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### THE JOURNAL

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### HARRY SOMERVILLE

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### HAYDN JONES

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### Copyright © Haydn Jones 2018

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This work is dedicated to Cyril John Jones and all the brave men who fought in the African Desert, in World War Two, so that future generations could live free of tyranny and oppression.

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### Chapter One

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### The Viaduct called Home

A small market town in England, 1965.

Winter had arrived, stealth like, in the sleepy market town and stayed far too long. It was now mid March and frost was glaring on roof tops and bare fields and leafless tree branches; sticking like glue and glistening like diamonds in the bright moonlight. The north wind was bitter and unwelcome as it unashamedly pushed its way around the small town like the playground bully, swirling dead leaves into neat piles in its wake as it moved from street to street looking for gaps in doors and window frames. Dark smoke, camouflaged by the night sky flurried in the wind as it escaped out of the neat rows of blackened, sandstone chimney pots; below them, coal fires blazed red in open hearths.

A youth watched as a panting steam train trundled overhead, belching steam and smut into the starlit sky as it pulled its reluctant load of wagons laden with iron ore. In front of him, in the greying darkness the viaduct's Victorian brick arches dominated the landscape; their symmetry towering above; a lasting monument to the industrial revolution. The lad paused and sighed as the cutting wind nudged him sideways. In his hand he held a crumpled paper bag. Hesitantly at first, he walked into the gloom and immediately suspicious eyes followed his every move. As he reached his place in the candlelit corner the sound of the heaving train had faded into the night. The quaking of the clay beneath his feet had subsided, breaking the imposed harmony of trembling ground and body. Shadows danced on the dirty walls and familiar voices mumbled crass comments, braking the uneasy silence—but he ignored them.

'I've got you an apple, a piece of cheese, some bread and a cake,' he said.

The old man smiled up at him and held out his grubby hand like a grateful street beggar.

'If you don't eat more you're going to die.'

The old man nodded.

The youth sat down on the floor opposite him and watched as the old man squinted at the piece of Cheddar before finally biting off a chunk and rolling it around his mouth; his cheeks giving away its position. When he finally finished the last morsel he nodded his approval to the youth and wiped his mouth with the greasy sleeve of his jacket.

The acrid air under the arches was ripe with the smell of sulphur from the nearby coal yard and the smoke from the gang's oil-drum fire. Dark fumes hovered in the roof-arch like a menacing storm cloud.

The old man finished the chunk of bread and washed it down with some meths from his gin bottle.

The youth forced a smile through tight lips. He liked the old man's weathered face, even if it was gaunt and lined from a life of hardship. He had kind, resilient eyes that somehow refused to accept his inner sadness. Something terrible had happened to him; something that had torn him apart—the youth could sense it. 'Are you okay,' he asked?

The old man nodded again, staring at the green bottle that he kept in a brown paper bag next to his battered old leather case. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat in a vain attempt to keep out the intrusive cold night. He then put his case behind his back, as if it was a cushion. The flickering candle-light reflected in his watery, yellowing eyes. He managed a toothless smile, which crinkled his bulbous nose.

He didn't know the old man's real name, so he called him, Mike. He'd been caring for him for more than twelve-months; he never questioned why he cared for him, he just did.

The youth was different to the others over in the far corner, huddled around the fire; they really were nasty bits of work; straight out of Oliver Twist; the kind who'd rob their own mothers. It really annoyed them that the 'posh little fucker' didn't drink or smoke, and they hated him because he could read. And if he didn't join their thieving band soon, they threatened to kick him out, or slit him, more like.

A little while ago, one of them, called Will, a filthy, churlish man approached the youth angrily: 'You—Pretty Boy—how come you can read?' he snarled.

The youth looked into his slitty eyes and answered nervously:

'I don't know.'

And that was the truth, he really didn't know. He'd always been able to read and write, as long as he could remember, but his memories were so fragmented—but he didn't tell Will that. Will's menacing stare, tobacco-brown teeth, swarthy skin and bad breath quickly convinced him that he wasn't the sort of person to have an intimate conversation with, so he turned and walked away, praying that Will wasn't too angry. He'd experienced, first hand, Man's enmity to Man and it wasn't pleasant. Slashed faces or stabbings were common amongst this lot and normally over no more than a cigarette.

On that occasion, for some reason, Will decided to let him go and the youth thankfully escaped his wrath.

One night in February the youth was awakened by a scream, only to find Will had cut someone's ear off.

Occasionally, down in the town, you'd find the young lad glancing through the windows of the pubs at the ruddy-faced drinkers inside, playing shove ha'penny, darts and skittles: noisy, smoky dens, full of laughter and conversation, which turned to arguments and brawling at the end of the night. He kept promising himself that one day he'd do it—he'd go into one; early in the evening, before the fighting started and chairs got hurled across the room.

But now, most of the urinating drunks with their flailing arms and slurred rhetoric had somehow staggered home from the pubs to their beds, leaving a few to sleep it off in the shelter of shop doorways or park benches.

A light rain had begun to fall as the wind continued to push decaying leaves into swirling piles, but under the brick viaduct it was at least dry. The porous brick walls, impregnated with the smell of sulphur, transferred acrid odours to clothes and lungs.

The trains had abated until the early morning when, once again, the ground would tremble like a communal alarm clock and tired stiff bodies would reluctantly stir.

'Tomorrow's market day and that means a bit of fruit. Goodnight, Mike,' the youth said, as he settled on his old mattress and covered himself with a blanket. He touched his hunters' knife, tucked in his belt, and asked himself again, why would anyone want to rob him? He had nothing. And once again he convinced himself that he would see the dawn.

'It's time to get some sleep,' he said, quietly to himself before blowing out the candle.

In the darkness the old man nodded in agreement. In his clenched hand he was holding something—something very precious.

The youth opened his eyes and sat up. The sun was shining outside and there was Mike with his back propped against the wall, in a pool of urine, staring straight ahead—open mouthed and clutching his gin bottle in his stiff hand. His cold, dry eyes and pallid waxy complexion told the youth he hadn't made it through the night. He went over to him, holding his breath. With straight fingers he gently closed Mike's eyelids. Something on the youth's chest glinted from the sunlight and he looked down at a little key, hanging from a chain around his neck. Quickly he tucked it inside his shirt. Where did that come from?

It was time to have a wash before going to the market, so, after saying goodbye to his old friend he headed out into the sunshine. As he passed the others he said to them nonchalantly, 'Mike's dead.' They didn't see the tears in his eyes as they rushed past him. The youth knew they were wasting their time. Mike had come into this world with nothing, and he had left with nothing.

As he walked, he felt into his trouser pocket and pulled out a roll of something wrapped in an elastic band. The youth glanced at it and quickly put it back. His heart started pounding and holding his breath he covered his mouth with his hand. His pace quickened as he strode away. A few moments later he glanced back nervously to see if he was being followed. He could still hear the bickering voices echoing from within the brick arches and he realised he could never go back.

'Thank you, Mike—Thank you. Rest in peace, my dear friend,' he said with an expression of wonderment and shock.

As the youth walked he pondered on the old man's life. Did he ever have a wife? Children? A job? Sadly, he realised, it was something he'd never know; it was too late, he was gone. To a better place, my old friend, to a better place.

In his right hand he was carrying Mike's little brown-leather suitcase.

### CHAPTER TWO

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Sid the Farmer

With eighty-five-pounds in his pocket the youth still washed in the outside sink at the back of the butcher's shop. The kind man with the beef-fat face and rosy cheeks, who owned the place, left him a bar of carbolic soap on the window sill and a small mirror. And in exchange for a few deliveries in the week he gave him a bag of sausages and sometimes he threw in a beef or pork-pie. Once, he gave the lad a whole chicken that smelt a bit, but tasted great once it was cooked. He remembered Mike, struggling to eat a leg and forcing himself to eat the rest before the gang got back and took it off him.

Now he'd started shaving the mirror was very useful. When he saw his reflection he wondered if his mother had blue eyes and fair hair or whether he'd inherited it from his father. The youth suspected it was his mother, and he found comfort in that thought.

After his wash he walked down the familiar route of smells to the market; past the aromatic tobacconist on the left with its front window full of labelled jars of shag, flake and ready-rub. Next, on the right, was the cobblers with the animated cobbler in the window whose round face and rosy cheeks reminded him of the butcher. Then came the grocers, the newsagents and the barber's shop with its spinning red and white striped pole. Finally he passed the florists with its buckets of blooms under the canopy. Sweet scents flooded his nostrils and teased his memory as he strode purposely by.

Just like winter, spring had arrived without any warning and the sky was an azure backdrop to the smoke from the towns chimneys now rising in long, dark unabated columns.

The winter wind had gone.

His body was still tingling with excitement as he entered the bustling, gaudy market square. He could smell fresh baked bread, then a waft of cheese as he passed the stall on his right, and his stomach rumbled. The vinegary smell of pickles was everywhere.

The youth knew he could afford to buy food with his inheritance, but the idea of it made him nervous. He'd never done it before. He felt into his pocket for the roll of notes and held them tight in his fist. Composing himself he walked up to the cheese stall.

The woman behind the counter asked:

'What can I get you, handsome?' gesturing with a sweep of her hand to the array of fine cheeses.

'I'd like some of that cheese, please,' he said to her, pointing nervously, and he felt his cheeks beginning to burn.

She held up a wedge and showed him.

'A shilling's worth of Cheddar—is that enough?' she asked, removing the wedge from the scales.

He nodded his approval and returned a smile that her eyes caught while she wrapped the wedge for him. He knew there were twenty-shillings in a pound.

That's nineteen shillings change she owes me. The youth handed her a crisp one pound note from the roll. Did she notice my hand shaking?

She looked at it and said:

'That's a new one; got lot's more of them, have you?'

He smiled at her through tight lips and his nerves jangled like a sparkler.

The woman opened her cash box and gave him a ten-shilling note, before counting out nine shilling coins into the palm of his hand. 'Nineteen shillings change. Sorry about the shillings, I'm short of half-crowns and two-bob pieces...Thank you, handsome.'

He noticed the friendly glint in her eye.

Far less nervously, and with an air of growing confidence, he bought some bread rolls from the baker's stall nearby, before finding a sun drenched bench seat overlooking the impressive facade of St Cadoc's Gothic church; the faithful guardian of the market square for centuries.

The sun felt warm on his face as he broke off a chunk of cheese and pushed it into the fresh bread roll. He was determined to enjoy the first meal he'd ever paid for. Hell, this cheese smells good! He felt into his pocket for the roll of money—It's still there. Then he took his first mouthful. Oh God! That tastes so good.

The youth was joined on the bench seat by a lump of a man, and by the look of his jacket and corduroy trousers the youth guessed he must be a farmer. In his huge hand he was holding one of the biggest pork pies the young lad had ever seen. The youth looked at the big man's weathered complexion and bald head and watched as he took a bite of the pie.

The farmer sat back in silent contentment for a while and then said:

'Good day, young man.'

'Good day, sir,' the youth replied, watching the farmer bite another huge piece off his pork-pie and turn into an enormous hamster with burnished cheeks that shone like fired-enamel pots.

All around, people were busy shopping when the youth noticed Will, from the viaduct. He was skulking slowly down the aisle between the stalls, towards him. His slitty eyes were darting everywhere. Instinctively the lad knew he was up to no good and he tracked him like a cat stalking a bird.

Will stopped next to an old woman who was busy inspecting some embroidery on one of the stalls. The youth watched as the thief's deft hand dived into her shopping bag. He'd got her purse and quickly moved away—straight into the youth, who grabbed his arm, with some force.

'That's not yours!'

Will looked at the youth, open mouthed, who tightened his grip on the thief's sinewy wrist; holding up the purse for everyone to see.

'Come back tonight kid and I'll cut your throat out, you stupid little fucker,' Will snarled through gritted teeth. His putrid breath made the lad wince as he wrenched the purse from Will's reluctant fingers. The petty-thief scurried away like a scolded dog, jostling through the crowd of shoppers. Finally, at the edge of the market square he stopped and glanced back, his face twisted and red with anger; tight lipped, he slid his index finger across his neck.

I don't think so, thought the youth.

The old lady was oblivious to the goings-on around her and when the youth returned her purse she looked confused.

He said to her: 'Someone took your purse out of your bag, missus. I suggest you put it somewhere safe—out of sight.'

She smiled at him and said:

'Thank you, young man. I wonder who did that?'

The seat next to the farmer was unoccupied, so the lad wandered back and sat down.

The farmer had just about finished his enormous snack when he mumbled through a mouth full of food:

'Are you looking for a job, boy?'

'A job?' the youth replied, shocked by the offer.

'You know, something where you do some work and you get paid for it.' He chuckled to himself and pushed the last piece of the pork-pie into his mouth before sucking his fingers clean.

The lad looked inquisitive. 'But why me, you don't me?'

The big man looked into the youth's eyes as his tongue wiped across his front teeth:

'I need someone I can trust—and you, son, seem to fit the bill nicely.'

'But you don't know me,' he repeated.

Nodding his head, the farmer smiled at him with an impish grin and responded:

'I know enough about you, young man.' Then he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief; his cheeks still hamster-like, and shining like mirrors.

The lad's instinct was to trust the farmer. A dependable looking sort, with his plump, rosy face, and round, honest eyes; someone he felt he could trust. 'What kind of work is it, mister?' the youth enquired, tentatively.

The farmer's expression quickly turned serious and his mouth opened in readiness. 'Hard work lad—farming. Three-pounds-fifteen-shillings a week, plus free food and lodgings; and I'll have you know my wife is some kind of a cook.' His eyes opened wide and he nodded in smug confirmation. 'Comfortable bed, running water, log fire, proper outside toilet and use of the zinc bath once a week. What more could you ask for? Lambing time, you see, and I'm going to be very busy, very soon. I can't say how long I'll need you, but it's at least a month. What do you think, lad—are you interested?'

The youth answered him honestly, conscious of the grim alternatives; aware that he had nowhere to go and no Mike to feed anymore:

'I know nothing about farming, sir, but I'm a quick learner and I'm prepared to give it a try.' He puffed out his chest. 'And I'm not afraid of hard work either.'

The farmer slapped his thigh with his very large hand. 'That settles it then. I'm leaving here at half-past-four...don't be late. Oh, by the way...what's your name, lad?'

The youth smiled and answered. '...Luke...my name's Luke.'

The farmer tapped his broad chest with his finger. 'I'm Sid...Sid Williams. Half-past-four,' he repeated, pointing at the pavement, 'here—don't be late, Luke.' Smiling contentedly the big man walked off into the crowd, swinging his arms like a soldier on parade.

Luke sat on the bench for a long time trying to come to terms with what had happened. Yesterday, he was a nobody with no job, no home and no money. Had his luck finally changed? He looked at the noisy, vibrant throng of market-goers and his face donned a wide smile. Then, in a flash, he remembered there were things he had to do and his unaccustomed smile disappeared just as quickly as it arrived. So, he left the welcoming warm, sunny bench and headed for the shoe shop followed by Harpers, the gentleman's tailor and finally, Williams and Sons, the undertakers at the far end of Lion Street.

### CHAPTER THREE

A New Life

The church clock on the other side of the square chimed on the half-hour as Luke sat back down on the bench, waiting for the big farmer to arrive. At his feet he had a duffel-bag and Mike's leather case; his sole possessions in life. Around the square most of the traders had either packed up or had already gone, after what had been a very busy day, thanks in part, to the good weather.

After the bone-chilling winter living under the viaduct, the youth welcomed any form of warmth and he looked forward to the summer days ahead. The idea of sleeping in a bed with a roof over his head made him shiver with excitement. When Luke looked up at the church clock again it was 4.40 pm, but the big farmer was nowhere to be seen.

Nervously he touched the key hanging around his neck. He must have known he was going to die, putting the money in my pocket and the key around my neck. I wonder how he managed it without waking me and getting a knife in his guts for his troubles?

He decided it was a good time to look in the case but then Sid arrived as bold as brass, appearing very red faced and a little unsteady. He smiled at Luke and asked in a loud voice:

'Ah, there you are young man. Are you ready to leave?'

'Yes, I am sir,' Luke replied, trying not to show too much excitement.

'I met my old mate, George, and we had a couple of pints of scrumpy in the Old Murenger,' he explained, clearly contented.

He obviously likes his cider and a few to him is probably seven or eight pints, but, he is a big man, I suppose.

'Let's go then,' Sid bellowed.

The excited youth picked up his bags and followed the farmer to the car park at the back of the square. Sid pointed to a pale-green Land Rover parked facing a yellow sandstone wall. On the other side of the wall, amongst the blossoming trees, stood the Town Hall.

'That's mine over there,' he said, grinning broadly. 'Series 11A; a little beauty she is, boy. Only got her two-months ago. She's my pride and joy, that one.'

Soon, they were on their way heading west in the warm sunshine along the main road out of town. Sid was behind the wheel talking continuously about his 'pride and joy', his farm, his wife's cooking and the accommodation, which sounded to Luke far more inviting than the viaduct; but also, too good to be true.

On their journey to the farm Sid never asked the youth anything about who he was or where he was from. Luke was glad; but he knew that it wouldn't be long before the questions started and the truth came out; and that really worried him. His past had been emotionally and physically painful and all he wanted to do was forget the monster.

As they drove Luke could feel butterflies in his belly, as if he was going on an exciting adventure somewhere; and then it struck him, perhaps he was; and getting paid for it too.

About four-miles out of town Sid turned off the main road onto a rutted track at a sign saying: Ash Farm, Chicken and Duck Eggs for Sale.

'Here we are,' Sid said, manoeuvring the Land Rover to miss a couple of large pot holes. 'Keep meaning to fill 'em in, but I never get round to it,' he added, with a carefree smile.

A little further down the track the farmhouse came into view. It was a big, stone-built affair with a slate roof and a number of outbuildings. As they approached, a woman wearing a white apron walked out of the front door, smiling. 'That's my wife, Vera. She's a bloody good cook, that one. And that's your place, over there.' Sid pointed to one of three little barns on the east-side of the yard. 'It's cosy and warm and the wood for the fire is free—just help yourself from the woodpile in the shed.'

Luke smiled at the thought of having his very own fire and an image of the flaming oil-drum illuminating the grimy faces of the thugs huddled around it, struggling to keep warm, flashed through his mind. He saw Mike's pallid face and he touched the key hanging around his neck.

As they pulled up outside the farmhouse, Sid looked at Luke and said, followed by a wink:

'Don't mention the cider, ok, boy.'

Luke winked back at him and nodded, as if they'd been friends for ever.

'Come and meet the wife, lad... Vera, this yer is Luke,' Sid said, through the driver's window. 'He's come to help us on the farm, for the minute.'

'Hello Luke,' she said in a kind, motherly voice, peering into the Land Rover.

Luke got out and walked around to meet her; a flurry of chickens took flight around him. 'Pleased to meet you, ma'am,' he said, holding out his hand.

'Oh blimey, no need for that ma'am stuff here, just call me, Vera.'

'Pleased to meet you, Vera,' he said, shaking her hand; and she giggled like a little girl.

'Pleased to meet you too, Luke. Come in and I'll put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea. Have you been drinking, Sid?' she asked, in a cheeky tone.

'I had two halves with George, in the Old Murenger.'

'Two halves, my arse!' Vera said, looking at the youth, knowingly.

Sid chuckled to himself, took off his flat cap and rubbed his head as he trotted off to the toilet, desperate to empty his swollen bladder.

As Luke walked into the house he was greeted by a brown and white Fox Terrier. It bounced towards him, stiff legged, like a marching soldier; it's little tail wagging excitedly.

'This is Betty,' Vera said.

Luke picked Betty up and she licked his face. 'I like you, too,' he chuckled and rubbed her belly as he cradled her like a baby.

'Got a friend there,' Vera said.

After a cup of tea and some delicious home-made scones, made with Vera's double-cream and strawberry jam, Luke was shown to his living-quarters by Sid. The building was a solid, stone structure with a slate roof that matched the farmhouse on the opposite side of the yard. Luke estimated it to be about twenty-feet wide by forty-feet long. On the west-end there was a stable-door, which appeared to be the only entrance.

'It used to be a cattle shed years ago but we turned it into living accommodation for Vera's dad; but he passed away a few years ago, so now we use it for anyone working on the farm, like you, lad.' Sid turned a brass key in the door lock and pushed the door open. 'In you go,' he said, gesturing to Luke.

Inside was a deceptively large open space, with exposed oak beams that ran the length of the building. At the far end, up some wooden stairs, was the sleeping area, which had been the hay loft when it was a cattle-shed. On the stone-slab floor there was a log burner halfway along the long north-wall with a flue-pipe that went all the way up the wall and through the roof. In front of the fire stood an inviting old, brown leather sofa. On the south-wall, opposite the fire, a Belfast sink with a big brass tap rested on two brick columns. Above the sink, a shelf and a small mirror on the wall were flanked by two large windows that let in lots of light. Under the sleeping area at the far end nestled a little table and two fold-up chairs that the early morning sun bathed, through a round window in the east wall.

'It's not the Ritz lad, but it's warm and dry,' Sid said, proudly.

It is the bloody Ritz. Luke thought to himself.

'Settle yourself in and come over to the house about seven o'clock, for a bit of supper.' He handed him the key and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Luke stood motionless in the quiet tranquillity, not really knowing what to do. There was no acrid smell of sulphur, just the pleasant aroma of the seasoned ash and oak wood-piles stacked neatly each side of the fire. There were no fire breathing trains trundling overhead and no staring eyes watching his every move. The only sound was his excited breathing. Eventually, he climbed the stairs and flopped on the big bed. He closed his eyes and the tension in his body flowed out of him like an ebbing tide.

Luke woke up to the sound of a cock crowing in the yard, the machine-gun trill of a nesting blackbird protecting her eggs from a marauding magpie, ducks quacking, lambs bleating and ewes calling. A farm in springtime was a very noisy place to be.

When he reluctantly opened his eyes, Betty, the fox terrier, was prostrate next to him on the bed, immune to the cacophony of sound outside. Luke was still dressed in his clothes and his stomach ached for food. He walked down stairs to have a pee in the sink. On the shelf in front of him he noticed a neatly folded towel, a block of yellow carbolic soap, a glass tumbler with a toothbrush in it, some Colgate, black-plastic comb, a Gillette razor and a packet of razor blades.

After a pee, expertly directed down the plug-hole he turned on the water. It was cold but it tasted good and he splashed his face to wake himself up. Betty was sitting at the top of the stairs watching his every move. He stripped to the waist and had a good body wash; his first in a few days. He then cleaned his teeth and combed his hair. He fondled the key hanging around his neck.

I feel on top of the world, staying at the Ritz.

At precisely 7.30am, Luke sat down to breakfast with Sid and Vera. He looked incredulously at his plate of food, which consisted of: two large fried eggs, streaky-bacon, sausage, mushrooms, tinned tomatoes, black-pudding, baked beans and fried bread.

'Get stuck in lad, you need to put some meat on the bones.'

Luke glanced at Sid, who'd wasted no time getting 'stuck in.' He had never seen anyone eat as fast as Sid. What an appetite!

Vera leaned over and filled Luke's cup with steaming tea from a shiny brown tea pot. 'I tried to wake you up but you were fast asleep,' she explained.

'I was very tired,' he answered, clearly embarrassed. 'Thank you for the towel and the other stuff.'

'You're welcome, young man,' she replied, smiling. 'It's obvious you travel light.'

Luke felt his cheeks warming. He lowered his head and started eating his breakfast.

'Betty decided to stay. I hope you didn't mind?'

'I like her—she's nice,' Luke replied.

'I've got a box of working clothes—they should fit you okay, Vera said, scrunching up her nose.'

Sid nodded, sizing the youth up from the other side of the breakfast table. 'And I've got some working boots you can have. You can't work without them. What size are you, lad?'

'I think I'm a size nine.'

'Nothing a pair of thick socks won't cure.' Sid chuckled, before demolishing half a pork sausage with one bite.

Luke felt humble and so bloody grateful. 'You're both very kind, thank you.'

Sid smiled. 'After breakfast I'll take you out and show you around the farm. There's lots to do but you will get one day off a week. There's a butcher's bike in the shed, next to the outside loo, you can use it to go into town on your day off, if you want, or if Vera needs something in the week you can pop in then; it's only four-miles, you know the way.'

'I'll do what you want,' Luke replied happily, as Vera refilled his tea cup. She had a kind face with shoulder-length, dark hair that was naturally curly. Her cheeks were rude with health and she had a happy disposition. It was obvious to Luke she enjoyed being a farmer's wife. He guessed her age to be about twenty-five and Sid to be a couple of years older. He decided there and then, Sid and Vera were definitely made for each other.

Luke's first few days on the farm were hectic. Everything was new to him and he was on a steep learning curve. After a substantial 'Vera' supper he would go to bed at dusk and sleep through until early morning. He couldn't believe his luck. How his life had changed in a matter of just one day. The day Mike had died.

How long will it last? Luke pondered, worried that all too soon it would be just a fading memory.

It was the evening of the fourth day and Luke was sitting on the sofa watching the dancing flames in the wood-burner. His body ached but he felt so good and Sid seemed happy with his efforts—so far.

Outside, the sun had set twenty-minutes earlier, but the horizon was still a warm blood-orange red. The air temperature though had dropped noticeably and a light rain now moistened the concrete yard. Luke peered through the raindrops that meandered down the window and decided to get Mike's little case and see what was inside. Without lifting her head up off the carpet, Betty's dark eyes followed his every move as he climbed the stairs. He leaned under the bed and pulled out the leather case. Resting it on the bed sheets, he put the key in the lock and turned it. With his thumbs he pushed the two brass clasps outwards and they flicked open. The first thing he saw when he lifted the lid was a six-sided star and he guessed it was a war-medal of some kind. There were lots of envelopes packed with old photographs and a pile of letters tied up with string.

He noticed two leather-bound books; one was a green leather book of poems, entitled: 'Shelley's Poetical Works.' Luke opened it and read the message inside the cover, written in black ink:

To my darling husband, from your devoted wife.

I long for the day when you return home to me. Stay safe my love.

Yours forever

Mildred

He flicked through the pages noticing quite a few had been ripped out and stopped randomly at page 544. He read:

FRAGMENT: TO A FRIEND RELEASED FROM PRISON

For me, my friend, if not that tears did tremble

In my faint eyes, and that my heart beat fast

With feelings which make rapture pain resemble,

Yet, from thy voice that falsehood starts aghast,

I thank thee — let the tyrant keep

His chains and tears, yea, let him weep

With rage to see thee freshly risen,

Like strength from slumber, from the prison,

In which he vainly hoped the soul to bind

Which on the chains must prey that fetter humankind?

It was Luke's introduction to poetry but he didn't really understand it and put the book back in the case.

The other book was brown leather. He opened it and discovered it was the journal of, one, Harry Somerville. There were pages and pages of hand-written entries in black ink.

At the bottom of the case he found a birth certificate in the name of Henry Reginald Vernon Somerville, born July 12th 1904, to Cecilia and George Somerville and a marriage certificate, dated March 1926, between Henry and Mildred.

Was Mike really Henry? If so, it meant that he was only 61 when he died, yet he looked much older than that.

He took out some photographs from one of the brown envelopes and immediately recognised the soldier. Yes, he was younger, handsome, in his prime, but it was him—Mike was, without doubt, Henry Reginald Vernon Somerville.

'Well, Betty, this is interesting,' he said to the terrier now curled up on the sofa. She looked up at him briefly, before settling her head down on the cushion again.

He undid the pile of letters and took the first one out. Unfolding it, he began to read:

18th August, 1942

My dearest Mildred

It is with joy that I write to you having received the book of Shelley poems you sent to me; my first post. In this mad cauldron of war I can so easily lose myself in his words and I find inner peace, if only for a precious moment in time.

I am okay, but if I'm honest, I'm fatigued from the sights, noise and smell of battle.

I think of you often and it raises my spirits, helping me to find the inner strength I need to survive this hell-hole. The North African desert is truly an inhospitable place. Flies swarm around us all day and feast on our sores that refuse to heal. It is necessary to cover each morsel of food as we move it towards our mouths; and the unrelenting heat is exhausting. We look forward to the nights, but then we welcome the sunrise that brings relief from the chills of the night desert and the chance to brew up.

Our rations are limited to corned beef and biscuits and one gallon of brackish water per person per day. My thirst is insatiable. I cannot write in detail, as you know, but I can tell you that the feeling amongst the troops is better. We had a visit from 'Monty' yesterday and that definitely raised morale in the ranks.

Most of my men are heroes, in my eyes, but one, Private Walker, is a most detestable man. I'd be happy to see him transferred. He alone can affect the morale of my men in a very negative way. He is a despicable coward and there is no place for cowards on the battlefield.

I have seen too much death for one lifetime, my dearest, and I pray this terrible war will be over soon so that I can return home to you and hold you in my arms once again.

A Shelley poem to you, my love:

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright:

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me—who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet !

Your loving husband.

Harry

He then opened the second letter and read that with interest, too:

November 1942

My dearest Mildred

Thank you for your letter. I miss you too my love. I'm glad to know you're busy with the war effort at home.

So much has happened since my last letter to you, I don't know where to start. Rommel's Afrika Korp is retreating west. They know they are no match for us. Jerry and the Axis are on the run and the camaraderie amongst the troops here is amazing. But I find it sad that such a wonderful spirit amongst men is only nurtured by the spoils of war.

Every morning we eagerly await the rising sun, so that we can light our fire tins and brew up. It might sound strange to you but we wash our uniforms in petrol. It dries quickly and kills any vermin.

My memories of this place and how we've adapted, simply to survive, will haunt me forever, and I long for the day when we can be together again. I dream of enjoying my pipe and a good malt next to a roaring log fire with, Jack, asleep at my feet and you next to me, absorbed in a good book. These thoughts keep me going.

Some more beautiful words from Shelley that I want to share with you, my darling:

Shall we roam, my love,

To the twilight grove,

When the moon is rising bright;

Oh, I'll whisper there,

In the cold night-air,

What I dare not in broad daylight.

I'll tell thee a part

Of the thoughts that start

To being when thou art nigh;

And thy beauty, more bright

Than the stars' soft light,

Shall seem as a weft from the sky.

Your loving husband.

Harry

This is the same man, the bag of bones I looked at most nights for over a year; the man I knew as Mike. The old skeletal vagrant who drank himself to death. He pondered on what had happened to him, to leave him homeless, lonely and sad. A man who had bravely fought and suffered for his country in the Second World War.

Is the answer somewhere in this little case?

It was a misty morning in May when Luke watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. At the graveside next to him was the local priest performing the last part of the funeral service and dropping bits of earth onto the coffin. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...On Luke's left flank stood Mr. Williams, funeral director of Williams and Son. The priest finally fell silent, looked across and nodded to Mr. Williams who gestured to the two gravediggers some distance away enjoying a well deserved smoke in the shade of a yew tree.

Luke stood and watched as the two men shovelled earth into the open grave and soon the coffin and the name plate bearing the name Henry Reginald Vernon Somerville was covered. Thanks to the journal, Luke knew a lot about this fascinating man's life. But it made him sad when he realised that he only knew Harry as a shadow of his former self and he tried to imagine him in his prime, fighting for his country. It doesn't seem right to me that he should be laid to rest in an unmarked grave. In my eyes he's a hero. He promised himself he'd make a wooden cross with Harry's name on it. After the gravediggers departed, he placed a wreath on the grave and said a few quiet words; hoping the old soldier would hear his wishes. Mr. Williams waited on the path a few yards away ready to deliver a few final well-oiled words of consolation. Luke turned away from the grave with a tight lipped smile and a heavy heart.

### CHAPTER FOUR

###

El Alamein — North African Desert, 1942

Facts:

  * El Alamein is 150 miles west of Cairo.

  * The Allied forces are in trouble throughout Europe.

  * The war in the desert of North Africa is pivotal. If the German Afrika Korps get to the Suez Canal, the ability of the Allies to supply themselves would be seriously dented. The only other supply route would be via South Africa.

  * The Eighth Army number over 200,000 with some 1000 tanks. The Panzerarmee number around 96,000 with some 500 tanks.

  * Both armies are battle weary, after months of fighting in the hostile desert. Casualties, to date, have been high, on both sides.

  * The Allied forces are technically superior and have greater numbers of men, tanks, guns and aircraft.

  * The German Axis forces have a desperate shortage of fuel and Rommel's battle plans and fuel supply routes are known to General Montgomery, thanks to Bletchley Park breaking the German's communications code.

  * Dividing the two armies is 'Devil's Garden,' a mine-field laid by the Germans, which is five-miles wide and littered with 500,000 anti-tank and anti-personnel mines.

  * General Rommel is on sick leave in the Austrian Alps, but within days he will be called back to lead the Panzerarmee, again.

23, October 1942.

Operation Lightfoot, El Alamein.

9.35p.m.

Lieutenant-General Bernard Law Montgomery, leader of the Eighth Army, has decided to attack the German lines—tonight.

After a welcome bath in his caravan and a quiet dinner, Montgomery and his Chief of Staff, De Guingand, took up a vantage point overlooking the battle field. It was a full moon and the desert was eerily quiet. There was no deafening artillery guns pounding the cold night air, no anti-aircraft fire, no tanks trundling the sandy undulations like little ships bobbing on the sea, no rifle fire and no one shouting orders above the mayhem and cacophony of battle. There were no cries from the piteous wounded, bleeding to death in the savage heat of the dessert and no sand-flies feasting on gaping wounds or abandoned, severed limbs.

The unwonted silence in the chill of the moon-lit desert was a brief moment in time—nothing more than that. Montgomery allowed himself a seasoned smile.

Simultaneously, the Allied Forces opened fire with more than 300 artillery guns and the silence was over.

In all, over 900 heavy and medium Allied guns pounded enemy lines that night, for what seemed like an eternity. Legend has it that the sound was so great that the ears of the gunners bled and their thick gloves burned away from the heat of the gun barrels.

Forty minutes after the first allied guns had opened fire, the cold and exhausted infantry left their slit trenches and advanced towards Devil's Garden.

'PRIVATE WALKER—GET UP AND MARCH—THAT IS AN ORDER!'

The soldier shook with fear and cowered from the cacophony of sound that filled the coruscating sulphurous air. Sergeant Somerville pointed his pistol at the man cowering below him in the trench. 'GET UP AND MARCH WITH THE REST OF THE MEN—THAT'S AN ORDER SOLDIER—OR I WILL BE FORCED TO SHOOT YOU!'

Shaking and sobbing like a scolded child, Private Walker crawled from the trench and began, reluctantly, walking towards Devil's Garden. Crouched like an old man he glanced back at the sergeant and snarled a comment that was lost in the noise of battle. He was a man Sergeant Somerville detested; his arrogance and anti-establishment attitude was just a front—a front for a coward you could not trust, in business or in battle.

One hour later Private Walker lay on the desert sand with a ball bearing from an S bomb lodged in the frontal lobe of his brain. A large bloody hole was all that was left of his right eye. His hands twitched like a marionette and his groans were full throated and resonant.

Sergeant Somerville, walked into the inferno; bag-pipes played in the distance. He knew he could not stop and help any of the wounded—it was the rules of engagement—an advance must not stop going forward. The wailing wounded were left for the stretcher bearers. He tried to think of some poetry to recite as he marched —some words of Shelley's, to shroud him from the battle, but no words came to mind, just the sounds and smells of battle.

All around him, dark columns of smoke from burning tanks, rose into the sky creating a sinister gladiatorial stage. Under his boots, the sand was red with the blood of dead heroes. As he trundled on, something thumped into his chest and knocked him to the floor. Winded, he looked up at a soldier's boot; it was attached to a severed leg, torn off at the hip. In that moment he realised that Dante's Inferno was not just the wild imagines of a 14 century writer, it was a prophetic work of profound accuracy and he was there, in the sickly sweet, pungent, musty odour of exposed human flesh, to witness the purgatory of Hell, on Earth.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

### CHAPTER FIVE

###

Happy Days

Spring, 1966

Sid and Vera took Luke on at face value, knowing very little about him when they offered him work, and to Luke's amazement, they never asked him any searching questions. If they had, he would have struggled to explain his predicament to them. After a year living with them he now looked upon them as his guardians, because they were so good to him; it's as if he was the son they never had. Sid had taught him to drive and Luke had bought himself a 1960 blue and white Triumph Herald convertible from his wages. He knew he had to take a driving test but that didn't stop him driving into town with the wind in his hair on his days off. Sid just laughed but Vera always pointed a matronly finger at him; but Luke didn't care...it was great fun.

There was a girl who worked in the bookshop on the high street, with a Mary Quant bob, and Luke was crazy about her. He pretended he was looking for books as he browsed the shelves in her shop, but really he couldn't take his eyes off her. In bed at night he thought about her; kissing her sensuous lips and fondling her breasts as she lay naked next to him; and he would get hard and masturbate—Luke was in love.

Luke's early years still occupied a lot of his thoughts. The agonising memories were still there, burnt into his mind. He could still feel the excruciating pain inflicted on him, as Long John repeatedly ignored his pleas to stop. He was deeply ashamed of what he'd been forced to do, but he could never speak of his ordeal to anyone; it was a torment he would take with him to the grave. He had closed and bolted a lot of doors in his head, never wanting to open them again—ever; and there was still a fire burning inside him that refused to extinguish. He knew the flames fed off his emotions of anger and guilt; and that evil man, who they all called, Long John, at the children's home, was responsible. But, without doubt, Luke was now a different person to the frightened and lonely youth who'd arrived at Sid's farm twelve-months ago.

He was now feeling mentally stronger and the possibility of tracing his parents was nagging at him. Recently, he'd experienced some vague images that flashed through his mind like snapshot photographs; recollections?—Strange images of a car, a fallen tree, someone screaming, ambulances and police cars with flashing lights. He saw this splendid house in the country, a child's red fire-engine and a smiling, happy couple dancing—music playing—the smell of polish and fresh flowers; but none of it made any sense to him.

Luke began to questioned whether he was ready, or able, to uncover the truth about his past, but the idea of it seemed more and more necessary with every passing day. There were so many things he needed to know. He would mention it to Sid and Vera, tonight at supper. He owed them an explanation, but he was terrified his plans might end their relationship, and his happiness.

### CHAPTER SIX

###

The Book Shop

Emily Tomlinson was the manageress of a book shop on the High Street. She'd held the position for the last two years, and at only twenty, she felt proud of her achievements. It wasn't the most exciting job in the world but it was a regular income and it meant Emily could pay her bills. She shared a flat above the shop with Val. Val was okay but Emily would have preferred to be on her own, if she could have afforded it, because she liked her own company and hated sharing the bathroom with Val—and another thing, Val chain-smoked and never stopped talking about boys. Emily was convinced she was a nymphomaniac.

Mr Phillips, the shop-owner, lived in London. He was a nice man, in his fifties, but she didn't see much of him. He let her get on with it most of the time and called her on the telephone if there was anything to discuss. The winter months had been quiet but now the shop was busy. Being located on the High Street helped—bringing the tourists in to browse the shelves.

Emily was a methodical person and she'd got the shelves laid out into different categories, to make it easier for the customers. Down the left wall as you entered the shop, there were all the best-sellers and bargain books, followed by books for children at the far end. This week had been good for sales and 'Valley of the Dolls' by Jacqueline Susann had been the best seller by far, followed closely by James Clavell's 'Tai Pan'. Down the right-hand wall were books on cooking, gardening and photography. Half way down the shop was a spiral stairs leading to the upper level where she had books on more specialist subjects like history, religion, science, biographies and reference material. There were a few chairs up there where some people sat for hours sometimes; Emily was convinced they thought it was a library.

Her spinster auntie, Dorothy, and surrogate mother, was the only family she had left now, since her mum and dad, Mary and Frank Tomlinson, had tragically died in a car crash, in thick fog, when Emily was fifteen.

Emily freely admitted that days at the bookshop were much the same, and if she was honest, not that interesting, but sometimes this guy came in and he made her heart flutter. He was handsome—but she didn't think he fancied her. Emily dreamed about him at night and the thought of him made her heart pound, as if it was going to burst out of her chest. Her friend said he lived on the streets but she didn't care, he was so handsome and very sexy. She looked in the mirror and pretended she was talking to him. 'You can kiss me if you want,' she said, pouting her lips, and giggling to herself.

Val had already experienced sex with five different blokes and she was only twenty-two.

Emily was a virgin, but she knew that one day she'd find a guy she wanted to have sex with. She hoped it would be someone like the fair-haired lad who made her feel so alive. She could give herself to someone like him.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

###

Confessions

'Vera's cooking cottage-pie tonight,' Sid said. His face beaming with anticipation.

'Good, because I'm starving already,' Luke answered, rubbing his belly.

'Have some more of this cider, it'll keep you going.'

Luke took the jar and rested it on his shoulder before taking a sip.

'If I drink much more, Sid, I'll miss supper all together. I feel a bit wobbly already.'

The big man laughed and let out a huge fart. 'Practice my boy, that's all it takes—practice,' he said, like an old philosopher.

As they shared the cider, Luke thought about what he was going to say after supper, wondering how Sid and Vera would react.

He must have looked serious because Sid asked him:

'Are you all right, o'er Luke?'

'Yeah, but I better not drink much more of that stuff, Sid. It's a bit bloody strong.'

Sid laughed again and offered him a Navy Cut; letting him tap the end on his cigarette case.

Sitting on the dry-stone wall together, looking into the field, Sid pointed to a cow that was due to calf.

'She won't be long, that one,' he said, as smoke exuded from his mouth and nose.

Luke dragged on his cigarette, too. 'She's the last one isn't she?' he asked and watched Sid nod in agreement.

'She is,' he finally confirmed.

Vera called across the yard, 'Go and get washed up you two—supper's in half an hour.' Luke jumped down from the wall and Sid farted, again.

'I don't know what she puts in my food, but I can't stop farting.'

'Sid, one day you'll light a fag and that will be the end of you.'

Sid laughed. 'Bang!'

Luke washed in the sink and he felt a knot tighten in his belly as he rehearsed the lines in his head. I need to know who my parents are. It's important to me, Sid. Can you understand that?

What if they say I have to leave —where would I go?

He considered how much he should tell them. He knew he couldn't talk about how Long John had raped him and the other boys at the Home, but he was ready to talk about his childhood years, which were clearer now. Time and stability had helped him find some of the missing jigsaw pieces. The mist was clearing. His first memories were of the Home; that's where it all started.He stared into the sink with a distant expression...

Billy was trying to keep up with him but his chest was wheezing and gurgling like an old smoker on his death bed. Luke looked behind and laughed. 'Come on Billy, keep up, what's the matter with you?'

'It's all right for you Luke, I've got a bad chest.'

'We're going to be late for school again and you know what that means.'

'Why did they have to build a school at the top of a bloody hill, Luke?' Billy gasped, red faced, wiping beads of sweat off him forehead with the sleeve of his threadbare blazer.

Luke stopped and waited while his best mate struggled to catch him up. Eventually, Billy arrived. He stood upright, pushed out his chest and took a deep breath. Moments later having regained his composure he looked at Luke and asked:

'Did he come for you last night?'

Luke lowered his head in shame, '...yeah,' he replied quietly.

Billy's expression hardened and his eyes welled up. 'That means it's me tonight.'

Luke continued to look down. 'I want to kill him, Billy.'

'Me too, Luke.'

'Supper will be ready in five-minutes!' Vera called from the farmhouse.

Luke shouted:

'Coming, Vera!' and quickly got dressed.

He ran across the yard, closely followed by his shadow, Betty. Chickens scattered in all directions and the geese squawked in protest, but stood their ground with necks as straight as arrows. 'I'm here,' he called, opening the big front door. 'Something smells good, Vera.'

'Sit down then,' came the familiar voice from the kitchen.

Sid walked in and sat opposite Luke at the table. He grabbed a chunk of Vera's bread from the wicker basket and filled his mouth. 'That was a good day's work, lad,' he mumbled.

Luke smiled contentedly and nodded in agreement.

'Here we are boys,' chirped Mother Hen, placing a steaming cottage-pie, topped with golden-brown mashed potato swirls, in the middle of the table. 'That should fill you hungry buggers.'

Sid wasted no time piling a huge portion onto his plate. 'I'm bloody starving,' he said. 'Shearing sheep is bloody hard work, ain't that right, Luke?'

'My hand and my back are killing me, Sid'

'Wait till the end of the week, son.'

'How many did you shear today, Luke?' Vera asked with a smile.

'...Four,' Luke answered with an embarrassed grin.

'Bless you.'

'Bless him? Only two hundred left, kid. You should be finished by Christmas. I'll let you do the rams at the end of week and then you can watch them fight each other,' Sid said, laughing with a mouth full of food.

'Why will they fight?' Luke asked.

'Cos they're daft buggers and they don't recognise each other when they've been sheared. Fight like hell they do. Lost one a few years ago with a broken neck.'

Luke looked tentatively at Sid.'I think you'd better shear the rams then.'

'Nonsense!' The big farmer stood up and started an animated movement with his hand as if he was shearing. 'You need to be firm with them, lad.'

'You'll have indigestion eating like that, Sid,' Vera said, sternly. 'It's no wonder you suffer with wind. Sit down.'

'Don't be silly woman!—a man's got to eat,' he protested.

Sid loved his "grub," as he called it; but then he worked hard. He wasn't fat...he was just a big, strong man; Vera's big teddy bear. And the only time the teddy bear was grumpy, was when the teddy bear was hungry.

Twenty-minute later, the casserole pot was empty and wiped clean with the last of the bread; they'd also devoured a creamy nutmeg rice pudding and Sid made sure he got most of the skin off the top.

After the meal Luke decided it was confession time, and the knot in his tummy returned; he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. 'I think I owe you both an explanation,' he said, nervously, wiping his clammy palms on his trousers.

Sid looked at him with a confused expression. 'What do you mean, lad, explanation?'

'I need to explain to you where I'm from.'

Sid looked at Vera. 'Leave the dishes a minute, love,' he said and Vera sat back down at the table.

For a moment all three sat in nervous silence.

'...I owe you both an explanation. You must have wondered where the hell I'm from, and yet you've never once questioned me?'

Vera smiled. 'We did wonder, but it doesn't matter to us, does it Sid?'

Sid looked at Luke and shook his head. 'I know you're a good kid, and that's all that matters to me.'

Luke's cheeks began to blush and his eyes welled up. 'Thank you Sid, I owe you a lot—both of you.'

'Don't be so bloody daft,' Sid said, and blushed, too.

Luke took a deep breath. '...I'm from a children's home about seventy-miles from here, near Greatly. I must have been very little when I went there because it's the only place I've ever known and I don't know who my parents are. I got out... a few years ago, because...because I hated the place. I'd be happy never to go back there—but I might have to.'

'Why, love?' Vera asked.

The knot tightened in his stomach. '...I'd like to find out who my parents are, Vera.' Oh god!

Sid put his beefy hands on the table in front of Luke, as if he was going to get up and leave and Luke's heart sank.

'If I was you lad, so would I—so would I.'

'Would you like us to come with you?' Vera asked.

Luke chuckled, nervously; holding his hands to stop them shaking. 'That would be lovely, Vera—thank you.'

Sid grinned. 'That's it then—we'll all go to Greatly—together.' The big man poured out some more cider. 'Here's to finding your parents,' he said, raising his mug in the air.

Vera smiled contentedly but inside she sensed that this might just be the tip of an iceberg.

Later that night

Luke awoke from a cider-induced sleep, slumped on the sofa with Betty next to him; his throat was as dry as sandpaper. He walked over to the sink and drank some water from the tap, before splashing his face to wake himself up. He recalled the after dinner conversation and smiled. The subject had been playing on his mind for a long time and now it was out in the open. Sid and Vera's reaction took him by surprise; he wasn't expecting them to be so supportive. He wondered if he would ever be able to repay them for the kindness they'd shown to him.

Luke realised there was no point in going to bed yet, having slept on the sofa for a good few hours, so he picked up Harry's journal and settled down with the book on his lap in front of the fire.

'Rivers of blood were poured out over miserable strips of land which, in normal times, not even the poorest Arab would have bothered his head with.'

Field Marshall Ervin Rommel

'I began to realise from the casualty figures that I must be careful.'

Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery

Luke opened the book and began to read from Harry's journal:

North-African Desert, October 29, 1942.

My men and I are exhausted and all around me the dead and mangled dying are a reminder of this crazy war; in a place that will soon be, once again, just a fly infested desert. We have been fighting too long and today in the confusion of war British soldiers fought and killed British soldiers, thinking it was a German machine-gun position.

Yesterday, I lost four good men to Rommel.

Although I despise him, I'm glad to note that Private Walker has survived his injuries; having lost an eye from an S-Bomb explosion. I'm informed he will now be sent home.

We took Italian prisoners earlier in a fierce fight that lasted over two-hours.

I will never forget the grimaced look on the young Italian's face as my bayonet plunged into his chest. He stared at me, disbelievingly, as I watched him die.

We realise it is kill or be killed. It's the only way to survive, but that's all it is—survival. We are slowly turning into heartless killers.

The prisoners look as tired and battle weary as we do. I think we all just want to go home and leave this inferno to the flies.

I look around me and burning tanks litter the horizon, emitting coloured flashes as the shells inside them explode. Bodies inside the metal coffins are burning to a crisp and the repugnant smell of incinerated flesh fills the air around us.

I struggle to write these words; my energy, and will to go on, are spent. Like the desert, the dryness of my soul fails to nourish and nurture the sweet, poetic words it once thrived on.

Death, has suddenly become an appealing form of escape from this purgatory.

Once again I turn to Shelley's words:

Death is here and death is there,

Death is busy everywhere,

All around, within, beneath,

Above is death—and we are death.

Death has set his mark and seal

On all we are and all we feel,

On all we know and all we fear.

The young man, sitting by the warm fire, tried to imagine what it must have been like in such a hostile place, where men considered death as a way of escape from the apocalypse—but, in the comfort of his little barn, with Betty sleeping next to him, he found it impossible to visualise the horrors of war. But he knew Harry was a tormented soul, a gentle poet, and, like many other men, thrown into a war he didn't want; and most amazingly, able to adapt to the horrendous conditions and kill another human being. How could he do that?

Then Luke remembered Long John and shuddered, when he realised how easy it would be.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

###

The Visit to Greatly

###

Luke could smell bacon cooking but he wasn't sure if he could eat anything—his stomach was churning. The thought that he might soon know the identity of his mother and father excited him. He was excited and terrified at the same time. He'd shaved and washed and combed his hair and now he was walking around the barn in circles tapping his hands together while Betty watched him from the sofa. He'd already been to the toilet twice and he needed to go again.

The weather forecast was good and Luke was wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt, grey trousers and his best brown brogues, he'd polished the night before.

Time to visit the toilet again.

'Sit down Luke,' Vera said. 'I've cooked you a proper breakfast—I think you might need it.'

'I feel really nervous, Vera. I'm not sure I can eat anything.'

'You'll be fine. You look dashing, young man.'

Sid arrived dressed in a clean, blue shirt, red tie and a pair of corduroy trousers held up with red braces. He pushed his fingers under his collar. 'Bloody ties—I hate 'um.'

'You look smashing, Sid,' Vera said, affectionately. 'How are the creases in your trousers?'

'Good, love, but I can't bloody breath proper,' he complained, undoing the top button and loosening his tie in preparation for breakfast.

Vera was wearing a pink summer frock, she'd obviously kept for best because Luke hadn't seen it before.

He said to her: 'Vera, you look lovely, too.'

'Thank you, young man,' she answered, coyly, and her cheeks turned a bright pink.

I doubt if she gets many compliments from Sid. He might love her loads, but he's not the sort of bloke to tell her so, Luke thought.

'Sid—Are you having the works?'

'I am, love—might not eat for the rest of the day,' he said, with a worried expression on his face.

'Sid—somehow—I can't imagine that happening,' Vera replied, incredulously, and Sid let out a knowing laugh.

'What time are they expecting us, Luke?'

'After lunch, Sid.'

'And what are we hoping to achieve, today?' he asked.

'...To be truthful, Sid, I don't really know...I'm having second thoughts about going at all.'

Vera could see Luke was nervous and she tried her best to reassure him. 'Don't you worry about a thing, young man. Everything's going to be just fine,' she said, putting her hand on Luke's shoulder.

Breakfast, something Luke normally looked forward to with the enthusiasm of a hungry lion, made him feel nauseous. He ate what he could, but it wasn't a lot. Sid happily finished what he left. Clearly, he wasn't suffering from nerves.

For a moment Luke tried to think of an excuse not to go. He pictured Long John with his leather eye-patch smiling as he sneaked into the dormitory, like a big rat, to drag him out to the toilets. His words—every time he abused him—ringing in his ears as if it was yesterday:

Say anything and I'll kill you, boy. Do you understand?

###

Sid insisted that Luke put 'L' plates on the Herald to drive to Greatly, and reluctantly he obliged. The weather was glorious as they set off; the big man sitting next to Luke, and Vera in the back, wearing a scarf on her head, like some famous French film star.

'Sid, you really ought to wear a hat or you'll burn your head.' Vera said.

Sid lit a cigarette and raised his eyes. 'Stop bloody nagging, woman.'

With his cap, sunglasses and a cigarette in his mouth, Luke was feeling pretty 'cool' as they turned left onto the main road, heading north towards Greatly. His nerves had settled down a bit now and he was looking forward to the drive in his 'pride and joy.'

Two hours later

Luke was standing, deep in thought, at the entrance to Greatly. It was the place where he'd lived for most of his young life and his stomach was now twisting like an eel around a fishing line. The driveway meandered through woodland for about two-hundred-yards, obscuring the view of the house from the road.

Five day's a week he would walk down the driveway to school, with Billy, and then back again in the late afternoon.

'It's my go Billy.' His opponent reluctantly held out his arm horizontally, dangling his conker at the end of a piece of string. Luke waited until it steadied before expertly flicking his own conker; there was a solid clunk as Billy's conker broke into two pieces. 'I win again...that makes this one a—twelvesie, Billy.'

Sid disrupted his thoughts:

'Let's do it then, lad,' casually throwing his cigarette butt away.

Luke took one last drag of his cigarette before climbing back into the car. He wiped his hands in his trousers and took a deep breath.

The leafy Horse-chestnut trees offered stippled shade and a brief respite from the hot sun as they made their way up the drive to the sound of the car's wheels crunching on the chippings. Luke glanced in the rearview mirror to see Vera removing her scarf and checking her makeup in a small vanity mirror.

As they left the shade of the trees the grey-stone house came into view, with its big, white window frames and the front door's two Romanesque white stone columns, guarding the entrance like sentinels.

Luke said: 'Sister said we can park outside, if there's a space.'

'There's one.' Sid called out, pointing excitedly, 'park in there—between the Austin Cambridge and the Capri.'

After Luke parked the car he realised that they were directly below his old dormitory. For a moment he stood there in silence, looking up at the curtains; the same grubby, green, thick drapes that reeked of mould and kept out the light better than wooden shutters. They must have been hanging there since the blackout. He recalled the smell of urine, polish and disinfectant. Then he smiled when he remembered the one-legged Robin Redbreast that came to the dormitory window everyday for breadcrumbs and broken biscuits he'd put out.

'Do you want us to come in with you, Luke?' Vera asked.

He turned and smiled at her. '...Yes please, Vera,' he answered, nervously.

Sid smiled broadly; clearly happy to be involved in the adventure.

'Your head's a bit red, Sid,' Vera said.

'Stop bloody nagging woman. Every farmer in the world has got a red head—I bloody hate wearing a tie, I do. Makes me feel like I'm being throttled.'

'That's not a bad idea, Sid!'

'Shut up, woman.'

Vera rolled her eyes, 'Someone's happy.'

Sid got out of the car, tucked the front of his shirt into his trousers and farted.

'Sid! You better not do that in there, or I'll kill you.'

The big man looked like a scolded puppy. 'I won't will I,' he said to Vera.

Luke stopped at the front-door with Sid and Vera standing behind him like prison guards. 'It doesn't look as big as I remember it,' he said. He took a deep breath to compose himself before tugging on the bell-pull. A few moments later the door opened and a plump ginger-headed woman offered him her hand.

'You must be Luke?' she enquired, in a very quiet Irish accent. 'I'm Sister Elizabeth—welcome back young man.'

Luke shook the nun's hand and introduced her to Sid and Vera. Then the nun invited them into the house. Luke looked around the entrance hall at the familiar sights. The same old paintings were hanging on the walls and the furniture was familiar, apart from a large multi-coloured Chinese vase in the corner, which seemed out of place amongst the other stale surroundings. The smell of polish and flowers was just as he remembered it, as was the portrait of the Queen at the top of the grand staircase.

'Follow me, please,' she said and walked off.

As Luke strode down the corridor behind her, followed by his two 'bodyguards,' so many memories began to flood into his head, just as if a mist was clearing on a hillside, blown by a breeze, to expose long-forgotten vistas. He turned to look at Sid, who gave him a reassuring wink. Vera smiled and nodded.

What would I do without them?

They entered an office on the right and Sister Elizabeth gestured to the seats placed in front of her desk. Luke sat in the middle, flanked by Sid and Vera who both now looked a little nervous.

'Is Sister Veronica still here?' Luke asked.

The nun smiled. 'She retired a few years ago, but she still lives on the grounds, in one of the little cottages. She hasn't been very well recently.'

'Would it be possible to see her again?'

The nun hesitated and then said, 'I don't see why not. It will no doubt cheer her up to see you again.'

On her desk was a brown file with a white label that read:

Samuel Luke Collingbourne

School Number G0019837 DOB 15/10/1948

Below the label was a black and white photograph of Luke when he was much younger.

'What exactly can I do for you today, Luke?' she asked with a kindly lilt to her voice.

For a brief moment he didn't know what to say and he glanced at Vera. She gestured with her eyes towards the nun.

'...I want to know who I am... and where I'm from?' Luke glanced back at Vera and she gave him an approving nod.

'How much do you already know, Luke?' she asked, enquiringly.

Again he hesitated. '...Not a lot, really. I know my name is Luke, and I think I'm seventeen.'

The nun opened the file in front of her, lifted her glasses and looked down. Actually your Christian name is Samuel, but you were always known as Luke, during your time here. 'You left here, unexpectedly, in 1962, at the age of fourteen, so yes, you are seventeen and you will be eighteen on October 15, young man.' She smiled, as if she'd forgiven him for the all trouble he'd caused, running away.

She started to read in silence again for a moment, finally, she removed her glasses and looked up. 'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Luke, but both your parents died in a car crash in 1953, when you were just five-years-old. That's when you arrived here.'

Luke closed his eyes: broken glass; blood; the smell of petrol. 'Mummy, Mummy, you're bleeding!' Blue lights flashing and strangers shouting. 'He's alive, the boy's alive—get him out of there!'

Sister Elizabeth looked at Luke and continued. 'It was the night of a terrible storm and a tree blew over onto the car your father was driving, killing both your parents. Thankfully, you were rescued from the wreckage with no more than minor injuries. Do you remember it, Luke?' she asked him, gently.

He shook his head as tears ran down his cheeks. 'Not really, it's all a bit fragmented.'

The nun sighed deeply before continuing. 'Your parents were Edward and Amelia Collingbourne. Your father was a very successful architect and your mother was a lecturer in Modern History.'

Wide-eyed and open mouthed Sid looked at Vera, who looked equally dumbstruck.

'Where did I live?' Luke asked.

She again checked the file notes. 'Not too far from here at a place called Crossly Manor.'

In his mind's eye he could see a large, black rocking-horse with a red saddle and shiny chrome stirrups.

'All of your school fees were paid from your parent's estate. I have here a number of sealed letters that are for you. They arrived a number of years ago but we didn't know where you were, I'm afraid. You didn't tell us where you were going.' She raised her eyebrows to chastise him. 'Why did you run away Luke?'

'Don't know really. Young and foolish I guess,' he said blushing. 'Is Long John still here?' he asked, seemingly changing the subject.

Sister Elizabeth stiffened. 'No...No...he left a while ago. Why do you ask?'

'Just wondering—no particular reason. He was part of the furniture wasn't he?' responded Luke.

The nun regained her composure. 'Yes, I believe he was... Would you like to see Sister Veronica before you go?'

'Yes, I would,' he replied. 'There's something I need to ask her.'

'Is it something I can help you with?' she offered.

'No, I'm afraid not, but thank you anyway,' he said standing up and offering her his hand. 'You've been a big help to me and I'm very grateful to you.'

'My pleasure... These letters are yours young man. Don't forget to take them with you. They might be important.'

Sister then returned them to the front door and walked with them to the west-side of the house. About fifty yards away down a narrow path stood a small white, stone cottage. Blue smoke was rising from the single chimney. Sister Elizabeth pointed and said:

'That's where you'll find Sister Veronica. You'll need to speak up, she's loosing her hearing I'm afraid.'

Luke thanked her and said goodbye before setting off down the path, followed by Sid and Vera. The nun watched them for some time before returning to the house with a worried expression.

The front door of the little cottage was painted cream but the paint was flaking from years of neglect. There was no knocker or bell to be seen so Luke tapped on the door with his knuckles and waited. There was no answer so he tapped again, this time harder. Eventually the door opened and a small, frail, white haired woman stood in the doorway with a confused expression on her face.

Luke looked at her for a long moment. 'Sister, it's me, Luke.'

'Luke!' The nun raised her hands to her face. 'Oh my dear dear ,Luke. Come in, I'll put the kettle on.'

### CHAPTER NINE

###

Some of the Answers.

Some one-hundred yards from the main road, Crossly Manor stood majestically in 600 acres of farming land. Horse-Chestnut trees partly obscured the view of the Georgian manor house that basked in the summer sunshine. A driveway, bordered by a white slatted wooden fence meandered from the main road to the manor, like a lazy river. Luke struggled to believe it was once his family home. He stared, wondering who lived there now.

Sid called out. 'Come on Luke! I need to get back to feed the animals.' Luke took one last look at the house and walked back to the car. He started the engine and looked at Sid: 'What a day.'

'What a day, indeed!' Vera mused from the backseat. 'You and Sister Veronica were very close, weren't you, Luke?'

He looked at Vera's reflection in the rear-view mirror. 'She cared for me and taught me a lot. She made me realise that books were a source of knowledge; a book was somewhere I could escape to.'

Vera nodded. 'Yeah...I thought so. I wish I could read a book but I don't have the patience.'

Sid looked around and said, 'You can't bloody read anyway.'

That comment earned him a slap on his already red head. 'Cheeky bugger, Sid Williams, I can read as good as you can.'

'Who's this Long John bloke you were asking her about?' Sid asked, as they drove onto the main road. 'She wasn't very forthcoming to start with, was she?'

'No, she wasn't... He was the caretaker at the home, Sid.'

'Well, now you know where he lives, you can visit him, can't you?'

'I intend to,' Luke answered. 'I need to see him.'

Sid looked at Luke but didn't ask why.

'I'm glad you got some answers today, Luke.'

'So am I, Vera....Thank you so much for coming with me.'

Sid smiled contentedly, leaned over and let out a big fart.

Vera laughed. 'Sid, you dirty bugger—behave yourself.'

'I held that in for over an hour.'

'It's a good job we've got the roof off,' Luke observed and Sid farted again, making Luke laugh, too.

'Sid, your arse will be as red as your head in a minute,' Vera chirped.

And that really made them laugh.

Luke was sitting on his sofa with a shocked expression on his young face. He still couldn't comprehend what he'd just read for the fifth time. The letters, addressed to him, were sealed with red wax and sent from Peacock Meredith and Dawson, Solicitors, Great Portland Street, London. The last letter was posted in 1964, two years ago. A lot of the words didn't make sense to him, but cutting through the legal jargon, it appeared he was entitled to an inheritance. No details were given in the letters but he was requested to visit their offices most urgently—to discuss the matter in detail.

That morning, he knew very little about his past, and now, ten hours later, he knew: the names of his parents, when they were born, where they were buried, the house he lived in when he was a little boy and, most importantly, he knew they hadn't abandoned him; they'd loved him very dearly and he felt proud.

Thanks to Sister Veronica, he also knew Long John's real name.

It was—Jim Walker.

### CHAPTER TEN

###

The Meeting

As Luke walked up the street towards the shop, he felt his tummy tying some more knots. He asked himself: 'Why does she make me feel so nervous?'

He checked his reflection in the window of the florists. He was wearing new Levi jeans and jacket, blue shirt and black leather Chelsea boots.

Hell, I look good!

Standing outside the bookshop he could see her through the window. His hands were clammy and he wiped them in the back of his jeans.

It's the moment: I go in, or I bottle out. Harry didn't run—go in.

Luke opened the shop door and a bell chimed. Emily looked up at him from behind the counter and smiled.

There's no turning back now.

'Hello,' she said, 'can I help you?'

Luke froze—not really knowing what to say. He wasn't expecting a one to one—not just yet anyway. His plan was to browse a while and pick the right time to approach her; when he was ready.

'Is there something specific you're looking for?' she asked

'I've found it, thank you,' he said, bravely. He could feel his heart trying to break out of his chest.

'Oh... good,' she replied, looking a little confused.

Luke noticed her cheeks turn pink as he approached the counter. 'My name's Luke,' he said, and offered her his hand.

'Hello, Luke, I'm the manager here, my name's Emily.'

They touched for the first time.

'Wha...'

'I... Sorry,' he said, speaking at the same time. 'I didn't mean to interrupt you.'

She smiled, coyly. 'That's okay.'

You're making a real mess of this, Luke. Calm down.

The doorbell rang again and an old lady walked purposefully into the shop and approached the counter. She asked Emily for assistance; as if Luke was invisible.

'I'm just serving this young man,' she said politely but firmly, pointing to Luke, ' I won't keep you very long, madam.'

He seized the opportunity. 'No—please—serve the lady first, I'm not in a hurry.'

The old lady looked at Luke over the rim of her glasses and said, rather pompously:

'Thank you.' She then returned a stone-faced stare at Emily.

Luke walked off and tried to regain his composure, whilst Emily kept calm and dealt with the old woman's request for a book on crocheting.

Five minutes later, the old lady had gone, and Luke was standing with a book in his hand at the top of the spiral stairs, looking down at Emily standing behind the counter. She looked up at him and smiled.

You are gorgeous. His whole body tingled with excitement.

'I'm sorry about that. She was a bit rude, pushing in front of you like that.'

'I thought you handled her very well,' he said, and they looked at each other for a moment in silence. Finally, Luke said, 'I've found it,' holding up a book for her to see.

'World War Two?'

'Yes, I'm interested in the battle of North Africa; Montgomery; El Alamein and all that.'

'Is there anything else you need?' she asked, in a sweet, sexy voice.

'Yes, as a matter of fact there is—I'd like to ask you out.' Now his heart was trying to escape again.

'Really! That would be nice... I'd love to.'

I did it Harry...I did it!

###

Sid and Luke were sitting on the dry-stone wall, looking at the sheep and enjoying a glass of cider in the warm evening sun, knowing that any minute Vera was going to call them in for supper.

'I can't believe it, Sid—she said yes. Actually, she said she'd love to—Not just yes!'

Sid's face was a picture. He was wearing the biggest grin Luke had ever seen.

'I suppose she'll be moving in any minute now?' he said, teasingly.

'Hang on, don't get ahead of yourself,' Luke said defensively, knowing she'd been there many times, making passionate love to him in his big bed—but only in his dreams.

The big man laughed and sipped his cider. 'You'd better invite her back here so that me and the missus can meet her. We don't want any gold-diggers after your money, do we?'

'Sid, I'm quite capable of looking after my money, thank you. Anyway, I don't intend to tell her about my inheritance. I want her to like me for who I am, not what I am. As far as she's concerned, I'm just a farmhand who works for you—okay? Anyway, it might not be a lot of money.'

'Okay,' Sid responded, with an impish grin; happy to buy into the cunning plan.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

###

Market Day

###

It was another market day and Sid and Luke were on their way to town in the Landy. Luke had a list of things to buy for Vera; mainly food, and the big man was on a mission to meet his mates at the Murenger, for another bellyful of cider.

Sid had plans to put a bathroom in the barn. He said to Luke:

'There's no way that girl can live in the barn without having a bath and a toilet.'

'Sid, you are daft; we haven't even been out together, yet.'

'Yet—that's the word my boy—yet!' Sid Pulled into the car park and slipped the Landy into his favourite shady space. 'See you back here at four o'clock, lad,' he instructed.

'That only gives you three-hours Sid, will that be enough?'

'You cheeky bugger. You're getting to sound like my wife, you are. Come on, get out, I'm running late.'

Sid locked the Landy, lit a cigarette and rubbed his hands together like an excited child. 'I'm off to see Clive, He touched the side of his nose with his finger and winked at Luke; a bit of business to sort out.'

Luke watched him stride off in the direction of the pub. I can't help liking him, he's got a heart of gold; and he's like a father to me.

Wandering aimlessly around the market, all Luke could think about was the girl in the book shop. He needed to see Emily but he couldn't think of a reason to go into the shop without appearing to be too keen.

He turned to walk in the direction of the high street and bumped into someone. 'Sorry—Oh! Emily, it's you.' Luke held her shoulders for a moment, shocked to see her.

'Hi Luke,' she said, giggling. 'What are you up to?'

'I'm doing some shopping,' he answered, looking into her eyes.

'Is it still on for Thursday?'

'Yeah,' he said, trying to sound relaxed.

'Good—I'm looking forward to it.' Emily leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. 'Got to go,' she said, and dashed off in the direction of the bookshop.

I'm in love.

Luke turned to walk back to the stalls only to be confronted by Will, from the Viaduct. His false smile exposed his rotten teeth. As he approached, his eyes darted around the crowd. 'Well, well,' he sneered, 'if it isn't, Pretty Boy. You seem to be doing well for yourself. Got yourself a girlfriend, eh? Sweet little fing, ain't she?—Much too good for a slimy little fucker like you.' He nodded to someone behind Luke and Luke felt a hand grab his shoulder, quickly followed by a searing pain in his back as he collapsed into the throng of shoppers.

A woman screamed as Luke tried to stand but his legs failed him. The back of his shirt quickly turned red as blood pumped from the wound. Someone's boot stamped on his face, splitting his lip; then the sickening thud of someone's boot in his back. Screaming and panic spread throughout the crowd, but for Luke, it was silent.

Three days later

Luke opened his eyes, and slowly focussed on his surroundings. Vera was holding his hand; in his arm a needle connected to a drip feed.

'Sid!' Vera called out, anxiously.

Sid dashed out of the ward.

'Where...am...I?' Luke asked.

'You're in hospital, my love. You've had an operation and you've lost a lot of blood,' Vera gripped his hand tightly. 'You had us very worried for a while, young man.'

'Whaaat hap...happened?'

'Somebody stabbed you in the back,' she said, before blubbering into her handkerchief, 'in the market square, of all places.'

With that, a pretty young nurse walked in, followed closely by a very serious looking, Sid.

'How are you feeling, young man?' The nurse asked, taking his pulse.

'I feel a bit dizzy.'

'I'm not surprised. The knife severed an artery, but luckily for you it missed your vital organs. You're going to be fine, but, you need to rest because you lost a lot of blood. Lucky for you there was a doctor in the market that day.'

'What day is it?' Luke asked.

'Friday,' said Sid.

'...I've missed my date, Sid.'

'You can forget any dates for a while, I'm afraid,' the nurse answered sternly, pushing a thermometer into his mouth. 'You need rest... and lots of it.'

Sid winked at him. 'I'll let her know—don't you worry your little head about a thing.'

Luke forced a smile before his eyes closed again.

The following Thursday afternoon

The big man had eaten most of Luke's grapes and if Vera hadn't slapped his hand he would have demolished most of the chocolates, too.

'I'm sure you've got a tape worm, Sid.'

'Glad to see you're feeling better, lad,' Sid said, ignoring Vera's remark.

'I feel much better, Sid, thank you.'

'And you look much better, too, love.' Vera added. 'The colour's come back to your cheeks.'

For a moment Luke thought he was dreaming. There was an angel, standing in the doorway to the ward. She was wearing a white blouse tucked loosely into her denims. Her shiny, dark bob-cut hair fell around her beautiful pale, smiling face like a gladiators helmet. She was wearing red lipstick that matched her nails and toes.

Luke just stared, open mouthed.

'Time we were off, Vera,' Sid said, motioning to the exit with his eyes.

Vera smiled and gave Luke a kiss on his cheek. 'See you tomorrow—and behave yourself.'

Luke watched as Sid directed Emily to his bed.

'I hope you don't mind me visiting you?' Emily asked, tentatively. 'Was that your mum and dad?'

'No, but they're as good as. Sit down, Emily,' Luke pointed to a chair, 'I owe you an apology.'

'What for?'

'Not turning up for our first date—that's what.'

'Oh, that; I hope you have a good reason; I was really annoyed with you at the time.'

'I'm sorry—but I missed the bus.' They both laughed and Emily held Luke's hand...'Do you know who did it?'

'I've got a good idea.'

'Why would anyone want to kill you?'

'Good question!' Luke hesitated but in the end he decided to tell her the truth. '...Some time ago, I caught a guy, called Will, a vagrant from up the viaduct, robbing an old lady in the market and I took the purse from him. Obviously he held a grudge. The police were here this morning taking a statement. Unfortunately, I didn't see the person who stabbed me and according to the copper, no one has come forward as a witness. All I know is the sewer rat got someone else to do his dirty work for him.'

Emily squeezed his hand. 'I was worried about you. Sid told me you nearly didn't make it.'

'Am I forgiven, then?' Luke asked, cheekily.

'Yeah, of course you are.' She leaned over and kissed him gently. Her sweet smelling perfume and her soft lips on his were better than any medicine. He could feel her breasts resting on his chest and he felt invigorated as he ran his fingers through her soft hair.

There's so much I need to tell you, but I don't want to lose you.

### CHAPTER TWELVE

###

A trip to London

It was Luke's first visit to London and he was on an Inter City steam train heading into the capital. He was wearing a new, navy blue suit, which Vera persuaded him to buy, a white shirt, red paisley tie and new black shoes. He felt a bit uncomfortable smartly dressed and sensed people were looking at him. Lots of girls smiled at him and he smiled back. Then he thought about Emily and immediately wanted to see her again. He couldn't stop thinking about her. When I go home I'm going to walk into her shop and kiss her on the lips. She was so good to me when I was recovering from the stabbing... It's hard to believe it was six-week ago.

He had the letters in his inside pocket and the name of Mr Dawson committed to memory. His appointment with him was at 2.30 pm. Luke checked his watch and it was two-minutes to midday. He needed to get the tube to Great Portland Street Station, via the Metropolitan Line, and then it was only a five-minute walk to the solicitors, according to Mr Dawson's secretary.

Metal on metal screeched as the train came to a shuddering stop at the platform; the announcer's voice bellowed around the station. 'St. Pancras, this is St. Pancras—all change please.'

Luke exited the train and stood on the platform looking around at the flowing river of people. Clouds of hissing steam rose into the air from the train as he passed it on his way to the exit. He noticed it had a name, just like he had a name. He glanced up at the oily engine driver leaning out of the cab, enjoying a cigarette and watching the world go by.

His experience of London had begun in earnest—one he would never forget. He wondered, looking around at the people and the fashions, what Sid and Vera would make of it all. It's another world down here. Luke was intoxicated with the sights and sounds of the capital.

What a buzz! Emily would love this.

Outside the station a couple of young lads with acoustic guitars were singing and playing Beatles songs; they even looked like them with their haircuts, and by the reaction of the young girls, they believed they were the Beatles. As Luke walked down the street, 'Love me Do' was ringing in his ears.

Rather than being scared of the place he felt a rush of excitement, a bit like the feelings he had when he dreamt about Emily.

It was good to be alive.

Having made one mistake on the tube, which cost him twenty-minutes, he finally arrived at Great Portland Street tube station at 2.10 pm feeling a bit hot and flustered, but hopeful that in a few hours he would be able to fit some more pieces into the spartan jigsaw that was his early years. He followed Mr Dawson's instructions and headed off down the road. Luckily, it was overcast and not too hot, and at precisely 2.20 pm, he arrived at the solicitor's offices. He rang the big brass bell and waited a while. Then, through the frosted glass he could see someone coming to the door. Luke checked his appearance and straightened his tie in the reflection of the big brass plate that said:

Peacock, Meredith and Dawson

Solicitors

Please ring for attention

Luke duly obliged and moments later the large door was opened by an attractive young blonde with a bouffant and dark eye make-up like Dusty Springfield. She greeted him with a smile and asked in a very sexy voice:

'You must be Luke Collingbourne?'

'That's me,' he answered, brightly.

Luke Collingbourne, the one and only.

'Follow me, please, Mr Collingbourne—Mr Dawson is expecting you.'

'I hope so,' he said teasingly, but the young blonde didn't respond. Luke watched her shapely bottom as he followed her up the marble stairs. She's wearing stockings; how fab is that.

Mr Dawson looked important with his gold-rimmed glasses, neat grey hair and black, double-breasted pinstripe suit. His office was furnished with expensive furniture. He was standing behind a large, leather-topped desk and behind him was a wall of leather-bound books. The office windows overlooked Great Portland Street and it was bustling with people, taxis and red, London buses. Luke spun a colourful globe around until he found Great Britain. 'Small, aren't we?' he commented.

'But we're still a great nation, young man. Please sit down, Luke. I'm glad to see you looking so well. Terrible business that stabbing,' Mr Dawson said, in a mild manner. He offered Luke a cigarette and lit it with a gold table lighter that reminded Luke of a genie's lamp.

'Thank you,' Luke said, inhaling. 'Will I have to pay you, sir?' he asked.

Mr Dawson laughed out loud. 'Please—do not concern yourself with costs, Luke. Everything has been taken care of.'

Luke exhaled and leaned back to enjoy his cigarette, relieved, if not slightly light headed.

'We have a lot to go through today, so let's make a start.' He looked at Luke over the top of his glasses and smiled politely before opening a thick file on the desk in front of him. 'I must say Luke, you are a very lucky young man, indeed.'

Luke returned a thin smile, remembering the pain of being raped; washing in the sink at the back of the butchers shop in January, praying that the tap hadn't frozen. He remembered the smell of sulphur, urine and life, no, survival, under the viaduct and the pain of the knife in his back. What's lucky about that Mr Dawson? He thought.

Later that night, back at the farm, Luke was sitting on the sofa reading out loud. 'I inherit the estate when I'm twenty-one.' In his mind he could see Mr Dawson, sitting behind his leather-topped desk, telling him that he'd been left the entire estate of Crossly Manor with its 600 acres of prime farm land, along with three farmhouses and numerous barns, plus £18,000 per year specifically for maintenance. And if that wasn't enough, he'd also inherited a lump sum of £328,000—held in a trust until his twenty-first birthday. Luke couldn't remember the exact details but he knew he was only allowed to spend so much of it, up to the age of thirty.

If only Harry could see me now; I'd buy him the biggest, warmest bed he'd ever slept in, he thought.

My father was clearly a very successful architect and a very shrewd businessman.

The next morning when Luke awakened he stared, motionless, at the big oak roof beam above his bed that ran the length of the barn. From the angle of the sun's rays streaming in through the small, round window behind him he reckoned it must have been around 5.00 am. It was quiet outside, for a change. He'd experienced the sleep of the dead. Betty was lying on her side and managed a stretch before returning to sleep.

Like a speeded up video replay he remembered the previous days events, all condensed into ten minutes.

I can't believe it. It can't be true.

Sid and Vera sat open-mouthed listening to Luke as they ate breakfast in the farmhouse and tried to take in what he was saying about his inheritance.

Sid was excitedly buttering toast. 'So that house we visited is yours?'

'That's right.'

'Jesus Christ!' Sid exclaimed, struggling to believe it.

Vera was quiet, catching flies with her mouth.

'It comes with 600 acres of farming land and a number of farmhouses as well.'

'Jesus Christ!' Sid repeated.

'The whole thing seems like a dream at the moment. I'm scared I'm going to wake up back at the viaduct, any moment now.'

Vera placed a hand on Luke's shoulder. 'It's not a dream love, it' real and you, Luke Collingbourne, are about to become a very wealthy country gentleman.

'I suppose you'll be leaving us then?' Sid asked, in a downbeat monotone way.

'Not yet Sid; none of its mine until I'm twenty-one.'

A small smile returned to the farmer's face.

'One thing I ask of you both. Please don't mention a word of this to Emily.'

Sid tapped his nose with his finger and winked. Vera gave Luke a cheeky smile that crinkled up her nose. 'It's our secret,' she said, pouring more tea into Luke's mug.

Once the initial excitement of Luke's inheritance had passed, life on the farm returned to some kind of normality. Luke passed his driving test the first time and spent most of his days off taking Emily out in his convertible. They seemed so happy together and Sid was never more content than when Emily stayed over at the farm and they all had breakfast together around the big table.

Luke and Emily would make love in the barn for hours. The first time they made love was at Emily's flat above the shop when her flat mate went away on a week's holiday and she had the whole place to herself. Emily had invited Luke over for a meal but the cooker had broken and they ended up having a takeaway from the newly opened Chinese restaurant in the town, called Hong Kong.

Returning from the restaurant with the bag of food they climbed the stairs at the side of the shop to the third-floor flat. It was raining quite hard on the way back and Emily's blouse was soaked and clinging to her breasts. She had no bra on and her nipples showed through the wet cotton. An uncontrollable urge stirred in Luke and Emily noticed the reaction getting larger in the front of his jeans. She touched it with her hand. 'I think you're ready? I am.' she said, panting. 'I want you so much.'

It was clumsy, rushed uncontrolled passion on the floor of the hall by two virgins, all over in a matter of minutes. The second attempt twenty minutes later in Emily's bed lasted a lot longer, and afterwards they embraced, hot perspiring bodies, silently content in each other's arms; two young lovers, totally spent.

In contrast, the takeaway went cold, but it still tasted good at 3.00 am in the morning before they made love again on the kitchen table.

By 9.00 am, after a few more hours sleep, Emily had packed a picnic and they were off to the beach in Luke's Triumph Herald. The roof was down and the sun was up in a clear blue sky. They drove with smiles on their faces and the wind in their hair until they could smell the sea. The fact that Luke was a farmhand didn't matter to Emily, she loved him for what he was. He was very handsome, funny and caring and he was her lover. She had no idea about his inheritance and Luke liked it that way, but it was hard to keep such a secret from her and his twenty-first birthday was not that far away.

'I can see the sea!' Emily shouted, excitedly, pointing ahead.'Smell the air, Luke.'

Luke sniffed, it was his first sight and taste of the sea and the salty air excited him.Ten minutes later he parked the car in a small car park above the beach. Below them golden sands stretched out in both directions until the heat haze merged sea and sand together. Two hundred yards of flat golden sand separated the calm sea from the sand dunes below them. The sky was streaked with thin white clouds painted with an artists brush and the sun felt hot on their already radiant faces.

Luke stood quietly for some time just taking in the view and filling his nostrils with the fresh sea air. Above them seagulls glided effortlessly on the breeze.

Emily stood proudly next to her man, arm in arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. 'Luke Collingbourne, you're one hell of a lover.'

'I know,' he said, and that comment earned him a jab in the ribs followed by a passionate kiss on the lips.

Emily felt so alive and her eyes widened and sparkled. 'Come on—let's make love in the dunes,' she said, running down the path that led to the beach.

Luke rolled his eyes and happily gave chase.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

###

A Comeuppance

Spring, 1970

At the age of 22, with a loving wife, a beautiful one-year-old daughter and a country estate, you'd think Luke would have been content with his lot, but inside him, a furnace was burning again, fuelled by anger and guilt, and it was unrelenting.

It was raining when Luke parked his car down the road from the pub. He'd done his homework on Long John and he knew that he arrived at the pub around 3.30 pm most days.

Even the gentle poet, Harry Somerville, succumbed to killing a fellow human being.

It was 5.45 pm when Luke walked into the bar. It was quiet with about half a dozen people sitting around various tables. The air was thick with smoke but Long John was quite easy to spot with his distinctive eye-patch. He was sitting at a table, near the fireplace to Luke's left, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. He noticed Luke coming in, but then started reading the paper again.

He hasn't recognised me.

Luke walked up to the bar and ordered a pint of Directors from the barmaid whose breasts were on the verge of bursting out of her blouse.

'One and ten please, young man,' she said, holding out her hand.

He paid her and wandered over to the table where Jim Walker was sitting.

'Mind if I join you?' he asked.

Walker looked up at him somewhat surprised. 'What do you want, kid?'

Luke looked around, but nobody was taking any notice of them. 'LSD,' he whispered.

Long John rubbed his chin and put his cigarette out in the ash tray. 'You've got the wrong bloke, so just fuck off, all right.'

'I've got lots of cash.'

He immediately lit another cigarette. 'Who told you to see me?'

'Micky,' Luke answered. 'I'm new to the area and he said you move some good shit. I'm straight—honest, it's just that you don't recognise me, do you?'

His comment grabbed Walker's attention all right. He eyed him up and down, suspiciously, like a pirate.

'I'm Luke, from Greatly Children's Home.'

'Fuck me! I didn't recognise you with that beard.'

Luke recognised him, all right. His hair was thinner and greying and he'd put weight on. When he grinned he exposed big gaps between his few remaining tobacco stained teeth.

'I've got money, and other things to pay with—if you know what I mean.'

Long John nodded his head and smiled, excitedly. 'I know exactly what you mean you dirty piece of shit.'

Hideous memories came flooding back. I want to kill you, you evil bastard. Luke fought his emotions, desperately trying to stay calm.

'Meet me in the toilets, outside,' he mumbled. Luke watched him as he walked out of the pub into the backyard; smoke trailing behind him as if his head was on fire.

A few moments later, with pounding heart, Luke walked outside and into the toilet block. The stink of stale piss hit him like a thunderbolt. He heard a familiar voice in one of the three cubicles.

'Get in here,' he called out.

Walker was in the cubicle unbuttoning his trousers when Luke went in and closed the door behind him.

'You know what to do, don't you? You dirty little fucker.'

Luke felt nauseous as he crouched down in front of him.

Walker closed his eye and took a deep breath in eager anticipation; his hands trembled as he undid his buttons and pulled out his penis.

Jim Walker wasn't expecting the steam-hammer uppercut that nearly snapped his neck, and he slumped, unconscious, on the toilet seat.

Luke took out a knife from his pocket.

Five minutes later Walker was drenched in blood. Across his forehead, gouged deep into his skin, was the word, MONSTER.

Luke washed the blood off his shaking hands in the filthy sink and was promptly sick. Turning on the cold tap he cupped him hands and washed the taste of vomit from his mouth. He then turned and looked at Long John, whose body was convulsing like a convict in the electric chair; his flaccid prick hanging out of his trousers. Luke felt in his pocket for his pen-knife. No, no, don't do it. His senses felt numb as he closed the cubicle door on Walker and jogged quickly back to his car, greedily breathing in the fresh air. He slumped in the driver's seat, exhausted, and glanced in the rearview mirror, breathless and trembling. He stared through the windscreen for a long time; gripping the steering wheel to stop his hands shaking.

I really wanted to cut that bastard's throat out—why couldn't I do it?

The sound of someone running up the road alerted him and he looked behind to see a policeman heading towards him. Luke's heart stopped when the officer reached his car. He bent over with hands on knees next to the front passenger window, but he wasn't interested in Luke, only in getting his breath back. The overweight smoker gasped for air, unaware he was being watched. Finally he hobbled off, red faced and coughing.

Luke let out a sigh of relief. They've found him. It's time to get out of here.

Luke Collingbourne had no idea of the consequences of his actions, but fate was still dealing his cards.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

###

A Surprise Visitor

Crossly Manor was built during the reign of George 111, in 1812 with its white, south-facing facade and formal gardens. The interior was, principally, as Luke's parents had left it before the tragic accident that took their lives. The decor was in keeping with the house and extremely tasteful, thanks to his mother's flair for interior design. There were lots of beautiful oil and watercolour paintings and expensive furniture; a mix of predominantly Georgian with a dash of Edwardian and Victorian. Luke was still finding rooms and getting lost, and he planned at sometime in the near future to visit the attics. God knows what he'd find up there.

Luke's favourite room was definitely his father's study. It smelled and looked like a library, with its high ceiling, and in the south-east corner stood a leather topped pedestal desk, as big as Mr Dawson's in London. He liked to sit in the captain's chair and just absorb the quiet ambience the room exuded. On the desk he had his collection of fountain pens, a green banker's lamp and a framed black and white portrait of his parents. To his right, on one of the shelves, he kept Harry's leather journal and his letters, in a box file next to the book on World-War-Two, which he bought at Emily's book shop. He thought about that day for a while and smiled. Then, he remembered Harry's pallid face at the viaduct. He shook his head, incredulously.

Emily now owned the bookshop, after Mr Phillips decided to retire and offer her the business at a price she thought was a bargain. She drove there every day with baby Rachel in her new car, bought two weeks previously; Luke got some small change out of £700, but Emily loved it; it was a red Mini, and she called it, Poppy.

If Luke gets his way they'll have a shop manager soon, so that Emily can take timeout to enjoy more of Rachel while she's still little. That's if he can persuade her to let go of the business she feels so passionate about.

Ever since his visit to see Long John, the furnace inside Luke had gone out. He did what he did and he didn't regret it. In fact, he felt like he'd been freed from a long prison sentence. His life had metamorphosed from his days at the viaduct as a nobody, into a wealthy landowner, respected within the community and a first-team member of the village football team; he even went to church on Sundays.

Thanks to Sid, he was now a farmer too, and his herd of Welsh Black beef cattle had already won prizes at the Royal Show.

His luck changed the day Harry Somerville died.

One morning Luke received a call from Billy Whiz, of all people; Luke's best friend at the Home. He asked Luke if he could call in to see him. He said he needed to speak to him about something, but didn't want to say what over the phone. It felt strange to Luke listening to his friend's voice—much deeper than the squeaky asthmatic tones of the little kid he remembered. He wondered if his snotty nose was still a problem after all those years.

I must admit, I'm a little intrigued to know what he wants.

At 3pm, Luke watched a person on a motorbike turn off the main road and drive towards the house. The rider's long, dark hair, tied up in a pony tail, flailed behind him in the wind. As he approached, he raised his hand to Luke.

Luke could see that Billy Whiz had turned into a man. A big man.

The rider pulled up in front of the house and parked his motorbike on the stand. Smiling broadly he walked towards his childhood best friend. He held out his arms and they embraced, somewhat awkwardly.

Billy pulled away and looked Luke up and down. 'Luke,' he said nodding his head in approval, 'just look at you.'

Billy was twice as tall as the snotty nosed kid Luke remembered. He was sporting a biker's beard and a gold earring in his right ear. He looked like he could handle himself.

'Not a snotty nosed little kid any more, then?' Luke said to him, and he laughed out loud.

'Cup of tea? Billy'

'Beer?' he asked, raising his eyebrows.

They sat down at the breakfast table together and Luke took some cans from the fridge.

'The Home told me I'd find you here.' Billy was rubbernecking. 'Jesus, Luke, you've done well for yourself,' he said, before taking a long slug of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Who'd have thought it, aye?'

'I've had a bit of luck along the way, Billy.'

'Good for you, mate,' he said, crinkling his nose with a happy grin. 'Fuck knows we deserve some after what we've been through.'

For the next thirty minutes they reminisced about their childhood. One minute they were laughing, the next they were fighting back tears.

A door opened in Luke's head and a million memories fell out, like tins from an over-filled cupboard: the walk to school up the hill every day, the biscuits and cake for supper and pink toothpaste in a tin. He remembered how he and Billy always shared their comics and made the beds together on Sundays, it was easier with two, before they went to chapel for one and a half hours. Dark memories poured out as well. Billy's pleading and his screams coming from the toilet block; Philip's bleeding bottom and a dormitory full of frightened sobbing kids, scared to speak out in case he hurt them even more.

Thankfully, Luke had Sister Veronica, who genuinely loved him. Someone he ran to when he was hurting; someone who cradled him and showed him genuine affection; yet Luke was convinced she and all the other nuns knew what was going on.

Luke broke the silence. 'What exactly do you want to see me about?' he asked.

'Well, basically it's quite simple, I've come to say goodbye. I'm off to Australia, and I don't think I'll be coming back. I've got a few thing to do before I go, not far from here, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to call in on you on my way.'

'Christ, Billy! That sounds exciting. Are you going on your own?'

'Yeah...I reckon on finding myself a pretty little Sheila,' he said, with a really convincing Aussie accent. Then he said, wide-eyed, 'Did you hear about Long John?'

'No,' Luke responded, calmly.

'Someone got to the fucker and cut him up—real bad. They carved, monster, on his forehead. How fucking good is that?'

'Where did you hear that?' Luke asked, feigning surprise.

'Let's just say I've been taking an interest in the evil bastard. I'll be leaving soon, so I don't have much time.'

Luke sipped his beer and wondered what he was planning. 'Time for what, Billy?'

'You'll find out, pretty soon, Luke.' He looked at him and winked. Then he checked his watch. 'Luke, it's been great to see you again, mate, but I've got to go now--I'm sailing in less than two days.'

'Take care of yourself, Billy. Write to me will you, when you've found that pretty little Sheila?'

'Too right, cobber,' he said, before finishing his beer. Then he hugged Luke again for a long time.

Luke wiped the tears from his cheeks as he watched Billy drive away. You were my salvation and I'll never forget what we went through together—Take care Billy.

Billy Whiz, the boy who sucked his thumb and pissed the bed every night had turned into a man by the name of William Walsh; but to Luke, he would always be Billy Whiz, and, as he drove away, Luke knew exactly where he was going; he was going to kill Long John.

Part of him wanted to scream out—Don't do it, Billy! Part of him felt a burning jealousy inside, because when he had the chance to do it, he couldn't. He couldn't kill the man he'd spent his whole life hating.

That was the last time Luke ever saw his childhood best-friend. Some years later, though, Billy wrote to him and enclosed a photograph of his pretty little Sheila and their two children, with an open invitation to come and stay with them on their farm in New South Wales. Billy Whiz had made it against all the odds.

That night, Luke got very little sleep. Billy's visit had re-kindled old memories, some happy, some terrible. Memories Luke had suppressed, hoping that they'd somehow just fade away. But now they were back, as if it all happened yesterday; the smells the pain and the sadness:

'Please don't hurt me again.'

'Shut up you little piece of shit. Get in the cubicle, now.'

'Please get me go, please!'

Long John grabbed Luke's ear and pulled him into the cubicle. 'Take your trousers down and stop your silly crying, you stupid little fucker.' His hands trembled with excited anticipation. 'One word of this to anyone, boy, and I'll cut your throat out.'

Luke woke with a shudder and sat up in bed. He was glistening wet and his heart was racing. His breathing was short and laboured. It woke Emily and she sat up next to him. 'You're soaking love. Are you all right?'

The sound of her voice seemed to calm Luke and he turned and smiled at her. 'Another bad dream—I'll be okay in a minute.'

Emily pulled him close to her and stroked his face with her fingers. 'I love you Luke Collingbourne.'

'I love you too,' he replied.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

###

The Solicitor's Letter

It was early evening when Emily arrived home with the baby. She was in a good mood because the shop had been very busy and the young girl who'd come for an interview accepted Emily's job offer without hesitation.

'What time are Sid and Vera expecting us?' she asked, busily changing Rachel's nappy on the kitchen table.

'About 7.15,' Luke answered as he filled the kettle. 'Did baby behave herself today?'

'Baby, always behaves herself, don't you, darling?' Emily picked up Rachel and handed her to Luke.

As Luke steered the car into Sid's pot-holed driveway a smile appeared on his face as he remembered that first day when he arrived there in the big man's Landy. There was Vera on the doorstep, ready with a welcoming smile to greet him. He looked at Betty, stood on the front passenger-seat with her paws on the dashboard, wagging her tail excitedly as they approached the farmhouse. 'You remember, don't you girl?' Betty looked at Luke and barked.

'That dog is going to speak one day, Luke,' Emily said, wiping Rachel's chocolate covered mouth with a tissue.

Sid opened the front door. His face was beaming as he held out his arms to take the baby away.

'We're very well Sid, thanks for asking,' Luke chuckled as the 'giant' from the top of the beanstalk walked off with Rachel.

Emily looked at Luke and raised her eyes, affectionately.

'Come in, my darlings!' came a voice from the kitchen.

Emily sniffed the air. 'Something smells good, Vera.'

'Oh good, I'm cooking belly pork for supper; Sid and Luke's favourite.'

Emily walked into the kitchen. 'It's a man's world, Vera,'

Vera nodded in agreement. 'Tell me about it.'

As expected, the meal had been wonderful, but far too much food as usual. With the belly pork, Vera served new potatoes, steamed cabbage, carrots, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, garden peas, cheesy cauliflower and runner beans, together with Vera's legendary gravy.

After the meal, Sid said he had a few things to do and walked off down the yard. He wasn't his normal cheerful self.

Luke asked Vera if Sid was okay and she walked off into the kitchen without answering.

Emily looked at Luke and frowned.

A moment later Vera returned with a letter, still in the envelope, and handed it to Luke.

'He's beside himself, Luke, she said, 'but he's trying to pretend it'll go away if he ignores it.'

Luke sat quietly reading the solicitor's letter. It was a termination of tenure notice, and Sid had six-months before he was evicted from the farm, which was to be sold off to a developer to build a large housing estate of some two-hundred houses.

Sid was sitting on the wall smoking a cigarette and staring into the field when Luke joined him. 'Vera showed me the letter.'

'Did she?—It's nothing to worry about, Luke. It won't happen.'

'Sid, you can't ignore it.'

The big farmer began to sob and Luke put his arm around him, or at least he tried to.

'I don't know what to do, Luke; farming's my life.' Sid slumped forward; a broken man.

Luke lit a cigarette and pondered the situation for a while. 'How many acres do you have here, Sid?'

'Three hundred,' he answered, before blowing his nose.

'Yeah, but how much land do you actually need?'

'That's all I need,' he said, sucking hard on his cigarette.

'Sid, I think I might have a solution to your problem.'

The farmer looked at him incredulously, through red eyes, and blew his nose again.

Vera brought a pot of tea to the table, closely followed by Sid, carrying a Victoria sponge.

Luke was smiling but Emily looked confused by the goings on.

Then Luke said confidently, 'Okay, everyone sit down, I've got a plan.'

In the middle of the table, the solicitor's letter became a mat for the steaming teapot.

Twenty minutes later

Sid was beaming and Emily and Vera were blubbering with joy into their handkerchiefs.

The deal was that over the next six-months, Sid and Vera, together with their animals and entire stock, would move into the biggest of the three farmhouses on Luke's estate. Their new home, with three hundred acres of farmland, would be rent-free for five-years. It was Luke's way of saying thank you to the kindest people he'd ever known; and he still felt indebted to them.

Sid pulled a demijohn of cider out of the larder. 'I think it's time for a little celebration.'

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

###

The Death of a Hero?

Five days after Billy's visit to Crossly Manor, all hell let loose. Everyone was talking about the murder of Jim Walker. His body had been discovered in a drainage ditch and his throat had been cut so severely that his head was hanging loose when they dragged his bloating body out of the water. His penis had been stuffed in his mouth, although that fact was never reported in the press.

What was reported, surprised and upset Luke. Instead of Long John being decried as a drug dealer, gangster and child molester, the article reported how, Jim Walker, a Second World War, "Desert Rat" hero, who'd lost an eye fighting for his country in North Africa, was brutally murdered for no apparent reason.

In anger, Luke threw the newspaper onto the sofa. Jim Walker, could it really be him? He reached up and took the little suitcase off the top of the bookshelf in his study and placed it on his desk. He removed the leather journal and a few minutes later he'd found what he was looking for.

August 1942

My dearest Mildred

It is with joy that I write to you having received the book of Shelley poems you sent to me; my first post. In this mad cauldron of war I can lose myself in his words and I find inner peace, if only for a precious moment in time.

I am ok, but if I'm honest, I'm fatigued from the sights, noise and smell of battle.

I think of you often and it raises my spirits, helping me to find the inner strength I need to survive this hell hole.

The North African Desert is truly an inhospitable place. Flies swarm around us all day and feast on our sores that will not heal, and the heat is exhausting. We look forward to the nights but then we welcome the sunrise that brings relief from the chills of the desert nights.

Our rations are limited to corned beef and biscuits and one gallon of brackish water per person per day. My thirst is insatiable.

I cannot write in detail, as you know, but I can tell you that the feeling amongst the troops is better. We had a visit from 'Monty' yesterday and that definitely raised morale in the ranks.

Most of my men are heroes in my eyes, but one, Private Walker, is a most detestable man. I'd be happy to see him transferred. He alone is affecting the morale of my men in a very negative way. He is a despicable coward and there is no place for cowards on the battle field.

I have seen too much death for one lifetime my dearest, and I pray this terrible war will be over soon so that I can return home to you and hold you in my arms once again.

Your loving husband.

Harry

He re-read the section that interested him:

Most of my men are heroes in my eyes, but one, Private Walker, is a most detestable man. I'd be happy to see him transferred. He alone is affecting the morale of my men in a very negative way. He is a despicable coward and there is no place for cowards on the battle field.

Was it possible that Long John was this Private Walker that Harry Somerville wrote about? The man Harry detested as a coward? Luke was convinced it was the same person, but he needed to verify it.

He vaguely remembered reading about him losing an eye in one of Harry's journal entries and he set about finding the details. Two minutes later, he smiled to himself.

Journal Entry -- African Desert -- October 29, 1942.

My men and I are exhausted and all around me the dead and mangled dying are a reminder of this crazy war; in a place that tomorrow will be once again just a fly infested desert. We have been fighting too long and today in the confusion of war British soldiers fought and killed British soldiers, thinking it was a German machine-gun position.

Yesterday, I lost four good men to Rommel.

Although I despise him, I'm glad to note that Private James Walker has survived his injuries; having lost an eye, from an S bomb explosion. His war is over and he will now be sent home; how I envy him.

It's him! Long John; it's too much of a coincidence.

He decided to contact the journalist who wrote the article about Jim Walker in the local weekly. Luke picked up the paper and made a note of the reporter's name. Somebody must have given him details of Long John's war record. He knew he'd need to approach the subject carefully; The reporter was obviously paid-off to write such crap about a one-eyed, drug dealing paedophile.

Luke picked up the phone and dialled the Herald.

A young female voice answered, energetically, 'The Herald, good morning, how can I help you?'

Luke sat up straight. 'Good morning, can I speak to Chris Robinson, please?'

'Who shall I say's calling?' She enquired.

'My name is, Luke Collingbourne.'

'One moment please, Mr Collingbourne, while I try to connect you.'

There was silence for a few moments and then a voice said:

'Mr Collingbourne, it's Chris Robinson speaking. What can I do for you, sir?'

'Good morning Mr Robinson, I'm currently researching for a book I'm writing on the Second World War. It's about local heroes who were involved in the fighting. I read your excellent article recently about the murder of Jim Walker, who was a war hero himself, I believe?'

'Thank you. Yes, he fought with the Desert Rats.'

Well, he was a rat, Luke thought. 'It occurred to me, Mr Robinson, that there might be much more information about these brave folk in your papers' archives?'

'Well, we've got that time period on microfilm now, so it would be easy enough to trawl through it. But I'm not sure how much success you'd have.'

'Would you mind if I came along for a day and had a look at the archives?'

'...I don't see why not, Mr Collingbourne.'

'Thank you very much. I really appreciate your co-operation in this matter.'

'I'll put you through to reception and you can make an appointment to come and see us.'

After their evening meal, Luke explained to Emily what he wanted to do. He told her about his plans to expose Jim Walker for what he was.

She asked him:

'Why are you doing this, love?' and he told her that Long John was a bad man and that he wanted to put the records straight. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that he'd been raped on numerous occasions, by him. But Emily knew that the school caretaker had done something very wrong to Luke. She held Luke's hand and kissed his cheek, tenderly. It was her way of saying, do what you have to, my darling, I understand.

And that was why he loved her so much.

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

###

Revelations

Three days later

Luke was in his new Triumph Stag, on his way to meet Chris Robinson at the offices of the Herald. It was a magnificent machine and driving it was a real pleasure. It roared at him like a lion, as he accelerated up the gears and he smiled appreciatively.

At breakfast, Luke, had told Emily that he really didn't know what he'd find at the Herald; but now, as he approached the Paper's offices, he began to feel a tingle of excitement as he parked up and walked the short distance to the main doors.

Inside, a smart, middle aged lady was sitting at a reception desk. She smiled warmly when he walked in.

'Can I help you, sir?' she enquired.

'Yes, my name's Luke Collingbourne—I have an appointment with Mr Robinson.'

When Chris Robinson walked through the door he looked nothing like the person Luke imagined him to be during their telephone conversation. He was painfully thin with sharp features and 'Buddy Holly' glasses.

Returning to his desk, carrying two mugs of coffee, Robinson asked, 'How's the book coming on?' handing Luke a steaming mug.

Book? The book! Luke replied. 'Oh yeah—good thanks, I'm looking forward to finding some interesting material today.'

'Well, let's hope so, because I'd like a signed copy when it's published.'

'You'll be the first, Chris.'

'The microfilm room is down there.' Robinson pointed to the east-end of the building. 'Bring your coffee.'

Luke followed him to an unmarked room at the opposite end of the converted Victorian brick warehouse. Beneath them, the printing room filled the offices with a low resonating drone as copies of the biweekly 'Herald' shot off the end of the line to be stacked ready for delivery to the corner shops and street sellers. The air was impregnated with the smell of printer's ink.

Chris Robinson opened a door. 'This is where we keep the microfilm.' The room had no windows and was about twelve-feet by eight-feet with plain, cream painted walls. A florescent light flicked into action as they entered. In the right hand corner was a big machine with a plastic chair in front of it. 'I'll show you how to operate it and then it's up to you I'm afraid,' he explained, smiling. 'Sorry to say but there's no smoking allowed in here, Luke.'

Luke said it wasn't a problem. 'Is this where you found the information about Jim Walker's war days?'

'No—I got that information from his sister. She still lives in the town.'

'That's interesting; would it be possible to have her address?' Luke asked.

'...I don't see why not, Mr Collingbourne. Check with Carolyn at the front desk before you leave.'

He then explained to Luke that the microfilm system was the latest technology and used silver halide on a polyester base. Luke watched with interest as he demonstrated the system, deftly rolling the microfiche backwards and forwards, showing the numerous pages as images on the screen.

He pointed out the stack of neatly dated fiche cassettes in a metal wall cupboard. 'Put them back in the right order when you finish with them, please. They should be good for 500 years, according to the makers.'

'No rush then,' Luke added jokingly and Robinson chuckled. Then Robinson wished him luck and left him to fend for himself.

After ten minutes or so of coming to terms with the intricacies of rolling the film into the image viewer he finally felt confident and started to work reading headlines dated around the end of the war, not really sure what he was doing other than getting Long John's sister's address from the main desk, later.

Some copies were covering aspects of the great victory, some, were focussed on local men, who hadn't returned home from the war, and their suffering families. Rationing was a popular topic together with growing-your-own fruit and vegetables.

Then, by chance, Luke hit upon an article that made him go cold. He read the headline:

LOCAL MAN FOUND GUILTY OF

CHILD MOLESTING

A local man has been imprisoned after being found guilty of child molesting. Two local mother's independently accused war veteran, Henry Somerville, of sexually assaulting their young children in the town's park, and this week a jury found him...

Luke's heart was pounding as he stared at Harry's photograph. This can't be right! He refused to believe what he was reading and quickly scribbled down the names of the two women whose evidence sent Harry Somerville down.

This wasn't the person he'd come to know; the gentle poet. Was this why the man who fought for his country ended up on the streets as a down and out? Because he was a paedophile, a misfit... outcast by society? Someone just like the evil Jim Walker; the very man Harry purported to detest in his letters. No...No —this can't be.

Luke's mind was confused and in turmoil. The foundations under his feet were crumbling away. Surely the truth had been distorted.

He'd found all he needed for one day. When Luke looked at his watch, it was 11am. Inside, he was fuming; his anger was raging... again.

Luke couldn't remember driving home, only pulling up outside Crossly Manor and seeing Emily's smiling face.

Psalm 23 flashed into his mind:

Even if I shall walk in the valleys of the shadows of death, I will not be afraid of evil, because you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me...

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

###

The New Arrivals

It was the day Sid and Vera were moving into the farmhouse on the Crossly Manor estate.

Over the last few weeks, Sid had been moving his stock. All of his 400 sheep were already there, together with his 50 cattle, numerous goats, chickens, geese, pigs and ducks.

Like all the properties on the estate, the farmhouse was painted white, and in very good condition. Luke had fitted a new bathroom upstairs and the painters had been around putting a lick here and there. He wanted Sid and Vera to feel comfortable in their new home.

Emily had finally allowed Rose, the girl she'd employed a few months ago, to take control of the book shop, and now she was becoming a real 'mother-hen'; her Sunday lunches were as good as Vera's. And that was saying something.

Crossly Manor felt like home. They had a live-in au pair, named Sally, a wiry old gardener, named Wilfred, a house keeper named Molly, three farm-hands that Luke and Sid agreed to share, known as Nobby, Wonker and Dylan. They called him Dylan because he looked like Bob Dylan; unfortunately, he sang like a castrated pig.

Luke walked into the kitchen and Emily was kneading dough while the baby slept in her bouncy chair, open mouthed and arms up, in a surrender position. Betty was sleeping in her basket, recovering from her morning run with Luke while he inspected the cattle.

Luke kissed Emily and she dabbed some flour onto the end of his nose. 'Vera called, they hope to be here around four thirty, so I'm cooking supper for all of us, okay?'

'Fine,' he answered, wiping the white smudge off his nose.

'What have you got planned today, my love?' Emily enquired as she sent puffs of flour into the beams of sunlight that streamed in through the windows.

'Well, to be honest, I'm just waiting around in case Sid needs me. I've checked the cattle and given the boys the job of mending the fence down by the steam. That should keep them busy for the rest of the day.'

Emily huffed. 'The greedy pigs ate all the Welsh cakes this morning during their tea break. I don't think Wonker gets fed at home.'

Luke could see she didn't really mind. 'It's your fault for being such a good cook,' he said teasingly, and ended up with more flour on the end of his nose.

Luke's plan was to visit Long John's sister and the two woman witnesses before Christmas. Something inside him was driving him on. He needed to get to the bottom of all of this. He felt he owed it to Harry to clear his name. I know he didn't do it; I looked into his eyes often enough. He was a kind, caring soul.

Once Sid and Vera had settled into their new home, Luke could concentrate on Harry; he'd been on his mind ever since he visited the Herald. But tonight there was an enormous welcoming meal to get through. He was looking forward to seeing Sid's smiling face across the dining table. He'd even got two flagons of scrumpy from Jim at the farm down the road. Jim loved making and drinking the stuff so much it upset him to sell any of it. He'd be happy to drink the lot, but thankfully, his wife, Kate, was a controlling influence on him.

Sid wouldn't thank you for a good bottle of burgundy. Luke could hear him saying:

Don't waste that on me lad, I'm just a hairy-arsed farmer. I'll have pint of cider, please.

A car horn blasted from across the field; Sid had arrived at the farmhouse. Luke walked outside to see him waving excitedly over the fence. 'I'm coming over to give you a hand!'

Sid grinned and put his thumbs up.

Ten minutes later, Sid and Luke were sitting on fold-up chairs outside the farmhouse enjoying a glass of cider. Vera was upstairs busying herself, singing as she worked.

'I'll never be able to thank you enough for what you've done for me and Vera,' Sid said, thoughtfully.

'And I'll never be able to thank you enough, Sid.' They touched glasses; at peace with the world.

'Vera called down from an upstairs window, 'What time is Emily expecting us for supper, Luke?'

'She said about seven,' he answered.

'That'll give Sid plenty of time to have a bath in our new bathroom. He smells worse than the pigs.'

Sid rolled his eyes and filled their glasses again. 'That bathroom is smashing, lad. Thanks for that.'

'It's only what you did for me Sid, remember? I quote, "There's no way that girl can live in that barn without having a bath and a toilet."'

The big man beamed and chuckled to himself, 'Vera loves the kitchen, too.'

'Well, that's good, as she'll probably spend half her life in it,' Luke joked, and they both laughed.

'Emily's cooking a joint of beef tonight, Sid.'

'Welsh Black, I presume?'

'Of course, nothing but the best, aye?'

Sid rubbed his hands in eager anticipation. 'I love my food.'

Luke raised his eyebrows, 'You kept that quiet.'

Sid laughed, holding his belly, then he leaned to the side and let out the obligatory fart.

'Sid!' Vera shouted from the bedroom window. 'Where're your manners?'

Sid laughed even louder. Luke was delighted to see him finally relaxing, after all the worry he'd endured recently.

'I think we'll be very happy here, Luke.'

Then there was the sound of chinking glasses.

'Perhaps it was meant to be, Sid?'

'Yeah, perhaps it was...Let's have a fag; then I need to go and check the animals, before my bath.'

'Well, don't leave it too long, Sid,' Vera called out. 'I can smell you from up here.'

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

###

An Unscheduled Visitor

Three-days before Christmas, 1970.

There was an air of excitement at Crossly Manor. The house, with the help of Rachel, was looking Christmassy. In the hall, stood the biggest tree Luke could find at the market; it was all of twelve-feet tall and covered in glittering baubles, lights, coloured tinsel and a fairy on the top. Underneath, wrapped presents of all shapes, colours and sizes were piled high all around the base. Rachel often stood in front of the tree, staring, excitedly. Her little face illuminated by the fairy-lights. She was looking more like Emily every day with her dark, almond shaped eyes.

Molly, Emily and Rachel had been busy all week cooking cakes, mince-pies, Christmas puddings and a wonderful chocolate, yuletide log.

Sid insisted on supplying a goose and a turkey for Christmas Day lunch and Luke had insisted that they join them at the manor for Christmas lunch.

Emily invited her Auntie Dorothy as well—but she declined, because of ill health.

Crossly Manor had finally come back to life, after years of silence the house was reverberating to the sounds of family living. On Christmas Eve a carol service had been planned to take place on the front lawn, weather permitting. If it rained, they'd simply fill the manor with singing, festive revellers.

Two days before Christmas.

At ten o'clock in the morning on December 23, Luke was sitting in his study when a pale blue, Morris Minor police car turned off the main road heading towards the manor.

Luke walked to the front door and opened it, just as a uniformed officer was about to grab the bell-pull.

'Good morning, officer,' Luke said, intrigued by the unscheduled visit.

'Good morning, sir; you must be Mr Collingbourne?'

'Yes,' he answered, 'that's me.'

'I'm Sergeant Cox—I'm investigating the murder of Jim Walker. I believe you knew him, Mr Collingbourne?'

'Yes, I did.'

'Do you mind if I come in, sir. I have a few questions for you.'

'Please do,' Luke said, gesturing to him to enter.

He took the officer into his study and invited him to sit down in front of his desk.

The officer looked around at the collection of books. 'I love books—not to read, just the smell of them.'

'You should try reading one.'

'Don't seem to get the time to read in this bloody job,' he said, lethargically.

'Cup of tea, Sergeant?'

'I could murder one,' he said, looking into Luke's eyes.

Luke opened the study door, knowing Molly would be near by. 'Pot of tea for two, please, Molly.'

Molly, standing conveniently at the end of corridor rushed off to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

The sergeant had a dark moustache as big as a mouse, which, kind of danced on his top lip when he talked; but his big, dark eyes were too close together to describe him as handsome.

A few minutes later Molly arrived, looking slightly nervous, with a tea tray and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits.

'Thank you, Molly, just leave it on the desk.'

'Certainly, sir.' Molly put the tray down and scurried out of the study, closing the door behind her.

Luke poured the tea out into bone china cups and offered the sergeant a biscuit. It was time to end the small talk.

'So, what exactly can I help you with, Sergeant?'

'How well did you know Jim Walker?' he asked, before sipping his tea.

Luke took a sharp intake of breath, not really knowing how to answer him.

'I didn't kill him, if that's what you mean.'

'Someone did, Mr Collingbourne. Cut his throat out. But don't worry, I'm not accusing you, sir. I just want information.'

'Well, it wasn't me, Sergeant, even though he gave me every reason to kill him.'

The officer sat upright, and coughed. 'What...what do you mean, every reason, Mr Collingbourne?'

'What do you know about Jim Walker, Sergeant?'

'I know he's dead,' he answered, flippantly, with a tight-lipped smile.

Luke briefly spun around in the captain's chair to look out of the window, rubbing his chin and collecting his thoughts. He then turned back to face the officer... 'Jim Walker was a drug dealer and a paedophile. He worked at the Greatly Children's Home when I was a boy. He sexually abused me and other boys for more than eight-years.'

The sergeant sat open mouthed at the revelations; his tea cup suspended half way between his mouth and the saucer on his lap.

'I can name at least ten people who would've happily killed the evil bastard, (Luke refrained from using the word, monster), given the opportunity.' But I couldn't when I had the chance.

The sergeant looked somewhat repulsed and flummoxed by the revelations.

'Incidentally, sergeant, how did you get my name?'

'I understand that you were enquiring about him recently, at the Herald.'

'That's true. I was outraged when I read his obituary and found out that he was, supposedly, a war hero, and someone to be admired by society.' Luke's face tightened. 'He was not a hero, he was a bloody coward in the war and a despicable man, to boot. I intend to make sure the real truth about him is printed, and not the bullshit the Herald has put out. He was responsible for destroying honest people's lives and I'm hoping to prove his involvement in a wrongful imprisonment that sent a decent, honest man to jail, ruining his life. I want the world to know what he was really like.'

Then the sergeant said. 'You're clearly very bitter, Mr Collingbourne, 'Where were you the night he was killed?'

'How can I answer that? I don't know when he was killed.' Luke could see Billy driving away on his motorbike, waving.

The sergeant looked despondently at Luke and sighed. 'We don't have any witnesses right now. Nobody saw a thing. Can you believe that?' He appeared disheartened and Luke almost felt sorry for him.

'Sergeant, I'm really glad he's dead—But I can assure you, it wasn't me who killed him.'

'But, if you knew who killed him, Mr Collingbourne, would you tell me?'

Luke hesitated... 'No Sergeant, I wouldn't. He got exactly what he fucking deserved.'

He looked at Luke for a while as he finished his drink. 'I didn't think you would. Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Mr Collingbourne. I'll see myself out.'

He stood up, placed his empty cup and saucer on the tray, adjusted his uniform and walked to the study door. Then, he stopped and turned to face Luke. 'Merry Christmas to you and your family, sir.'

Luke sensed a degree of sympathy in his tone. 'Merry Christmas to you, too, Sergeant.' Moments later, he watched through the study window as the policeman drove away. His hands were trembling as he lit a cigarette.

Molly returned to pick up the tray. 'Everything all right, sir?' she asked tentatively.

'Everything's fine, Molly, and the tea and biscuits were lovely, thank you.'

She smiled broadly, and reassured, she headed back to the kitchen with the tea tray, wondering what on earth the police visit was all about.

Betty ran into the study and jumped up onto Luke's lap. He rubbed her head affectionately, deep in thought.

### CHAPTER TWENTY

###

Detective Collingbourne

Christmas was a huge success at Crossly Manor. It was a time that Luke would never forget. His fondest memory was of Rachel, shaking with excitement as she opened the array of presents that Father Christmas had brought her.

The house was constantly busy with locals and friends visiting for drinks and nibbles. Emily and Molly worked hard making sure everyone was fed and watered with Molly's delicious mince-pies, Christmas cake, sherry and port. The vicar and his wife actually visited on three occasions. Luke was sure the 'old boy' was determined to finish off his supply of vintage port and Stilton.

Molly gratefully accepted Emily's invitation to join them for Christmas lunch. Having lost her mother, two months previously, Emily didn't want her to spend Christmas Day alone. The cook enjoyed every minute, especially preparing the lunch, singing carols as she worked and generally busying herself.

Wood fires roared in the downstairs rooms keeping out the bitter winter weather. Everyone struggled to move for hours after the huge lunch of turkey and goose, supplied by Sid. Molly blushed when Luke thanked them both, before saying, grace. Sid fell asleep for over half-an-hour after lunch and snored so loudly that they could hear his thunderous roar from the kitchen, a refuge from his sprout induced flatulence. Vera worried that he might blow the house up but Luke told her not to dwell on it, and soon she was pre-occupied, playing 'Doctors and Nurses' with Rachel who was now convinced everyone needed medicine for their colds. Emily nearly wet herself laughing when nurse Rachel placed her stethoscope on a prostrate Sid, only to proclaim in a very serious tone—'He's gone.'

Emily roasted chestnuts Christmas night, sitting around the open fire in the living room, accompanied by Betty, enthusiastically gnawing at her Christmas marrow-bone.

Emily bought Luke an Olympus FTL SLR camera. It was the first camera he'd ever owned and it looked very impressive. Actually, up to that moment, he'd never taken a photograph in his life, but he didn't admit to it. She also bought him a Dansette record player and some great singles, knowing he loved the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, T-Rex and Rod Stewart's new song, Maggie May.

Luke bought jewellery and perfume for Emily and she seemed genuinely delighted to receive them, but the whole process of buying for her really stressed Luke because he wasn't confident buying gifts.

It was their first family Christmas at Crossly Manor and it was a wonderful success.

###

January 1971

Luke missed his original deadline, but now the New Year's festivities were over he was determined to do some more research into Harry's demise. Over the holiday he thought about him a lot and convinced himself the gentle poet was innocent; but now, full of resolve, he needed to prove it.

On his desk he kept a little flip-cover notebook, like the kind detectives use. On the sixth page of scribbled notes he'd written the names of three women:-

  1. Carol Walker (Jim Walker's sister)

  2. Judith Bell

  3. Dianne Fitzpatrick

Luke was holding his notebook open. If I'm to get to the truth, it'll be through these women; but I need to tread very carefully. He sat at his desk, concocting a plan.

After a few frustrating days trying to locate Judith Bell and Dianne Fitzpatrick, he finally got lucky. Talking to people in the market square, pretending to be the historian, he found a woman who knew Judith Bell and where she lived. His nerves tingled as he wrote her address down in his book. Walker's sister, Carol, was supposedly on holiday and not back for another week, but thanks to Chris Robinson from the Herald, he knew where she lived, too.

Thirty minutes later, after consulting his map, he pulled up outside 18, Hawthorne Avenue, a rather shabby looking semi on the west-side of the town. Luke walked up to the front door and rang the illuminated bell. He waited...but there was no answer...he rang the bell again.

'What do you want?' Came a stern voice from behind him.

He turned around to see a woman, with a shopping bag in each hand, coming up the steps.

'Can I help you with your bags?' he asked her.

'No! I'm fine. What do you want? I hope you're not trying to sell me something, because if you are, you can piss off right now.'

'I'm not a salesman,' he answered.

'What do you want then? Are you from the council? Because I explained to the man that...'

'No, I'm not from the council, he interjected. My name is Luke Collingbourne and I'm hoping to speak with Judith Bell. Is that you?'

'Might be. Depends on what you want.'

'Mrs Bell, I'm looking for information.'

She pushed past him and put the key in the door. 'What kind of information?'

'Information, about Harry Somerville.'

She froze for a moment, holding the key in the lock.

'I'm willing to pay,' Luke added.

She pushed the door open and wrestled her bags into the hallway, before shutting the front door in his face.

Luke was expecting the rejection. Disheartened, he walked back to the car but as he got to the gate the front door opened again. Tentatively, he walked back up the steps. Judith Bell was standing in the hallway.

'I've been dreading this day for a long time,' she said, as her eyes glistened with tears. 'I need a cup of tea, do you want one?'

Luke struggled to contain his excitement. 'Yes, please, I'd love one.'

'You said you'd pay me, so you're not a copper then?' she asked, carrying a tray into the living room.

Luke smiled and shook his head, 'No, I'm not a copper.' He watched her as she poured out the steaming tea into cups on a low, glass-topped table in front of the uncomfortable sofa.

She must be in her mid-fifties, but she looks much older, he thought.

The lines on her face made her look older. Her short hair was permed and dyed raven-black, except for a grey streak near her roots. Her bright-red lipstick made her look common.

She sat down next to Luke and peered straight into his eyes. 'What are you thinking? How old and knackered I look?'

'I...'

'It's all right. I am old and knackered,' she said, interrupting him. 'But I was pretty once, and a good fuck, too. Never had any complaints, not ever.'

Luke smiled politely and offered her a Senior Service. On the table was a big chrome lighter, like a genie's lamp; she picked it up and with a trembling hand, lit her cigarette, then Luke's.

Luke watched her blow smoke ceiling-wards.

With an abrupt tone she asked. 'What exactly do you want to know?'

'Mrs Bell...'

'Call me Judith.'

'Judith...I believe Harry Somerville was innocent of the charges against him and I want to clear his name.'

'Why, what is he to you, your father?'

'No—a friend. You accused Harry Somerville of molesting your six-year-old son, but he didn't do it, did he, Judith ?'

She cradled her head in her nicotine stained fingers. 'Am I going to go to prison for this?'

'Why did you accuse him?' Luke probed, avoiding her question.

'...I had no choice, my pimp forced me to do it and I was an addict, trying to bring up a kid on my own. It wasn't fucking easy. He threatened to kill me if I didn't do it. And he paid me as well; two-hundred quid, so long as I went to court as a witness. He did the same for Dianne.'

'Did she work for him as well?'

'Yeah.'

'Where is she living now?'

'She's dead—she committed suicide a few years ago. I can remember looking at him in the dock and thinking how handsome he was; dark hair and a nice tan, too.'

'He got that tan fighting for you, in the African desert, so that you could be free. Didn't you feel any guilt?'

'Fuck you! With your fancy car and public school upbringing,' she snarled, 'what do you know, anyway?' Her cheeks imploded again as she sucked hard on her cigarette. 'He killed my son,' she blurted and her eyes welled up again.

'Who did, Judith, Harry?'

'No, my pimp. They found him recently with his throat cut. Too fucking good for the bastard, that was.'

Luke followed the teardrops as they ran down her cheeks, leaving thin pale lines in her makeup. 'Heroin, he supplied. Twenty-one he was, when he died in 61. Walker had a daughter, but he wanted nothing to do with her and she was taken away by the council. He was unfit to bring up a child, but quite happy to kill mine. Jim Walker had no soul.'

'Jim Walker was your pimp?'

'Yeah—You knew him?'

'Oh yes, I knew him; but I was no friend of Jim Walker. As a matter of fact I detested everything about him and actually, I'm glad he's dead, too.' Luke paused to take a drag on his cigarette and she looked at him with a heavy frown. Luke continued. 'I suspected he had something to do with the imprisonment of Harry Somerville.'

Luke watched her cheeks implode again. Her eyes were focussed somewhere in the distance. He waited a moment for her to calm down. 'Did he ever say why he wanted you to do it?'

She exhaled. 'He said that he hated Somerville; pointed to his patch and said it was payback time.'

'Would you be prepared to tell this to the police, now that he's dead?'

'Will I go to prison for what I've done?'

'You did what you did under threat of your life. The authorities will take that into consideration. Personally, I don't think you will, but honestly...I don't know, Judith. But I want the truth about Walker to come out, so the world can know what an evil bastard he was; and I want to clear the name of Harry Somerville, whose life he destroyed. Please help me. Walker is the evil one, not Harry.'

'Where is Harry now?' she asked, sounding troubled.

Luke stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. '...Five years ago, I was a vagrant, living on the streets.'

Judith looked at Luke, open-mouthed.

'I was sort of caring for this old man; a bag of bones who drank meths. I used to bring him food and stuff. One morning when I woke up he was propped up against the wall opposite me—stiff. He'd died in the night. Later, I found out he was Harry Somerville.'

With her hand shaking, Judith struggled to light another cigarette. 'I remember watching him being led away to the cells, handcuffed to a copper; and all I could think about was my next fix.' Judith slumped forward. 'I'm not proud of what I did. Walker had a way of destroying people's lives.'

'Incidentally, Judith, as a child I was raped...numerous times by Jim Walker. Consequently, I missed my public school education. So believe me—I do know.'

She reached across and laid her veined hand on Luke's. 'I'm so sorry. I didn't realise.'

'We have something in common, you, me and Harry. We've all been scarred by the one eyed man.'

Luke was walking back to his car when he noticed a woman, wearing a scarf on her head, walking up the steps to Judith's front door. He watched as the door opened and the two women began to argue. The visitor pushed her way in and closed the front-door behind her.

I wonder who she is?

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

###

Another Form of Purgatory

HM Prison, Northern England, 1948

The uniformed prison guard carefully carried his lunch on a tray and joined his colleague at one of the tables in the smoky canteen. The polished buttons on his jacket strained to retain the bulk of his belly.

'All right, Nobby?' he asked, sitting down opposite his colleague.

'All right, Macker, thank you, how about you?'

'Yeah,' he said, as the chair creaked under his weight. 'Wife's put me on a diet. She says I'm getting fat.'

Nobby looked up from his lunch at Macker's constrained belly, round, fat face and inflated neck, oozing out from his white, shirt collar. 'She might have a point, mate.'

The fat guard sighed. 'I know I need to lose a bit, but I'm a big bloke, with heavy bones. I'm never going to look like you, am I?'

Nobby looked at the enormous amount of food, piled high, on the opposite side of the table. 'So when do you actually start this diet?'

'I've started, mate.' Macker answered, studiously; missing the sarcasm in Nobby's question. 'I'm down to two meals a day now and the wife says I'm not allowed any chocolate. But what she doesn't know won't hurt her, will it?' he pontificated, smugly, pointing with his sausage-sized finger to the two bars of milk chocolate poking out of his top pocket.

Nobby shook his head, incredulously... 'Have you heard about what happened on 'C' Block, last night?'

'Somerville got it, didn't he?' Macker asked, enthusiastically.

Nobby nodded an acknowledgement. 'Yeah...stabbed in the back. He's in the infirmary. They had to remove a kidney. He nearly didn't make it,' he explained, as he lit his Falcon pipe, sending plumes of blue smoke into the air.

'Who did it?' the fat guard, asked.

'Who knows; as usual, nobody saw a thing.'

'Serves him right; the perverted, little fucker. I had to laugh last week, when he complained that pages from his precious book of fucking poems was going missing. You should have seen his face when his cell-mate admitted to wiping his arse with them. It was the funniest thing I've ever seen. I nearly pissed my pants.'

Nobby just smiled. 'He's going into solitary for his own safety, when he's fully recovered. They don't like perverts in here.'

'It's just a shame they don't do penal servitude anymore. He deserves to be breaking rocks somewhere in the middle of a hot, fly infested desert. Solitude is too fucking good for the likes of him.'

HM Prison, Northern England, 1954

Harry Somerville, wearing a navy-blue, demob suit, looked through the open door at freedom. He was carrying a leather case.

As he walked out into the fresh air one of the guards called out to him. 'Let's hope we don't see you again, Harry.'

Outside, there was no one waiting to throw their arms around him, but he expected that; the letter from Mildred explained everything.

He was alone with no home and no family to go back to; an outcast, broken and demoralised by a secular, bigoted society he risked his life for. A light rain began to fall as he wondered aimlessly along the pavement and he raised his suit collar in vain defiance. He needed to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Should he turn left or right? Did it really matter?

Loneliness was his only friend now. He walked slowly, head down for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually he reached a canal with benches fixed along the path overlooking the stretch of water. Harry Somerville sat down on one of the benches and stared into the distance, unaware of the tranquil waterside or the sound of children playing, nearby. A fat man on a bicycle came into view and pedalled past Harry, red faced and puffing loudly. As he passed he looked at the man sitting on the bench and stopped.

'Somerville,' he said, 'what are you doing here?'

Harry didn't respond.

'SOMERVILLE, what are you doing here?'

Harry turned and smiled at him. 'I'm going home,' he said to the prison guard, quietly.

The guard cycled off and stopped a short distance away to talk to two men. He then continued on his way towards the prison and the start of his shift.

'Hey you,' someone said from behind Harry. He turned to see who it was and a large lump of wood smashed into the side of his face, ripping his eyebrow open. Harry collapsed on the floor and the two men started kicking him, relentlessly. One of the men kicked him in the face and broke his jaw while the other put his boot into his back. Harry was barely conscious and covered in blood. Some of his teeth dropped from his bloodied mouth as he groaned in agony. Children nearby stopped playing to watch.

'Stop that, stop it, you'll kill him!' a red faced woman shouted as she ran towards them frantically waving her arms. 'You animals, what's the matter with you.' The two men stopped as she arrived. The woman dropped to her knees next to Harry. 'Oh my god what have you done?' Blood was pouring from his mouth and nose.

'Leave him, missus,' one of the men said, 'he's a bleeding pervert who preys on young children. He's got what he deserves.'

The woman stood up in silence, a look of distain on her face. 'Give the bastard one for me boys,' she said before walking off. There was a sickening thud as a boot smashed into Harry Somerville's rib-cage.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

###

A Dead End

'Harry Somerville is innocent,' Luke said, confidently, before biting into his toast.

'How do you know that, love?' Emily asked, before blowing on Rachel's porridge.

'Because, yesterday, I spoke to one of the two woman who gave evidence at his trial and she admitted that they'd both lied, for money; money, given to them by Jim Walker.'

'Long John! You didn't mention it yesterday,' she pointed out.

'No, I was in shock. I wanted to sleep on it,' he replied.

Emily looked confused. 'So why would he do that to Harry?'

'Because, he wanted to get back at Harry. Walker lost an eye in the war and he blamed him for it. He was a man who held a grudge. He was also a coward, a pervert and a drug dealer.'

Emily put her hand on his shoulder. 'He did something awful to you too, didn't he?'

Luke lowered his head. 'Yeah.'

'It's okay, love.' Emily leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, which made Rachel giggle.

I know I need to tell her the truth, but the time isn't right. It was much easier telling a stranger, he thought.

Sitting at his desk, Luke picked up the phone and dialled the police station.

'Greatly Police Station, Sergeant Cox speaking.'

'Sergeant, good morning, it's Luke Collingbourne here.'

'Ah yes...Good morning Mister Collingbourne.'

'Sergeant, I have some information concerning Jim Walker that I think you'll be very interested in.'

'Really... go ahead,' he said, down the phone.

'Jim Walker paid off two women to frame Harry Somerville. Sergeant, an innocent man went to prison, on contrived, fabricated evidence, and all because Walker blamed him for the loss of his eye during the war.'

'Can you prove this?' he asked, clearly intrigued.

'Yes, I can. Yesterday, I visited a Judith Bell, one of the two women involved in the conspiracy, and she admitted everything to me. She's prepared to give a written statement, too.'

There was a long silence. 'Are you there, Sergeant?' Luke asked, thinking he'd been cut off.

'Yes, Mister Collingbourne, I'm here... I think you should be aware that Judith Bell was found dead this morning. It appears that she took a heroin overdose; but we won't know that for sure, until the results of the autopsy come in.'

Luke struggled to believe she was dead. He could see her smoking a cigarette on the sofa; he could hear her trembling voice and feel her touching his hand. Then, as his thoughts cleared, he remembered the visitor. 'Sergeant, as I was leaving Judith's house a woman turned up and forced her way in.'

'Would you recognise her again?'

'Yes, I think I would.'

'Did she see you, Mister Collingbourne?'

'No, I don't think so, I was sitting in my car at the time.'

'Mister Collingbourne, you need to come down to the station; it's very important we get a statement and a description of this person from you.' There was an urgency in his voice and Luke imagined the Sergeant's stern expression.

'I'm on my way, Sergeant.'

The police were now looking for Carol Walker in connection with Judith's death, after Luke identified her from a photograph. Although the police said there was no evidence of foul play, Luke was sure she silenced Judith to protect her brother's ill-gotten reputation.

Having returned to Crossly Manor, Luke was staring out of his study window. Judith Bell is dead and it's my fault. Carol Walker is on the run; I hope she doesn't run to Crossly Manor.

The study door opened and Emily walked in carrying a mug of tea. 'What's going to happen now, love?' She asked.

'I don't really know, darling. It seems like I've disturbed a hornet's nest, doesn't it?'

Smiling sympathetically, Emily handed him the mug of steaming tea.

'Thank you. You know, Judith was my only hope of proving Harry's innocence. And now, thanks to me, she's dead.'

'Don't say that Luke, it's not your fault.'

'She'd be alive today, if I hadn't visited her house.'

Emily frowned. 'Well, that means they must be watching you too.'

'Whoever they are?' Luke sipped his tea.

'I almost lost you once. I don't want to go through that again.' Emily put her hands on Luke's shoulders. 'Let's drop the whole Harry Somerville thing, it's not worth it, my love. You have a family to think of now and these people are dangerous.'

Luke lowered his head. I'm so sorry Harry, I failed you.

Emily's mood brightened. 'Sid wants you to go over to the farm. He's desperate to show you his new tractor.'

'I need something to cheer me up. I'll finish my tea and walk over with Betty to see him.'

'Can you keep a secret?' Emily asked, with a glint in her eye.

'What is it?'

Emily lowered her voice to a whisper. 'Vera's pregnant!'

For a moment Luke stood, open mouthed. '...Sid is going to be a father!'

Emily put her finger to her lips. 'Shhhhh...Keep your voice down. Nobody is supposed to know yet. If you say anything to anybody I'll shoot you; is that clear?' Her finger was now 'loaded' and pointing at Luke's head.

'Your secret is safe with me, my love.' He smiled and returned his cup and saucer to Emily, kissed her on the forehead then headed off to find Betty.

Emily stood in silence, empty cup and saucer in hand. On the desk, Harry's journal was open and a few pages flipped across as if caught by a gentle draught. Emily noticed a message written in black ink on the open pages:

Have faith and God will guide you. The ink was wet.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

###

A Happy Announcement

When Luke arrived at Sid's place, he was in the yard, sitting on a new, white tractor.

'It's a Selectamatic 780, Livedrive,' he enthused, beaming like a child. 'This model finishes soon so I got it with forty percent off list—I couldn't bloody resist it. I bought a hedge trimmer attachment as well.'

'Christ, Sid! It looks real cool.'

'David Brown,' he said, pointing to the black badge between the twin-headlights, with the letters 'DB' set diagonally in gold, together with diagonal white and red roses.

Luke asked him: 'Are you sure they don't stand for Dog's Bollocks, Sid?' And Sid almost choked. He took off his cap and scratched his head. 'You daft bugger. Fancy a drop of cider?' he asked, climbing down from his shiny new toy and giving Betty a good back rub.

'Go on then,' Luke said, with an air of expectancy.

Vera leaned out of the bedroom window. 'I'm not sure who he loves more, the new tractor or the Landy,' she said, holding out a duster and shaking it. 'I'm way down the bloody list.'

'Good afternoon, Vera,' Luke said in mock formality.

'How are you, love?'

'Very well, thank you... and you?'

'Oh, not so bad,' she answered and winked.

She's a picture of health. I can't believe she's having a baby. I wish I could say something.

Sid walked out of the kitchen door with a jar of cider and two glasses. 'I think a little celebration is called for.' He filled the glasses and offered Luke one. 'This is a medium sweet and it's very nice.'

Luke accepted the drink. 'What are we celebrating, Sid?'

'The Dog's Bollocks,' he said and winked. Sid looked up to the bedroom window. 'Vera—come on down, we're having a little celebration.'

A moment later she appeared at the door, looking a little coy. Sid put his arm around her and sipped his drink. 'Luke, we have a bit of good news,' he said looking affectionately at Vera.

'And we'd like to share it with you,' Vera added.

Luke smiled, in eager anticipation.

Sid struggled with his words. '...It's just that...well...it's...it's umm.'

Vera tutted, in frustration. 'Really, Sid, you are hopeless sometimes. What he's trying to say, Luke, is that...we're expecting a baby.'

Sid stood there, grinning; his burnished cheeks, bright red and shiny, like a giant garden gnome.

Luke put his arms around them and they hugged. He pretended the news was a shock to him, but getting excited wasn't difficult. 'It's about time Rachel had a friend to play with,' he said and gave Vera a big kiss on her cheek. A baby is just what they need around the place.

Sid poured out some more cider.

I sense a session coming on. 'Wait till I tell Emily,' Luke said, enthusiastically.

Vera smiled and put a reassuring hand on Luke's shoulder, 'Emily already knows, my love,' she said, in a way only a woman could.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

###

A Time to Tell

After breakfast Luke walked down the corridor to his study. When he entered the room, Harry's journal was on the carpet; it had somehow fallen off the bookshelf and was lying on the carpet. He noticed a message, written in Harry's familiar handwriting. It was a simple message that read:

We must fight for what we believe in.

Unusually, it wasn't dated. He picked the journal up off the floor and the smell of ink filled his nostrils, as if it had just been written. He touched the words and looked, incredulously, at his stained finger tips.

He sat at his desk for a long time, staring at the message in the little, leather book, wondering if it really was a message from Harry and a shiver ran down his spine.

He said out loud: 'Harry, you and I have something in common, my friend; we've both been wronged by Jim Walker. I owe it to you to clear your name, and I owe it to myself, to expose him for what he was.' He wondered if Harry had heard his promise.

Luke knew the time had come to tell his wife about his past, but his big worry was that he couldn't see a way of clearing Harry's name; now that Judith was dead. How the hell could he proceed?

The door to his study opened and in walked Emily with a cup of tea and some biscuits. He quickly closed the journal.

'Here we are, darling,' she said, smiling. 'The postman just told me Judith Bell's funeral is next Friday... Are you going?'

'Yes, I think I should go.'

Emily passed him the tea and biscuits.

'Thank you love.' Sensing the opportunity, he took a deep breath. 'Emily... I need to talk to you... sit down for a moment will you, please?'

She looked concerned as she lowered herself into the armchair by the fireplace.

God, you are so beautiful. 'This is not doing to be easy for me, my love, but I need to explain about my past to you. I realise it's something I should have done a long time ago, but...'

Emily was sitting, attentively, as he struggled to find the right words to say.

'...You know that Jim Walker was...well... he was a child molester?'

'Yes... I guessed he was, Luke.'

'Well...when I was young, me and some other boys at the home...we were abused by him.' He lowered his head in shame.

'You mean, sexually abused, don't you, love?'

'Yeah,' he answered, struggling with his emotions.

Emily got up and walked over to him. 'Don't beat yourself up over it, my love; it's not your fault, he was a monster.'

Luke started to sob. 'I feel so much guilt for what I did. It's eating me away.'

Emily wrapped her arms around him. 'Stop feeling like that... you were a just a child, a child forced to do those things, Luke; and you were not alone. He was a predator who fed off innocent children.'

Tears ran down his cheeks. 'Billy Wiz killed him for it.'

Emily looked him in the eyes and gently wiped away his tears with her finger. 'Good enough for the bastard,' she said, and hugged him tight.

'I love you so much.'

'I love you too, my darling... and I understand why you have to do this, Luke.'

Luke could feel the emotional shackles fall from his wrists; like he'd been set free from some dark place to walk in the sweet, fresh air and feel the warm sun on his face. 'Thank you for...'

Emily kissed him, tenderly at first but then passionately, like lovers do. She pulled away from him and walked to the study door, turning the key in the lock.

His heart started pounding as she returned, seductively unbuttoning her blouse. Emily's eyes glinted, alluringly, as she exposed her firm breasts. 'You've made me very horny—kissing me like that.'

'I'm sure I can help you out there,' Luke responded, trying to control his growing excitement.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

###

The Funeral of Judith Bell

It was misty as Luke drove to the church, near Greatly; that annoying mist where you have to keep clearing the windscreen every minutes or so. On the radio, T-Rex's 'Get-It-On' was playing and he turned the volume up, tapping the steering wheel and singing along as he drove. He had to remind himself he was going to a funeral and when the song finished he turned the radio off as a kind of chastisement.

In his mind he could see Judith Bell, very clearly, sitting nervously on her sofa, smoking. Her youthful looks having deserted her, leaving behind a shrinking middle-aged woman struggling to come to terms with the fact that men, or at least, the majority of men, no longer found her attractive. A woman living in the past, with regrets that were eating away at her conscience.

The coroner's report cited suicide as the cause of death, but Luke wasn't convinced. He was sure Carol Walker had a hand in her death. He believed she wanted Judith dead to protect her precious brother's reputation. Judith was, after all (apart from Luke, Emily and Sergeant Cox) the only living person who knew the real truth. Luke kept telling himself her death was not his fault but then he pondered why she died immediately after his visit. The only people who knew he had an interest in Long John were Chris Robinson at the Herald and Sergeant Cox.

So, how did Carol Walker know that I'd visited Judith Bell; or was it all purely coincidence? I suppose there is also the possibility that Judith did actually commit suicide and if that's the case then I have to shoulder some of the responsibility for her tragic demise, digging up her ugly past.

The sound of a car horn broke his thoughts and he quickly steered the car back to the left side of the road; narrowly missing the oncoming car with the flashing headlights and the irate driver shaking his fist out of the window.

As he drove down the road he could see the church in front of him. He checked his watch, it was twelve minutes to midday. Luke found a parking space some fifty-yards away and pulled in. He noticed the funeral cars parked outside and a few mourners making their way up the path into the church.

A few moments later he found a spare seat on a pew at the back of the church and settled himself... just as Judith's coffin was brought in.

St Cadoc's, on the outskirts of Greatly, wasn't an overly big place of worship, but it was quite impressive with its towering spire, chiming clock and ornate flint-stone walls.

Luke scanned the heads of the mourners in front of him; the place was full. As the wreath covered coffin passed him it was close enough to touch and the scent of the wreaths filled his nostrils. It reminded him of the florist's shop he used to pass by on the way to the market.

The sound of weeping mourners, accompanied by the slow toll of the church bells, ushered the coffin and its four bearers down the aisle to the waiting priest.

Later, in the churchyard, the mourners gathered around the open grave. Luke was standing under a tree, close by, sheltering from the light rain and listening to the cold, clinical rhetoric of the Catholic priest. He noticed a woman standing at the graveside, dressed in black, clearly Judith's sister, but younger. A man, probably her husband, had his arm around her in an attempt to console her. Luke watched as she dropped a single red rose into the grave before turning and sobbing uncontrollably in the man's embrace.

I feel for you. It's a sad day.

He didn't notice the veiled lady in black, to his right, watching him.

With the proceedings over, he walked down the path on his way back to the car. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out.

'Excuse me, young man,' someone called out, behind him.

He turned to see the woman he presumed was Judith's sister.

'I want to thank you for coming today but I'm afraid I don't recognise you. What's your name?'

'I'm Luke Collingbourne; you don't know me.'

She offered her hand, 'I'm Melanie, Judith's sister.'

'Pleased to meet you Melanie, please accept my condolences.'

'Thank you, Luke.'

Luke's eyes were drawn to her stylishly cut raven hair and glossy red lips. She was much younger than her sister, very elegant and alluring. Her eyes were attentive and enquiring.

'How did you come to know Judith?' She asked.

'Oh...it's a bit complicated really,' Luke said, hesitantly.

'Try me.'

This woman oozes confidence. He looked around and lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. 'Could I meet you somewhere? This is not really the place to talk. There are things I think you need to know about your sister.'

Melanie Bell's expression hardened. 'What kind of things?'

He passed her a card with his phone number on it. 'Please call me when you can.' He left her staring at the card and headed off down the path.

'Wait!' she called out, following him. 'I'm staying at the Westgate Hotel for a few days to sort things out. Can we possibly meet up tomorrow...for lunch, maybe?'

'...Is one o'clock all right with you?'

'Perfect...See you tomorrow,' she said, handing him her business card before heading back to the church entrance where a crowd was gathering. He watched her elegant swagger for a moment. She looked back and smiled, sensing his attention—clearly enjoying it.

On his way back to the car he glanced at the card with its gilt logo; it stopped him in his tracks. Melanie Bell, QC, was a barrister, specialising in criminal law, with offices in London and Bristol.

Across the road from Luke a woman mourner walked away from the church; her face covered with a veil.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

###

Lunch at the Westgate Hotel

'What do you hope to gain by telling this...barrister woman about her sister?' Emily asked Luke.

Sitting at the breakfast table, Luke sipped his coffee and pondered the question...'To be honest, my love, I don't really know. Maybe she already knows about Judith's past. But, it did occur to me that she might be able to advise me on how to clear Harry's name.'

'What's she like?'

'Like her sister, only younger, and she inherited the family brains. Judith was definitely the black-sheep of the family.'

'Pretty, is she?'

The kitchen door opened and Molly walked in, red faced and holding her chest. 'That damn bicycle will be the death of me.' She took a few deep gasps, struggling to get her breath.

Emily smiled, sympathetically. 'The kettle's on, Molly.'

'Bless you my dear,' she said, stretching on tip-toes to hang her coat on a hook by the door. 'Where's Rachel this morning?'

'She's upstairs with Sally,' Emily answered, 'having her hair platted. Sally is definitely her favourite at the moment.'

'Kids—Like yo-yo's they are.' Molly commented, as she put her apron on. 'One day they love you...and the next...'

Emily interrupted Molly. 'What time are you meeting this barrister woman, Luke?'

'I'm meeting this barrister woman, at one; for lunch, at the Westgate. Do you want to come with me, love?'

'Oh! Nice of you to ask but I can't, because I've got a dental appointment. I'm sure you'll be just fine without me.'

'Are you jealous, Emily?' Luke asked.

'Why—should I be?'

'No, not at all, my love. She's a middle-aged woman, for God's sake.'

Molly decided to make herself scarce and headed outside to pick some herbs.

Later at the Westgate Hotel

Melanie Bell was sitting at a table in the inner courtyard smoking a Black Russian. She checked her watch, discreetly fidgeted with her suspender belt and straightened her stockings as she waited for Luke to arrive. In the hotel foyer, a Grandfather clock chimed once, and, just like clockwork, Melanie Bell stubbed out her cigarette, opened her handbag, found her perfume, and dabbed it behind her ears. She was dressed to impress.

At that moment Luke was parking his car in the hotel car park. His nerves were on edge after the blazing argument with Emily about meeting Melanie. Emily had never shown any sign of jealousy before, but this morning she was not happy. Luke, at one point, nearly called it off, but in the end he managed to convince her there was no need to feel threatened by a middle aged woman. He hoped he was right.

Melanie stood up and watched Luke walk into the courtyard. He was wearing a dark-blue double breasted suit, white shirt and colourful tie.

'You made it.'

Luke checked his watch. 'Sorry, I'm a little late.'

Melanie held out her hand. 'What's ten minutes, anyway? Sit down and I'll get you a drink. What would you like?'

'Scotch, for me please.'

Melanie raised her hand to attract the waiter's attention. 'Single malt,' she demanded with an air of arrogance that Luke instantly disliked.

This isn't London.

The waiter approached. 'Certainly, is Laphroaig acceptable, sir?'

'Large Johnnie Walker, dash of water, thank you.' Luke replied.

'I'm afraid the standards here are just not up to scratch and the food is barely edible. I just hope lunch is better than the muck they served up last night.' Melanie lit another Black Russian.

'What is that?' Luke asked.

'Black Russian, darling. Would you like one?'

'Can't see me smoking a pink cigarette with a gold band, somehow.'

'Because you're a man?' Melanie asked, seductively.

Luke smiled.

'You'll tell me you don't like poetry next.'

'I don't. I tried Shelley once. Left me cold I'm afraid.'

'I love Shelley, Coleridge, Keats. They were insane romantics, all of them. I love that in a man.'

The waiter arrived with Luke's whiskey and placed it on the table. 'Will that be all madam?'

'Bring the lunch menu over and another gin and tonic for me; with ice and no lemon; understand?'

'Certainly, madam.'

'Are you a romantic, Luke?' Melanie asked.

'I can be.'

'I'm sure you can...but what first, business or pleasure?'

I'm beginning to dislike you, lady. 'I'd like to discuss your sister; if you don't mind.'

Melanie smiled, exposing her white teeth through gloss-red lips. 'That's why we're here, darling.'

'Yes, precisely.' Luke took a large sip of whiskey, lit a cigarette and composed himself... 'Shortly before your sister died, I visited her.'

Melanie raised her eyebrows.'That makes you a suspect.'

'I needed information from her.' Luke explained.

'Go on.' Melanie finished her gin and tonic and looked around. 'Where the hell is my drink?'

Luke took another sip of whiskey. '...How much do you know about your sister's past, Melanie?'

'I know she was a prostitute, if that's what you mean?'

At that moment the waiter arrived with the lunch menus and Melanie's drink.

'About bloody time!' Melanie cursed, as he walked away... 'And I know she was a bloody fool. Always looking for love, but never finding it of course. Men liked her because she was a good fuck and gave good head. She often bragged to me. I didn't tell her that it ran in the family.'

'What did?'

'Giving good head, darling'...Melanie ran her tongue across her top lip. 'They just abused her for what she was; stupid and gullible.'

Arrogant Bitch! 'Your sister was involved in a court case that sent an innocent man to prison.'

'How do you know he was innocent, if he was found guilty by a jury, how could he be innocent? Are you sure you're not letting your emotions get in the way?'

'I know because your sister admitted it to me.'

Melanie's tone hardened. 'Admitted what?'

'She admitted taking money off Jim Walker, to lie about Harry Somerville in court, under oath.'

'Who's Jim Walker and who's Harry Somerville?' Melanie asked.

Luke downed his drink. 'She never mentioned any of this to you, did she?'

Melanie shook her head. 'This is all news to me, darling.'

I'm not your darling! 'Jim Walker was Judith's pimp. He had a grudge against a chap called Harry Somerville; something that happened during the war. He paid two girls to go to court and lie about Harry. They said that he'd molested their children and the court believed them. Harry went down for it.'

'...Shit!'

'Shit, indeed. It destroyed his life and he died a homeless vagrant; thanks to Jim Walker. ...I also believe your sister was murdered.'

'What!'

'Judith was just about to spill the milk about Walker and I believe she was killed for it.'

'By this Jim Walker?'

'No, he's dead; had his throat cut recently. But someone is trying to protect his ill-gotten reputation. I suspect it's his sister. You see, Judith was the only person alive who knew the truth, and now she's gone, that bastard is going to get away with it.'

'Is Harry a relation of yours?'

'Let's just say Harry and I have something in common. We've both suffered at the hands of Jim Walker.'

Melanie stubbed out her cigarette and looked into Luke's determined eyes. 'It seems like a lot of people have. But if you don't have any evidence, you don't have a case, I'm afraid.'

Luke nodded his head, despondently.

'The coroner's report said that my sister committed suicide.'

Luke leaned towards Melanie. 'Believe what you want, but I saw a woman enter Judith's house as I was about to drive off. The woman was Carol Walker and she just happens to be Jim Walker's sister. Coincidence?'

Melanie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. 'We need proof; without that there's no case to answer.'

A waitress, clearing nearby tables, had been surreptitiously listening to their conversation. She made eye contact with Luke and smiled, before walking off.

Luke stood up. 'I'll find the proof; I don't know how; but I will.'

Melanie smiled. 'I like your attitude, Luke. Find the proof and I'll handle the case for you at no cost. We're both involved in this, now.'

'Thank you Melanie, I appreciate it... I think I'd better make tracks. Thanks for the drink.'

'There's champagne on ice in my room, if you're interested, darling?'

Shit, she's coming on to me. I was meant to be lunch! 'I think I'd better pass on that, if you don't mind.'

'That's a pity... Perhaps another time; in London, maybe?'

'Perhaps.'Luke shook her hand and walked away.

'Keep in touch,' she said.

Luke turned and nodded. When he reached the main entrance of the hotel the receptionist called to him:

'Excuse me sir, I believe you're Luke?'

'Yes, that's me.'

'I have a message for you, sir.' She handed him a plain, sealed envelope with his name, written in pencil, on the front.

'Thank you. Who's it from?'

'I...I'm not sure, sir,' she said, rather unconvincingly and quickly walked away.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

###

A Golden Opportunity

When Luke arrived back at Crossly Manor, Emily was waiting at the front door. Luke parked the car and Rachel wriggled free from Emily to run to him. He closed the driver's door, scooped Rachel into his arms and walked to Emily.

'I wasn't expecting you back so soon,' she said, clearly delighted.

Luke kissed her on her cheek. 'I couldn't wait to get away. What an arrogant bitch she was.'

Emily smiled, sympathetically. 'I'm sorry about this morning, darling.'

'I'll forgive you—if you put the kettle on.'

'Was it worth it?' Emily asked.

'Oh yes, it was worth it,' Luke said, passing the envelope to Emily. 'Read that!'

As they walked to the kitchen, Emily read the note, scribbled in pencil on hotel stationery:

My name is Mary Southgate and I was waitressing at the hotel today when I overheard your conversation about Jim Walker.

I have something you need, but please mention this to nobody, or I'm as good as dead.

I'm working Friday night and I finish at 11pm. I'll wait for you in the car park.

'That barrister woman gave you this?'

'No...no, that was left for me at reception. There was a waitress, clearing tables in the courtyard restaurant, but I didn't take much notice of her; it must have been her.'

'What does she mean, 'or I'm as good as dead?'' Emily asked, holding up the note.

'It would appear that the Walker family aren't a family to be messed with, wouldn't it?'

'Luke, I'm scared...I'm scared something's going to happen to us. Can't we just drop the whole thing?'

Luke poured some boiling water into the teapot. 'Nothing's going to happen to us, my love.'

Emily looked dismayed; clearly unconvinced by Luke's optimism.

'I want to meet this Mary woman, and find out what she has that I, supposedly, need.'

'Luke, what if it's a trap? Have you considered that? You might end up with your throat cut, God forbid.'

'No, I don't believe that, love. She wouldn't arrange to meet me in the hotel car park around closing time if it was a trap. It's much too public a place, for that kind of thing.'

'Then why all the secrecy? Leaving you a note; meeting you in the carpark? What's going on, Luke?'

'I don't know, love; but I intend to find out; and without getting my throat cut.'

Emily poured out a mug of tea for Luke. 'Why don't you take Sid with you, just in case?'

Luke smiled at Emily's suggestion. 'Love, I'll be fine. Please don't worry about me. This just might be my golden opportunity. I can't let it go without knowing what she has for me. Surely you can understand that?'

'Luke Collingbourne, you're a stubborn mule; but I love you so much.'

Luke kissed Emily's forehead... 'Betty, come on, I need to check the cattle.'

Emily smiled as she watched them leave. Seconds later, a worried frown, returned to her face.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

###

Meeting Mary

Luke had spent the morning helping Sid with his lambing. Vera had made a large beef stew and by midday Luke and Sid were sitting outside the farmhouse tucking into their lunch.

Fifteen-minutes later, their plates were wiped clean with the last of the bread and the cider jar was empty.

'By hell, love, that was good!' Sid picked up his cigarettes and offered one to Luke.

Luke reached over and took one. 'Thanks, Sid. Splendid stew, Vera!' Luke called out.

'Anyone want seconds?' Vera asked, popping her head out of the kitchen doorway.

'Go on then; shame to waste it,' Sid said.

'You'll bloody explode one of these days, Sid; your belly's bigger than mine and I'm the pregnant one.'

'You kept that quiet.'

That comment earned Sid a clip around the ear and a whack on the head with a wooden serving spoon.

Luke enjoyed his cigarette almost as much as his neighbour's good-hearted banter.

'You're bloody quiet today Luke, everything all right with you?' Sid enquired, before attacking his second helping of stew.

'I'm fine Sid. Springs on its way and I've got a full belly. Not a lot to complain about, is there?'

Sid was right though, Luke had been preoccupied most of morning, thinking about the note and meeting up with this, Mary woman, tonight. He was intrigued. 'Well, girl, I think it's time to make tracks.'

Betty looked up from the floor, where she'd been resting, after the busy morning chasing just about anything that moved.

'Thanks for the lunch, Vera. I feel like a good nap now, I'm so full.'

Sid smiled. 'Thanks for your help this morning, mate.'

'No problem, Sid, I think I might need your help soon, with the cow's calving.'

'Bit of practice for me, Vera!' Sid called out. 'Keep me hand in.'

'Sid, I don't want your hands within one-hundred yards of me when I'm giving birth,' came the reply from the kitchen.

Sid winked and Luke laughed out-loud.

Later that evening

Luke checked his watch; it was six minutes to eleven. He opened his driver's window and flicked his cigarette butt into the narrow flower bed next to the stone wall that encircled the hotel's car park. From his position he could see the rear door of the building. He sat and waited, listening to the Kinks's "Lola" playing on 208. The car park wasn't that busy for a Friday night; Luke counted fifteen cars.

At eleven-twenty the rear door opened and a woman emerged, dressed in a waitress's outfit.

Luke vaguely recognised her from the lunch date with Melanie the previous week. He got out of the car and walked slowly towards her. When she noticed him the woman hesitated. Her eyes scanned the carpark, furtively.

'Are you, Mary?' Luke asked.

The woman lit a cigarette. 'Can we sit in your car?' she asked, nervously.

'Sure.' Luke walked back to his Stag and opened the driver's door. He got in and opened the passenger door for the woman.

For a moment she sat in silence staring out of the windscreen.

Luke watched her as she fidgeted, tight lipped, breathing, through her nostrils.

She turned and looked at Luke with a frowned expression and sucked hard on her cigarette. 'You're in a lot of trouble,' she said. 'You're messing with the wrong people.'

'Have you come here to threaten me?'

'No, I haven't, I've come here to warn you. Don't mess with them. Leave this Somerville thing alone. Just walk away and pretend it never happened. He's dead anyway, it doesn't matter anymore? Nobody gives a damn about what happened to a dirty old tramp.'

'Who are you?' Luke asked.

The woman sniggered. 'I'm Mary Southgate. Jim Walker was my partner... I know what you're trying to do and believe me, I understand your reasons.'

No, you don't.

'You're messing with the wrong people.' Her hands trembled and ash fell from her cigarette onto her black skirt. She took a deep breath. 'He was fucking sick in the head... He was a paedophile, you know... Took our kid away they did, because he couldn't keep his hands off her; his own daughter, for Christ's sake! I told him it was my fault that she was taken away—because of my drug habit, and he beat me with a cricket bat; I lost eight teeth...I nearly died... I gave my daughter away, to protect her from him... I think about her every day of my life. I wonder where she is? What she looks like? I pray that she's happy; God I hope she's happier than I am...She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray...He worked as a caretaker, at a boys school, just so he could be around children. God knows what he got up to there?'

Luke breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions.

'I've wasted my life, Luke, don't waste yours.' Tears ran down her face... 'I'm sorry,' she said, sniffling and wiping the tears from her cheeks with her fingers.

'Who's after me?' he asked.

Mary stared straight ahead... 'His sister.'

'I thought so.'

'She's fucking insane too, just like he was.'

'She killed Judith Bell.'

The woman's eyes opened wide. 'And she'll kill you, too...believe me...I want out of this crazy situation, but for me there is no way out. You, have a choice. Drop the Somerville thing and nothing will happen to you.'

'Is that the deal on offer?'

'Yeah, and if you know what's good for you, you'll take it.'

Luke lit a cigarette and stared straight ahead, pensively... 'Tell her there is no deal. Tell her, from me, to go to hell and be with her brother in purgatory.'

Mary reached across and touched Luke's hand. 'You have a family to consider.'

Luke nodded, knowingly. 'Where can I contact you, Mary?'

She opened the passenger door and got out. She leaned down and looked across at Luke. 'You can't, I've done my bit,' she said, and walked away.

Moments later, Luke watched her drive out of the carpark into the night.

Harry, we can't let them get away with this. We've come too far now.

It was gone midnight when Luke arrived back home. He'd spent most of the journey thinking about the possible consequences of his decision. Should he have accepted the deal and simply walked away? Mary's words still echoed inside his head:

"You have a family to consider now."

Life, without Emily and Rachel was unthinkable. Luke noticed the bedroom light was on as he parked the car and he smiled. He knew Emily wouldn't go to sleep until he'd returned home safely.

As he approached the front door, it opened. Emily was standing there in her dressing gown. 'You're safe; thank God,' she said, and hugged him.

'I knew you'd be up.'

'I couldn't sleep, darling,' Emily said, closing the front door behind them. 'Come on then, tell me what happened?'

It was three o'clock in the morning when the sound of smashing glass woke them. A brick, wrapped in paper and string, had been thrown though their bedroom window and it was lying on the carpet.

Emily sat up in bed and switched on the bedside lamp. 'Oh my God, Luke, there's pieces of broken glass everywhere! What's going on?'

### CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

###

Good News and Bad News

Luke was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the note:

LET THIS BE A WARNING TO YOU.

THE NEXT TIME IT WILL BE PETROL.

'Luke, this has to stop, now! Do you understand me?' Emily was shaking.

Luke nodded in reluctant agreement.

Then there was a knock on the kitchen door. Betty started barking and Luke grabbed the shotgun from the kitchen table. 'Who is it?' Luke called out.

'Only your neighbour,' said the familiar voice.

'Sid!' Emily exclaimed, and ran to let him in.

'Look what I found running down the drive,' he said, holding a scruffy youngster by the collar of his jacket. 'Right my son, you'd better tell Mr Collingbourne exactly what's going on.'

'I en't telling nobody nuffink,' the kid muttered, as Sid marched him into the kitchen.

'What's going on, lad?' Luke asked him.

'I don't know nuffink, okay, mister.'

Luke winked at Sid. 'Sid, Emily and I'll go in the other room while you find out what's going on. You know how much we hate the site of blood.'

'Yeah, you are a bit squeamish, aren't you.'

The youth's face turned pale. 'You can't touch me, mister,' he said, watching open-eyed as Luke put a cleaver on the table.

'I'm not going to do anything to you, lad; but he is. Clean the block after you, Sid, Luke said, and walked out with Emily.'

'Wait!' The youngster cried out as Sid picked up the clever. 'Don't leave me with him, please!'

Luke walked back into the kitchen. 'Are you ready to talk then?' he asked the quivering youth.

Thirty minutes later the police had arrived and taken the youth away, together with the threatening note to be used as evidence. The frightened kid had confessed to the police that he'd been paid ten-pounds by Carol Walker to throw the brick through Luke's window.

'How did you catch him, Sid?' Luke asked.

'Well, Vera, here, was up pacing the bedroom.'

'Suffering from cramp, again,' she cringed.

'And thankfully, she noticed this kid sneaking up your drive, looking very suspicious. She woke me and I came over to see what was happening. I caught the little blighter just after he threw the brick through your bedroom window. I jumped on him and he nearly shit himself, he did. Wasn't expecting to see me, he wasn't.'

Luke patted Sid on the shoulder. 'Anyone would shit themselves if you jumped on them, mate.'

'Have another slice of cake, Sid,' Emily said, pointing to the cake-stand.

'Thank you love, I'm bloody starving. I'm not normally up this time of day, unless I'm lambing.'

'It's a bloody good job you're not, Sid Williams,' Vera added, 'you'd be the size of a cart-horse.'

Sid reached under the table and stealthily dropped a piece of Victoria sponge into the salivating jaws of Betty, before helping himself to another slice of the delicious cake.

'What's going to happen now?' Emily asked as she refilled everyone's tea-cups.

Luke looked at Emily. 'The police said they were off to arrest her. You can't go around doing that sort of thing and expect to get away with it, can you?'

'No, you can't; but she won't go to jail for it, will she?'

'Probably not, Emily,' Vera agreed; 'but why do it in the first place? Threatening people like that. It's terrible, that's what it is.'

Luke looked pensive as he rubbed his chin stubble with his fingers.

Vera finished her tea. 'Come on Emily, I'll give you a hand to clean up the glass.'

After the women left the kitchen, Luke smiled at Sid. 'Thank you buddy. I think I owe you an explanation.'

'I'm all ears,' said Sid, excitedly, as another piece of Victoria sponge found its way under the table.

'I don't think that kid knew Carol Walker very well, snitching on her like that in front of the police.'

'Who is she, this Carol Walker?' Sid asked.

'She's a very nasty bit of work, Sid; and she's after me.'

Rachel, for some reason, didn't wake until gone eight o'clock. Two hours later than normal and Emily was delighted, especially after the goings-on in the early hours. Sally, the au pair, had slept through the whole incident and was amazed to hear the story at breakfast, as was Molly when she arrived, just before nine.

After calling the glazier, Luke ate a hearty breakfast of porridge, followed by toast covered with a thick spread of Marmite and all swilled down with a very large mug of strong tea.

As he walked into his study, the phone rang and he lifted the receiver: 'Crossly Manor, Luke Collingbourne speaking.'

'Good morning Mr Collingbourne, this is Sergeant Cox speaking.'

Luke settled into his captain's chair. "Good morning Sergeant; what a palaver that was, wasn't it?'

'That was nothing, sir, believe me.'

Luke frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'After the fracas at your place, a couple of my offices visited Carol Walker's house. She clearly wasn't expecting a visit. The house was full of drugs and one of my offices was stabbed in the chest by someone making a run for it. My officer is in hospital, fighting for his life.'

'Oh Christ!'

'And that's not all, Mr Collingbourne, Carol Walker tried to escape from a bedroom window and fell.'

'Is she dead?' Luke asked.

'No, she's not dead. She's in hospital, too. She's in a coma with a suspected broken neck. So she won't be bothering you again, Mr Collingbourne.We estimate there was about ten-grand's worth of drugs in her place. Cocaine, heroin, LSD, cannabis, you name it, she was pushing it. There's a man-hunt going on at the moment for the person who stabbed my officer; we think it might be her son. I just hope it doesn't turn into a murder enquiry. She's in enough trouble already.'

'Good God! Thank you for letting me know, Sergeant.'

'It'll be all over the news any minute now, Mr Collingbourne. I just wanted to put your mind at rest, sir.'

'I really appreciate it. I just pray your officer recovers, Sergeant.'

'Thank you, so do I. His wife is expecting their first baby in two-months time.'

Luke replaced the receiver and sat quietly for a long time, grappling with the revelations; eventually he smiled. 'Serves you right, you bitch!' he said, as he strode back to the kitchen. 'Everyone sit down, please. I've got some news; very interesting news indeed.'

### CHAPTER THIRTY

###

The Hospital Visitor

Two-weeks had gone by since those eventful happenings and in that time further local excitement helped to fill the pages of the national press and boost sales of the Herald like nothing before in its history.

Sadly, the young police officer had died from his injuries. Carol Walker's son, who was responsible for the stabbing, went on the run, but was caught six-days later, cold and hungry, in a wood, twenty-miles from Greatly, after a tip off from a local farmer.

Carol Walker was still in a coma at the General hospital and the x-ray results had confirmed that her neck had been broken during the fall from the bedroom window; but the consequences of the break were impossible to assess until she regained consciousness.

It was nearly 2.00 pm and visitors, carrying flowers and gifts, were arriving at the hospital. A nurse had just finished giving Carol Walker a bed bath and was about to pull the privacy curtains back when an elderly patient at the other end of the ward began to convulse. The nurse rushed off to attend to the old lady.

At that instant someone walked into the ward and slipped behind the curtains that surrounded Carol Walker. The person looked impassively at the patient's blue and ochre bruised face. Leaning down near to her right ear the visitor whispered:

'The death knell is ringing, the raven is singing, the earth worm is creeping, the mourners are not weeping. Ding dong, bell—I hope you rot in hell!'

The visitor squeezed the patient's nose and covered her mouth with a handkerchief.

Moments later, during the ensuing commotion at the other end of the ward, Carol Walker's killer walked away unnoticed.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

###

Find the Pathway

One month later

'Good evening, the Westgate Hotel, how can I help you?'

'Can I speak with Mary Southgate please?'

'Who is it calling, sir?'

'My name is Luke Collingbourne; it's quite important that I speak to her.'

'Hold the line please...I'm sorry, sir, but Mary doesn't work here anymore. She handed her notice in a few weeks ago.'

Luke tapped the desk with his fingers and smiled through tight lips. 'Oh dear; will you give me her contact details, please?'

'I afraid we can't give out that kind of information; it's company policy, sorry sir.'

Luke massaged his forehead. 'Look, her mother has just died and I need to contact her. It's very important. I'm her uncle.'

'... Can you hold the line a minute, please.'

Moments later, Luke picked up a pen and started writing an address in his note book. 'Thank you very much, you've been most helpful.' He replaced the receiver 'Yes!' Now that Carol Walker's six-feet under and her son's a lifer, Mary just might talk, Harry?

Eighteen miles from home, Luke parked the car and walked the few yards to the white, flaking door that had the number 51 painted on it in black. He checked the card in his hand: 51 Laburnum Close. 'What a shit-hole,' he said quietly. He pressed the bell and waited. Someone was in, he could hear footsteps approaching.

The door opened and a fat greasy-haired man stood there with his shirt open; his enormous belly was hanging over his belt. 'Whah?' He asked.

'Can I speak to Mary Southgate, please?'

'Who the fuck's Mary Southgate?'

'The woman before us, you bonehead,' came a woman's voice from inside the house.... 'She's gone!'

'She's on the bog,' Bonehead explained.

'She pissed off owing three months rent. The landlord's threatening to kill her—if he ever finds her.'

'I don't suppose you know where I can find her do you?' Luke called down the corridor.

'Haven't got a clue,' came the answer from within...

Bonehead shrugged his shoulders and closed the door in Luke's face.

'Fuck!'

When Luke returned home, Emily could sense his frustration as he walked from the car.

'No luck?' she asked.

'No luck; she's gone; done a runner, owing three-months rent.'

Emily put her arms around Luke and kissed him. 'Cup of tea?'

'I could murder one, love... How's Rachel?'

'She's fine; she's playing in her bedroom with Sally.'

Later, when Luke walked into his study, Harry's journal was on the floor again. There was that smell of ink in the air as Luke picked it up and read the message:

Find the Pathway

'Find the Pathway?' he asked out loud, looking around the room. 'What do you mean, Harry? I don't understand; the pathway to where?' Despondently, he flopped into his chair, sighed heavily and lit a cigarette. He touched the message in Harry's journal and the letters smudged. 'Harry?'

'Suppers ready!' Emily called out.

'I'll be there now, love!' Luke closed the journal and placed it back on the shelf.

'Molly's cottage pie tonight, darling; are you hungry?'

'I was, but I seem to have lost my appetite after visiting 51 Laburnum Close.'

'You'll find her, darling, I just know you will.' Emily was sitting at the table reading the Herald.

'Aren't you eating tonight?' Luke asked.

'I ate earlier with Rachel.' Emily continued reading 'This residential rehab centre at Appleby isn't popular with the locals, is it? They've got Malcolm Morris involved now.' Rachel showed Luke the headlines :

PATHWAY REHAB CENTRE VISITED

BY MALCOLM MORRIS MP

Luke stared at the words, open mouthed.

'What's the matter with you?' Emily asked.

'...She's gone into rehab.'

'Who has?'

'Mary Southgate; she's gone into rehab.'

Emily frowned. 'How do you know that?'

For a brief moment, Luke considered showing Emily the message in Harry's journal... 'Trust me; and tomorrow I'll prove it to you.'

### CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

###

Delicate Negotiations

Luke sat down opposite Mary in the residents lounge. 'Thanks for seeing me.'

'I knew you'd find me,' she said, lighting a cigarette. She held up a packet of Rothmans. 'My only vice now.'

'How long have been here?' Luke asked.

'Five weeks but it's been worth it. I'm clean; due to leave this weekend. Getting out just in time; this place is not popular with the locals at the moment.'

'Yeah, I saw something in the Herald. What was all that about?' Luke asked.

'Some young prick, in here at his parents cost, got out last week and went into town. He came back with a shit load of LSD and sold most of it to the residents. One lad climbed the flagpole on the village green, naked, and was fighting off aeroplanes; thought he was King-fucking-Kong.' Mary burst out laughing, followed quickly by a chesty coughing fit.

After she'd recovered, Luke asked her: 'Do you have somewhere to go, Mary?'

'I've got some money now and I've found myself a place to rent, not far from here... I want to start a new life, get a job, be normal'... Mary glanced out of the window... 'But I know why you're here.'

Luke smiled, sympathetically.

Mary sucked hard on her cigarette. 'I'm not sure I could go through with it.' 'Even though the bitch is dead. They say she died of heart failure but I know that's impossible. She didn't have a fucking heart!'

Luke smiled again. He knew that if he pushed too hard she'd close the door in his face. He decided to let her do the talking.

'I want to find my daughter, Luke. I want to explain to her why I did what I did. I want to see her face before I die. Most of all, I want the chance to apologise to her. Can you understand that?'

'Yes, I can.' Luke answered sympathetically.

Mary dabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray; her eyes darted around the room. She lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned towards Luke. 'I took her money from under the floorboards in her bedroom.' She looked at Luke, smugly. 'Why not? She won't be needing it where she's gone. Mary mouthed the words—Five grand!'

Luke raised his eyebrows and whistled.

'I know it's drug money, but I don't care.' She sat back again, pleased with her confession. 'As far as I'm concerned, it's payback, for all those wasted years. This time though it won't be wasted. Mary Southgate has found the way out of Hell; the road to freedom, and I intend to enjoy it.'

'Mary, can we stay in touch? One day, maybe, in the future, you might decide to do the right thing and clear the name of an innocent man.'

Mary looked at Luke for a moment. 'Yeah, why not.' She took a pen and paper from her bag, wrote down an address and handed it to Luke. 'How did you know I was here?'

'Just a hunch really; I guess I got lucky.' Luke offered her a cigarette.

Mary smiled and took it. 'Thanks, you're a smart kid... Tell me, what's driving you on? What's your motivation? Was Harry, family?'

Luke had been waiting for the question... 'Do you remember you told me about Walker, working as a caretaker at a school, so that he could be around children?'

Mary nodded.

'I was one of those children at that school; one of a number of kids that were repeatedly raped by that monster.'

Mary covered her face with her hands... 'Oh my God!... You know, someone carved monster on his forehead, before he was killed? They got that right, didn't they?'

Luke simply nodded. 'So you see, Harry and I have a common grievance.'

Mary took a deep breath. 'It's not just you and Harry.'

'So will you help me clear his name?' Luke asked, tentatively.

Mary nodded... 'Yeah, I'll help you.'

Emily listened intently as Luke updated her on his conversation with Mary.

Emily smiled, 'That's great news. So how do you intend to move forward with this?'

Luke sipped his coffee, rubbed Betty's ear and thought about the answer. Hesitantly, he asked, 'You know that barrister woman?'

Emily laughed. 'Yes, I know that barrister woman!'

'Well, she's offered'... Luke hesitated, choosing his words carefully, 'she's offered to take on the case—at no cost. But, if you have an issue with her, then I won't approach her.'

'Why would she do that?' Emily asked.

'I think I convinced her that her sister was murdered by Carol Walker, before she could tell the truth. It's her way of carrying on the baton, for Judith's sake.'

'She can't personally take on the case, can she, with Judith being her sister?'

'That's true, but someone who works for her could, surely? The worst case scenario is that she simply advises us; points us in the right direction.'

Emily nodded. 'I suppose you'd better call her then and find out.'

Luke was deep in thought as he walked down the hallway to his study. Was there finally a light at the end of tunnel, or was it just wishful thinking? He opened the note book on his desk, found the London number, and dialled Melanie Bell, QC.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

###

The Death of Auntie Dorothy

Luke, shouted down the hallway. 'Emily, there's a call for you in my office!'

'Coming!' came the reply... A moment later Emily walked in wiping her hands in her apron. 'Who is it?' she asked.

'Some lady; she wants to speak to you.'

'Hello, Emily Collingbourne, speaking.' Luke watched as Emily listened and talked down the phone to someone about her Auntie Dorothy.

Finally, Emily put the phone down. 'Auntie Dorothy's dying; I need to go there; she keeps asking for me.'

'I'll come with you.' Luke responded. Sally can look after Rachel, tonight.

Within the hour, they'd left the house and were driving the thirty miles to Upper Keenly.

'The lady at the home said Auntie had had a bad turn last night and that she was drifting in out of consciousness. She said she keeps calling out my name.'

'Well, you are the only family she has, love.'

Emily frowned, 'Yes, I am—I hope we're not too late.'

Forty-three minutes later Luke pulled into the car park of The Green Meadows Residential Home.

Emily looked at Luke. 'Let's hope she's still alive.'

'Come on,' he said, trying to sound positive.

A rather worried looking woman by the name of Mrs Wilks greeted them at the entrance and showed them up to Auntie Dorothy's room. 'The doctor's been to see her this morning but he said there's little we can do for her, now. I'm not sure how long she's got to be honest with you, Mrs Collingbourne.' Mrs Wilks opened a door marked number 4 and gestured them to go in. In the corner, Auntie Dorothy lay in bed, mumbling to herself.

Emily approached and held her hand. 'Auntie it's me, Emily.'

'Emily, is that you?'

'Yes, it's me, Auntie.'

'I'm so glad you came.' Aunt Dorothy looked up through half open eyes. Her waxy face was pale and gaunt.

'I've got Luke with me, Auntie.'

'Good...good.' The old woman coughed and wheezed, struggling to get her breath. 'Emily... you haven't been told the truth about your parents.'

Emily looked at Luke and frowned. 'What do you mean, Auntie?'

'Emily it's important you know the truth, before I die.' Auntie coughed again. 'Your mother did it for you; you must understand that, Emily.'

'Did what?'

'Protected you, from him; that evil monster.'

'Auntie, you're not making any sense.'

Luke instinctively moved closer to Emily and put his hand on her shoulder.

'Frank, the man... who brought you up... he is not your father, my dear.'

Emily covered her mouth with her hand.

'Your real father was a terrible man. You were taken away from him for your own good. Your mother was...' Auntie coughed; blood splattered onto the cotton bedsheets.

'She's dying, Luke.'

Luke leaned down, 'Auntie...Auntie... Who was Emily's mother?'

Dorothy opened her eyes... 'Mary was your mother, she did it for you, to protect you from him, because she loved you, we loved you, Emily. He was a pervert.'

'Mary Southgate?' Luke asked.

'Mary, yes; she did it for you. Mary... So...' Auntie coughed and thick dark blood dribbled down her chin onto her nightdress.

Tears streamed down Emily's face. 'Mary Southgate is my mother? No!...No! Auntie, please tell me it's not true. Tell me it's not true, please!'

The old lady exhaled a long, gurgling breath; urine dripped from the bed onto the floor.

'Oh my God, Luke!' Emily cradled her head in her hands. 'This is a nightmare.'

Luke realised the consequences. It meant Emily's real father was Jim Walker. He stood in stunned silence next to his wife.

The drive home seemed to take forever. Emily sobbed gently into her handkerchief and Luke occasionally glanced sympathetically at her, not really knowing what to say to comfort her. Their world had been turned upside down. The woman Luke loved so much, had been spawned by the very man he hated. Emily's mother was a junkie and her father was a paedophile.

As they approached the house Emily looked at Luke through red, swollen eyes. 'Promise me you'll say nothing to anyone about this.'

He smiled, sympathetically. 'I promise,' he said, parking the car outside the main door. Emily got out. 'I'm going to bed. I don't want to see or speak to anyone at the moment.'

When Luke walked in the house he watched Emily running up the stairs.

Sally, the au pair, was standing in the entrance hall looking somewhat uncomfortable.

'Rachel's asleep, sir. Can I get you a coffee or something?'

Luke was pre-occupied for a moment... 'Put the kettle on Sally, I'll be back in a moment,' he said and trotted up the stairs after Emily. When he got to their bedroom the door was ajar and he could hear sobbing. The room was in darkness and Emily was lying on the bed, fully clothed.

'My father was a paedophile,' she said, as Luke entered the room. 'My father raped my husband. How the fuck do I live with that?'

Luke sat on the bed not really knowing what to say. The whole situation was so surreal; like a bad dream; no... like a sick nightmare.

'Is everything okay sir?' Sally asked as Luke walked into the kitchen.

'Emily's auntie died today, Sally.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, sir.'

'I need a drink.' Luke said, firmly.

'Tea or Coffee, sir?'

Luke walked to the fridge and took out a bottle of cider. 'Something a bit stronger, I think, Sally.'

'Was she very old, sir, Emily's Auntie?'

'Do you know Sally, I don't know.' Luke opened the cider and drank straight from the bottle.

'Well, if you'll excuse me I'll go to bed now.'

'Thank you for looking after Rachel today, Sally.'

Sally smiled. 'There was something I wanted to ask you, sir, but it can wait. Another day won't hurt.'

'What's it about?' Luke asked.

'Oh, it's just that I want your advice on something. I'll speak to you again, good night, sir.' Sally left the room and closed the door behind her.

'Good night, Sally.' Luke finished the bottle and immediately opened another one. His mind was in turmoil.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

###

Dark Days

Dorothy's revelations changed everything, overnight. Luke tried his best to be cheerful and support Emily but she became depressed and spent long periods in her room with the curtains drawn, a recluse, hiding from the painful truth.

Thankfully, Sally was there to look after Rachel when Emily's depression became too much and she walked away, zombie like, to her room.

Luke felt a strange kind of guilt as he pursued Harry's case. He was now trying to expose an evil man who just happened to be his wife's father. Emily had told Luke that he had her full support and to carry on, but Luke could sense she was a broken woman. Her joie de vivre, the very thing he found so appealing about her, had abandoned her. She was existing, but she stopped living the day Auntie Dorothy died. Her heart was broken and she felt deeply ashamed of her parents.

Sid and Vera were broken hearted too. They didn't know the real reason for Emily's depression but Vera realised it wasn't simply the death of Auntie Dorothy; she knew there was more to it than that. Vera wanted to share the joy of her pregnancy with Emily, but Emily wasn't interested.

Sid did his best to keep Luke as cheerful as possible and Luke continued to call in for a drop of cider and a cigarette. The chat was always light-hearted with little talk of Emily. That subject was always left to Vera to bring up, and she did, every time Luke arrived at the farm.

Luke had told her. 'She's okay, Vera. The doctor says that it's depression all right and we just have to be patient with her.'

Both Mary Southgate and Melanie Bell kept their promises to Luke and the legal process to clear Harry's name had started at the Ministry for Justice, in London. Mary wasn't aware that Emily was her daughter and every time Mary mentioned to Luke that she was determined to find her daughter, he simple nodded, knowing that he was looking at his mother-in-law, but he had sworn to Emily, never to tell a soul.

Initially, the fact that Emily was Jim Walkers's daughter disturbed him, but he fought with his emotions and won. Emily was his wife and he loved her, for better or worse. Luke often reminded himself of the happy days at Crossly Manor. The wonderful Christmases with too much food: the summer evenings drinking wine with Emily on the lawn: the sound of her laughter: the feel of her naked body and the taste of her moist lips. Above all he missed the, I love you, hugs.

His heart felt heavy but he kept smiling; kept focussed; hoping and praying that one day Emily would regain her spirit and the happy times would return.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

###

A Visit to the QC

It was a Tuesday morning when Luke received a call from Melanie Bell's secretary asking him to hold the line while she connected him. There was a pause, and then:

'Good morning, Luke.'

'Good morning Melanie; you sound cheerful this morning.'

'Well, I might be having a candle-lit dinner with you soon, darling.'

'What's happening?' Luke asked.

'Harry's case has been reviewed and it looks like we're going ahead, on the basis that it was a travesty of justice. The evidence, including yours, you poor dear, seems overwhelming; we just need to convince the powers-that-be that he was framed and wrongly imprisoned. We need to get his conviction quashed.'

'How long will that take, Melanie?'

'You can't rush the system, darling.'

Luke tensed. I am not your darling, he thought.

'It has its own inertia. You just have to be patient in this business. I need to see you, though. There are things that need to be sorted out. It's very important that we get all our ducks in a row. We'll only get one chance, Luke, and we have to do it properly. I want you to meet Jeffery Chadwick-Gould, QC. He's the barrister representing you. When can you come to London?'

'Will one day be enough? Because my wife's not very well at the moment and I don't want to leave her on her own for too long.'

'It's not ideal, but if that's all you can manage, so be it.' Melanie sounded irritated.

'Can I come tomorrow, for the day?'

'I'll get our chauffeur to pick you up at St. Pancras Station. Let my secretary know the arrangements when you've booked the train. I look forward to seeing you...darling.' The line went dead. Luke stood up and looked out of the window. Not long now, Harry, but we can't rush the system. It has its own inertia, you know.

On the train to London, Luke's mind was working overtime. He realised he now had a dichotomy. He was excited about clearing Harry's name but at the same time he was worried about how it would affect his marriage. His relationship with Emily was falling apart. Emily didn't want him to touch her anymore. Her moods were worsening and most of her days were spent in bed. Rachel was starting to play up as a consequence of her mother's neglect and Luke was beginning to feel the pressure of a failing marriage. It seemed to Luke that even though Jim Walker was dead, he was somehow able to inflict misery on him from the grave. And worse, he was able to ruin his daughter's life, too. Something he wasn't allowed to do in life.

I hate you, you fucking bastard. Luke's fists were clenched and his knuckles were white with rage. The old rage, the inner furnace, fuelled by hate, had returned to haunt him. He lit a cigarette and stared out of the train window. All at once he felt so alone; the kind of loneliness he once accepted as normal, when he lived under the viaduct. The awful memories of those days had been washed from his mind by Emily's love for him. Was the tide turning? Was happiness only to be enjoyed for a short time? Was that part of his life now over?

Luke's train pulled into St. Pancras station right on time. Luke checked his watch as the echoing voice bellowed the announcement of the train's arrival at platform two.

Outside the station, Luke found the man holding up a card with his name, on it. 'Hi, I'm Luke Collingbourne.'

'Ah, good morning to you, sir; follow me please,' the chauffeur said with a soft Irish lilt.

Thirty minutes later, Luke was drinking coffee in Melanie Bell's chambers, waiting for Melanie, and Jeffery Chadwick-Gould to arrive.

The large oak door opened as Luke was finishing his coffee and Melanie Bell sauntered into the room dressed in black, court attire.

Luke lifted himself off the comfortable leather Chesterfield and stood up to greet her.

'Luke, how lovely to see you again.' Melanie pouted and kissed him on both cheeks. 'Good journey,' she asked ?

Luke forced a smile. 'Pleasant enough and on time, thank you.'

'It's a pity you need to go back tonight. I was going to show you a good time, darling.' She lit a black Russian and smiled seductively.

Luke smiled back. He admired the woman's confidence and audacity and he enjoyed the attention of a woman whose perfume intoxicated him.

The door opened and a tall, pipe smoking, middle-aged man, wearing a dark, three-piece suit and gold-rimmed glasses, walked in.

Melanie gestured to him. 'Luke, this is Jeffery Chadwick-Gould, QC, he's handling this appeal.'

'Good morning, sir,' he said, offering his hand.

'Good morning, young man. I've heard a lot about you,' he said, glancing at Melanie.

In Luke's nostrils the sweet smell of Dutch, aromatic tobacco replaced the scent of Melanie's perfume.

'I understand you don't have a lot of time today?' His voice was deep and authoritative.

'I'm afraid my wife is ill; I need to be with her at the moment.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. Let's hope she gets well soon, eh?'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Call me, Jeffery, please... Right, no time to waste. Let's get down to the business of clearing Harry's name. Follow me please.'

Melanie's eyes fixed on Luke's firm buttocks as he followed Chadwick-Gould out of the room. 'It'll be worth the wait,' she said, quietly.

Back at Greatly Town Hall, Sally Parfait walked out of the main doors into the sunshine and smiled. The interview hadn't been as bad as she'd anticipated. All that worry for nothing, she thought. She glanced at the church clock before hurrying off to catch the bus. She'd promised Emily she'd be back before lunch. As she waited at the stop, she said to herself: 'Nineteen-seventy-six; that could prove to be my year. Patience is a virtue, Sally.'

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

###

The Sound of a Gun

Luke was having breakfast in the kitchen when Emily and Rachel walked in.

'Mummy would like a cup of tea, please, Molly.'

Emily smiled.

'Kettles on, ma'am,' Molly said, cheerfully.

Luke stood up and walked to Emily. 'How are you feeling?' he asked, kissing her on the cheek.

'I'm okay,' she said, in a downbeat manner.

'Two sugars for Mummy. That's right isn't it, Mummy?'

'That's right, my love.' Emily sat down at the kitchen table. Her complexion was pallid and she looked tired.

Rachel carefully carried the mug of tea and placed it on the table. 'Can I put the sugar in for you?' she asked.

'Okay, two lumps, remember?'

Rachel looked excited and climbed up next to Emily on the bench seat. 'One...two, there; shall I stir it, Mummy?'

'You are being spoilt today, aren't you?' Luke said to Emily.

Emily nodded her head subserviently and put her arm around Rachel.

'Can I do you some boiled eggs, ma'am?'

'I was just thinking the same thing, Molly; two soft-boiled, please.'

'And some toast soldiers as well, for Mummy,' Rachel insisted.

After breakfast Emily went back to bed.

It pleased Luke to see her making an effort and Rachel clearly enjoyed her mother's attention, if only for a short while. He was frightened to raise his hopes too quickly but it was a positive sign.

The night before, on the way back from London, Luke spent a lot of time thinking about Melanie. She was such an electric personality, so confident, so bubbly, and so attentive. She made no secret of the fact that she wanted him. Luke shook his head as a naked image of her flashed into his mind. Clearing his mind, he asked Rachel:

'Is Sally taking you to nursery this morning, my love?'

'Can Mummy take me today, Daddy?' Rachel asked.

'Not today; when she's felling better. Shall I take you, instead?'

'Yeaaaah!'

'Ask Sally to get you dressed then. Off you go.'

Rachel skipped out of the kitchen into the hallway. 'Sally, My Daddy says you have to dress me!' she shouted.

'I said ask her, not tell her!'

Molly smiled sympathetically at Luke as she cleared the breakfast table. 'It was nice to see her this morning, sir.'

'One day Molly; she just needs time.'

'I pray for her, every day, I do.'

'Thank you Molly... Anymore tea in the pot?'

Most of Luke's afternoon was taken up inspecting the cattle and the perimeter fencing. The twelve calves born some six weeks ago were all doing well and looking strong. Luke walked across the fields with Betty never far away. His emotions were confused. He wished he had someone to talk to, someone like Melanie.

On his way back to the house, Luke heard a familiar voice in the farmhouse garden. 'Luke, this cider is the best I've ever made. Try some of this.'

Vera was hanging out the washing when Luke walked through the garden gate. 'Hello, my love, how are you?' she asked. At eight-months pregnant she now had a very large lump, and she looked a picture of health.

'I'm fine thank you, Vera. There's no need to ask how you are, is there?'

Vera chuckled. 'And how's Emily today, Luke?'

'Well, she had breakfast with us in the kitchen this morning.'

'Oh, I do hope she gets better soon.'

'She will, Vera.'

'Try that, young man,' Sid said, offering Luke a glass of cloudy, yellow liquid.

Vera cringed. 'Looks like horse piss to me. I'm buggered if I know how you can drink that stuff.'

'Taste it, don't listen to her.' Sid said, excitedly.

'Oooh, that's good!'

'I bloody told you, didn't I? Grab a chair and we'll have a little session.'

'Sid Williams, you're a bad influence, you are.' Luke settled into a chair next to Sid and watched as his glass was filled to the brim.

Luke raised his glass. 'Cheers.'

BANG! The sound of a single gun shot came from the direction of the house.

Luke looked at Sid as they both stood up in stunned silence. Crows, nesting in the trees near the house had taken flight and were circling like black gliders in the silence of the warm evening air.

'Vera, you stay here,' Sid insisted, as he followed Luke through the garden gate.

Vera watched as both men hurried across the field. 'Please God,' she said, as her trembling hand covered her mouth.

'Emily!... Emily!' Luke shouted as he pushed the kitchen door open. He raced upstairs to the bedroom but Emily wasn't in bed. 'Emily! Oh God, what have you done?'

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

###

Can you Keep a Secret?

'What is it, what's the matter?' Emily was standing in the doorway to the bathroom drying her hair with a towel. 'What's going on, Luke?'

Luke walked to her in silence and wrapped his arms around her. 'You're okay.'

'Of course I'm okay; I decided to have a bath. What's the matter with you?'

'I heard a gunshot.'

Emily frowned. 'And you thought someone broke in and shot me?'

Luke just smiled as he held her tightly.

'I saw Wilfred with his gun earlier. He was probably shooting at a fox. But with his eyesight I doubt whether he h could have hit it.' Emily pulled away and walked nonchalantly back into the bathroom.

Luke leaned against the landing wall and took a few deep breathes. His pulse was still racing and his hands were trembling.

'Luke!' Sid called from the bottom of the stairs.

Luke appeared at the top of the stairs. 'It's okay Sid, Emily's fine.'

Sid said:

'It was Wilfred, Luke; he killed a fox.'

'Christ!' Luke said, in surprise, jogging down the grand staircase; adrenaline still pumping through his veins. 'We'll never hear the end of this. He couldn't hit a barn door with a shovel, normally.'

Vera watched as Sid, Luke and Wilfred crossed the field, like soldiers going on leave. They were chatting, laughing and gesticulating as they walked. Vera smiled, realising everything was all right.

Sid noticed her at the gate and gave her a thumbs up.

Vera rushed into the house, unable to stop herself from crying.

The big farmer grabbed three glasses from the kitchen shelf, put them on the table and filled them with cider. Then he called up the stairs. 'We've come to finish off the horse piss, love!'

'How's Emily?' Vera asked.

'She's fine. It was Wilfred we heard. The old bugger bagged himself a fox.'

'In one!' Wilfred shouted.

'I'll be down in a minute.' Vera replied from the bedroom as she touched up her makeup.

Sid handed out the drinks.

Luke flopped into one of the garden chairs and swallowed a large mouthful of cider. He lit a cigarette and looked up at the sky as he exhaled. He felt exhausted.

Sid refilled Luke's glass. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah... I think so.'

Wilfred leaned towards Luke. 'That's only the second fox I've ever shot in my life.' He looked smug as he nodded his head.

'Well done, Wilfred; here's to you.' Luke raised his glass then downed it in one.

The old gardener finished his cider and squinted at his pocket watch. 'I'm off now; it's time for my bed. I'll see you both in the morning, gentlemen.'

'Sleep well Wilfred, and good shooting.'

Wilfred touched his cap and headed off across the field.

...'If he only knew what we were thinking after he fired that shot, Sid?'

Sid laughed. 'Perhaps it's best he doesn't know, Luke.'

'Yeah, you're right. At least I know Emily isn't considering suicide.'

Sid looked confused. 'What do you mean by that?'

'Well, you and I feared the worst, didn't we? But Emily assumed we thought she'd been shot by an intruder.'

Sid filled Luke's glass, again. 'I see what you mean,' he said, retaining his confused expression.

Luke wanted to mention Melanie. He'd been thinking about her a lot but he held back, not knowing how to bring her into the conversation.

Then Sid mentioned Harry. 'How's Harry's appeal coming on, Luke?'

Luke lit another cigarette.

'You're smoking too much.'

'It's my nerves—It's going ahead in two-weeks time, Sid. Melanie Bell has been the driving force behind it but we have a top lawyer on the case by the name of Jeffery Chadwick-Gould, QC.'

'Hell! He sounds expensive.'

Luke smiled. 'Melanie's picking up the bill.'

Sid raised his eyebrows. 'Why's she doing that?'

'She's doing it for her sister. She knows that Carol Walker was responsible for Judith's death. She can't act directly as she's got a vested interest, so she's got her partner to do it, this Jeffery Chadwick-Gould, QC. Like me she wants to expose the Walker's for what they were.'

'What's she like, this Melanie woman?'

Luke smiled at Sid. 'She's quite dynamic.'

'You're not, are you?'

Luke frowned, defensively. 'Noooo...She's a middle-aged woman, Sid.'

Sid glanced at the farmhouse and then at Luke. 'So, is she a good looker?'

Luke sucked on his cigarette, thoughtfully... 'I suppose she is—yeah.' He was about to add that he was happily married, but the words wouldn't come out. 'What would you think of me, Sid, if I did?'

Sid immediately reached for his cigarettes, took one from the packet and tapped it too many times on the side of the packet before lighting it. 'You know me, Luke, I'm not the best person to ask about things like that.' Sid's face turned as red as the setting sun that was disappearing behind Lark's Hill, half a mile to the west. 'Vera's the only woman I've ever had. I'd be frightened to have another woman, knowing the punch she can pack; and that's just for farting.'

Luke laughed.

'I know things aren't good with you and Emily at the moment, are they, mate?'

Sid's cider was beginning to loosen Luke's tongue. 'Can I tell you something in strict confidence, Sid?'

'Course you can, Luke, you know me by now.'

'Promise me you won't even tell Vera.'

'I promise.'

'... When I was a lad, at Greatly Children's Home, I was abused by Jim Walker. It wasn't just me, it was other boys too.'

'What, like he beat you up?' Sid asked.

Luke sipped some more 'courage'... 'No, not like that. He sexually abused us.'

Sid grimaced. 'The dirty bastard!'

'He got his comeuppance in the end, though. I caught up with him just before he was killed. I cut the word monster into his forehead.' Luke looked at Sid to see his reaction.

'You didn't kill him did you, Luke?'

'No, Sid, I wanted to, but I couldn't do it; as much as I detested him. One of the other boys killed him. He cut his throat out, cut his cock off and stuffed it in his mouth.'

Sid shook.

'That's why I'm doing this thing for Harry. We've both suffered at the hands of Jim Walker.'

Sid sucked on his cigarette, flabbergasted. 'So why is Emily so depressed. It can't be just her Auntie's death, can it?'

Luke shook his head. 'No, there more to it than that... Jim Walker had a partner and they had a child; but she was taken from them by the council because they feared for her safety; with Walker being a paedophile and the girl's mother, Mary Southgate, being a drug addict. She's the one going to court to tell the truth about Harry's wrongful conviction, and how he was set up by Jim Walker as an act of revenge. Walker, blamed Harry for the loss of an eye in the war.'

Sid was sitting opened mouthed, listening intently to Luke. 'How did Walker set him up?'

'Ahhh! A very good question. Walker wasn't just a paedophile, he was also a drug dealer and a pimp. He paid two of his girls to stand up in court and accuse Harry of molesting their children. The jury believed them and Harry was sent down. One of the girls was Judith Bell—Melanie's sister.'

'Christ!' Sid dashed off to the kitchen and hurried back with another flagon of cider. 'But I don't get it. Where does Emily fit in to any of this?'

Luke took a deep breath... 'Emily is Jim Walker's daughter—and Mary Southgate is Emily's mother.'

Behind the bedroom curtain, Vera's hands spontaneously reached up to her mouth to muffle the sound of her shocked gasp.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

###

What Words?

'That's why Emily's so depressed, Sid. She feels deeply ashamed of being part of the Walker family.'

Sid lowered his head, lost for words.

Luke continued, 'I must admit, I struggled with it for a while, knowing only too well who and what her father was, but Emily is my first love. You know how she knocked me off my feet, don't you?'

'Yeah,' Sid said, smiling. 'You walked around in a bloody dream for weeks.'

'She's my soul mate...or at least she was, until she found out about...' Luke struggled with the words and his eyes filled up... 'It feels like I've lost her, Sid. She won't let me touch her in bed, anymore. She's lost her spirit and Rachel's suffering as well. All Rachel wants is her mother's affection and Emily can't give it to her. I don't know why, it's not the child's fault, is it?' Luke's pent up emotions were pouring out and Sid was struggling with his emotions as well. 'I suppose that's why I find Melanie's advances so exciting. It feels like she's taken over from Emily.'

'Don't go down that road, mate. Give Emily more time. I know how much she loves you. She's in an awful place emotionally, at the moment, but she needs you to be there for her. Without you, God knows what she might do.'

Luke watched and listened to Sid as he advised him, like a man possessed. The big farmer's speech was eloquent and compelling; finding all the right words to convince Luke that he would be making a huge mistake, if he succumbed to Melanie's advances. Sid finally finished speaking, saying, 'You've never given up on Harry, have you Luke?—You've always believed in him, haven't you?'

Luke nodded his head.

'Then don't give up on Emily; believe in her, too.'

Tears trickled down Luke's cheeks. 'What would I do without you, Sid?'

'You'd have to buy a lot more cider, that's for sure.' Sid leaned over and farted. 'It's okay, the old girl's asleep,' he said, looking up at the bedroom window.

Vera desperately wanted to run down stairs and hug Sid, but she refrained; instead she wandered to the bathroom to blow her nose and dab her puffy eyes with some cold water. She was so proud of him.To hear him speak like that took her by surprise. He normally spluttered and coughed as he struggled to find the right words. She looked at her lump in the mirror. 'You've got the best dad in the world, you have,' she said to her unborn baby.

When Luke stood up, his legs protested. 'Shit! Sid, I'm a bit piddled.'

'Get on the tractor, lad, I'll drop you off at the house.'

Luke was grateful for the lift back to the house even if it was a bit bumpy, straddled across the bonnet like a cowboy riding a bronco at a rodeo. Sid stopped twice for Luke to be sick, but, by the time he opened the kitchen door, he was at least able to walk without falling over. Luke's final memory of that night was Sid, cigarette in mouth, waving goodnight as he sped off down the driveway on his shiny, white tractor.

Twenty minutes later, Luke was unaware of Emily putting a blanket over him as he slept on the sofa.

And strangely, the next day, Sid couldn't remember one word of advice he'd given to Luke. When Vera asked him where all the words of guidance had come from, Sid had simply replied, 'What words, my love?'

### CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

###

Harry's Day

It was the big day; the culmination of Luke's efforts to clear the name of Harry Somerville.

Emily had decided to stay at home. A visit to London was too much for her in her present state of mind but she wished Luke well and said she would pray for a successful outcome.

The train journey with Mary Southgate, the evening before, had been pleasant and they chatted for most of the journey. Luke struggled at times, knowing that Emily had rejected her. Blissfully unaware of Emily's rejection Mary spoke honestly about her early years, and Luke was growing fond of her; he admired her spirit. What she was about to do in court deserved credit and respect and he would tell Emily so, on his return

Luke had booked two rooms at the Grosvenor Hotel for the night before, because the day's proceedings were due to start at 9.30am. It was the first time Mary had visited London and the first time she'd ever stopped in a hotel, anywhere.

After a few drinks at the bar and an evening meal together in the hotel restaurant, Luke arranged to meet Mary for breakfast at 8.00 am.

Mary joined Luke in the busy restaurant at two-minutes past eight. Both of them were suffering with nerves and actually only managed to eat a little buttered toast and coffee. It was much easier to have a cigarette, and it helped calm their anxieties. Mary was smartly dressed in a burgundy two piece outfit and new black shoes that were going to give her a blister, she confidently informed Luke. A night without sleep and a bout of nervous sickness showed on her face.

Luke wore a black two-piece suit with white shirt and yellow, paisley tie. He was a big hit with the young waitresses who argued amongst themselves about who would serve him.

Melanie had tried desperately to persuade him to stay other night, but Mary wasn't confident enough to travel home on her own, so Luke declined Melanie's offer. Mary was actually a wonderful excuse for him to go home. He didn't want to put himself in a position where temptation could compromise his marriage. Luke knew, only too well, that his resolve wasn't that strong at the moment. He was very aware that Melanie would only need one opportunity to break him.

By 8.45 am, Luke had paid his hotel bill and had been greeted by Melanie's Irish chauffeur in the foyer. Moments later, Luke and Mary were sitting on the back seat of a Daimler, on their way, through the London traffic, to the Court of Appeal, on the Strand.

### CHAPTER FORTY

###

Ask Sally

Summer, 1976

Luke awoke to the sound of Rachel's laughter, coming from her bedroom. Sally's with her, he thought.

Emily was covered up next to him, sleeping. He checked his watch, it was nine-fifteen. He put his dressing gown on and walked out to see Rachel; leaving Emily to sleep.

'Daddy!' she cried, when he walked into her room. He held out his arms and Rachel ran to him. 'Is Mummy awake?' she asked, excitedly.

'No, not yet; Mummy's very tired this morning, darling, so please don't wake her.'

'But I want to see her.'

'You'll see her in a little while. Come on, it's time for breakfast.'

'Daddy, has Mummy stopped loving me?'

Luke picked up Rachel and hugged her. 'No, Mummy would never stop loving you. Mummy loves you very much, my darling. It's just that she's not very well at the moment.'

'Will she get better, Daddy?'

'Of course she will, darling.' Luke's eyes moistened as he forced a smile.

Molly was happy to cook four lots of bacon and eggs and they all sat around the big table eating and drinking.

'Will Mrs Collingbourne be joining us for breakfast, sir?' Molly asked.

'I doubt it , Molly.'

'Oh dear,' Molly sighed.

'Sally, what did you want to ask me about?' Luke enquired, trying to lighten the mood.

Sally blushed. 'Oh it's nothing important, sir.'

'Sally! Come on, you mentioned it the other day, remember?'

'Well, it's just that I've been doing a bit of research, sir.'

'Oh, what kind of research, Sally?'

'I've been looking into my family history; I was adopted, see.'

Molly's jaw dropped. 'I didn't know that!'

Sally nodded then continued. 'And this year they've changed the law so that it's now possible to trace your parents. I've been going to counselling and they've accepted my reasons for finding my real parents. It's taken a while but I've discovered my real mother.' Sally looked pleased with herself. 'What I was going to ask you, sir, is whether you think I should try and trace her?'

'Do you want to meet her?' Luke asked.

'I think I do, but I'm scared she might not want to meet me.'

'Do you know where she lives, Sally?'

'No, sir; all I know is her name.' Sally took out a letter from her pocket and passed it to Luke.

Luke's piece of toast never reached his mouth.

For the next two hours, Luke locked himself in his study. The contents of Auntie Dorothy's case were emptied and every piece of folded paper, letter and document was carefully read and re-read. At 11.15am, Luke emerged from his study and walked briskly down the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom. He walked in the room and pulled the curtains open. Sunlight streamed in.

Emily stirred. 'Go away, please; leave me alone.'

'Good morning, Mrs Collingbourne.'

'GO AWAY; SHUT THE CURTAINS,' Emily cried.

'Emily, wake up, I have some very good news for you.'

'What are talking about?'

'There's been a mistake.'

'What are you talking about, Luke?'

'Your father wasn't Jim Walker and your mother wasn't Mary Southgate.'

There was silence for a few moments and then Emily sat bold upright in bed. 'Say that again!'

'There's been a big mistake, my love. You won't believe what has happened. Get dressed and come down stairs.'

Emily was sitting in front of Luke's desk. Her face was gaunt and pale and she'd lost a lot of weight. Dark rings were visible under her eyes.

Luke was sitting in his captain's chair looking very pleased with himself.

'Are you ready for this, my love?'

Emily nodded excitedly and sipped her tea.

'What your Auntie said was true. Frank wasn't your father, and you were taken away for your own protection, but Mary Southgate wasn't your mother. Frank was your mum's second husband. Your mother's first marriage was a disaster. She left her husband, changed her name, moved away and eventually re-married, Frank. She totally disowned her first husband.'

'Why would she do that?'

'Because she was ashamed of what he'd done.'

'What did he do?'

'He went to prison. He was a convicted paedophile.'

'Oh...Luke, please tell me it's not true.'

'Your mother was Mildred Mary but everyone called her Mary, except your father, he called her Mildred. You see your father's name was Henry Reginald Vernon Somerville. Harry Somerville was your father, not Jim Walker.'

'But Harry wasn't a paedophile, he was innocent.'

'Your mother and the court knew nothing about Jim Walker's involvement; she believed the court ruling and disowned Harry. Driven out by embarrassment and ridicule from the neighbours she decided to start a new life and moved away. She divorced your father and took her maiden name of Washington again, but when she married for the second time she became Mary Tomlinson. Harry Somerville no longer existed as far as she was concerned. Auntie Dorothy was trying to tell us your mother was Mary Somerville, not Mary Southgate. Your mother and your Auntie Dorothy swore never to mention the name of Harry Somerville again after he was imprisoned, genuinely believing he was a child molester. It seems like Auntie Dorothy decided you needed to know the truth about your father, before she died. Thankfully, my love, her version of the truth was wrong.'

'How do you know all this?'

'Your Auntie wrote a detailed letter explaining everything. I found it in her bag. She obviously planned to give it to you. She died believing Harry was a bad man.' Luke handed the letter to Emily. 'And here's your original birth certificate. Your name is; Emily Lesley Somerville.'

As she read the letter, tears streamed down her face. 'My poor father, it must have broken his heart. You cared for him, Luke. You believed in him. You knew he was good man, didn't you?'

Luke took Emily in his arms and they kissed. Her pent-up emotions unleashed and she cried as he held her tight. The woman he thought he'd lost was back.

'I love you, Luke.'

Her words made Luke's body tingled with excitement. Thank you, Harry, Luke thought... 'Emily, I've got some more incredible news for you.'

Emily looked up at Luke; a sparkle had returned to her eyes; her joie de vivre was back. 'I'm not sure I can take much more, what is it?'

'Sally Parfait was adopted, and recently she took advantage of the new Adoption Laws. She's traced her real mother and now she knows her name.'

'Who is she?'

...'Only Mary Southgate!'

'Oh my God!'

### CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

###

No Going Back

Emily and Rachel walked across the field hand in hand and waved to Vera, who was standing at the gate waiting to greet them.

Vera's eyes welled up as Emily approached.

'Good morning, Vera.'

'Oh, Emily, it's wonderful to see you looking so well.' Vera wrapped her arms around her and held her tight before leaning down to hug Rachel. 'Come on in, my darlings, I've just baked a lovely Victoria sponge, filled with lots of lovely homemade jam.'

Emily looked excitedly at Rachel. 'That sounds wonderful, Vera.'

'Come in, the kettles on.'

'My Mummy's better now, Auntie Vera,' Rachel said, tugging at her apron.

'I know, my love and she looks so beautiful, too.'

'I look beautiful don't I, Auntie Vera?'

'You look like a princess, Rachel.'

'Mummy, I look like a princess.'

Emily was bent over the cot smiling at Vera's baby, sleeping peacefully. 'I know you do. That's because you're my princess.'

'When baby Luke grows up he'll be my best friend, won't he, Auntie Vera?'

'I hope so, Rachel,' Vera replied.

'I'll be like his big sister, won't I, Mummy?'

'Yes, you will love. Is he sleeping well, Vera?' Emily asked.

'He sleeps for six to eight hours, my love, just like his dad. He'll be nine-months next week.'

'Time goes so quickly when you're a mother, doesn't it?'

'Sit down at the table then,' Vera said as she cut the cake and served up the jammy, yellow wedges on dessert plates.

Emily volunteered to pour the tea.

'What time are you expecting Mary today, Emily?'

Emily wiped some jam from her mouth with a paper napkin. 'About three o'clock; I'm really quite nervous about it, but Mary's happy to meet Sally here at the house. Understandably, Sally's even more nervous about meeting her mother.'

'I do admire Mary; she's doing so well now, isn't she?'

'Yes, she is. Luke said she was magnificent at my dad's appeal. I think telling the truth about Jim Walker was a turning point for her. She said to me afterwards that it felt like being cleansed of leprosy. It's been a long hard road for Mary, but she seems to have come through it. Meeting her daughter for the first time is going to be another major stepping-stone for her. Sally was a bag of nerves this morning; love her,' Emily said.

Vera sipped her tea. 'How's Sally coping with the stigma of being Walker's daughter?'

'Far better than I did. Thankfully she never knew him and I think finding and meeting her mother is all she's thinking about at the moment. She's a lovely girl. It's hard to think a monster like that could have spawned such a sweet person as her.'

Vera chuckled. 'It was a terrible time wasn't it?'

'For everybody, Vera, but especially for Luke; I was so awful to him.'

'Those days are behind you now, Emily. It's time to enjoy your life and family again.'

'I intend to Vera, believe me.'

'Luke loves you so much. He's so happy again.'

'I know, we can't stop doing it at the moment; he's making up for lost time.'

'Oh, honestly, what are you two like?'

'I daren't bend over at the moment, Vera, he's like one of your rams.'

Vera laughed and nearly choked on her sponge; quickly crossing her legs in case she wet herself.

At three o'clock, Mary arrived in her Hillman Imp. She was dressed in her Sunday best outfit with matching blue hat. She looked nervous but at the same time she was glowing, as if it was her wedding day.

Luke walked outside to greet her.

'Hello Mary,' he said and kissed her cheek. 'You look lovely.'

Mary took a deep breath. 'Thank you, Luke—God, I'm so nervous. I've smoked four cigarettes on the way here.'

'Come on Mary, come and meet you daughter.' Luke offered her his arm for support and they walked towards the entrance together.

As Mary crossed the threshold she looked at Luke. 'There's no going back now, is there?'

'Who wants to go back Mary?' Luke asked.' Let's enjoy the moment. Come on, girl.'

In the hallway, Sally was waiting, arm in arm with Emily, to meet her mother.

Moments later they stood facing each other. Tears were running down Mary's face. 'Please forgive me,' she said.

Sally sighed and hugged her mother. 'I've waited all my life for this moment,' she said. 'I forgive you.'

Rachel tried to cry, to be like everyone else, but the tears wouldn't come.

'Molly!' Luke called out, 'It's time to put the kettle on.'

Molly wiped her eyes and blew her nose as she walked to the kitchen. 'It's like a fairytale come true, sir,' she said to Luke. 'Just like the old days again, it is.'

Luke put his arm around her as they walked. 'Just like the old days, Molly.' He turned and winked at Emily.

### CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

###

A Visit to the Churchyard

The next morning.

At 7.00 am Rachel walked from her bedroom into her Mummy and Daddy's bedroom and slipped under the sheets without waking her parents. Luke was snuggled up to Emily with his arm around her and Rachel did the same to Luke. Within minutes all three were asleep. The bedroom door slowly closed.

At 9.00 am Molly had finished cooking the eggs and was ready to serve up. She walked to the bottom of the stairs and called out, 'breakfast in ten-minutes, everyone!'

Sunday was always the day for a cooked breakfast and today Molly was cooking for an extra guest. Mary stayed the night, after Luke persuaded her to stop and have a drink. The whole evening went well and Mary and Sally spent a long time talking and holding hands on the leather sofa in the study. The waste bin was full of tissues.

After breakfast, Mary thanked Emily and Luke profusely for their kindness and generosity. Sally stood in the driveway and waved goodbye as she drove off. The Collingbourne's got dressed in their best clothes; it was time to visit Harry's grave.

It was a beautiful morning when they arrived at the churchyard. The sun's rays were breaking through the row of poplar trees, spilling beams of shimmering light into the mist around the gravestones. Luke walked through the gate hand-in-hand with Emily and Rachel. Emily was carrying a bouquet of flowers and Rachel was clasping a little posy she'd made with flowers from the garden with a little help from Wilfred.

The graveyard was tranquil, with just the sound of occasional birdsong.

'I wonder what the new stone looks like?' Luke asked Emily.

'We'll soon find out, love.'

When they arrived at the grave Emily stood quite still for a moment, reading the inscription on the white marble headstone. It read:

Henry Reginald Vernon Somerville

(Harry)

Father of Emily Lesley

###

Born

12 July 1904

Died

May 10 1965

Dad

You Are Our Hero

May Your Soul

R.I.P.

Emily leaned down and placed the bouquet on the grave, quickly followed by Rachel's posy.

'Mummy can I play?'

'Yes, ok, but don't go too far away.'

Rachel skipped off between the graves, talking to her imaginary friends.

'The headstone looks lovely, doesn't it?'

Emily smiled. 'It's hard to believe it's my Dad's grave.'

'The whole thing is hard to believe. We can visit him anytime we like, now,' Luke said, putting his arm around Emily's shoulders.

Emily smiled and nodded. 'Yeah...we'll do that.'

Luke walked slowly away and lit a cigarette, leaving Emily to spend time alone at the grave. He watched as Rachel skipped around the graves, chatting away to herself.

'Come on Rachel, it's time to go home!' Emily called out.

As they walked down the path, holding hands, Rachel looked up at Luke and asked, 'What's a viaduct, Daddy?'

'Why do you ask that, love?'

'Granddad said that's where you looked after him—at the viaduct.'

Luke stopped and stared at his daughter. 'When did he say that?'

Rachel, pointed. 'When we were playing over there; he gave me these flowers.' She held up two red roses. 'He said one was for me and one was for my Mummy... Why are you crying Daddy?'

Luke wiped his eyes. 'Did Granddad say anything else?'

'...Yes, he made me promise to take care of my baby brother. He told me that he's in Mummy's tummy for a little while and then he's coming out to play with me.'

Luke looked at Emily, open mouthed.

Emily was standing, statue like. 'I am late, this month.'

When they arrived back home, Luke was still in shock. He made himself a cup of strong tea and walked pensively down the hallway to his study. On his desk was his fountain pen and Harry's journal. It was open and there was a signed message, written in ink, that simply said:

Luke

Thank you for believing in me.

Love will always win, because God is love.

Love Emily and cherish her, always. Give her the love that I so wish I could have given her.

Harry

Luke touched the letters; the ink was still wet.

### -The End-

### Thank you for reading my novel. I hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to know more about the background to this story or about my other novels, please visit my website at:

###

haydnjones-author.com

