbeknown to laymen. Survival, flourish, downturn, rinse and repeat. These were the cycles of their enterprise and live with them they must.

When the house was finished, in 1997, Barry was close to his twentieth anniversary at the company. He was now a full partner and had been the recipient of an OBE for his services to architecture. Simon got a CBE and that riled him for a bit, but then he let it pass. He did wonder who would be the first of the pair to become Sir. He liked the idea of Sir Barry and set about finding out how many of them there were.

A new millennium ushered in with the company wholly aware that the bugs people talked about would not cause society to grind to a halt. Society was unstoppable, getting larger and smaller at the same time. In 2002, they completed the first remotely managed architecture project in the world, an aqueduct in Bolivia. Nothing could stop them.

****

On the banks of the Thames, the Limstosandry plant heaved and spurted its content into the air and river. The report from the environmental committee spearheaded by the government sat unopened on the CEO's desk. The news inside would not be good, so one way of avoiding it was to imagine it did not exist. The measures that would be outlined therein would have a negative effect on the CEO's favourite column: Profit. The company could manage, it could even take the initiative to oversee a new era of responsible chemical plants, but they would involve a hell of an amount of effort, a strain on the purse strings and a drop in dividends. The latter caused the most concern, dividends falling meant unhappy investors whose fickle nature may lead them to the other bank of the river. He was sure this was just a fad, his company was not the biggest criminal in the field so why should they be singled out? A nice donation would probably smooth things over, once they had completed the German order. Once that was shipped, then he could do something, or nothing, or be seen to be doing something. Either way, he was busy.

You didn't simply get to the position he was in without taking risks and making enemies. He didn't get into this to win any popularity contests, which was just as good. His Blackberry buzzed to inform him that he had a message.

"We have to do something about that report." It was a message from the Deputy CEO, a person entrusted with that position to do what he said, not to tell him what must be done. "There is too much evidence on site. This is beyond a fine, this is entering the realm of closure, maybe even punitive sentences." The dramatic little prick continued.

The CEO poured himself a large scotch worth more than the cleaners on the floor's combined salary and plugged in his headphones. He took out his putter and practiced his game on the specially conditioned trough of turf he boasted in his office. He deleted the Deputy CEO's email and treated himself to another drink. An hour later, he was asleep on the couch.

The Deputy CEO sent another mail that went unseen. "Surprise inspection." His contact at the Ministry had leaked that in seven days, they would be receiving a visit and that the plant had better be suspiciously clean by then. When the CEO awoke with a fuzzy head, he hurled the device at the wall and got one of the cleaners to call him a taxi.

Over the weekend production at the plant continued at the accelerated rate to meet the German order. The Deputy CEO's warning about the levels was based on Thursday's readings, by Monday morning they were off the scale. No clean-up would cover the evidence before the inspection. An angry exchange took place in which the CEO claimed that the Deputy was concealing information from him, and the latter was sacked. The German order was completed and dispatched, and the leftover poison dumped into the Thames. Production was halted from then on and all hands were put to making the plant shine.

When the Inspectorate arrived, there was a modicum of chin-rubbing at how a previously denounced plant could be so pristine and the call was made to the head of the Inspectorate. The latter, who had received a sizeable incentive from the CEO just the day before, promised to look into the matter personally once the fourteen files on top of this dossier had been dealt with, in the meantime, they were told to carry on and inspect what they could see. The members of the Inspectorate were told to perform their tasks and appraise what they could see. They took readings and noted that everything was within the confines of the law and went.

Pleased with his work for the day. The CEO reinstated the Deputy CEO with a pay cut and counted the money from his latest deal. Delighted at his management skills, he spent the rest of the day at the golf course.

****

Martin closed the fridge door. He was sure that there was a bottle of sparkling water inside, but the results were disappointing. His thirst, raging after coming in from a run, without even counting the four blocks he had to climb to his apartment as the lift was out of order again, needed abating. Despite his better judgement, he took the glass and let the tap run for a moment, filling the glass and swigging back the liquid offered by the City of London Corporation. He felt like heading back out for something purer, even a tin of Lilt, but he had to find a job. He had been loaned a laptop and had embarked upon a romantic liaison with his next-door neighbour as a means of procuring her Wi-Fi password for the duration of his search.

He checked his CV; the last update was March 2003 and it was now January 2005. More than eighteen months unemployed, yet he was desperate not to leave such a large gap in his professional history. He had always been good with his hands and had been one of the top mechanics at a major chain until the cutbacks saw him removed from the roster. Since then, he had done things for friends, word of mouth, but nothing that the Inland Revenue or a potential employer could steal or appraise as applicable. He wanted to work; he was tired of downgrading from the comfortable flat in Zone 2 to his near French quarters in Zone 6. He called his mate Carl and asked if he could put on his CV that he had been an assistant mechanic at his garage for the last six months at least. Carl was a decent guy who knew how tough things could be, if things were different, he would love to have Martin on the payroll, but they weren't, and they didn't look like they ever would be. Martin thanked Carl and clicked update.

He waited for a response, somehow convinced that the lack of time he had to enjoy the laptop would force a future employer to respond quicker. As he waited, he noticed the taste in his mouth becoming more and more bitter. His mouth became dry and his first instinct was to seek out more water, water poisoned by Limstosandry that was circulating around all the taps in the city and slowly being exported to the surrounding areas. That second glass proved to be a lethal dosage; Martin would never receive the email from Halfords offering him a position. Forty-seven minutes later, his body went into seizure and he would soon die alone in his flat. He had been exposed to the highest dose possible, only those who consumed close to a pint of the liquid at that exact time and in his and the surrounding post-codes were susceptible to such a rapid demise. Those who continued to consume the liquid over the four days before the contamination was located would wish for their suffering to end in less than an hour.

Within a week, half of London was contaminated, to a lesser or greater extent, the poisoned water flowing freely into the poorest homes first, then indiscriminately into more expensive properties. Seven people died on the same day as Martin in his block, the authorities convinced that the source of contamination had been located inside the actual installations of the block. When people started dying in adjacent areas that did not share installations, more answers were needed. The authorities first instinct was to tell people not to use tap-water. That is easier said than done for the majority of people. They also misinformed them that as long as the water was boiled beforehand, it would be safe to use. It was later proven that boiling actually increased the contamination capacities, meaning that in forty-eight hours, more than two-hundred people had died in agony in the capital.

Once the source was finally located, half of the south's water supply was infected. By then, it was too late for many, as the warnings had fallen on deaf ears or people simply could not use mineral water for everything. Even those who had avoided direct consumption needed to wash, after seventy-two hours' continuous contact with the venomous water, people's skin began to flake and fall off, leaving unsightly sores that were prone to infection. Brushing teeth with the water caused the gums to inflame, with the swelling passing through the mouth and affecting the tongue so that the airways were blocked.

By this time the CEO had disappeared on his private jet. Government was rocked, something so basic as water had been violated. The simplest source of life, yet irreplaceable. The only good news was that it had been stopped before it reached Birmingham to the north, and Bristol to the west. Decontamination of the infected region was difficult to model, even after ten days, the levels in South London were still lethal, the theory of constant dilution not proving particularly accurate. Indeed, in certain areas, the underlying poor quality of the water led to a breeding ground of the substance that caused the contamination, this meant that areas that were almost clean could be re-infected.

The City of London made the onerous decision to cut-off the water supply in the city, with other areas following suit soon. People now had no access to water but provisions from the rest of the country were transported south to cover basic needs. Each citizen was allotted four litres of government approved water per day, supplied in 28 litre bidons on a weekly basis. That water was for everything, from cooking to washing to drinking. The shelves were empty of bottled water with a litre of Evian costing more than a bottle of Moet and Chandon. Life in the contaminated zone became a struggle, which soon became a lawless struggle. Government, and the other bodies of national importance, decided to temporarily relocate to a safer home.

In February 2005, the Government passed its Emergency Requisition Response Act. This act endowed it with powers to do as its name suggested. Certain bodies of government would relocate to the safer areas of the North, Scotland, Wales and the South-West until the South's water supply could be guaranteed once more.

****

The affluent zone of the Westlands in Stoke was chosen for its desirable properties to serve as government offices and residences for top-end civil servants. Barry was informed on Monday morning that his property was being requisitioned and that his family would have to make alternative arrangements for the duration of the disaster. The general feeling was that once those in power were safely ensconced in their new and poison-free abodes, their interest in resolving the situation swiftly would not be a priority. They would not wish to return to London until they knew it was safe. Basically, they formed a puppet government that did even less than it had in its capital home. It did though, make one important decision that was to change the course of the disaster, and the nation's future.

Rather than finding a solution under its own volition, the Government outsourced its issue to Europe, based on the decision that they could solve it while the former could take the credit. In exchange for this, Europe demanded the British Government and the Queen sign a document stating that no attempts would be made to disrupt, leave or alter the European Union by the Brits for the next fifty years. With all sides happy, the parties began putting the boffins to work to cleanse the capital's water. In the meantime, Barry's alternative accommodation had also been requisitioned, which meant he was forced to reside in temporary lodgings provided for displaced persons.

This meant they were assigned a dwelling in Meir, in a housing complex that was on the Company's list for refurbishment, in this part of the region, that was a long list and depended on funding that would never arrive. They were offered superior accommodation in London but that involved taking your chances with the slowly improving, if you believed the government, water supply. If Barry and his family had had no desire to move to London when things were going spiffingly, they were loath to do so now. They assured the children that it would only be temporary, and may even be character building, packing their allotted suitcase per person and moving in.

The Company's offices were also taken for the Ministry of Transport, meaning this meant that the Company, still obliged to fulfil its contractually binding tasks, was forced to operate from portacabins installed in the grounds. The fledgling wireless internet system that was the pride of the town was unable to withstand the new demands on its bandwidth, with an important bid in the outbox for more than forty minutes, the company was later informed by fax, what next carrier pigeons? that it had not submitted the paperwork on time and had been duly excluded.

The region's unemployed were set to work transporting fresh water and supplies to the capital. The more financially comfortable members of the community were provided with instant showers that could be inflated inside their properties, the water tank was then filled with clean water imported from the north and their cleanliness could be maintained. This eased pressure on the government as it meant that less people would be tempted north. Only official business was allowed to sanction the displacement of owners in the north, but at the height of the crisis chitties were changing hands at exorbitant prices for people wishing to flee Chelsea and Knightsbridge for a semi-detached on the outskirts of Sheffield.

Into the second week of the crisis, the Company was obliged to devote 20% of its time to solving issues in the capital and surrounding areas. Barry and Simon agued, unsuccessfully, that their work was designing properties, the properties in the affected areas were, well, unaffected, and that the Company's input in the repair of a damaged water network would be minimal. This had the negative effect of shifting the Company's purpose from being a provider to purporter, to use the new parlance. If they could not provide 20% of their resources, they would have to surrender 30% of their income, backdated. As each day passed, more and more draconian measures were passed to allow the government to act in the way they wanted.

In their new accommodation, Barry's family found themselves with an array of issues that had never been encountered before: damp, inadequate heating, very low water pressure due to the strain placed on the network, food shortages (the good stuff was sent down south) and a run on liquid money. The black market flourished on the estate, had it ever not? as people were prepared to part with sizable sums for basic household goods. Barry lay next to Susan in the 1.35m bed that was a noticeable downgrade from their king size and made a promise. However bad it got, it would not break them, they promised to learn from this, to come out of this better people.

Barry slept very little. He surveyed the meagre possessions that symbolised their existence, with that he embarked upon a moment of realisation, a kind of epiphany, that that was all they were, possessions, essentially meaningless trinkets that had been accumulated without need or thought over a number of years, and that was merely what had been salvaged. Who knows what pointless trinkets and testimonies to consumerism lurked in the garage? Did any of these things make him happy? What was happiness? His drive for professional success? Did he have happiness on a personal level? Had he sacrificed his family's happiness for his personal progress? Did he know his children? Did anybody? What was the point of so many questions? He thought about the response to the first one and was overcome by sleep.

Despite sleep, the questions remained in his head and he made an oath to himself to find the responses. The moment he began to look for them was when he realised that he already had them. He always had, and that was his liberation. He dreamt of recovering his house for a while, but then realised it was just a building, the place itself did not matter. Obviously, life was easier when all the comforts of modern life were in place to make modern life more comfortable, but Barry was determined to be thankful for what he had, rather than lamenting what he had lost.

For a start, he was certain that this situation would not last forever, and that he would soon be reunited with his dream home, but also that once he was back there, once his normality was restored, it would be a different concept of enjoyment. He made a pact with himself not to become enraged by the situation, nor lose the plot when it inevitably got worse, or at least he chose not to openly display any negative emotion.

He was unsure whether it was merely a case of his stiff upper-lip upbringing that inspired him to take it on the cheek and move forward, or the realisation that this was indeed a test, and his behaviour during this period would be the future benchmark against which he would be judged. Before this, the family's concerns centred around typical middle-class worries such as where the cruise would stop, would they be able to get a table in the new Michelin-starred restaurant they had been told about on the banks of the Seine? Would they be able to erect a marquee in the garden for one of the children's wedding receptions? Barry made a list of all the frivolous things that comprised his leisure time and decided that things would be very different on the other side.

How different was the first issue on his mind? He saw a bifurcation in the road, one way offering the chance to avenge the situation and act as the harbinger of justice, the other simply suggested a simpler existence, devoting time to helping people, he believed he had beforehand but now was aware that you could always do more. The question eternally on Barry's lips was how? He looked around the flat they were forced to live in, yes the place was dingy, but with regard to size, things were not that bad, a lot of places around the same neighbourhood were a lot pokier. The structure, as he saw the thing, had potential, he did have that habit of seeing potential in the least likely places.

One day, after his work, he took to wandering about the place, measuring tape and notebook close to hand, and allowed himself the luxury of a dream or two. Two dreams soon became three that after while was the proem to an idea. He had learnt that word in a short story collection he had picked up for next to nothing at a train station and planned to use it one day. This seemed as good a day as any.

And there it was, his life's work was now actually not the creation where he and his family lived, or even the creations before that which had put Stoke on the map, he would now use his time, money and influence, to create the finest apartment block he could for the benefit of the residents of the same.

He was told in no uncertain terms that if he wished to embark upon this project, it would have to be a solo flight. Simon was not prepared to entertain this idea at his, or indeed the company's expense. Barry was a wealthy man in relative terms, his assets had taken a beating due to this recent crisis, but he had a few pound to spare. It was only when he began to examine the magnitude of the task, did he realise he was relatively poor, certainly not wealthy enough to enter into a venture of this nature. The block had 84 apartments, each one measuring around 84 square metres, which he thought was a nice touch. He realised that his personal fortune would cover the rewiring and maybe the plumbing, the transition to luxury would still be a fair way away.

Without financial backing, and the possibility of investors being minimal, of course, if he planned this development with a view to selling it off at an exorbitant price, they would have bitten has hand off, the Barry seal of approval adding value to any work. But this was not the case, it was a social project, people with money did not see how people who could only afford low-level housing should be given anything better for free.

He pondered the means of getting the money, he pondered fundraisers, begging the government, but knew what the response would be. The argument against his project is that these people have a place to live, why do they deserve any special treatment? Deep-down, he almost knew they were right, it was unfair, but life is a lottery, and recently not many winning tickets had been drawn round here.

As he poured himself a glass of water, Stoke's being deemed the finest in the land, though competition was not fierce, he realised how he could get help. The government had managed to hush up the source of the poisoned water affair and forced the blame on a company that became strangely defunct not long after, meaning it could not shoulder any liability. Barry had been privy to certain documentation that revealed a very different truth, as murky as the poisoned waters of the Thames.

The CEO who made that decision escaped punitive reparations, but his joy did not last long as he was consumed by guilt at the extent of his evil endeavours. This led him to God and a life away from his former guise. That said, his wealth remained largely intact, he was supposed to fund certain projects, but the paperwork had been held up, the paperwork for the Government sweeteners took no time in getting through.

So Malcolm, the CEO, now lived on a Caribbean island in a church that he had acquired to save souls, or something. Barry banked on the extent of his guilt providing the financing. He tracked him down and took a plane, rehearsing his spiel en route.

He had such a convincing routine that he was sure this Malcolm chap would have no issues in handing over a very large cheque, Barry pondered whether the size of the cheque was particularly important, if it were a standard size but for a billion pounds, and the funds were there, would the bank take Umbridge at the size of the counterfoil? Barry realised the time for such thoughts would be later as he introduced himself.

"You have come a long way to tell that story. I really should tell you where to go. But I am not myself, and maybe that is a good thing. Of course, people think the old finding God routine is just that. A routine. Maybe I don't even know what is true or false any more, the only thing I know is that I am still here, in this place, of all places, when I deserve the same fate that befell so many innocent people. You know? I did try not to care when I arrived, to act like it didn't matter, but I was haunted, rightly so, I do not ask for pity as i don't deserve it, however, the chance to do some good may provide some relief." Malcolm said in response to Barry's pitch.

"So that is a yes?" Barry asked, needy of confirmation.

"Yes, but I can't limitlessly fund the construction of an urban palace for the poor. My repentance is still only on the lower levels. How about you have some money, but the actual residents of the building have to find the means to complete the project, I mean their physical and practical resources, not money. That way they, we, we all, will feel like we are doing something together." Malcolm continued.

"Kevin Costner fan?" Barry asked, smiling. He had half expected to return with nothing, so this was a clearly better scenario to be in. A contract was signed for the amount deemed the minimum in Barry's eyes, which was twice the maximum Malcolm wanted, for the completion of the works. Barry was now project manager and set about putting a team together to make it work within the budget.

The project was roundly criticised from beginning to end but Barry never swayed in his dream. He felt that something within was driving him on to complete the work and enjoyed greatly the spirit shown by the residents who toiled together to pool their talents in the best way possible. Many local tradesmen were proud to be associated with the project and found that being associated with the same often brought in more business than for those who chose to remain outside.

It remained a controversial talking point for the three years it took to move some way towards completion, yet far from creating an element of envy, it sparked a spirt of camaraderie in other blocks as they sought out the means to upgrade their own living spaces. Malcolm, the disgraced CEO, now revelled in a second coming as a real estate messiah who preached to other equally dishonest characters he had worked with to convert them into sponsoring a block, or two, depending on how much they had swindled. This meant that a series of projects sprung up around the country, it was completely arbitrary, and some projects had more funds allotted than others, but it helped wipe the memory of the water issue.

The main problem was that the persons performing or receiving the work had to live in the properties whilst renovations took place, but most of them decided that this was a minor inconvenience given the overhaul they were getting for free. The highlight for Barry was watching people work together, pooling their talents, even people who did not know that they possessed a talent found a way to offer services to the community. People mocked, mockery often being an expression of jealousy, but precious few found grounds to voice a proper objection. And the government, technically the perpetrators of all of this mess, were pleased that other people's money was being spent on these projects.

Barry could not remember the last time he actually sat down or took a moment to himself. Simon was still demanding his presence at the Company, even though it was clear where the former's interests now lay. The latter began quietly making arrangements for a replacement, suggesting Barry go part-time, reducing the workload and generally letting him know that he was being moved upstairs. Exhausted, he sat down on a sofa made by two Lithuanian factory workers who had not touched a chisel in years, indeed never in their new residence. It felt comfortable at first, though after a few moments, his stomach began to rumble, he touched it and noticed that he was haemorrhaging, the ambulance arrived in minutes.

After a brief stay in hospital, Barry was told his chances were not good, the recommendation was a hospice. He did not want that so made a pact with Susan to be laid to rest inside his dream project. With the help of the workers on his floor, when the time came, a specially devised deep wall was created with an upright coffin inside. This was surrounded by concrete that would solidify and hold his tomb in place. Barry got to see the bedroom of his flat, everyone working at double-speed to complete his place before time ran out and there, in the comfort of his ultra-modern sleeping quarters, he peacefully made the final journey. He was treated rightly as a hero as an empty coffin was taken to the local cemetery for a fake burial. A select few witnessed him placed standing up into his coffin and enclosed into the wall of his living room, the wall painted over in white and with a single red rose in the middle, where, approximately, Barry's heart would be.

The technology in place in the building meant that over time Susan could turn to her late husband's pearls of wisdom in darker moments, becoming something of a forerunner to what younger readers may now know as Alexa, thus maintaining Barry's legacy. Simon later moved into politics to make sure that two values were upheld: the community projects were always to remain in the hands of those who had made the reality of a dream, and secondly, the European Union's insistence of no British meddling was taken seriously and any plans to suggest a referendum or a departure being shelved for eternity. When Britain adopted the Euro in 2015, Barry's face adorned the reverse of the 2-Euro coin, as Susan looked at the wall where he laid and wondered whether she could join him when her health became more fragile, she looked out over Stoke and felt a tear form as she said his name.

#  Waiting in Vain

Harry heard the alarm clock inform him that the morning was once again upon him. Recent downturns in his health had meant that he now set the thing for eleven minutes earlier than when the old days, as his aching hips and less than functional left knee meant that the idea of springing out of bed and into the shower was now committed to memory.

After eleven minutes and twenty-six seconds of huffing and puffing, he was in the bathroom and trying to force his similarly suffering bladder into life. It burnt as it exited his system and he looked up to find the frame that once housed a mirror that he recently removed as he had no desire to see the remains of his once-treasured good looks first thing in the morning.

Lost in thought, he forgot to get the temperature right before entering the shower. This meant his body jerked back violently in reaction to the scalding water, as he lunged forward to rectify the situation, he banged his bad hip on the very handle that was installed to make his life easier. With this, he gave it too much cold and was forced back again. Three minutes of fiddling were required to get the temperature to a level within human tolerance, then just as he felt the bubbles soothe his body and provide some relief to the aged frame, the doorbell went.

The chances of it being anyone important were slim. It may even be for someone else. It would more likely be that neighbour of his ordering stuff from Amazon that Harry would be forced to collect. Irrespective of his accumulated wisdom, he initiated the precarious process of descending to open the door. He slipped getting out of bath, he slipped opening the door, he still had soap in his eyes as he struggled on the first step and collided with the bannister again on the same hip. There had been a thirty-seven second gap between the last ring and now, which meant that he was probably going to reach the door when the caller had already left. Resolved for this not to be the case, he increased the pace on the last two steps and lunged for the door, the towel falling from his hips (could they not even be trusted to perform this simple task?) which meant that he was as the lord brought him to this life (in terms of attire, not shape) when he finally opened the door. The caller had gone, but a selection of mothers taking their children to the local primary school were treated to a glimpse of something that could never be unseen. Harry closed the door and laughed.

"Sixty-three." He continued laughing to himself as he hobbled on his walking stick to the bus stop. Another process that required an extra twelve minutes compared to his prime. He was sixty-three years old. He remembered fearing forty-three and being surprised when he was in better shape than at twenty-three. In his twenties he had been the bassist in a punk band, and after his fortieth birthday he completed the London Marathon in under four hours on the back of three months' training. He glanced at his E-Type Jag accumulating dust in the driveway, his medical certificate had been revoked and he was no longer allowed to drive. He hired a driver for a while but deemed that being driven around in that vehicle was akin to those porn videos where men watch their wives be deflowered by young studs, or a Big Mac meal, it might seem pleasurable beforehand, but inevitably you end up feeling soiled and detesting yourself.

This meant he was resigned to the bus. He could work from home but liked the idea of taking an office so it would force him into a routine. His business ran itself mainly, he was shrewd and enjoyed a brain that mocked his hip and other bones. At first there was no seat for him on the bus. He was at that tricky age, polite children, (remember them?) would give up their seats without question, but people in their thirties and forties doubted as to whether Harry would actually take offence at the suggestion he be infirm or something. Normally by the time they had made their minds up, it was their stop and someone else dived in without even noticing Harry.

Occasionally, someone would recognise him and joyously show him digital proof of devotion. He would say that that was a long time ago and wait for their expressions to change to disappointment as they realised he was just an old man who was in a band once. The headphones would go back in, and at best there would be a smile as the youth alighted the vehicle.

Harry continued to laugh to himself without realising that this was the best way of assuring nobody ever approached him again on public transport. "It's not so bad." He thought to himself again and smiled as he saw his favourite Green Park pass by.

"Or is it that bad?" A man said. Harry had not seen the man take the seat next to him.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry asked politely.

"Your situation. You mean you accept it because other people are worse than you? Or because you believe that it is the right thing to do?" The man asked.

"I'm afraid I do not have the foggiest notion of what you are talking about." Harry was now thinking about getting off the bus three stops early.

"What if I told you I could send you back to when you were forty-three and you would remain like that forever? Would you like that? Eternal life, Harry? Health and wealth. You would never get ill and would always be at your wealthiest period in your life as a minimum. Guaranteed. Fancy it?" The man asked.

"Of course, who wouldn't?" Harry said as he gestured he was getting off.

"Not your stop, Harry. Sit down for a moment." The man barked. "Actually, I don't care whether you fancy it or not. I would like to perform an experiment and have chosen you. Thus, in eighteen seconds from when I stop speaking your body will be reverted to its state when you did that marathon. You won't need this." He said, opening the window and throwing the walking stick out.

"What in the name of..." By the time Harry got to the preposition, he felt like he had not felt in years. It was a trick, he was sure.

"Let's both get off at this stop. I'd like to see you jog round the park." The man said.

Harry stood up with his usual caution and almost cracked his skull on the roof, such was the force with which his body moved. Harry did not know what to say but found himself following the man as he got off the number 326B.

Once in the park, Harry moved like he had not moved in years. The air entered his lungs, filling him with power, he could touch his toes, skip and leap like he never did when he could. Despite being in a three-piece Savile Row suit and A Testoni brogues, he managed to do a seven-minute kilometre. He wanted to go again, but the man stopped him.

"This is amazing." Harry said. "What's the catch?"

"As far as I can see there are none. Just look after your body. It has to last a long time." The man said and was gone.

Harry took the day off and walked the four miles back home. He also had a place in the country, and so was looking forward to enjoying the rolling hills. His daughter lived in California and even first class was too painful for him on the plane, but before even checking with her, he booked a flight and made arrangements for the office to run without him.

He put on the same running attire that he had used for the Marathon, carefully stored away in the hope that one day it may be useful to someone and took great pleasure in meticulously lacing his shoes. He hobbled together a playlist specially for this moment and took to the streets, genuinely convinced that nobody was presently enjoying their body more than him.

He took the first kilometre steady but soon decided to push his new limits. Seeing on his phone that he was averaging four-twenty per K, he tried to push it down below four. As he got close, the 326B turned the corner and knocked him out cold.

London Senior Hospital, two days later

Harry's daughter rushed in a taxi from Heathrow. Her father was in a coma and could not even manage speech. The prognosis was not good. The chances of him walking again were almost nil, the same expectation was given regarding his capacity to think and speak. His daughter was informed of the situation and told the best thing would be to switch the machines off. She refused and left.

The man from the bus had been waiting in the corridor for a moment to be alone with Harry. "I told you to look after that body. You didn't even last a day. Thing is, I cannot reverse the process and you'll just have to wait this one out."

Harry tried to say something, but his body prevented the action taking place.

"I know, Harry, I know." The man said and left.

London Senior Hospital, two years later

"Ok then. Here are the consent forms." Harry's daughter gave them permission to turn off the machines and said goodbye to her father.

London Senior Hospital, three days later.

Harry's daughter was on her way to the funeral parlour when she received a call from the hospital. "Normally, it would take very little time for someone to pass once the machines are disconnected. But your father is still alive."

#  Quinoa 2.0

"Thank you, Gareth." The CEO said and turned to the Board.

"Chilling viewing, I think you will agree. This situation means that unless one of us can come up with an astoundingly brilliant plan, one of the major players in the foodstuffs sector in the last century and a half will soon be no more. I would ask you to rack your brains."

There was a pause. That was to be expected. If anyone had the solution, it would have been implemented long before this mess appeared. Only one hand shot up from the group. Keith's.

"African baby placenta." He said and smiled.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to repeat that." The CEO asked, aghast.

Keith repeated the magic mantra. Keith was not renowned for devising strategies that saved multinationals, Keith was not renowned. Yet, as nobody else dared to speak, he elaborated on his plan. "We have ventured unsuccessfully into the luxury and health food markets, with overheads always being our downfall. So, how about a product that is free that we can effectively put the mark-up we want on it." Keith continued to smile as he looked at his open-mouthed audience.

"I comprehend that you are finding this somewhat hard to assimilate, but here is a simple model. We put it out that African baby placenta contains wonderfully salubrious qualities. Qualities that our laboratory in Switzerland has just verified and prove that its consumption can even cure cancer." Keith was the only one showing any optimism in this revelation.

"We have a laboratory in Switzerland?" The CEO asked.

"We can get one. There are always loopholes. Why African baby placenta? I hear you ask. Well, it is more abundant in supply and will be available at a much cheaper price. People will clamour to join the fad; we will be able to auction the placentas of what could be described as "high-gene parents" whose offspring would potentially provide better results. At the end of the day, we could sell any old placentas in reality, probably even liver fillets, people won't know." Keith looked up to see the Board was still not with him.

"We will go to prison. How can we sustain the company with something like this?" The CEO demanded.

"Oh no, you misunderstand. The Company is gone, you have to accept that. But we have two choices, go down with dignity or make a fortune and jump ship leaving the new buyers to take the flak. I say dignity is overrated. We sell as much as we can in a year then disappear. Or you can disappear tomorrow. With nothing. Well, less than nothing." Keith was still smiling.

"That is the most hairbrained thing I have ever heard in my life. We'd be destroyed." A senior advisor offered.

"Or is it?" The CEO intervened. "What option do we have? I mean, it would be nice to have one that does not involve eternity in Wikipedia as being a slightly better entry than Hitler's. I do not want to go to prison, or worse, be poor. We have worked hard to get here. Generations have struggled to make this company a success. Why would African baby placenta not cure cancer? Is hope not a major factor in these cases?" Keith's smile grew bigger as he assumed he had the CEO on board.

The meeting continued for another hour, but neither Keith nor the CEO spoke again in it. Keith was promoted to Deputy CEO and anyone not on-board with the plan was removed. A week later, their creditors were told that they had saved the Company.

And so, on the back of a fake report from a laboratory nobody bothered investigating. ABP was suddenly the hottest product on the shelves. Except it never made it to the shelves. It was far too exclusive a product to be handled by the masses. The first batch was put up for auction. The boffins claimed that one serving would be enough to induce significant benefits for health, continued consumption would eradicate present diseases (they decided not to stop at cancer) and prevent future ones. ABP dinner parties became the height of fashion in the major cities' exclusive circles, with purchasers receiving a personalised video from the creators of the original placenta (paid between 12 and 20 pounds) thanking them for their generosity.

The Company's immediate debt of twelve million pounds sterling was covered after just three batches of one-thousand placentas. Inevitably, the outcry was immediate, and being the Twitter account handler for the Company was probably the least pleasant job on the planet, but despite the protests, despite the threatened boycotts and despite the overwhelming ethical questions, they kept on selling, and as supply waned, prices rocketed. One desperate Lord paid four million pounds for the desired product.

The Company overestimated African breeding and the continent's ability to discover what was really going on. This led to a shortfall in supply that was met by turning to China. A "Chinese" African Baby Placenta could be purchased for less than a pound, and, although there is no difference in terms of colour of the organs of people of different races, the Chinese versions were darkened to give them an extra African tinge.

Keith entered the CEO's office. "Looks like we need a get-out-of-jail card". He said.

"I knew it was going to be immoral, but this is even beyond our wildest dreams. We are making 100 million a month clear profit, but three of our terminally ill purchasers have already passed away. No signs of improvement have been noted and we are days away from having the laboratory unmasked." The CEO responded.

"The time has come for us to leave. Me and you take fifty million each. Here's how it plays out. You hold a press conference and say that you have taken this as far as you can but would like a more equipped to take the project from here. It should take less than an hour for a buyer to come forward. When they are in place and have signed, we leak the information that it was the laboratory itself who has pulled the scam and they have fooled you. The lab never existed so it will never be found. You claim you will make a full statement in the coming days but no longer have control of the Company. You will be long gone when you make the last statement. They will be left to clear up. Are your family ready?" Keith said.

"You really think of everything, don't you?" The CEO said, surveying his office for the last time as Keith made the transfers of fifty million to the both of them, generously sending two million to the remaining board members who stuck with the project.

It was a Japanese food company who took over the ABP project, believing the tales of free money the Company had spun. It insisted on installing its own team and everyone from the old Company was delighted with that. When they arrived, the lab's cover was blown. They then realised why they had bought a billion-dollar company for less than twenty million.

The CEO looked over the top of the FT and saw Keith in the pool. Life was not too shabby on the Caribbean island with the bank accounts they enjoyed. Keith swam over to his former boss and was helped into a robe by one of the many, lithe and young female staff they employed.

"You can't tell me it wasn't worth it?" Keith said. "Did you enjoy my last master-stroke?" He smiled.

The CEO read from the FT: "the disgraced CEO and his faithful employee's bodies were found in a car park on Tuesday morning with a note stating they could no longer handle the guilt of what they had done. They took their own lives in a joint suicide pact and claimed to return their ill-gotten gains to charity. So far, no trace of the money has been seen." He chuckled. "I assume you never liked the name Keith anyway, right Algernon?"

"I think it was beneath me. You suit Kehiah too. Give it another month and we can go our separate ways. In the meantime...." Algernon clicked his fingers and the pair were attended to in an instant.

"You're my kind of cunt, Algernon." Keziah said.

#  A Life in the Day

The liquid felt smooth and not unpleasant on my tongue. Not wishing to do anything untoward, I smiled and settled into position. My eyes heavy, the warm sun lapped against my cheek inviting me to drift.

Is there a line where reality and the vagary of dreams cross? I awoke to find myself on the lawn of the house. Such comfort in simplicity. I was not aware of how long I had been asleep, but the transportation process had been a success.

A spring morning, it can't be more than eleven. That half-hazy feeling of a long-due lie-in mixed with almost a sensation of guilt at having allowed myself to forego the majesty of the morning. The smell of freshly ground coffee pervaded the air, intermingled with the sharp contrast of the burning toast coming from the kitchen.

Dropping my newspaper, I rushed into the kitchen to extract the bread before it was too late, scraping off the charred bits with a knife. My first instinct is to do this into the sink, then I panic as I realise if my wife catches me, this crime will be far more heinous than burning the toast. Hearing her footsteps come down the stairs, I hurriedly try to complete the task and guarantee my freedom. Washing down any rogue ashes with the jet, I survey the area and deem it to be clear.

Returning back to the toaster area, I pretend none of the above took place and finish preparing breakfast. Heating the milk just enough to create a delicious froth for the coffee, my daughter came in and insisted I make her cereals now. Make? She is seven but still demands that her input in this venture be limited to sitting at the table and eating them. I don't mind, I really should take some time off work and spend more of it with her, before I know it, she will be a teenager who has next to no interest in spending any time with her decrepit, old parents.

As I tend to the flakes, the milk begins to boil over the pan's side, just in time for my wife to turn it off and save the day, whilst also dispatching a cursory glance over to the sink and spotting the single ash not collected. Entering into CSI mode, she simply says "What have we discussed about scraping burnt toast into the sink?"

How do I answer that? She is right. Again. I simply tell her that it will not happen again, whilst making a mental note to be more thorough next time.

We take our wares out into the garden, moving the table slightly as the rare need for shade causes the morning to become even more special. Those first enchanting mornings once the misery of winter has subsided make the endurance of these bleak months worthwhile as we bask in the reward of the simplicity of the scene. The homemade marmalade seems even sweeter this morning as we glance over the Cotswolds, at our vision of what will always be England, the England so few Englanders will probably ever get to see.

A morning like this really starts the blood racing. Of course, I know there are equally idyllic scenes in thousands of places, but after all that has happened, it is nice to have a little bit of you tucked away down in a valley.

I suggested a stroll before lunch. We could even make a day of it and ramble down to the lovely pub on the other side of the valley. If the carvery proved too much of a temptation when washed down with a local highlight, we could always take a taxi back. My girl is used to treks despite being young, four miles won't see her off.

We choose to allow her to take her bike, this means the walk back is pretty much cancelled, but ambling through the forest I revel as she reels off the names of plants and fungi. There is truly nothing nicer than the water gleaming as it trickles down the brook towards the town. Well, maybe there is but at this moment, it'll do for me.

My daughter cycles behind obediently and without straying from the path marked out by so many feet trampling it down over the years. We made good time to the pub and placed our orders just seconds before the weather took a turn for the worse and ensconced us inside for the time being.

As I saw my platter being brought over to me from the other side of the bar with the Yorkshire puddings almost dropping off the sides, my mouth watered as I caught a glance of the beef, lifting the well-earned pint to my mouth as the flavoursome liquid trickled down my gullet. "We are truly blessed." I said aloud for some unbeknown reason shifted my gaze to the gardens, now in full bloom, offering their wares to eyes of the passers-by while I returned to....

"We haven't given him enough." I heard a voice say in Arabic. The only good that has come from my time here has been learning a very tricky language, not that it will be much use to me in the future.

As I looked up the sword dropped down and plucked me once again from my dream. A long way from England. The say that your head, or is it your body? Can remain alive for as long as thirty seconds post decapitation. I have been removed from mine now for seventeen seconds, so I guess that all is left is to try and count to thirty.

#  I Put A Spell On You

New York, 1956

A spring morning in the city that never sleeps. You never know when a day begins that might be the beginning of a story. You look back, after the dust has settled, but then can pinpoint that exact moment where everything changed. Either for your life, for everyone or for a select group of people. Of course, many of us get up every day believing we are going to change the world, many of us have little more intention than surviving the process to repeat it the next day, many wish that their world could just change for one day.

Charlie did not know what group he belonged to. He came to New York expecting some kind of 'Guys and Dolls' experience mixed with 'West Side Story' as people danced in orderly fashion down the city's avenues. It took him about forty minutes in the Big Apple to realise that real life would be quite different. Another forty allowed him to remove the quite from the foregoing sentence. Charlie arrived in New York with a dream, he could sing, he could act, he could dance, he could join a long queue. He certainly better had as there were already a million or more people in the city who could do the same as him, or markedly better. So, Charlie found a job waiting tables. He became a hipster cliché six decades early. The money he made from waiting was not enough to afford him sufficient squalid dwelling and so he had to supplement this income with delivery work that gave him the opportunity to discover the city on a daily basis without enjoying a moment of it.

Charlie watched the city that never slept as he fell into his uncomfortable bed exhausted every night. His sole motivation was the fact that if he returned to his hometown in Arkansas as a failure, he would spend the rest of his life as a character in an Arthur Miller play. It was a barmy summer's evening in the city as he gazed out of his window onto the apartment blocks that provided a never-ending multi-channel entertainment experience of American life in the fifties, family shows, heart-warming scenes that made him almost wish to eschew his dreams as a performer and take a desk in one of the city's many offices, mom, pops and the kids, side-by-side with live violence and X-rated passion for the eyes of whoever gazed upon the scene. He had heard a story that they built two blocks, the exhibitionists moved into one and the peeping toms into the other facing it. He loved his window it other people's lives but inevitably overdosed and felt forlorn as he drew the curtains to switch off the set and returned to his empty quarters.

He had no friends in NYC. He knew people, there were people on his floor that he could smile at, people he knew who required walking past with his head down, people he could look longingly at and people he hoped would pass without having to rely on any social niceties. But friends, if his head was on fire, people he could turn to, none. He flirted with a waitress, but she lived on the other side of town, and made no offer for him to discover it. He feared attracting female company as no self-respecting gal would take her chances with the cockroaches that darted across the floor. At times he would arrange them into rows and see if they could perform the domestic version of the hundred metre dash for him. The roaches seemed in playful mood and Charlie took a sheet of paper and drew a load of ten-dollar bills with a pencil stolen from the restaurant that he cut up by hand for want of a pair of scissors and gave the roaches names. "I'll have ten on that sneaky lookin' fella 'Westy' to win!" He would say in his best Noo Yoik accent. Angrily ripping up his bet when Westy scuttled off under the bed and faced disqualification. "You're only as bored as you want to be." He consoled himself as his body was treated to another six-hours' inadequate rest.

From eight until twelve he did deliveries, then he went on to the restaurant until the lunch shift finished. If there were scraps, they were shared between the servers, though the chef knowingly piled on the fries of the last few dishes to deprive them of nutrients in a tiresome bid to exert power over those he considered below them. In those stolen moments of fraternity, Charlie felt the closest he could to a family in the big city. Nourished or not, he would then return to collect some afternoon deliveries before heading back to do a dinner shift, if he was needed. Not being needed gave him some respite but meant the pay packet would be reduced.

Another issue was the scarcity of time for auditions, if he were ever picked to get that far. Most of the roles he could opt for did not offer a time slot and meant lining up with thousands of deluded hopefuls sharing a dream, and more importantly, a reality. If he could make it across Manhattan or to Radio City for the audition, the non-appearance at both jobs would not be taken lightly. He wanted to get away from his situation, but the likelihood of him getting away from his situation was so remote that he could not risk getting away from this situation to getting to get away from it. He was glad that he could not even afford a radio set, let alone a television, as it would definitely taunt him.

The city also taunted him. He had to cross Times Square to get from one job to another and everyone seemed to take on the appearance of Gene Kelly galivanting with the aid of lampposts, amusing themselves in puddles while Charlie feared lateness once more. Broadway teased him with its larger than life billboards, mocking him as his inner dialogue told him he could sing, dance and act better than those goons on two dollars a day. Everywhere that clown from Hoboken would jump up at him with his dorkish grin singing "Night and Day." Boy! Was he the one?

Charlie did his shift and was told he would not be needed for later. He didn't even have any deliveries to do that afternoon as it was Friday, and nobody wanted to pay the weekend rates. The thought of spending the entire afternoon stroke evening stroke night stroke next morning in his unwelcoming digs filled him with something far removed from joy, and despite the fact that he could barely afford one, decided to take a couple of beers and watch the world pass him by.

Realising the bang he could get for his buck off Broadway, he sought out an establishment whose quality would be reflected in its prices. Already two blocks down, the heart of New York already seemed a long way away. He noticed his beaten old shoe and the frayed lace, certain that he could not afford a trip to hospital, he set down to tie it. There, to his utter astonishment, was a ten-dollar bill on the floor. That was more than he had earned all week. It was not going to change his life, but it would certainly make the evening more palatable. He looked around to check it was no trap, and surreptitiously manoeuvred the cash under his foot and into his fist. From the fist it went into his sock, then he finally got around to tying his shoelace.

With a spring in his step, a spring altered by the note rubbing against his skin, he made haste to a watering hole that he was less likely not to die in. Anything could happen in New York still; caution was always where his front foot went. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, the barman, Jay, screamed whether he could pay for this beverage, when Charlie showed him the bill, he suddenly became enormously friendly.

"So, what brings you in here, of all places? I mean you seem to have cash on the hip. Ten bucks can get you a fancy steak on Broadway." Jay asked.

"Dunno. Guess it was fate, something drew me in her. Is the singer any good?" Charlie responded, pointing at a poster for a certain Diana who would take the stage later.

"Never heard her sing. Guess we'll find out in a bit. You hungry?" Jay seemed now overly friendly.

"What you got?" Charlie asked. He wasn't hungry but the thought of drinking on an empty stomach with his recent lack of practice didn't inspire.

"Steak, mash and corn for a dollar. Sound good?" Jay asked.

"Sure does." He responded. He asked Jay if he was able to partake despite being on the job, and he told him he was. Jake poured a second for Charlie and one for himself. Charlie still felt like a king with ten dollars, but was aware that if he became overly benevolent, he would soon be out of pocket. Jay gave him his change and he put the eight dollars and something in his jacket. All of a sudden, he felt an itch where the original note had been and scratched his skin over the sock. To his surprise, another ten-dollar bill had appeared in the same place. Charlie took a moment to accept that this was truly odd, then swigged back his beer.

Diana's band came on to do a last rehearsal. It was a bit of a squeeze even without Diana as they fought for space in the corner. They played that song by the new kid, what was he called again? The song was called "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You" and it was strange to hear it without the words. Someone was always singing it in the kitchens.

"Elvis fan?" Jay asked.

"He's got something. Wish I had his moves." Charlie laughed.

"Have you ever heard of a "Kotodama"? It means sacred sound, or something like that in Japanese. Something tells me you should listen to Diana; she might have a message for you." Jay smiled at me as he placed the feast down before me. He was now sitting by my side as his shift has finished. He pulled up his trouser leg and smiled at me, extracting a ten-dollar bill: "I got one too!" He laughed as he ordered a round.

Charlie was already quite squiffy by the time Diana took the stage, mopping up the rest of his meal with the bread to try to abate the sense of inebriation. He realised that before that moment, he had never seen a woman before in his life, well, he had lots, there were millions in New York, but he had never actually looked beyond, he had never seen into one as if she were transparent. Then he opened her mouth. After that there was nothing Charlie could do. Either Diana would be his and joy would be eternal, or he would die miserable. Given his current run of form, he expected the latter.

The first song they did was 'Bewitched' by Rodgers and Hart. To Charlie's ears that was beyond music, the tones traversed his body and seemed to empower each and every one of his bones and muscles. Something was happening to him that he had never experienced before. He had always loved a song or two, he could even do a few things on the guitar, better than that hick from Tupelo anyway. But music was not his life, he wanted to act, but knew music, acting and dancing went hand-in-hand, though none of them went near his hands recently. This time it was different, the music reached inside him and made him want to reach inside Diana. He wanted to know how she was capable of creating this joyous sound that evoked such passion in him. He wanted to know why he had never been alive before this moment. He sat captivated while they played their set, then turned to Jay.

"Where did they find her, eh?" Jay laughed. "I know this is not Carnegie Hall but Jeez, that dame sure can't sing." He continued laughing.

Charlie was more than perplexed. He knew what he had just witnessed. How could his appraisal of the performance be so different? He needed clarification. "What do you mean? That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

"And therein lies the rub. The most beautiful thing you have ever seen. That's what you might have been missing all this time. Just remember your old pal Jay Hawkins when you work it out." He laughed.

"I need to find Diana." Charlie said, desperately.

"You already have. There is no Diana now. Have one for the road." Jay commented.

Charlie declined but said he would be back. Jay said he looked forward to it, with both of them knowing the likelihood of it being true was slim.

Once Charlie was outside again, the air buffed him from side to side as the city's life passed by him. He was gone 2 am when the clocks still had yet to chime eleven. He was giddy, was it the drink, was it Diana? He assumed it was a dose of both.

He still had enough money to take a cab but was unsure whether his frail stomach would last the journey, not wanting to pay the excess should there be soilage, he took the subway to return home. It did not cross his mind for one minute the danger of having what for the time was an amount of money worth robbing, nor the fact that his level of inebriation may lead him into greater trouble.

Nonetheless, he made it through the streets and into the station without too many people paying attention to him, as if the world carried him along regardless, it seemed to have protected him thus far, after the obvious years of neglect undoubtedly, so the hope was it would see him home. The stairs seemed like a daunting prospect, but he managed to steady himself on the handrail and make it down to the platform. There were not too many people down there, couples who looked like the covers for Sinatra albums intermingled with the lonesome who rode alone and those who rode to serve others, or other unknown places in the night. Charlie sat and tried to breathe himself sober. After a few attempts, he was closer to hyperventilating than sobriety, and abandoned that venture.

His eyes began to feel heavy as he waited for the train, determined not to fall asleep this drunk, he set the eyes upon the task of finding people to observe, attempting to banish Diana from his thoughts. He did not get very far. Along the platform, he could make out what seemed to be a saxophone case, and a red high-heel jutting out from behind it. He was convinced that the shoe did not belong to the saxophone player, so he allowed himself to entertain the idea that Diana was following him, that they would bump into each other on a crowded carriage and there would be a moment, followed by one of those love at first sight things, but experienced by her this time, and the rest would be history.

A train pulled into the station, but it was not his. His was the next one. The red shoe did move though. It took his addled brain a while to look upwards to discover the owner of the footwear and almost fell off his seat as he realised it was indeed Diana, accompanied by the rest of the band. Before the doors could close, he darted inside and, almost losing a shoe, scampered into the carriage, knocking at least three people over in the carriage and making no friends. He attempted to excuse himself and sauntered down the carriage, trying not to look drunk and exuding a windswept air as he sidled towards her. Then he stopped. What would he say to her? She was probably just keen to get home and get those heels off, there was no way she would feel the same, and even if she somehow did, she would see him for what he was, a drunk bum on the subway. He pondered getting off at the next stop, standing next to the doors as they opened and taking a step, but somehow his feet would not leave the wagon.

The doors closed again, and this time it seemed like the air had done him some good and cleared his head. He was not sure if it had made him more attractive or smell less like a dirty brewery, but decided he was going to tell Diana something.

She was not involved in the conversation with the rest of the band and stared into the black out of the window, perhaps expecting to see something other than tunnels and the city blurring past. He stood awkwardly almost near her, not close enough for her to notice him, and too far for the act to have any purpose, he gradually edged towards her, wondering how much time he had, the next station could be hers, he may not have much time to play with, he would never bump into her again, and who knows when the next concert would be?

He finally mustered enough courage to get close enough to be heard. "I saw you perform. You have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." He said, smiling.

She looked round to verify whether these words were actually directed at her. When she realised they were, she thanked him, and the space was filled with clumsy awkwardness with the onus on him to fill it with substantially magnificent words. She just smiled at him and looked at her watch.

"I am an actor." He told her. This phrase is only impressive if you don't need to utter it. If they recognise you, it is superfluous. If you have to tell them, and you are drunk on a subway train, then it is clear that you are not actually an actor. He thought that sharing his artistic leanings might sway her towards him, kindred spirits or something. She smiled again. Then one of the band-members began to pull his guitar-case down from the rack. At first, he thought that they would all live together but soon realised that this was a ridiculous notion and that the band would leave him a seat so he could get better acquainted with Diana.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the show. Good luck with the acting." She said as they all stood up to disembark.

"Maybe we could." He uttered, pointlessly as she left the train.

He was not delighted with his performance and wondered how he could discover where they were playing again. His second first impression would be deadly. The obvious choice was to return to Jay's and find out who booked them, get their schedule and try not to look like he is stalking her. That seemed fool proof. His main concern now being not falling asleep before the six stops to his hovel.

He changed seats to sit were she had been. It smelt of her still. He knew it didn't it smelt of New York City Transport Corporation rolling stock, but he imagined her scent and that comforted him. He compared his battered shoes to the place where those red heels and saw a piece of paper on the carriage floor. It held the secret to his future happiness. It was the band's schedule, and on Sunday they would play off 42nd Street. He folded it into his pocket and smiled to see his stop was next.

He reserved Saturday for wishing to die until lunchtime. Then, following a tip off from one of the residents that there would be work in a partner restaurant for the afternoon, got a free feed and made some dollars. That night, he went to the movies alone. He thought it would be a good idea to get these things out of the way now, as he would soon be spending the rest of his life with Diana. The film he chose was Hitchcock's 'The Wrong Man', he fancied a role in something like that after the wedding. There was so much to plan.

He got up early on Sunday and walked around Central Park. It was a delightfully warm day and he sought someone to bore with his fact on the original design the park was based on. There were no takers and by eleven o´clock he was desperately bored already. Diana's show, which he would now be the guest of honour at, was not until half-past eight. He wandered past two of the restaurants he casually helped out in and asked if they needed a pair of hands, but he was told they were fine. He went back to the apartment and read, then did some exercise and then slept. Anything to pass the dreaded time.

He spent all day watching the clock so much that he realised he had not given himself enough time to get ready and reach the location, failing to take into account that there would be less subway trains on a Sunday evening. All day waiting for a chance to speak to her before she took the stage and when he got there she was already singing. He had planned to tell that he was dreadfully sorry for the incident the other night on the train, there was no way that she would not remember him, and that he would be delighted to make it up to her. Now, that chance was gone.

He took a table on the other side of the dance floor and ordered a beer. He took a sip and then realised his breath would smell of alcohol. Even if he nursed one drink, she would be able to tell, and after the last performance, this was not the way forward. Realising there was no way back, he finished it and ordered another, wondering if the ten-dollar sock trick would work again, but it didn't.

There was a much bigger crowd in for this show, Jay's bar being little more than paid rehearsal. They sounded good, they did 'It happened in Monterrey' and 'Cheek to Cheek' before announcing a break. All of the band came to the bar for refreshment, Diana didn't. He knew instinctively that going to her dressing-room to present the apology was a worse idea than coming to see her in the first place, so decided to bide his time.

To his good fortune, the second part of the show opened with some instrumental jazz standards, which meant Diana emerged and ordered a Coke and a hot-dog. "Let me get that." Charlie insisted, seizing his chance.

"Sorry, do we know each other?" She asked, not accepting but not refusing my offer.

"We met briefly on the subway the other night. I expressed my appreciation for your work, despite being the worse for wear." He smiled.

"Seems like you got right back on that horse again." She said, gesturing to his bottle and taking a bite of her dog. The barman became highly inquisitive with regard to the information on who indeed was going to pay, and the task fell upon Charlie.

"Thanks." She said, offering him a look that said, well I guess you have to sit here now so you may as well but don't get any ideas.

Charlie embarked on a tirade of pitiful small talk that got him no closer to his conquest. She polished off the dog and swigged the last of the Coke without the style of a diva and told him she was on. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something that made her gasp. "Stay here, I'll come and find you after the show." She told Charlie, who was clearly not going anywhere.

They did another six numbers, and then an encore which was a rather bizarre take on 'Hound Dog', left the stage and she came straight over to Charlie. He didn't normally have this effect on women so made sure he was wholly wary of the entire situation,

"So, what's your name again?" She asked with a sense of urgency. He told her and she took his hand. "Charlie, you look like a strong boy. That guy over there, don't look." She said as Charlie looked. "He and I, well, it never worked out, but he didn't take the news too good. It would be kinda helpful for me if he could think I was with someone else. There is no way he would square up to you, he's half your size. Just play along, OK? And order me a Cosmopolitan." She continued.

Charlie mentally worried about his dwindling financial supply and the potential cost of the drink but placed the order and got himself another one. He checked his sock for a final time, but it was not in the mood for production. He asked the barman the damage, and the latter simply said, "this one's on Jay!".

Charlie thanked him and handed Diana her drink. In his eyeline, he could see the disgruntled ex storming towards them. He tried to sit in a way that looked menacing but almost fell off his chair. He decided standard sitting would be enough. The guy was indeed short, but he had that look short guys sometimes have, like they don't care how big you are, like the bigger you are, the better.

"Tell your monkey to take a walk." Was his opening gambit, a real smooth-talker.

"I beg your pardon." Charlie said, assuming it was his role to speak and not Diana's.

"Me and the dame got business. Get outta here." He repeated.

"I believe the only business you have with this lady is giving her the apology she deserves and leaving her alone." Charlie said. It was hard to tell who was more surprised, him or Diana.

"Well ain't you a real-life hero? I orta smack your face all around this bar." The guy continued.

"Please, if they ever make a film of my life, I don't want your cheap b-movie dialogue spoiling it. The lady is not interested, don't make a jerk of yourself." He resisted the temptation to go further but caught a glimpse of a suitably impressed Diana and realised the wisdom of his control.

"You're a real smart feller. Well let's see how you handle this." Said the stumpy guy, displaying a clear disregard for the element of surprise. The sheer distance between the end of the guy's arm and Charlie's face meant the first swing failed to connect. By the time the second one came over, Charlie was ready for it and to the embarrassment of the supposed assailant, stopped his fist with a single clamping motion of his right hand and suggested that was enough. When a small, angry dude knows he is beaten, the last thing he does is retreat, spurred on by this shameful performance, he takes another swing at Charlie and loses his footing, swinging forward towards the bar. Charlie simply steps to one side and allows him to fall to the floor.

By this time, the bruhaha has attracted the attention of the other band members who reiterate that the man need no longer remain in the establishment. Pretending like he was leaving anyway, he leaves, muttering some expletive or other and there are hearty introductions all round.

"I was impressed. I thought you were just going to smack him and be done with it. But I must say I liked your way better." Diana smiled.

Charlie almost said he had to look after his beautiful face, potentially undoing all the good work but simply thanked her. She asked him if he liked dancing. He said he did. The way he was feeling now she could enrol him on a taxidermy course at the present time and he would gladly follow. After handshakes with the band, the pair left arm in arm. Quite the result in Charlie's eyes.

They stepped out into the night air, for once Charlie wanted the city that never slept to stay awake even longer. The moment was broken by a familiar voice.

"Hey bigmouth." You clever readers don't need to be told who it was. He was back, and with reinforcements. Charlie was going to have to take one for the team. It would be nice, once the dust has settled and all participants returned to their places, to say that Charlie gave as good as he got, but that was not the case, not by any stretch of the imagination. It may have been the case that the beating endeared him more to Diana, and years later, when he heard Gram Parson's sing 'Love Hurts' he would think, 'it fucking does'.

Diana was standing over him as he came to. He felt ridiculously sober as he stood up with something akin to the worst hangover he had ever experienced. "We better get you home." She said. Charlie just thought "Whose?"

She hailed a taxi without asking him where he lived so he assumed they were heading to her place. Suddenly, the pain seemed quite worthwhile.

For a courtship that started on such an odd footing, they went on to make quite the couple. Charlie's luck stood by his side as he landed bit-parts in several movies in 1957 and the following year landed a speaking role He moved into an apartment in Queens and Diana was not far behind, with a ring on her finger.

Their wedding was a simple registry office affair in Manhattan, a few friends and colleagues peppered the event, Charlie even managed to track down Jay to act as witness. Jay laid on a spread in his bar as Charlie and Diana made plans. Once the whiskey was out, the old band played one last time as she was flying out the next day to record backing vocals on the new Perry Como long-player. "Some honeymoon." Charlie said to her as she came off the stage, and Diana told him that she would make it up to him.

They did get a night at the historic Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue, with views over Central Park. Wanting to take advantage of the luxury accommodation, they rushed into a taxi after saying their goodbyes. As the vehicle, under their orders, sped through the city, the driver, new to this game, unwittingly jumped a red light and the cab was struck by a bus.

Charlie could smell the smoke. He looked over to Diana and tried to shake her. She groaned but was more or less conscious. He checked how much of his body hurt and decided it was time to pass out. The next thing he heard was sirens and a voice telling him they would soon be free. Diana held his hand as they were released from the wreckage. They were then taken in separate ambulances to a local hospital.

Charlie had a sprained ankle, bruised ribs and a nasty knock to the head. He asked about Diana and was told they would get news to him at their earliest juncture, but at the moment they were sure she was doing fine. One nurse said that they were not even sure where she was, which probably meant that she had been discharged. No doubt she would be in to see him soon, he was told.

As he recovered from his injuries, he looked forward to finding Diana and getting on with that honeymoon. He was already in a trance like state, making plans for the future, perhaps it was the drugs, when the Doctor came in.

Dr Faulkner sat the edge of the bed and examined him. "I think you are right about ready to leave this place tomorrow, Charlie. Do you have somewhere to go?" He asked.

"Only home to my wife." He joked.

"The lady you came in with? What I would like to talk to you about is the seriousness of head injuries. You need to keep a close eye on them, plus there is also something that we have only just discovered..." Dr Faulkner continued.

But Charlie wasn't listening. He stopped listening when he uttered the word wife, dreaming dreams of domestic simplicity with Diana. He didn't hear the rest either when they upped his dose and prepared him for discharge the next day.

Delaware Healthcare Facility, 1986

"Thank you for agreeing to speak to us, Charlie. Our research is of vital importance for the understanding of what happens when car crash victims suffer brain trauma. You may think that because your accident was nearly thirty years ago, there is little it can tell us, but you would be surprised. Just tell us your story, from the day you left the hospital, as much as you can remember. The tape is running, take your time. If at any point you feel overwhelmed, we will stop and take a break.

Charlie looked at the nurse and wondered why they had dragged him all this way to tell the story, again. It was the story of his life and getting dull now with so many reruns.

"What do you want to know? I got home and Diana was there in bed, an old lady by her side. That was how I met my mother-in-law. She had taken quite a hit and was recovering; our plans were on hold for a while but the main thing was getting well again. We lost a couple of jobs so that met we could not follow through on the lease on a newer bigger place, and with her mom around, it was going to be cramped. I was just happy to be back. I couldn't dance for a year, they told me, I had a part in a musical and was nailed on for a part in 'Some Like It Hot'. I tried not to worry but it was clear I needed to get myself seen as soon as possible.

Diana slowly got better. I learned to bite my tongue when her mother was around but she soon tired of the lack of space, phoned the landlord of the place we couldn't take and enquired about somewhere similar. A week later, we were in a swanky uptown apartment with the rent paid for a year." Charlie began.

"What did Diana's mother do for a living?" The nurse asked.

"As far as I could ascertain, she married rich old southern dudes then divorced them. Had four under her belt when I met her. Made quite the killing, literally in one case. I was grateful to her; it took the pressure off for a while, but I had a feeling there would be resentment in the post. If I didn't find work soon, there would be words.

I tried to rush and force my rehab. That wasn't a great idea as I put myself back another month. I needed a break, while counting all the breaks I had had so far. I hobbled over to Jake's place, but it was no longer a bar, now it was a Korean grocery store, and the funniest thing, the guy in there, looked like a Korean version of Jay, but nobody knew anything of him. I hit upon the idea of finding a friend for Diana's mom, she was bored in the apartment all day and not taking advantage of her time in the city. I called a friend who was more than happy to chaperone her for ten bucks a day. God, I missed my magic sock.

Diana was getting better though, walking again and eating properly. But she had changed, the accident changed her, I guess it changed me too, but I never took the time to realise. I brought up the topic of work, her singing again, but she brushed it off. I sang to myself 'oh your mommy's rich, and your dad is bad-looking.' I would give her time. I might not be in the Fred Astaire movement category but there must have been some role I could take on. I called my agent and he asked me to come in.

I ain't gonna sit here and complain. I was still getting work, a half-crippled dancer with a flat voice and money was coming in. The sixties came along and things were looking up. One day I heard Diana sing in the shower. Then, I knew. A couple of days later, there was a knock at the door. Shy feller with dark glasses on, said Diana had sung for him on a record he made years back that was never released, now he needed female backing singers and had tracked down Diana.

She was reticent at first, but Roy was the best person she could work with at that time. He understood her frailty, he was that kind of guy, with a great heart, it broke our heart when we learnt about the tragedy that befell him soon after. Diana repaid his faith in her then, but there is only so much friendship can do when everything is taken away from you.

Anyway, she sang on his RCA debut and even got Sly from the old band to lay down some piano. It was great to see her back to her old self. She was just skin and bones before the recording sessions, her voice was week, but Roy had patience with her. I keep meaning to call him, it's always the way. Now, at the launch party, she was at her fighting weight, my she looked good, but then again, when I was taking the bus this morning, she leaned over and kissed me, and I remembered that very day, to me she looks the same, in some ways better. Time can't get the better of my Diana.

I started working with a new physio, bit of a revolutionary kind, but he sure got results. I remember saying to Diana, "that guy is putting me through more pain than the accident." And it was true, but when the pain left, it left this time for good, and I got more options all of a sudden. It was a great time to be in New York. Though, maybe any time is a great time to be anywhere if you live rent-free (her mother bought the place to make things easier) and move in circles of performers. My aim was to score a part in a big movie and repay her, not to move anywhere else, this place suited us just fine, Diana was on the road a lot and I was up for a part in Hollywood.

We were determined not to be the typical performers couple who never see each other and through loneliness stumble upon dalliance in a motel room in Arkansas, but suddenly being apart was a tough ask. The only thing tougher was being together. She would get in off a tour or I'd get back from a shoot and instead of enjoying that time together, the slightest thing would set us off.

I recall one time, she wanted grapefruits. To me grapefruits were the same the world over, but she had had Duncan grapefruits when recording with Andy Williams, now they were the only grapefruits she would entertain. I went to three places and they looked at me with the respect I deserved, I had to learn a part so wanted to get back, picking up two pounds of the grapefruits they had. Well, she didn't even need to open one to know. We had the biggest row, she called me a hick, and a lot worse, then stormed out.

She tried to get me to reject parts that had a love interest. I told her, I was an actor, I was a professional and there was only one woman for me. It took us a couple of years to learn how to live with the strains of this lifestyle. In 1964, I got a part in that Billy Wilder movie, 'Kiss Me, Stupid.' boy did she not like that. Hardly anybody liked that movie, you make it now, and they are queuing around the block to get into theatres. But then, things were still different. Even in showbusiness.

That was where I met Dean Martin, not the best influence with a wife on the road. I was still kidding myself that Diana spent the nights cradling a photo of me in her bunk as she made her way to the next show, we never talked about it. Maybe we should have, maybe she should come in with me next time. I guess there is a lot of unspoken stuff in here, but you don't stay married to someone for thirty years with someone without taking a few bumps along the road." Charlie said.

"Did marriage remain an important institution for you at that time? Did you ever consider divorce?" The nurse asked.

"You know, it never crossed my mind. It was just like you got on with things, as if we had made a pact to reconvene in the seventies and then enjoy life. Of course, it never works out like that. If you don't need the money, you need the recognition. You can't just go from wandering around film sets and record studios with people fawning over you to queuing for groceries or taking a washing machine to be mended. When you spend your working life far removed from real life, it is hard to delve back in.

In 1967, Nick was born. That was our summer of love! In the maternity ward and completely aware of Sgt. Pepper and the like, our psychedelic sounds were mainly located on a treetop. That meant that suddenly Diana was off the road, and home. I'm not sure she took to motherhood too well at first. It was a bit too real for her, I'll admit that I wasn't the greatest of help in those days, but at least I had gotten away from the clutches of Dean and Sammy Jr.

I landed a role in 'the Graduate' just before he was born and decided that that would give me enough space to take some time off and help Diana. Looking back, perhaps it would have been better to keep on working and pay for a maid, but I thought I was doing the right thing. I ruined bottles, melted pacifiers, got the wrong mix, heated the food too much when he was on solids, put the nappies on wrong and did a thousand things that were no help. In the end, she suggested her mother return. I made a call and a lady called Esperanza came in full time. After getting a role in the 'Odd Couple', I finally made it into a starring role, on TV, inevitably, in a thing called 'The Mod Squad'.

Diana returned to work towards the end of the decade but by then we had a plan. We moved up to Vermont, have you ever been up there? You should see the colours in Autumn. And only took jobs that involved NYC. There were occasions that she couldn't turn down, the call from Floyd or Purple meant her heading off to London and leaving me with Nick, and Esperanza, perhaps more importantly. Then how could she say no to Zappa, or Nina? Nick's education was more often in hotel rooms than schoolhouses, but you can tell we did a good job. Esperanza travelled with Diana, along with a spinster school mistress that remined me of someone from the Wild West.

I just did what I did best, the worst of TV; sitcoms and soaps, big dollars for poor performances. Phoning it in for years. When I retired, it was a relief. I didn't need the money and wasn't getting any younger. The hours were long, and it was depressing to see how white my teeth were. I wanted to get them yellow on bourbon and cigars." Charlie said, still smiling.

"When did you retire from acting?" The nurse asked.

"1983. Not even sixty. I was offered a part in Dallas and that clinched it for me. When I turned them down, Diana was doing two nights at the Royal Albert Hall backed by the London Symphony Orchestra. I realised then I wasn't the talented one. Of course, I had known for years. The money is just sitting in the bank, earning interest. I thought about becoming a producer, making something worthwhile, then I was worried I would lose it all. I probably would too.

Diana's in Nashville making a country album, it's something she has always wanted to do. We can afford such luxuries now, it has not been easy but we are both in a pretty good condition and look forward to a long and happy retirement. I say that but I know deep down that Diana will die singing, it's in her blood. That was the difference between her and me always, her dream was her life, my dream was to get away from my life.

Now, I'm not too sure what help any of that can be in your research. I guess I am one of the lucky ones, I recovered fully from the crash and had a long and happy life. Not certain why I said that last phrase in the past, though." Charlie concluded, laughing.

"Thank you, Charlie. You've been a great help. Maybe you wouldn't mind coming in again next week and we can talk some more. If you are free, that is." The nurse said, smiling and leading him out.

Once Charlie had left, the doctor, who had been observing behind a hidden panel reappeared and sat down with the nurse.

"How many sessions is that now? I've lost count." Said the doctor.

"By my records, 1,293. I was still at nursing school when they brought him here. Do you really think you will be able to isolate the affected part of his brain? Do you now think you can bring his memory back?" The nurse asked.

"I have been able to do this for a while now. But it seems too cruel. How do we wake him up almost thirty years later and tell him Diana did not survive the crash, that he has been in and out of institutions for almost three decades? The man is happy in his world, would it be fair to destroy it now, at his age? The valuable lessons learnt from Charlie will be able to help people in the future, so that they do not get this advanced. That is Charlie's gift, and our duty to him is to never let him see it." The doctor concluded.

#  Gate 326B

Jenny closed the ledger and considered that to be that for the 2019 summer season. The first of September, her favourite day of the year. Since using her inheritance to fulfil her dream of opening a camp site on the Normandy coast, her actions being frowned upon by other family members and her then partner, who saw the money as a chance to finally get onto the London property ladder, times had been hard, but now, a decade later, she could finally enjoy the fruits of her labours.

The place was open all year, but she took September and most of October off, a chance for her to relax and travel. Once the place was up and running, it took four years for her to break even, then only taking a very modest salary for herself, whilst paying her employees above the going rate. She had a low turnover of staff and had summer employees who returned year-after-year, along with many of her customers.

She was now at the stage in which her costs meant an average occupancy rate of 27% would cover overheads and expenditure for the year. With the increase in rates in July and August, this meant practically with what she made from these months and June and September either side, she could make a profit for the year. Everything that came in from October through to April was pure profit and generally went on improving the site.

As the remainder of the temporary residents piled out, she sat and watched, content, at how the place emptied and was replaced by the new intake. Her staff always said there was a difference between the September crowd and the summer revellers, but Jenny was never there to see them. Deep down, she knew the place could run itself and her presence was no longer a necessity, but she was too young to consider retirement and too old to consider venturing into a second property.

The next day, she would take a flight to Tokyo, continuing her annual quest to tick another country off the list. She had allotted herself five thousand euros for spends, though knew, like in other years, that this would fall quite short, as the lady from the campsite took a liking to the finery of nicer hotels. She made herself an espresso and began to imagine the remodelling that lurked in her head for the bar area, she wondered if it was too early at eleven a.m. for a drop of that Carlos III brandy that the lovely family from Jerez gave her as a parting gift, and decided it wasn't.

She savoured the aroma then the taste of coffee and its kick without even noticing that a man was sitting at one of the far tables.

"Do you have a reservation?" She asked.

"Would you say that a little knowledge is a good thing or a bad thing?" He responded.

"Erm, not sure I follow you. If you are staying here then Julia or Sarah can help you with, well, any questions you may have." Jenny smiled and knocked back the rest of the coffee.

"My questions are for you. Only for you. Indeed, it is a single question. Would you say that a little knowledge is a good thing or a bad thing?" He repeated.

"I am rather busy. I have a flight to catch tomorrow and have nothing done." She just wanted away from this fellow who was making her feel queasy.

"The thing is I have chosen you to be the bearer of information. It's like a sort of experiment, we will see how it goes but the first thing is for you to be given the information." He smiled, an unwelcoming smile that unveiled poor dentistry.

"OK. I have tried the nice approach, now let's move on to the famous get the fuck off my property approach. My boyfriend is in the Gendarmerie."

"He isn't, though, is he?" The man smiled again. His teeth now miraculously white. His appearance less unkempt and perhaps, more trusting, even. "Come and sit with me." He asked.

Jenny knew she was not in her right mind but took another swig of the Carlos III and moved towards his table

"I will give you a piece of information. You will decide what you do with it. Is that clear?" The man said, placing his hand on top of hers.

She didn't flinch at this unwanted contact, and indeed felt more at ease. She nodded.

"The average number of planes in the sky at any given time is around 9,600. I have the exact figures somewhere but that is not relevant. On the 31st of October of this year, that is in two months, at exactly 1300 GMT, all the planes in the sky will suffer an electrical malfunction and fall from the sky. Depending on the skill of the pilots, they will all fall to Earth with the consequences that entails. You are the only person who knows this. Your task? To convince the world to ground aircraft for that day, or at least that moment." He smiled again.

"Why would I believe you?" That was her best retort after nearly three minutes thought.

"Well, you don't have to. But it will be in your head at all times. So, if you do nothing, imagine the guilt. If you prevent it, imagine the feeling." He smiled as she reached for the bottle again. When she looked up, he was gone.

Jenny took the flight and forgot about the deluded figure she had seen days before. Then one night she woke up in a cold sweat. She made her way down to the hotel bar. She had convinced herself that she was having a great time. She wasn't. Every time she saw a plane fly overhead, she imagined watching it fall helplessly out of the sky. She had to tell someone, but she was in Japan, and did not know anyone. After a day of desperate wandering. She stumbled upon a group of Jehovah's Witnesses from Wisconsin. She was as surprised to see them as they were to have someone respond positively to their advances.

"I know something." She told them. Then she told them what she knew. They smiled and nodded. They said they would like to have some time to think about, but she caught them out of the corner of her eye booking flights on an iPad.

Jenny was glad people thought she was crackers. It gave her a boost and helped her get on with the rest of her holiday. She saw cities and temples, with the fateful day still more than a month away, she found herself enjoying the meditation aspect of Japanese temples and would sit for hours contemplating the intricate designs the comprised the adornments. As she studied one closer, she managed to make out the number 31192000. She did not understand the 2000 part until she worked out that Tokyo was nine hours ahead.

She took a flight to London the next day. She did not feel she had the language to deal with the French media and wanted to do this in her native tongue. She managed to keep quiet while boarding but after a couple of G&Ts began to inform her fellow passengers of the impending disaster. This led to a noted shortfall in her popularity among travellers and her being informed that she keep her thoughts to herself for the rest of the flight. She failed to take heed of this command and was collected by airport police, much to her chagrin.

Someone had made a video of her antics on the plane and this had inevitably entered the realm of trending topic. The police were usurped by MI5 before she could be given a cup of tea, the latter entrusted with silencing the issue, but even the collaboration of the Internet in deleting the video soon became a hapless task as the evidence was shared around the world.

Jenny's video appeared on the news. Like a woman possessed she claimed that all the world's planes would fall from the sky on the 31st. Most people decried her as a chancer desperate for fame, while others managed to unearth other pieces of evidence that also historically proved Jenny's prophecy. As the days passed, people were finding, or wanting to see, more evidence that gave Jenny's claims more gravitas. While most people in the right mind thought it was a merely a ploy to enjoy her fifteen minutes of fame, certain sections of society wondered why she was so adamant in her beliefs.

Even though she had been silenced and was kept at a secret location, the viral nature of her recording on the flight meant its content travelled the world many times over each day. On the 27th of October, faced with floods of cancellations and requests for changes, Air France and United Airways announced that they would have no planes in the sky for that window. The cost of this manoeuvre had led them to delay this tactic but by that date, people were willingly paying extra to travel on a different day.

The 30th arrived with most major airlines choosing not to fly or rescheduling all their operations to before or after the window. Even the most fervent believers did not doubt that once 1300 came and went, flying would be possible again.

Jenny was interrogated time and time again. Secret services now determined to extract from her how she was given this information. She just repeated the same story so that they knew that through her they would get no closer to the truth. The decision was made on high to suggest that no planes fly between 1200 and 1400 GMT on the 31st, a call that was heeded in most parts of the world, but which was seen by many factions of the leave group in the UK as a means of undermining their departure from the European Union. The cessation of activities was voluntary, and many low-cost firms decided that it was a risk worth taking. Ryan Air advertised free flights for anyone who would fly with them at that time and forced all its staff to be operational for the entire day.

Most airports enjoyed almost unknown peace on the 31st, while Stanstead, Luton and Leeds-Bradford were as busy as ever. The instrumentation showed no signs of interference as passengers and crew approached the fabled deadline.

Flight FR3110 to London Luton. 1258 GMT

There had been a mood of buoyant optimism as the plane departed on time from Kiev. Even with the generous 'on-time' landing prediction of 1240, they were expected to be on the ground around half-past. The decision had been made to take-off only in the case that they had the thirty-minute margin to play with. Only when they were in cruise mode were they informed that French air space had been closed to traffic and they would have to take a longer route. This meant adding thirty-four minutes to the journey time that took them over the 1300 threshold.

The looks of defiance changed to fear as people saw the clock shift closer. 1259. Still there were no signs that anything was about to go wrong. The plane began its descent. "I'll glide the fucker down." Said the pilot over the radio as the last seconds ticked away.

At 1300 exactly, the lights in the cabin went off and the plane went silent. The pilot spoke into his mouthpiece again but there was no response. He looked at the instrumentation, it did not respond. The plane began to fall from twenty-five thousand feet. The silence was replaced by screams as the plane, still travelling at over 400km/h, actually began to gather speed as it hurtled towards the ground. Ninety seconds later, it would be a ball of fire on the ground.

Other pilots managed to show their dexterity and bring their craft down but even then, there were few incidences of no casualties. Some planes simply, and inexplicably fell straight to Earth, defying physics and logic at the same time. Still, from the average figure of 9,600 flights in the air, there were only 863 in flight at 1300. Governments and citizens sat glued to the news as report after report came in. Once again, there attentions turned to Jenny.

For Jenny, 1259 had been the longest minute. Her maximum-security holding was, unbeknownst to her, close to Gatwick, meaning her ears could corroborate the veracity of her prophecy. Despite the chaos, she was told that she had a visitor. Inevitably, the same man she had seen in her campsite.

"Well, that went about as well as could be expected. I am proud of you." He smiled

"How many people died?" She asked.

"Well, there were less than 10% of the normal levels of aircraft in the sky at that time. So, you saved 90% of their lives. You did well." He took her by the hand. "I imagine you would like to be out of here?" He asked.

"Yeah, I can imagine going to Carrefour being a hassle-free experience after this." She joked.

"Watch." He said. He extracted a tablet and showed the video of the plane incident in which Jenny announced her prophecy. Except it wasn't Jenny, it was a male. Once again, Jenny was a mere nobody who ran a campsite in France. She asked him how this had been achieved and he responded that "The details are not what is important here. Ready?" He asked.

Without waiting to see if she was, he led her to the door and out into freedom. She was thanked for her collaboration by the officer and shown into a waiting car.

"I'd recommend the ferry back to France given the circumstances." The driver told her.

#  Gone Viral

"They're going to win it and there is nothing you can do. The sooner you live with it, the better." Monica told me in no uncertain terms. "So, phone the estate agent first thing in the morning and get the house off the market. What do you mean you can't live in the city of your birth any more just because Liverpool are champions? We had this last year. Three grand in agent's fees so far you have cost me." She gave me that look. You all know the one.

"What could I do, indeed?" I was just a fifty-three-year-old Everton season ticketholder. I could plant a bomb at Melwood but that was not cricket. I'd probably end up taking out a bluenose tea-lady.

I decided to crack open a tin of Stella and have a think. It soon transpired that the first tin was broken so I tried another four. On the fifth, something appeared. I had decent lungs. In my youth I had represented Netherly at butterfly. I could make it to Milan and back in a day. The defeat at Vicarage Road made me more determined. I would take the day off work, fly to Geneva, hire a car and drive to Northern Italy, get myself a dose of Covid19 and sneak my way into the heart of the Champions elect.

It was just after nine. I opened a bottle of wine and offered my beloved a glass. I told her the house would be off the market in the next couple of days and promised there would be no more tomfoolery (keeping my fingers crossed). I refilled her glass before barely touching mine, using two jumbo sausage rolls to soak up the Belgian, and she wasted no time in accepting the second libation. Given that she normally has to fight with me over a bottle, she seemed mightily pleased to be winning this battle so easily. Empowered by the grape, she grabbed the bottle and poured another, leaving only a derisory amount in the bottle. "Too slow, loser!" She giggled, as I went to open another. I had to drink a little, but the idea was for her to be so sloshed, moonfingered I call it, she would not hear the alarm go off at three in the morning so that I could be read the words 'above us only sky' in time for my 6am flight to Geneva.

I booked the flights and chose the return via Lyons in order to reduce suspicion. I phoned work and told them I had come down with a cough and they were keen that I remain far away. She finished off the second bottle almost on her own, then, after a brief dalliance with Spotify, had to be helped to bed. I prepared my bag and documentation, but never really achieved anything close to sleep. Hopefully I would grab a couple of hours on the flight.

Passport control was a breeze. I wondered whether this venture would be rendered impossible in six months, but for the time being I was heading to Switzerland with no questions being asked. I left a note for my dear saying that work had called me in after a local outbreak. My medical training would help me in my quest to become infected, infect and cure myself. There is actually a car rental company in the airport that will allow for you to pay for the vehicle in cash, that will reduce my paper trail. I know I will do time for this, but if I am successful, it will be a walk in the park, Stanley Park, hahaha.

It was all going too well. Dozed off the minute the plane left the tarmac and only when the nudge came that we would soon be landing did I regain any semblance of consciousness. Fluttering through passport control again and seventeen minutes later in an Opel Corsa that proudly boasted a Vignette.

My sources on the inside informed me that Acosta was a hotbed with 16 new infections just yesterday. The GPS said two hours, but I was there in a little more than 90 minutes. Despite the supposed sealing off process, I told them I was a doctor (minor career upgrade for a day) and offered to help, flashing them my NHS ID. Once inside the danger zone, I cleverly made an incision in my suit and got too close to some very poorly people. I spent the morning in their company, unbeknown to the other staff that I was quickly joining them and made my excuses. I said I was in the area and would be back tomorrow, they said they couldn't thank me enough, but I was on my way to Lyons.

This journey would take three hours, so I connected my USB and enjoyed the delightful countryside. While doing so, I had a good long think about my transmission process. I got back to Liverpool just twenty hours later, checked their schedule and treated myself to six hours' sleep.

I almost sauntered over to Melwood and talked my way in with my trusty old badge. I told them that I was making a promotional video to raise awareness on the disease and their patronage would inspire young people to take action. "My clearance? I have the email somewhere but alongside the hubris and the bruhaha, they decided it was a great thing to do. And so, as I huddled in a circle with Virgil, Mo, Bobby, the Scottish lad whose name I don't recall now and Hendo (I made sure Sadio was far away as I liked him), I extracted some pepper and snorted it violently. In seconds the sneezes came, and they were all covered. Then I sang the 1995 Cup Final version of 'All Together Now' and waited to be arrested. They were covered, the title would be void.

My ejection from the place was far less glamourous than my entrance. I was worried that they were going to kill me and thus I would not live to see my opus. Thankfully, they wanted me to stand for this. First I was taken to the hospital, handcuffed, where my colleagues saw the disgrace that I had brought upon the unit. Disgrace? This was for them as much as for me. I was tested. This was rather pointless as even with extreme exposure, the incubation period would still be around two weeks. I realised now that the fear of the disease would have worked just as well as the actual thing (for my goal, anyway). I showed them my mobile with a photo of me in Acosta, holding yesterday's Gazetta dello Sport. I was out of earshot but know that calls were made to the FA.

The immediate fall-out proved my plan a success. Liverpool forfeited their next two league games, and despite a plea to send a youth side that had had minimal contact with the main squad to compete in Madrid, this was rejected, and the Red Birds surrendered their crown. Manchester City, inspired by this good fortune, won their next three games to reduce the lead to just six points. By this time, two weeks had passed since my trip to Italy, I felt great worryingly great. I was given the all-clear just in time to be the first person to be tried under the new Intention to Spread Covid 19 Act and sentenced to life. Liverpool's players were similarly tested, and as all they had endured was my snot, were told to go about their business. I was taken to my cell on the day that the crunch match between City and Liverpool was played. In the end I was not taken immediately to my cell, as in the interim period between my stay in the hospital and sentencing, I had actually caught the virus and would require medical treatment. I could hear the radio in the background, Salah scored in the fourth minute, you can guess the rest.

#  Man of the Match

Turin, Italy. 2013

It had been two months now. The first time that Lavinia had set foot in her son's room since the accident. Pietro had just passed his fifteenth birthday, having spent the last twelve months of his life on a secret mission that would consume, and eventually destroy him. By the time she and her husband, Sandro, found out, Pietro had become the most infamous schoolboy in all of Italy, if not the football watching world. By then, it was almost too late. Now, it was over.

She opened the wardrobe and saw his folded and pressed clothes. Impeccably stacked never to be worn, at least not by him. On top of the pile, his Juventus shirt. That caused her to cry again. "Why couldn't he have been into basketball?" She wondered to herself time and time again, his father blaming himself for those visits during infancy to the old Stadio delle Alpi, wondering if he had not insisted on those father-son outings, the pairing may still be in place.

Tragedy always sets a place at the table for culpability. There are always new ways for you to find blame for yourself and how a million insignificant daily actions can change the course of the planet's trajectory. Lavinia had traced her son's death back the purchase of a certain pair of socks, changing milk brand even her Spotify playlist. It was too soon for to move on, and yet somehow, she felt like all eyes were upon making sure she didn't, seizing the moment to remind her that her son was gone, should she ever look like she could think about anything else.

The Carabinieri had already been through his things more than once, but as she rearranged the clothes for the last time, a flash drive fell onto the floor. She put it in the laptop and saw there was only one file, marked 'Il Confesionale' , she clicked on it and sat back. She had only heard second-hand accounts of the event, so this would be in some way cathartic, she hoped.

"This is Pietro Palmazzano. My journey has come to an end. I am the only person who knows this, but we are hours, maybe days away from the revelation. Then it will be too late. Would I do it all over again. I'd say yes, but I'd hope not. I won't get the chance anyway, so it doesn't really matter. This is my story.

You don't want to know all the background; you'll just skip it anyway. I had a delightfully happy childhood; I was still having it until I got involved with this. The hardest part now is knowing that my mother will suffer as a result of my actions, my father too, but he will get over it, or at least gives that impression. I'll count you in from the day that person's transfer change me from being a kid who scribbled mean messages in a notebook, to a fully-fledged cyber-psychopath capable of mobilising a gang of ultras and gaining access to places that should have been much more secure.

It seemed unlikely that one of the best footballers in the history of the game, Craig Cavanagh, would make a move from Barcelona to Juventus in the summer of 2011. He was already 31 by then and had done everything in his career, most things twice, and most things he did seem to alienate the Italian football fans. And yet, after successes with Everton, PSG and Barça, he decided he would have one last throw of the dice to appease the Italians. Everybody here hated him, and with good reason, Everton were responsible for resounding victories over fancied Italian sides, as were Barcelona, but his highest level of villainy was playing for England, in their glorious period under Erikson when they won two world cups, eliminating Italy in 2002 and beating them in the final of 2006, with a European Championships in-between that saw him score a hattrick against Italy in a 5-0 semi-final defeat, or victory, depending on your viewpoint.

He could have gone anywhere but had to choose Italy. Not one of the Milan sides that would seemingly have suited him better, not even Roma, no, the prick has to bring his likeable, do-gooder brand of goalscoring magic to my team. Well, I was not going to stand for it. I did not know just how I was going to stand for it at the time but had to move fast.

He signed on my fourteenth birthday, just after the 2011 La Liga season had finished, but it would be nearly three months before the Calcio started, that gave me some time to drum up some hatred on-line. I had always been something of a whizz in the hacking department so envisaged no problems in obtaining the means to carry out my work, until I was found out by then, but imagine if I could destroy him before my sixteenth birthday, then they would not even be able to try me, my scant understanding of Italian law led me to believe.

The first Juventus training session was scheduled for after the summer break, but he would not be required until the last week of July. There would be a couple of friendlies, but he was expected to arrive somewhat removed from his physical fitness under the guardianship of Guardolia, that scans well, and would be eased into the first team. Juventus had no European football for the season so his workload, famed to be limited to say the least.

I posted a message on one of the Ultras' forums, the one with the reputation for being most intense, by intense I mean racist and extreme, urging them not to allow this stain on our great nation's colours and they should not boycott the unveiling, quite the opposite, they should show their disapproval at this clear insult to Italian pride. I had supplanted the identity of a lawyer who seemed famous, fake LinkedIn profile, the lot, and claimed I had the means to help anyone who took this to another level with me. I was particularly fond of my closing remarks.

'Have we not suffered enough as "Zebre" with all that was thrown upon us merely five years ago? Have we become so blind to our return to power that we will gladly welcome someone who is an affront to our club and all Italian people? We must fight to make sure he is begging to leave in the January transfer window.'

With that I formed a Facebook group entitled 'Cavanagh Fuori' and let them seethe grow. A few nudges in the right direction and by the time June was over, more than 1,000 were mobilised to spoil his unveiling. Was it that easy? Were people that bored? That was the time I thought it was not really worth continuing, but it became like a drug, to see how far I could push it. Like any addict, I gave the same spiel that this rouse would be my last, while planning the next.

So that I did not have do all the work myself, under the guise of the lawyer, I apologise to him, I only borrowed his identity, nothing more, he is innocent, I recruited a number of high-profile Ultras to mobilise the masses. These fools were completely taken in by the idea of being headhunted for organised thuggery, I made them send a video of themselves showing off their nationalistic tattoos while singing 'Il Canto degli Italiani' to prove their worth. Some of them could barely hold back the tears as the words came out. How touching! My dear soldiers! I shouldn't laugh but as time goes on, I have actually begun to wonder who the enemy was.

For the time being, it was that English swine. His arrival was getting ever closer. Before the end of June, club chairman Andrea Agnelli had received more than 1,000 letters from Ultras, written by me, the lawyer and sent for them to sign, I could not trust their spelling and lexical choices, urging him to reconsider this choice and informing him that the fan base would not endorse this signing. We received no response so can only assume that they did not take us seriously.

Another issue was that thousands of Juve fans were actually quite pleased that a double World-Cup winner with three golden boots to his name and averaging over 20 goals a season since 1998 in the Premiership, Ligue 1 and La Liga would sign for a club that was embroiled in scandal merely a few years ago. This meant that even though our xenophobic voices would be heard, the jolly clapping of the mindless t-shirt buying populace would threaten to ruin everything by failing to take into account what is important. They would soon see that I was right.

Preparations were of the utmost importance, our leaders seemed legitimate, but a trail of fake IDs would lead the authorities a merry dance, should we be investigated. My first instinct was only to request the assistance of these thugs, yet once it transpired how much disposable income they seemed to have, well it appeared rude not to let them allow to contribute. Enjoying being one step ahead of the game, while not expecting anyone else to be, I became a pioneer in the use of the fledgling cryptocurrency 'Litecoin'. It was surprisingly easy to use and keep my funds anonymous, not bad for a fourteen-year-old.

We changed the name from the rather pathetic 'Cavanagh Fuori' to the delightfully pompous 'Gruppo per la liberazione dallo spirito italiano' or GLIDASI. Our numbers soured; people were falling over themselves to join. It was ridiculous, we even opened our doors to non-Juve fans, after all this was beyond Turin. Despite a surge in applications, Chief Ultra Mayhem, Fabrizio, made sure that those taken on with important roles in the dissemination of my message were not lunatics who would bring the project down, that sort of thug was two-a-penny and was best kept in the Piazzas drinking and abusing the 'stranieri'.

On the day he was presented as a Juve player, seven thousand people turned up to see him. A record for the club, more than came to see Pirlo and Vidal, our other big signings that year. I had no problem with the latter, he had not insulted the Italian nation and, after years in Germany, was obviously keen to better himself. Pirlo was a great Italian in the classic sense, women wanted him and men wanted to be him, I felt sorry for him already and wrote him a letter apologising for the disgraceful circumstances and explained that he would soon be liberated from the curse.

We had replica kits without the sponsor's name on them and replaced them with our GLIDASI logo. Our voice settled in one of the stands and accounted for almost a third of the people there. While kids and parents waved excitedly at the destruction of the essence of Italy, we made our opinions heard. There were strange looks from the Chairman and other top-end staff at the club, and we were told to quieten down in no uncertain terms by stewards and daring fans, but most saw the components of the group, and decided not to meddle.

Of course, it seemed like just an anecdote, but the press pounced on us. This was a story, some of the more articulate thugs gave passionate and prepared speeches regarding their intentions, and we received messages of support from all over Italy. Not long after, we had followers in Germany, Spain, and ridiculously, England. This was a bothersome burden for the Board at a difficult time, the Italian FA were actively monitoring all aspects of its business and this was the last thing they needed.

By now, I actually had recruited proper legal staff, well they offered their services for free, as did everyone, hate is such a binder, just in case, which should read when, things get properly messy. All used false names, but my number-two was particularly good and patriotic, he actually believed I was the person I claimed to be, but I allowed him to take the surname Piola in honour of Italy's finest goalscorer and double World Cup Winner. Piola was summoned to meet Agnelli in an out-of-the-way Turin restaurant to try to bring this matter to a head. Piola told him it was not about money, and that a Mr Baresi would be contacting them soon, with everyone duly appalled at this affront.

In the meantime, I became depressed about how easy it was to hack into the club's IT system, then again, if I had managed it with the IFA and Linkedin, why did I expect the Club to be some super-secure site. It turns out that he was temporarily using a villa that belonged to Buffon, someone we expected much more of as the person who he scored against in the final of the 2006 World Cup in Germany, condemning Italy to defeat, Buffon should be constantly asking for forgiveness for not making the save, rather than folding towels for the infidel.

Since 2002, Cavanagh had only accepted an annual salary of 100,000 GBP for his personal use, the rest was used to fund social activities in Liverpool, Paris and Barcelona. Even the percentage stake from his transfers, in the case of Juve, 38 million euros, meaning he should be paid 3.8 just from the transfer, but doesn't take it. I was sure this was a ruse and he has everything stashed away on an island somewhere. I would divulge this information as soon as I unearth it.

This meant that Buffon's place would be too expensive for him to buy, unless he convinced the club to pay for it, or the traitor waived rent. Either way, it meant I knew he would be there for a while maybe a month or so, while he looked for something else. The property was located in the exclusive area of Cavoretto, outside the city and popular with the elite and footballers.

As it was clear that he no intention of adopting Italian culture, for the foreseeable future he would shuffle between his home in Barcelona and Turin, wherever possible, using the Chairman's private jet when available. That made me physically sick, I spewed, could we open out arses any wider? This was as bad as when we let Hitler in. This actually worked for me as it meant the place was empty for a couple of days per week. The season had not started, and he had a clause in his contract not to sweat, sorry I meant play friendlies, so it was just an hour's training three times a week or something, talk about throwing money away!

The house was protected, I say protected, but I reckon the system could be hacked by a child, bad example, it was. Once inside, I limited myself to moving a few things around, nothing to headfucky, just things that might make him scratch his chin, for now. I made sure that should he change the access codes, I would be automatically sent the new ones via an encrypted mail through Tor. It would be nice if they made me work for it once in a while, it is all too easy at times. I took a memento of my stay, an Everton tie which I planned to burn as soon as I got home, and, making sure that the coast was clear. Returned back to my parents and summer homework notebooks.

I had access to the phone calls as well. Most of them were pointless, as he could not speak Italian and I could not speak Spanish. His wife was a Spanish actress and they had two young children; twins aged six. Buffon helped him with any things he needed in Italian or he would speak Spanish slowly until some sort of understanding was reached. I heard Buffon on the phone to the security company asking to change the codes and do a patrol, within seconds I received a mail detailing the new codes and the scheduled patrol. The next day I went, but only to make sure there was no untoward business with the patrol, and that the schedule sent was the one they were keeping to. Of course it was, nobody ever thinks about stuff.

The next time, I got a little more adventurous and left a note for him on the fridge. I also unmatched all his socks and changed the foodstuffs in the pantry for others of the same brand, but different flavours and stuff. Great fun. The next day was his home debut.

'I GLIDASI' would be in attendance at the match, occupying half of the standard Ultras enclosure behind one of the goals. The idea was simply to boo every time he touched the ball. Childish, yes, but it had to start somewhere. Ideally, he would score, and all the group would turn their backs to the pitch and deliberately not celebrate.

Thankfully, he came on as a sub, which gave extra gravitas to our work. When he scored eight minutes later, a decent strike, I'll admit, the stadium erupted screaming the name of its new hero. All the GLIDASI turned their backs and refused to celebrate, claiming the final score was 1-1. This made the news and led to further exposure. We took our names from amalgamations of players who were on the all-time goal-scorers list for Italy. My lawyer was then called Giuseppe Riva and after some furious letter-writing, was invited to provide a column for a certain right-leaning daily.

Riva offered the intellectual vision of the project, which was then sanitised for the masses and translated into mindless racism. I was in fear of losing sight of the actual purpose of the project, there was so much going on, but was reminded of my work upon his return to Turin. Now, there was serious concern as to the fact that his residence was far from safe. I paid someone 500€ to enter after me, after I had wiped the security footage, and potter about. He knew he would be taken in for questioning by the police but was actually prepared to take one for the team, my word, did people have nothing better to do?

With the police under the impression that they had their man, the city of Turin was deemed safe again and Cavanagh returned to training. By then, we had infiltrated other parts of the club. There was someone in the canteen who refused to serve him, or gave him cold coffee, little things like that, messages. Then we managed to get some players on board, at first just nobodies from the second team and lower, but soon other players realised that he was no good for the club.

After ten games, our numbers were almost all of the stand behind the goal. Huge parts of the ground fell silent when he scored, certain players did not even pass the ball time, or risked losing possession when he passed to them, on those rare occasions. He was such a lazy player, one of his most famous quotes was that 'I like to have lunch or room with the keepers, I never get a chance to see them during matches.' He probably didn't even need to use deodorant. I once saw stats of his for a CL final where his total distance travelled was 3.2 kms, the pundits made out that was something to proud of, a goal and two assists are no substitute for hard work.

Our goal boycotts were doing well, as were bribed car park attendants who broke eggs on his windscreen. Annoying, sure, but would that be enough to make him leave? I doubt it very much. I had to up my game. With his family arriving in September after his wife finished shooting a new film in Madrid (why does nobody notice that he donates his salary, yet she makes a fortune from the movies? Double standards.) I had the chance to shift up a gear.

I made a rather, deliberately poorly cut, montage of some of her films, no need to book a flight for the Oscars, in my humble opinion, though changing the end of her scenes with grizzly murders from low budget horror movies. A nice touch. With the phones still tapped, the DVD was sent by ordinary mail via a follower in Bari. This made me privy to extra information that he had kept from her as not to alarm her, now he was forced to inform her that someone had been into the house and that the police suspected someone was bugging the place for the GLIDASI.

Then, he had to tell what the GLIDASI were. This was easier as our manifesto was now available on-line. Basically, we demanded the removal of this player from the club and any other player, official, professional or even tea-lady who assisted him, should also be banned for life. We were already making plans for life after Buffon, but when Pirlo took him to see his exclusive vineyard, then that was the end for him too.

The temptation was to keep going, gradually raising the temperature to achieve my goals, but that would have been too obvious. With them living on the edge of fear, I took a step back and sent mails from several non-existent supposed big players who had had a change of heart. Relief, for them, while I planned my next move. I sincerely hoped to have him out of the country before requiring the use of the kids but needs must.

Meanwhile, our support outside Turin meant we were represented at away games, one time away to Catania, the attendance of 23,000 people featured 7,500 GLIDASI who enjoyed a 0-0 draw, despite the brace from the Englishman, that was a proud moment. But it was clear that deep down, where it mattered, we were seen as something of a joke. Now was the time to leak a fake email from the Juve Chairman refusing an investigation and recommending the player 'man up' and take responsibility for his own security. We also added in bits about him not pulling his weight and regretting the purchase, despite being on fifteen league goals before Christmas. This mail was sent to the team's psychiatrist in theory, but somehow made its way to the player.

This was a significant move as it all added up, why play to crowds who didn't cheer your goals? Why play for a Chairman who didn't value your efforts? Why live in a city in which your wife is afraid? Why bother trying to change a country that seems to hate you? These little seeds of doubt, I hoped would eventually convince him to leave. The main motivation on my part now was stubbornness, rather than conviction.

Since beginning the procedure, I had always that that HE was the enemy, now I am seeing that the enemy is everywhere, people can be bought for pennies, or will even pay you to hate 'en masse'. Their ridiculous doctrine, drafted by me, sounded less and less plausible evert day, all I wanted was to distance myself from it, yet felt consumed by the need to achieve my goal. I decided to kidnap him.

The winter break gave me a chance to work out just how to do this. They moved out of the Buffon place just before Xmas as the wife now believed the place was cursed. The new place was smaller, whilst in the same neighbourhood and offered improved, yet equally hackable, security. The lack of football and general all-round launch into festivities meant most of the nation forgot its due calling to detest that Juve player.

In the new year, I had plans to take advantage of the player being alone as the wife was taking the kids out of the international school in Turin and putting them in one in her hometown of Seville while she filmed the latest Almadovar movie close by. Sensing a chance to see the last of her and exacerbate her desire to leave the club at the end of the season, ideally beforehand. During the night, and with laughable ease, I made my way undetected into the twins' schools and left a crudely photoshopped image in their desks, hoping it would be the first thing they saw the next school day. The image simply showed two gravestones with their father and mother's names on them and a date not too far into the future. Delighted with the quality of my work, I went to McDonalds and faked being an average teenager.

I tried so hard to be happy as the fries went cold, then made my way home. I observed my mother and father while they ate, claiming I had an upset stomach, and wondered what I was doing and whether I should stop.

The reaction to the photo in the school caused quite the furore. I planned my next move, and even began to consider something of an exit plan, when I was sent a copy of an email from the Chairman to the player himself. The email, with a lexicon inferior to my own work, mentioned the club not taking any more liability for these lapses, and that if he could not organise his own family's safety, he should in no way blame the club for these misfortunes.

My heart almost stopped. I thought I was the cleverest. Now someone had worked out exactly what was going on and was, daringly, using me. I knew this would be the first of a barrage of communications. My upset tummy from the night before was enough to get me the day off school, as I monitored developments. Whoever was using me, was taking advantage of the language barrier, another oversight, as the well-versed and internationally educated Italian entrepreneur was fluent in English, yet suddenly sending hastily scribbled messages in Italian, I'm surprised they didn't chuck some Piedmontese in for good measure.

Cavanagh was excused from training and had a brief conversion with the Chairman, the latter being somewhat taken aback by the player's tone. One would suppose it would be down to the stress of the situation. He and his wife went to the school and were met by the police. Despite the Chairman's supposed lack of interest, the police were taking the accumulation of matters seriously. I had an overwhelming urge to be as far removed from this incident as possible now, when the next email arrived, I knew it would depend on me.

I was not as clever as I thought, or at least I had underestimated the people I thought I could control. I was sent a load of code, to most people that would mean nothing, but I knew it was the trail that would lead everything right back to me. The last part of the message was decoded. 'Continue with the plan. We want to see the picture in the kids' school for real.'

I swore. It is quite odd because I don't usually swear. I surveyed my options. I could go to the police and tell them I have been a very bad boy, am wholly repentant and would be delighted to embark upon some reparatory community service to undo the harm caused to all. That should work, I would not be very popular but maybe in the long-term it could work on my CV. 'Look at what I am capable of' I would say to a potential employer, 'Imagine if I used my powers for good rather than evil.' And they would laugh as we signed the seven-figure deal.

Another email came in. 'Don't even think about trying to save yourself, or it will be your parents in the graves in the photo." Was this a bluff? Could I afford to call it? I was in something of a pickle. My plan to kidnap him was far from fool proof, in fact, it did not go far beyond waiting after a game and asking him politely to go with me. I could break into his quarters and threaten him, but at the end of the day, I am a fourteen-year-old boy and he is a world-renowned sports star. I emailed them back and said that I had no plan. They responded with a photo taken from a car window, just enough of a revolver showing, and the name of the shop where my mum worked. I decided to now become officially terrified.

Now my stomach-ache was real. I could not face food. It was quite the relief when my mother came through the door, safe and sound. As she laid the table, I received another mail with a photo taken from inside our flat, showing the kitchen table as it was laid. They had cameras inside. I wanted to write back 'If you think you can scare me', but then I realised I was too terrified to finish the thought. How does a lad my age go about kidnapping a professional footballer? What are my terms? How do I hold him? He would overpower me. They may well notice he has gone missing. I had to find a way out.

But there was no way out. The next day, I got a call, it was my mother's voice, Dad was in hospital with a broken leg, an accident at work. Could have happened to anyone, just one of those things, she said. I couldn't even go to visit him as I had a clock running against me. I knew I had eight hours to kidnap the player, or something worse would happen to my mother. For every hour that I took to get the job up and running, an accident would befall an innocent person in Turin. Just in case I did not believe them, photographic evidence was sent. At eleven a child was run over; it would survive but walking would be complicated. I told them I did not have the means and burglars entered the house of two elderly residents, inducing a heart attack in one of them. By the time two o'clock appeared with me no closer to a plan, a mix-up in the traffic lights' system had caused a multiple pile up.

It is now seven minutes to three, I am just going to go to the house, I know he is in, I still have access, somehow, I will complete the task. This is my story of how things got so twisted. I hope to see it back soon and maybe even laugh about it. Sorry Mum. Sorry Dad."

The video stopped, Lavinia had never cried so much in her life, and not long ago she buried her only son. She knew the next part. He left the house, claiming he was going to play football, and never returned. CCTV footage filled in the gaps: it had gone three by the time he made the station, a fire in a school filled the news. Now he did not even need the updates from his own blackmailers to see the extent. He would take forty minutes to reach Cavanagh's residence, almost time for another disaster before he could even act.

He had a change of mind, we now know why, and took a taxi. He was never going to get away with it so decided the best course of action was to arrive as quickly as possible and try to prevent more mayhem. When he was close to arrival, he saw that the police had cordoned off the area, and was passed by a black Merc, with Pirlo driving and Cavanagh in the driver's seat. He told the driver to take him to the nearest train station.

Distraught as he bought a ticket to return home and plead for his life. He received a phone call. The screams he heard were unmistakable. Someone had forced their way into the flat and was threatening his mother, he was far away and his father in hospital. He knew it was real. He knew he could do nothing. He knew it was all his fault. He walked to the platform as the Turin Porta Nuova train pulled into the station. He felt that he could not solve the situation when all he had to do was board the train and make it end, he never did. Before anyone could react, he fell forwards and was swept away by the vehicle.

The assailants threatening his mother, while enjoying their venture, received a call and were stopped. Almost apologising, they left the flat and disappeared. Lavinia removed the pen drive and sought out information on the incidents that Pietro had claimed were the reasons he had been driven to do what he did. She did remember something about a fire at a primary school on the same day, but that was at a disused site that was due to be demolished, it was rumoured to be the work of bored arsonists but the damage was minimal, indeed, many saw that they had actually done the council a favour.

The other incidents either did not occur or were wholly exaggerated. Pietro, in his altered state, was perhaps unable to distinguish between the crudely put-together news items and reality, convinced that his actions would lead to untold harm to his family, believed they would only stop if he took his life. No child was run over, at least not intentionally to frighten Pietro, there was no burglary, an old man did die of a heart attack, but at 84 that was hardly a newsworthy item, it was certainly not provoked by anything other than time saying that was quite enough of that.

She was still recovering from the shock of the intrusion when she got the call. A husband in hospital and a son in the morgue. She had had better days. Soon she could not remember the better days as the police questioning became more and more intense. Why could she not explain why Pietro had jumped? They made her watch the video from the train station time and time again. What was he involved in? And now this video. Would that help? Was there any clue in the video that could lead her to the truth?

Convinced that villains always make one grave mistake, immediately despising herself for that choice of words. She called her husband and they watched the video together. It was no easier for her the second time, and now she had to console him. Nothing stood out, even on the third watch. What was the point of taking it to the police? Pietro had already been discredited on numerous occasions. Rumours were abound regarding his implications and involvement with the GLIDASI but nothing was ever proven, it seemed he had been too careful. Would proving he was the ringleader actually make things any better? She doubted they would. The world moves on quickly. We are now in April and Juventus are heading towards a 'scudetto' thanks to the Englishman's goals.

Lavinia insisted in one last final watch of the video before turning in. She looked around the room, still untouched, to see if there was a clue there, but saw nothing. Racking her brains through all the movies she had seen, she remembered 'Seven' then noticed his framed Juve shirt in the video was the away shirt he used in games, not the signed one that normally adorned his wall. She called her husband, who had just managed to achieve sleep for the first time since the incident.

They took the shirt down from the wall, now it was the signed piece and searched it. On first glance nothing came up but there was something in the left sleeve: a micro SD card. They spent more time looking for an adapter so the contents could be read than they had watching the video. Eventually, removing a card from an old digital camera that had the fabled adapter. Inserting it into the now overly warm laptop, the opened the files. One contained a series of random letter and numbers, they later learnt this was code, another file was a Word document that they felt comfortable with, and the other was an exe.file. The latter they knew from installing skype and things but were unsure what it was for. The returned to the document.

"Before you read this copy all the contents of this disk to the hard drive. In my left Nike shoe, you will find six more USB sticks. Make six copies, one on each on.

If something has happened to me, please send the entire file to the police officer whose name and email is at the bottom of this note. I have hidden this for a reason, perhaps nothing will happen, and I can just go on with things while I try to forget this incident. If this is the case, leaving it lying around may be harmful to my future, assuming I have one.

The reason I took so long to leave on that last day was because I was close, so close to writing a code that could free me from this. I never got the chance to run it but was pretty sure it would work. I am not asking to be exonerated just for the real perpetrators to be brought to justice. The reason I stopped was because I was getting the messages that they were truly hurting people, that they would go after you, that they broke dad's leg.

I felt I could buy more time. Somehow, if I got to speak to Cavanagh, I felt he might even have gone along with it to save you. Ridiculous. This was my last work. If you see the time of the last save, it is six minutes before I left the house. I was tying my shoes and coding at the same time.

I'm sorry for everything and love you. I wish I knew why I started this when you gave me everything. Pig-headedness forced me to continue, fear of losing you forced me to finish it. I hope you never read this, but if you do, send the code file and exe.file, I guess this too to:

copperitaliano@carabinierispezialeforcelads.it

She was working undercover on this case and had made contact with me. She said they could not act until they had something concrete on the people blackmailing me, which was coming from much higher, and until she did, this would remain buried. Send it!

Bye.

Pietro."

The parents did as instructed and mailed the info to address given. Lavinia felt strangely proud of her son whilst at the same time harbouring anger at the foolish, possibly even pointless way in which he died. Who was controlling him? How had he gone from a foolish schoolboy with a ridiculous plan, to the puppet of some crime organisation. Was he just removed for someone else's enjoyment?

A response came four minutes later from the police. They had sent it from Pietro's old Hotmail account, apparently that was a big no-no. They informed the police, who took a further seven minutes to arrive that they were not especially au fait with hacking etiquette and asked them what 'Tor' was.

The undercover policewoman introduced herself and gave a brief description of what had occurred between her and Pietro. "When he was found, the investigation was basically cancelled. Someone had clearly meddled. I should not be here, but I am sure that what you have here will make the trip worthwhile. I want you to know that whatever remains unseen, I do not know what you have viewed so far, this will probably not help you to forgive your son, he took some wrong turns, by the time he realised how wrong, it was too late for him to get out. Don't expect any revelations." She said, making them feel even better.

They say that when a new Pope is ordained, he is taken into a room with some nuns who show him ancient sacred texts. Rumour has it then when he exits, his face is a white as a sheet, the police officer had the same look on her face when she finished watching the video recorded by Pietro. She phoned a colleague in the police IT department and gave the order to run the exe file. She was well out of her depth and may easily find herself reunited with Pietro.

"I don't know what will happen now. There will be no investigation as it has been snuffed out, but that file may have the answers. My last conversation with Pietro was hurried, he said he was close, but that you were in danger. If he had had more time, he would have sent it. Perhaps they knew he was on to them and that was the reason they made him believe you were in more danger than perhaps you were." She said.

"There were killers in here with knives." Lavinia responded.

"Ah yes! I knew I had worded that badly the minute I said it." She answered, supposedly including a non-verbal apology therein.

In less than an hour, they had ransacked Pietro's room and left scant memory of the boy. She promised that everything would be returned at the earliest juncture. In the meantime, they should pack a bag and move to a safe place under police protection. She was about to say that things might get nasty but remembered what they had been through and decided to say nothing, this time.

They were soon making their way out of the city to a hotel where there would be sufficient police protection for the moment that this all came to a head. The police offer, Edina, told them that she was still unsure what was going to happen, but expected that it would be soon, indeed she hoped it would be, as she could not explain this use of resources to her superiors.

They switched on the television and asked if a few bottles of Moretti beer would not be a bad idea in the meantime. The rolling news channel still mentioned the usual dull stories until the calm was shattered by the banner 'Breaking News'.

The exe file had done its work. The chief of police phoned Edina personally and asked about the whereabouts of Pietro's parents. Unsure of how to respond, she said she didn't know. He told her that that was the right response and that now was not the time to trust anyone. Scenes showed police cars darting around Turin, Milan and Rome, as well as other cities to take a number of high echelon politicians and civil servants into custody.

If Pietro's fear was his undoing, his torturer's vanity was his. He only decided to push Pietro as far as he would go as a sort of game, a pastime to alleviate his boredom, there was no actual need to make Pietro try to go through with the kidnapping. It had not been ordered from above, nor was it a necessary step in the process. Yet Pietro saw a gap, a flaw in the process that led to a way out, what he did not have was time. He got so close, but when the choice became save himself or save his parents, he opted for the latter, young and impressionable to the extent that he believed that he would fail, and never be forgiven, meaning his life had become worthless.

A schoolboy error on the part of the renowned Milan-based lawyer in charge of making sure some of the wealthiest people in the country were allowed to evade taxes and force the police to turn a blind eye to insalubrious activities was brought to a head by schoolboy genius. One piece of code in the wrong place alerted Pietro to the identity of the perpetrator. In the little time he had, he was able to amass sufficient information on the activities involved that couldn't threaten even to bring down the government.

As the days passed and the arrests mounted, the tragic figure of Pietro became something of a hero, within reason. Nobody hid the initial nature of his quest but what he did to turn things around would have a profound effect on the nation in the coming years. The true number of the top names that survived or fell will never be known. No matter how many of them were simply scapegoats as part of deals cut to save other souls neither, but the carelessness of the Milan lawyer meant that Pietro's work, however misguided at the beginning, in the end served for a great deal.

Every part in his macabre story became public, which led to a meeting of minds between Cavanagh and Chairman of the club who buried their differences. The former decided that he had had quite enough of the Italian league and returned to Spain for his final seasons as a player. He never went into management, claiming that what he had seen during his time in Italy had put him off football for life.

Juventus did create a foundation headed by Pietro's parents to help youngsters and teenagers with issues that bore his name. That gave them a certain amount of solace and helped with the grief process, but it was hard, every day just walking through the door and seeing his name in big black, Juve style lettering was a reminder, apart from the other eleven million things that reminded them of him every day, just where they were, and how things will never be the same, the only aim now being that things can function, that they can move forward, that their memory of him remain positive and untarnished over time, despite the media furore. Soon they would tire of him, soon there would be something else. Lavinia tried to remain positive as she took the file off her desk, her first official case, no training, just diving straight in. For Pietro, she would help this kid.

#  When Moor is Less

This probably isn't the best place to start the story. If I had known a little less than a year ago when this story began that I was going to be the main character in a tale, then I wouldn't have believed you, I keep needing evidence to prove to me that it is, then I just have to look around to be reminded that it is so, so real. It is still hard for me to believe what is happening now, maybe if I rub my eyes, it won't be real, but it is real, I know it is, I can see myself standing on the gallows, it doesn't get much more real than that. The next sound I will hear will be the trap door opening and then I would be, in the words of the judge, "hung from the neck until dead", then my story would be over. It probably wasn't even worth us being introduced.

A year ago I was going about my rather dull life. I shouldn't complain, especially now that I am in this rather disturbing pickle. Now that was always my problem, I have always said that if I had to tell the story of my life, I would do it in a structured way that avoided confusion, and here I am with the clock ticking and you have no idea what I am rabbiting on about. I will take a breath, making sure to enjoy it, as it will be one of my last, and start from the beginning.

My father is Lord Ashburn, he owns all that you can see around you now. I was born into a position of privilege on the 13th May, 1787. Our family's estate is found in Northumberland, an occasionally savage and brutal place where the wind and the rain penetrates the skin and angers the very bones that lay underneath, yet it is a place of raw beauty that creates a warmth inside me every time I see its hills and valleys taking on a different guise whenever I changed my viewing angle. For me it is one of the most beautiful places on the lord's fair Earth.

My role was to control the land, what you might call the peasants. They took very little notice of me and were more concerned about my father's levies and other measures implemented to keep him in the finest port whilst they wallowed in the most extreme poverty. Nobody took me seriously and I knew it, I went to Cambridge University in my formative years, but was never a great scholar, I was surprised at how my feeble works were received by the staff until I realised that Daddy was sending chests of cash every term. He seemed more interested in my ability to frolic with the wenches and down flagons of ale than my interpretation of the mysterious works of Voltaire. Sometimes I wish I could have been part of the French Revolution, and make my mark on society, though what a two-year-old son of an aristocrat could offer apart from guillotine practice I do not know, but there is something romantic about the thing.

As far as my father is concerned, my distraction with all things romantic was further proof of me wasting his money on during my time at University. However, I did return with a different view on things, I saw there a bigger world than the one I viewed daily roaming the hills, I learnt there was more to life than flogging servants and absconding turnips to let them rot with a view to teaching an important life lesson. I returned from Cambridge half-realised, only for that half of me to be soon eroded away again once I reached the homestead.

My father did not take kindly to this as he expected me to be a replica of himself. When he realised that was not going to happen, he began to remove certain privileges that I enjoyed, believing that that would make my life more difficult and would inspire me to embrace his way of thinking. Privilege though, in our family, was such that I could live more than comfortably with what my father considered a pittance. My rebellious period was truly brought to end by my father's decision to send some of his cohorts to have a word with me. I realised that my place on this Earth was on the lands of my father, or not on this Earth.

And so I went back to the lands, played the part of the son of the landowner, away from my father's view my liberal attitudes were well received by the peasants, though this always created a contradictory feeling when my father was present and the people who had been privy to my benevolence were publicly admonished. My father had immense fun with the locals, though this was never a reciprocal action, he liked nothing better than to spend a Friday evening, or a Tuesday, the day didn't matter, fun could be had on any day of the week, and despite his ageing frame, my father still managed to down a flagon with the best of them. A fun evening would consist in a hearty feast, there would be little evidence on the dining table that the human being is an omnivore, served by local girls who were not in attendance for skills in this sphere with silver service. After much food and liquid the country gents would entertain themselves with some local criminals, these would be beaten and generally abused until their feeling of self-worth departed the hall. In their drunken state the lord of the manor and his friends would devise fiendish plots so that the criminals (criminal didn't always mean someone who had committed a crime to my father, it could be someone who simply couldn't pay their taxes or had the audacity to question their implementation) could torture each other which left the ruling classes free to savour the port and caress the ladies. Afterwards this would degenerate into a last days of Rome style scene until no more hedonism could be mustered and our betters were sent to their quarters, the criminals would remain behind to clear up and then be taken back to their cells for the night.

My father was generally appalled at my inability to take part in such simple pleasures and received verbal abuse from his friends for my failings as a man. It was a difficult time, I hated every aspect of my life, yet at the same time was aware of the levels of suffering that people and was left with the realisation that cruelty as an endemic part of this life. My father always told me to look at the animal kingdom and then I would see that we weren't so bad. That argument didn't manage to convince me too well. I didn't know what to think yet spent too much time thinking. One day, a little less than a year ago, my thoughts were soon replaced by something much more important.

I had never known love, as it is written about in the great books, there have always been women on hand, but that was more to do with my lofty position. There was also a selection of society ladies for whom I could muster little more than a smile, the thought of walking down the aisle with them turned my stomach almost as much as the diversions of my father. I was resigned to the simple fact that I had been born into a life that had no bearing on my needs as a person, as I wandered along the lonely fields that would one day be mine I knew I would gladly give every blade of grass just to steal one moment of happiness, to have one smile directed at me that came from the heart and meant something, all the titles and land meant nothing.

I had even thought of running away from all this, but didn't I run away to University? Did that do me any good? I was close to desperation, constantly wondering with what to fill my endless days and torturous nights. I wandered the lanes, alone in my thoughts, I sat by the river and begged it for answers, none of which were forthcoming, and then, just when I thought myself to be further away from the answers than I had ever been, some form of vision was walking down the path. There was a period when time stood still as I saw her for the first time, though I later realised that time hadn't stood still, rather a new era had begun, wiping all previous matters from the sphere of history. Suddenly all those lonely nights and painful ponderings seemed the smallest price to pay, now there was a reason for life to continue, did I say continue? I meant start.

Of course, I was getting ahead of myself, she had walked past me with all the enthusiasm of a girl on her own walking past a man who seemed deranged on a lonely country road in the late Eighteenth century. It wasn't in my nature, but I felt I had to speak to her. She was unlike any woman that I had ever seen before, the pallid, often blotchy skin of the natives in this part of the world, the all too common impossible to define colour of their hair that only had any semblance of reason when it finally went grey and fell out, were replaced by an olive skin that kindled a desire in me to travel, her hair was raven black, her curls flowed freely, bouncing off her shoulders as she walked. I was truly staring at a unique creation. I gathered my wits about me and made an introduction. She was suitably unimpressed.

"Good morning. I can't help noticing that you appear to be somewhat lost. I assume you are not from these parts." I smiled and left her the conversational arena.

"Sorry. No very English. Look work." Was not the utterance I had hoped for. It made sense that with her foreign looks, that she should be foreign. If she was looking for work then I, as the son of the man who owns everything as far as the eye can see, should be the one to give it to her. Suddenly, the bind of privilege did not seem such a difficult cross to bear.

"Work? My father owns this land. What type of work are you looking for?" I impressed her greatly with that sentence, so greatly that repetition was required. It soon became clear that she had learnt the first sentence, lexically challenged as it was, by heart. The conversation soon degenerated further, yet I managed to get my point across that she should follow me to find work. She couldn't have been more than twenty, she made sure she walked behind me and when I repeated that there was no problem and that there would be a sizeable modicum of gainful employment, which extracted an even more confused look from her, she extracted a knife to make it clear that I was not in control of the situation I controlled. It can't be easy travelling these roads alone for a pretty girl, I wondered how she had ended up here. With me out of range of her swipe with the knife I continued to question her. After a politically incorrect meander through the map of Europe we ascertained that she came from Romania. That was good, I knew that Romanian was a romance language and not too dissimilar to Italian. Not that I was particularly proficient in Italian, but these things can be learnt.

I did have a smattering of Italian from my university days and as I walked her to the main house I practiced a little and was soon convinced that I would need to take on someone to help me learn the language and, of course, someone for her to learn mine too, but there would be plenty of time for that in due course. I tried to explain to her the type of work that we could offer her, and that this would only be temporary until she realised that she would soon inherit all the land as far as the eye can see. I introduced her to my father, and he looked at her in that way. I would have to work fast to protect her from his wayward advances, I thought a hastily invented story about syphilis should keep him at bay for a while. And there she was, in the space of less than two hours she had arrived in my life and was now working in my kitchen. I had to make great haste to the library to learn all there was to know on the art of wooing.

It seemed a complex affair, that of obtaining the heart of a young maiden, especially when many of the traditionally considered avenues, letters, poems and other romantic gestures in word form, were unavailable. I didn't wish to appear like I was trying to curry favour with her just to get inside her bloomers, that was not the plan at all, besides which I was petrified at what to do should I get inside there as none of the chapters in the library seemed to deal with the topic. I made the bold move to get her a teacher, and luckily found one who spoke Italian as well. Through this learned man I was able to convey my feelings and hopes for this confused girl. I let her know that I wanted her to learn English as I saw her as a person with potential to move up within the framework of our household, and that the only issue holding her back were the linguistic shortcomings. I also made it clear that my intentions were honourable and that I had felt a special stirring within me when we met that first day causing me to be intoxicated by her very presence. We were now coming to the limits of the teacher's ability with the Italian language and before I got carried away we left it there with her having a jolly good think about things.

I spoke to some friends, the term friend being a general offering to anyone younger than my father, though that was technically the only difference between them, they offered very little on the subject that could be considered anywhere near help. In their experience most girls said yes because it was their job, or because their fathers wanted to unite several thousand hectares of land. I was sensible enough not to let it slip that the object of my desire was not what they would refer to as a wench, rather a more than eye-catching society girl whom I befriended in Cambridge, only now had my feelings risen to the surface. Without any advice to fall back on I asked my mother, she told me, between gins, that I could have any girl I wanted so that if any girl didn't want me I should have another one. That failed to clear matters up, so I decided to take control of my own destiny. Proud of myself I went to find her with a gift of flowers and a poem that I had written. I now stand on the gallows waiting to be executed, and so it is ironic that had they known that reading that poem in public would have caused a more excruciating death than anything the rope could do to me, yet in the privacy of those first moments together, she told me it was the nicest thing anyone had done for her, even though she couldn't understand half of it and later when she could, she proceeded to question its rhythmic qualities and general scanning, and it brought us closer together.

Thankfully she had a gift for languages and soon came on leaps and bound with her English whilst I still looked like a befuddled British tourist in Venice. I found the accent impossible; I just spoke Italian words like I was directing youths around a croquet game; on the rare occasions my utterances were grammatically correct they were rendered useless by my incapacity to enunciate them properly. Her accent was hardly the Yorkshire moors, but I could listen to it eternally, the words left her mouth like they were attached to a score of music that played constantly in the background of our love. She was falling for me as well, that was the part that caused me to walk on air and feel pangs of nauseas with alarming regularity and no warning. My father asked me what the cause of this unseemly behaviour was and I told him simply that I was happy and in love. He gave me a look of disgust and told me I should have been born French.

I was playing a dangerous game though. I couldn't be too happy and obvious because my love would not receive the blessing of the family, should they find out they would drive her away and force me into a marriage of convenience and misery that would make suicide seem like sixteen village fetes rolled into one. Yet how do you disguise the realisation that there is a purpose for this life? When you have found a person that complements you yet offers you the continuous desire to learn more about them and undertake the quest to grow old and wise together. Every night, I would sneak away from my quarters and we would lie together in the roof of an old barn, huddling together for warmth, sometimes engaged in deep conversation but other times able to appreciate the silence that held us together like some mysterious form of amorous glue. The pain of the first light that meant our time was over and another day would have to be lived through before we could be together again, but with every painful hour that passed we knew we were moments closer to our time again.

We knew that this could not continue in such a fashion, sooner or later we would be found out. We had to make plans to escape. I could not ask my father for his blessing and some cash, so I would have to leave without the blessing but with some funds that certain people in the legal profession may look upon as stolen. It wasn't hard to find a stash of money around the house, I wondered why highwaymen and the like wasted their time on the muddy country roads when a wander round the stately home would have them retiring in the colonies in the space of a week. I had a thousand pounds and some jewels that no-one would miss and planned to take Amelia away from this after Friday when my father would be too engrossed in his drunken horseplay to wonder about the whereabouts of his disappointment of an offspring, by Tuesday he would make enquiries and then by Wednesday probably try to find me. That gave us a week, by then we would be well on our way to America. I knew there was something in the air over there, but I would renounce my Britishness upon arrival and through my lot in with the Union, I had no need for England now.

So, we were set, a stagecoach would take us down to Liverpool from where we would embark on the greatest journey of our lives. As she laid in my arms I thought about our family in the new world, I knew a lot about farming, we could have our own plantation, the dream would be ours. The plans were simple yet so had everything else been in our brief courtship, there was no need to complicate things at this juncture, so as we drifted off to sleep for the last time in this country, we were kept warm by the dreams that would soon leave our heads and become our lives. We expected to wake up with the usual first light of the morning, but this time there was a rather heavy foot that kicked the door open. In burst my father and three of his drunken friends. It seemed like the good times were over already.

For two days I was kept locked in my quarters by the guards, whilst my father expected me to contemplate the error of my ways and renounce my love. For those two days I didn't sleep, I couldn't think of anything but what was happening to her, and every thought that crossed my mind made sleep more of an enemy that it had ever been to me. In brief moments I considered my own torture and then felt even worse than I had before as I realised that they could kill me, if I wasn't dead already, but that was nothing to what they could do to her. At the end of the second day my father reappeared and offered me the chance to, as he put it, do the decent thing. I would be allowed to wipe this shameful moment from my past if I agreed to return to the family business and marry the first acceptable, in his eyes, society girl that became available and provide him with an heir that was not a disgrace to the values of the English nobility. He said he would give me a day to think about it, but I told him there and then that I would accept no such deal as my life was technically over, and that he could do no more to me than he had already done, at least that was what I thought, of course within an hour he would prove me wrong. The next time the door opened the two soldiers entered with Amelia, even with the rope around my neck I cannot bring myself to pronounce the words to describe what ensued in the following scene, only that when they finally drove the sword deep into her stomach and left her to bleed to death on the floor, I actually felt a strange kind of release at knowing that her suffering was over. From that moment until now I have not experienced a single feeling in my body, as if my nerves had already given up the fight and were now prepared for the afterlife.

With Amelia dead and me more so yet suffering the encumbrance of being alive at the same time, my father had to make preparations for my own exit. He was lord of all he surveyed but he couldn't just kill people on a whim, well not people that he had produced with his own loins. He decided that I should be framed for the murder of Amelia, it was quite simple, everyone knew I was besotted with her so when she refused my advances I went mad and killed her. For a nice bonus touch as well my father also threw in a piquant dose of sexual assault. There were witnesses of course, the friends who burst in on me and Amelia in that last pleasurable moment, all respected men in the community and voices that would never be contradicted. For a few extra shillings some of Amelia's work colleagues gave evidence that she had been complaining about my intentions towards her whilst the pots were scrubbed. The teacher also confirmed this with a brilliantly eloquent tale of how she begged him to help her as she feared for her life. she feared h of hens towards her whilst thgeeparations for my wo 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227 227 227227

The trial was a transparent joke, most people there were friends of my father. The judge was also one of those present when we were caught so we had the legal anomaly of him taking the stand and questioning himself at the same time. No-one cared, the public bayed for blood, mine to be precise. Everyone believed the story that it was me, objective journalism is not something we are famed for and with people who even suggested that there was a hint of a fit-up suddenly receiving very sore heads, public opinion was clearly in my father's camp. When people dared to suggest that I was hardly the type to go slaughtering young maidens, the prosecution simply argued that the people who did this type of thing were often the ones that you least expect. How could anyone argue with such legal insight? The entire courtroom nodded as they mumbled to themselves about just what other heinous crimes I had committed without being found out.

It was decided that given the nature of my crimes I shouldn't be allowed to speak for myself as that might confuse the good members of the public who had been so kind to come and watch this circus. My father spoke of how he had made every effort to get in touch with Amelia's family, but this had proven impossible. He also called for a minute's quiet reflection before passing sentence, all this after my own mother joined in the charade to offer some piffle about what a disappointment I had been to her as a son. I just laughed, if they thought I was mad then I would give them something to genuinely consider it to be so.

I was taken away to the cells and left to rot for three days before my execution. I found out I was to be hung later. They passed sentence without my presence being deemed necessary. I wasn't given any food for the three days I was in the cells; bits of water were thrown at me and I was chained to wall so that I didn't spoil the party by doing anything stupid like committing suicide. That would not be considered a sporting way to end the show.

On the last night of my tenure on this earth I received a visitation, whether from lack of food or just the final goodbye of my remaining mental faculties, Amelia returned to spend that last night with me. She told me that everything would be better once the rope broke my neck and that we would be together in a much better place than the ghastly planet in which we had had the misfortune of being born had to offer. She had the key to the chains that held me into the walls and gently helped me down, before extracting some bread and cheese which we washed down with fresh water that tasted better than even the finest wines that had passed my lips. She held me in her arms and tended to my wounds, stroking my hair as she beckoned me towards sleep. When I was awoken by the guards at dawn she had left, and I was back on the wall, but I knew that I would see her again. I just had to get this rope around my neck, and we would be together for ever.

I was led to the gallows with the usual mob of well-wishers screaming at me and displaying their riddance as good. Amelia had told me that my father and all the people who had done wrong by us would not go unpunished. Somehow I found it hard to believe her but smiled as she said it. I think she wanted me to feel better. I couldn't care less about the others, if they were brought to justice then so be it, I would not waste any of my thoughts on them. I knew my reward was never meant to be savoured in this life. With that I have peace in my soul. I am given the opportunity to beg for clemency and almost spoil the party by saying that I only feel pity for the people who have done this to me. One day they will understand, but that day seems a long way away from now. I look down to the trap door as the rope is placed around my neck and give thanks to all those who have helped me leave this place with the key to somewhere wholly better. It is a beautiful sound the last sound I hear as the trap door opens and my body falls to its next home. I feel nothing, there is no transition from one life to another until I open my eyes again and I am sitting in the lobby of an enormous house wearing a white suit on a summer's day and holding a bunch of flowers. I have a message in my hand that Amelia will be along shortly.

#  The Pre-Tinder Tender

I didn't hold out much hope for the date. By that I mean that I held out an enormous amount of hope for her, I knew what she was like, she was approaching perfect, she had everything, that level of perfection one rarely sees in a woman, not a perfect body, nor stunning good looks, yet she was beautiful, well put-together in a physical sense, but that was merely a visual hors d'oeuvre before the magnificent main dish was brought to the table. She truly was a woman you could quite easily stand up and say I would happily spend the rest of my life with and have no fear of equivocation. So, it was quite strange that she had accepted the opportunity of going on a date with me. As I checked myself in the mirror I evaluated every one of my defects, physical and personal, as if they were the yin to the yang of her perfection. In my heart I told myself not to fuck this up but was really just wondering how long it would take her to make a polite excuse and leave.

For this was a date. That was made clear. We met at a party. That was two weeks ago. She was a friend of a colleague of mine from work. She told me that this creature had been single for a couple of months as she had walked in her previous boyfriend indulging in some extra-marital afters on the couch. That brought a little smile to my face, not because of her suffering, but because it is always nice to know that you are not the stupidest person on the face of the planet. Top ten will do me. I did the usual Q&A thing at work on Sandra afterwards, even though I was sure that her friend would not have remembered a single word of the three minute, forty-six second conversation, let alone the person who nervously tried to force it beyond the four-minute barrier, with inane piffle about printers and microwaves. Something strange happened during that conversation, it was as if she wanted me to talk about something deeper, or that she knew I could, and was prepared to withstand the utter twoddle spouting from my mouth. Eventually, someone else came along and simply had to introduce her to some undeserving, plebeian loser who would proceed to shower in the typical throw-away lines that would never work on a woman like her. After about half an hour I went to seek her out again, but she was gone, as were my hopes and dreams, so I found a bottle of gin, pulled that scrunched up nose and lips face that people do when they know they should know better, yet are determined to ignore the path of wisdom. After a couple of gins, I found solace in a hairdresser called Tracey and she laughed at my giraffe joke. My only thought as my tongue plunged into her mouth was whether she would have enough money for the taxi fare.

Therefore, it was something of a surprise when Sandra said that he friend had mentioned me, and in a positive way. I later found out that Sandra was an adherent of the liberal school of translation and interpreting as her actual words we "he seemed so awkward and uncomfortable, that interested me." I still adore the second part of the sentence, it's just the bit before the comma that I'm not overly keen on, though I don't know why. Not all women like men to be like James Bond, their outlook on the issue is from the brain outwards, a lot of us fall at that hurdle, whereas we work our way in to their personalities via their breasts and bums. Anyway, Sandra sorted it out and we have arranged to meet this Friday in a wine bar in Islington. Why I decided there I have no idea, it was clear that she wasn't going to be impressed by the pomp and circumstance of shelling out the best part of a tenner for a glass of something you could get a bottle of in Tesco's for half the price, but it seemed a better option than taking her to my local.

It is now this Friday. We have arranged to meet at seven fifteen, a rather curious time to meet, worryingly exact. It also means that I have to get a move on. I have opted for something casual, not too dressy, I don't have any good clothes anyway, I just have the same clothes as everyone else and would never dare wear some of the things that make people stand out, I don't want to stand out. I also have to shell out for a taxi halfway across London, and I am dependent on the traffic helping me in my cause. As I am nervous I have had a glass of wine at home, two in fact, now I need a taxi as I must be there before 7.15, I must be there in time to order myself a drink and therefore have had at least three sips of it so that, as I lean over to give her a peck on the cheek, the waft of the grape she will receive will be explained by the fact of my residence at the bar, I have chosen something exquisite and would she like one? If I get there after her, she will smell the booze on me, and think all manner of hideous things. She may think I have come straight from the pub, and that this is some kind of hideous bind for me. She could think I'm a pisshead, maybe she heard that I got sloshed after she left and is already regretting saying yes, this will simply confirm her suspicions and give her a reason to leave. Good God! When will they put drinks in taxis? This is too much stress. We are less than a mile away, and my mind is perturbed, not by the twenty sheets that drives will snaffle off me any minute now, rather that it is eleven minutes past. I hope she is not punctual, if she is early, I am dead, and this, like every other opportunity I have ever had, will have been squandered.

I arrive. Sixteen minutes past, I am late. I have a glance around the bar, I can't see her. Then my pocket vibrates. It's her. Message. "Terribly sorry but," I read those words and was ready to accept any form of death. I knew the text continued but I could only see those words. Through the tears in my eyes, I read on. "Traffic a nightmare. Be there soon. Kisses. x x." Quality text, every word spelt correctly and kisses in the most plural of senses. I found a space next to the bar and ordered a sparkling water and a glass of red. The water would be drunk until she arrives, and then to be pushed to one side upon arrival, I, now, controlled the arena.

It was when I sat that I began to realise that I had consumed the best part of a bottle of wine. The idea was the grape would combat my nerves. Now, paranoia was at the table. I may think I was coming across as charming and with oodles of joie de vivre, she might think I was a bit pissed. If I tried to go the other way and be too serious, the only chance of her not liking me, my sense of humour which I hoped she would find infectious, would be lost. I began to hate the world, all the technology available and they couldn't invent an "un-getting-pissed" shot that would take you back to square one? All the money wasted on curing cholera and they can't help me in my hour of need? All this fear and trepidation filled the waiting window, and, as I looked up, there she was. She looked effortlessly stunning, I stood up, nearly knocked the table over and flashed her smile. She returned it and gave me a very European pair of kisses on each cheek. I had to remember to try to look composed. With even more ease she managed to make things more simplistic for me.

"Sorry I'm late. I have had a miserable day at work, but now it's over and I wouldn't mind getting stuck into more than a few glasses of wine." What an opening gambit! All I had to do was slowly let her surpass me in the pissed stakes and I would be winning again. There was always the chance that she had been brought up as the only girl on a small island and was used to the consumption of whiskey from the age of six, but the Gods had smiled on me thus far, so I felt sure a minor smirk would be left in the pot. We ordered a bottle and chatted. Normally chatting in these situations is stilted and it appears all the questions come from someone who acquired them from a search engine list of "how to have a good date". With her it wasn't like that, the conversation flowed as easily as the wine we drunk. She laughed at some of my jokes, and told me when they were poor. We talked about superficial nonsense and our deepest reflections on the human spirit. We were honest, there was no need to make things up, it felt like the moment was going to last forever. After the second bottle of wine I had no idea if the twelve degrees of alcohol had put the smile on my face, or simply life itself.

It was decided that we should eat. She said she fancied Italian. I am of the school of thought that Italian is a potential banana skin of a first date eatery. I had had pizza for lunch, a bachelor always lunches well, so I was not keen on repeating, but the thought of getting Bolognese sauce all over myself and her still gave room for the idea that the night could be cocked-up. I told her Italian was a wondrous idea. I would order a calzone. We ate and continued to talk, I thought of saying something cheesy, but it seemed so inappropriate, at times I wondered if she felt it was strange that I had made no effort to make a pass at her, but she, despite being the most beautiful female creation in the known universe, seemed to take on an almost asexual aura, I somehow couldn't think of her in that way. We lazily finished our coffees and we eventually returned to the night air. Now there was a moment of slight insecurity, we were in the post-restaurant bit, a grey area, I could ask her to go somewhere else for a drink, I could ask her back to mine. I opt for something that I would never suggest with my friends, a walk in the fresh air to clear our heads. She thought this was a delightful idea, and so we walked through the streets, maybe Rome or Paris would have been more delightful, but Islington seemed to gleam under the moonlight. I knew the evening was coming to an end, but that didn't matter so much, I knew there would be more, many more. There would be many more, I had done well this evening, I put her in a taxi, and she thanked me, though I insisted on thanking her many more times. I wandered for a while and then got a taxi myself. As we drove, I received another message from her asking if I was free tomorrow and could pick her up around twelve. I looked out the window and felt happier than I could ever remember.

I fell asleep with a spring in my step and awoke the next day as if only the purest of vitamins had passed my lips on the previous evening. Literally skipping from the bed to the shower, I pranced about in a way that would make close friends rethink their relationship with me. However, I cared not a jot, life was being kind to me, and, despite the potential for me to reading far too much into this, I am quite sure we are soon to be wed. It dawns on me in the shower that she might just be a very nice person who had a pleasant evening. The wedding was off. From the shower I heard a message come through on the mobile. With soap in my eyes and shampoo more or less everywhere except in my hair, I knew I had to know the content of the message. It was going to be her, the word really would be placed next to the word sorry, the word but would cause its usual pain and I would be left without hope. As my first foot made contact with the bathroom floor, the excess water caused it to continue its movement despite the other leg still being in the shower, I luckily grabbed onto the towel rail before a nasty pelvic injury ensued. With soap still in my eyes, I found the door handle and proceeded to smack the door into my forehead. I was glad that she was cancelling now, I didn't want to see her with a limp and a gash in my head. The rest of the journey to the mobile, three metres sixteen centimetres, was event free, I could barely see as I tried to read the message, allowing soap and water into the phone at the same time. After far too much silliness I finally access the message, expecting the worst, I am delighted to receive the offer of a promotion from my service provider. I laugh for a little while and prepare to terminate my grooming when another message comes through and the fear process begins again. It's her. Shit. I can't read it. Finally, I press the yes button and she tells me to wrap up warm and be on time. I wonder if my fragile heart can live with this much stress every time the phone goes, and the answer is, to see her, yes.

I decide to take the tube as driving in London is not even on page seventeen of my favourite things. Wrapping up warm means that I start to get something of a sweat on on the train. This causes me to panic as the grooming products lose the battle. I remember how much I hate public transport in this town, something which is quite strange really as when I am in other cities I excitedly seek out Metro maps and bore people with my ability to rapidly acquaint myself with the local network, yet as I found the Bakerloo line to take me from Pimlico to Maida Vale, I could muster no excitement for Londinium's underground, other than remembering that someone told me that underground was the only word in English that begins and ends in the same three letters. I'll have to Google it at a later juncture. Such mindless pondering means that I have reached my stop. I disembark the train and try to work out where I am going to. I don't know this part of London, though I suppose that is what living in London is all about, you know where you live, and where you work, the rest is just other people's London, and the other bit, but if you live here you are unlikely to be interested in Madame Tussaud's.

Normally I would never ask anyone for directions in London, it goes against my credos and is hugely embarrassing, something will always happen so that the other person knows you live here and just don't know your way round. However, I decide to risk the inpecuniosity of the moment, simply as an excuse to use that word, and ask an old gent. Typical, he looks at me as if not King Herod would play snooker with me and tells me it is across the road, I am less than fifty feet from her house. I had to laugh. As I climbed the steps I went to ring the bell, then I stopped myself. What was I going to say? What were my lines? Nobody had briefed me on this. I had been given this mission without proper training. I was doomed to fail. I stood with my finger near the bell when a voice informed me that it worked by pushing it. It was her. Now I had to go in.

Except I didn't get in. She told me via the intercom that she would be down in the briefest of minutes. She didn't take long and soon the door opened and I was greeted with a hug, an elbow squeeze and a kiss on each cheek. That is officially the most possible non-boyfriend affection allowed to be expressed under E.U. law. She exuded simplicity in jeans and a t-shirt with a hooded top covering the upper half. She didn't look too wrapped up herself but then if she felt a bit chilly I could always lend her some support.

"You hungry?" She asked.

"More than peckish." I responded.

"Fancy a fry-up?" Were her next words. Could she be any more perfect?

She took me to one of her favourite haunts, just down the road from her place. As we sat and chatted she told me about her plans for the day. Her father and brother were Hammers season ticket holders, as was she, the rest of her family couldn't go today so there was a spare ticket. She asked if I would like to go. I informed her that that was a redundant question. Not only that but they were playing Newcastle so I would have a double reason to be blowing bubbles come five o'clock. As she sat there eating her black pudding and telling me her all-time favourite Hammers side, it was hard to listen, not like when a woman sometimes talks to you and it is hard to listen because you have heard it all before or don't care, this time it was different, there was so much to take in that I didn't know where to look. It was like having a great mate, you could imagine her doing loud burps after polishing off a curry, yet at the same time you could see as the personification of female beauty. As I dipped my sausage into the runny yolk, I knew there was no way she could take me to a place where the yolks were hard, I thought about the possibility that I was falling in love. I felt I had to do something romantic, some kind of gesture so she knew I wasn't only here with her to borrow her Makita power drill, which I was sure she would have and use better than me, so I told her she looked beautiful. Instead of looking uncomfortable, or even pleased, she just pulled what can only be described, despite the political incorrectness, as a spaz face and flicked a couple of cold baked beans at me. She told me to get a move on so we could have a pint before the game. To get to Upton Park was quite a trek, it was one in the afternoon now so she looked at the tube entrance and then decided on a taxi. I felt I had better get the taxi as she had come up with the tickets. When we arrived at the ground, I noticed that the taxi had cost me one pound more than the face value of the ticket, in days gone by this would have riled me, now, nothing like that mattered.

We found a bar near the ground and had a well-earned pint. She knew a few people in there and introduced me to some of her mates, I began to wonder if she was a closet hooliganette, but these Hammers didn't seem too much into their agro. As we didn't have the encumbrance of a vehicle to drive, we decided that another pint could be enjoyed before the game, anyway, the fry-up could soak up any excess. She gulped down her half pint without flinching and told me it was time to leave. During my time in London I was surprised to have not visited more of the capital's grounds, as a Sunderland supporter our continuous flutter between top and second tier football meant that there was nearly always a monthly option to see the Black Cats, but traipsing across London to spend the afternoon being looked at as if I didn't know where Covent Garden Opera House was just didn't cut it for me, whenever I was back home I tried to take in a game at the Stadium of Light, which was, in many respects, the only way to do things. Still, the Magpies lost and that endeared me to all and sundry, during the eighty-seven boring minutes we discussed everything from the Cruyff turn, to Nietzsche, to dishcloths to a framework for a better society, being occasionally reminded by the other twenty-thousand or so that we were actually here to pay our bi-weekly penance.

After the game we went back to the pub and had a couple more pints and gleefully entered what you might call that silly stage. The music coming from the jukebox helped our mood as did the genuinely unbeatable post-match atmosphere. Whenever she went to the toilet I allowed myself the chance to detach myself from what had been going on around me, and drink in another nectar, something wholly more fulfilling than the lager that was cursing through my veins. Had I ever been this happy? Probably, yes, but she did have the effect of making it difficult for me to remember, or even try to. This was almost like my personal hard drive had been reformatted and I still had my old memories on a CD somewhere, I would just have to reinstall them at a later date.

We left the pub slightly tipsy and she asked what I wanted to do next. I was clear in my beliefs that quite frankly anything as long as it was in her joyous company. We ended up going back to hers, eating pizza and playing our favourite records with minor references to their personal, sociological and anthropological importance. I liked her flat and was glad we hadn't gone to mine. I have always loved the flats of girls who live alone, they have a special aura about them, you never got a smell like that in a bloke's flat, it made you feel warm, it made you want to stay for ever. At some point, despite being quite drunk I was aware that the issue would come up, this was clearly the next step we would have to take. I weighed up the pros and cons and decided that a drunken fumble would probably be the most appropriate way to initiate this next venture, if I were stone cold sober I would probably be too nervous, so the handy addition of a ready-made and socially acceptable excuse for failure was a welcome new friend at the table. By the time I had thought of that the next thing I knew was that I was awake with a slightly pounding head, semi clothed but more towards the semi-dressed, in her bed, with her. I hobbled to the bathroom, not wanting to wake her up, just in case it had been an absolute disaster, evacuated my bladder had a mouthful of Listerine and a splash of water, a quick nose through her bathroom cabinet, essential first night activity, found some painkillers, treated myself to two and snuggled back into bed. She didn't wake but did that delightful thing that was half groan and half outstretched arm, inviting me to take up a more comfortable position behind her and drifted off into a world that confused me, I didn't know if the dream was the part before I went to sleep or after, either way, perfection lay on both sides.

Sunday morning came and went without much of an announcement. I was glad to see the time go past ten o'clock and her remain asleep and not tell me to get ready for church. It had gone half past twelve when she appeared to reacquaint herself with a conscious state and announced that she had a hangover. I had never realised how much fun hangovers could be, this was simply divine, and I almost felt sad as the coffee, toast and painkillers had me feeling normal again. We sat around her flat and watched TV and films. I wondered whether it was time for me to go but she didn't seem too worried by my presence. While I dozed on the sofa she made me some pasta. If I hadn't been convinced before, then now I was experiencing more happiness than anyone else had ever known in the history of time. Eventually the day had to come to an end, and we said rather cringe-worthy, soppy goodbyes before I made my way to the tube station. She offered to drive me, but I said that she would never get to work on time the next day.

Plans were made, though I would have to be strong as she was going to be away for the next three days. She apologised for that. Can you believe that? She apologised for having to do her job and was worried that that didn't fit in with my plans. I tried to get along with things from Monday to Thursday, but it wasn't easy as my mind had taken a leave of absence. I think most of my colleagues preferred me as a miserable, acerbic cynic. All the ladies in the office thought it was simply delightful and Sandra took all the credit, but I just laughed it off. I simply counted the seconds till Thursday came along.

She said she had planned something special. She phoned me every night and we talked until one of us had no more battery left. I wanted to record the conversations and listen to them again, but I knew that they were in my head, deep down somewhere. I tried to think of something that I didn't like about her, just to make her seem a little more real, and I was sure she already had a reasonable list of my foibles, but all I could come up with was that I was not too keen on her name, Michelle, still, she even managed to wear that well.

She had planned a mystery day out in London for me on Thursday. Except she was honest that in reality she hadn't planned very much, quite the opposite. I had to take the day off work, probably a relief for them, they were keen for me to leave the daft stage behind, but also worried that I would then enter a paranoid, neurotic phase that was equally painful for them. I promised them that they would probably look back at all this and laugh but their faces did not register much conviction.

The only information that I had was that I was to be at Marble Arch for before nine in the morning. From there we would take the first bus that we saw and liked, I hoped it was one of the old ones that you could hop on and off, and then when we got to a train station we liked we would get off there and, well the day would simply fall into place. She was waiting for me on the corner and it didn't take us long to decide on the number thirty bus, we were both of that age it seemed quite appropriate, she said that she had many big plans for the day, but that it was all a secret and laughed. At just a bit after nine the bus left Marble Arch towards Hackney, we passed King's Cross but that seemed like too much of an obvious choice. We wanted a nice, smaller station for the next part of our journey. When we got to Euston it was more or less the same story except there was something of a commotion going on there, probably another rail strike, so we decided to continue on the bus. Forty odd minutes were beginning to get the better of us, so we made the decision to alight at the next feasible juncture. It wasn't a part of London that I knew well and as we turned into Tavistock Square it seemed a good a place as any to get off. I held her arm to help her up and went to press the button, but my finger never made it. Suddenly a noise came from nowhere and the bus shook. It took me about ten seconds to realise that I should start to look for her when there she was. The scene was incomprehensible. The roof of the bus had gone, there was smoke everywhere yet somehow through it there she was. I tried to move towards her but was halted in my tracks as it transpired that I was no longer the owner of legs. I could still see her head through smoke, but as the bus moved again I found out that it was her head, but it was no longer attached to her body, it rolled towards me and that is when I felt the real explosion. I looked down at what was left of me and felt my hand go inside the wound in my stomach, and I thought to myself, it won't be long now.

#  Acknowledgements

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