

44 Acorn Grove

and other stories

Steve Howrie

44 Acorn Grove and other stories Fiction, Short Stories

Copyright © Steve Howrie 2016

The right of Steve Howrie to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. With the exception of 'Yesterday', the characters in these stories are fictional, and any connection with actual people (living or dead), is purely accidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews.

Cover design by Steve Howrie.

Contents

Introduction

44 Acorn Grove

Yesterday

Kättja

The Tunnel

The Incomers

The Road to Ruin

Brenda

The University of Roger

Organised Intimidation

Jamie

The Western

Carvolution

Belinda

Other books by Steve Howrie

Introduction

Most of the stories within this collection were written during my time with Bute Writers group, a small writers' circle based in Rothesay, Scotland. I am indebted to my former colleagues for their feedback, humour and companionship during my time on the beautiful Island of Bute. It was a great privilege to be part of such a lively, creative team, and I would recommend that any aspiring writer join such a group – immediately!

Each of these stories has an unpredictable twist in the tale. Despite the huge popularity of novels today, short stories remain a wonderful way to put across interesting ideas in just a few pages. Indeed, many excellent movies have been based on short stories. I thoroughly enjoyed writing the stories in this anthology, and I hope that you will enjoy reading them. Here's a line or two about each one.

44 ACORN GROVE. Inspired by one of Ian Rankin's detective novels, the story includes the writer himself in a cameo role. In fact, this short story won first prize in the Unpublished Writers category one year at the Scottish Association of Writers Annual Conference. Ian was given a copy of the story by a mutual friend and read it – then kindly sent me a postcard commented that he would have preferred me to have killed off one of his rival authors!

YESTERDAY. This is the only completely true –life story in the collection, based on my own young experiences growing up in Leicester, England. I am still in contact with my life-long buddy Gordon Cockroft (mentioned in the story), who is a fellow fiction writer and a drummer - and excellent at both.

KATTJA. One of the fortnightly projects of Bute Writers was to create stories based on one of the seven deadly sins. I came across the Swedish word for lust, and that seemed a perfect title for my story. I hope you enjoy the humour of it.

THE TUNNEL. I remember encountering some very long and dark old railway tunnels when I was young. As a family, we used to go blackberry picking along the railway cuttings in Leicestershire near where we lived – which was great fun. I recall my big sister venturing into one of these tunnels, and it took a great deal of courage to join her – I was a little scared of the long, dark, seemingly endless chasm.

THE INCOMERS. This is based on one of my visits to East Midlands airport in Leicestershire. Some social comment here. We have a large Asian population in Leicester, which I grew up amongst.

THE ROAD TO RUIN. This is based on Bute Writers' Group on the lovely Isle of Bute in the West of Scotland. I hope it conveys with the very real and wonderful feel of island life. It was great fun to write this - and to then to read it to the members!

BRENDA. I used to holiday quite regularly in the Algarve, Southern Portugal, and this was written there during one of my visits. I remember that I was reading an article about a multi-millionaire at the time, which influenced the storyline.

THE UNIVERSITY OF ROGER. Memories of my university days in Edinburgh inspired this one. A bit silly, and hardly a short story, but I just had to put it in.

ORGANISED INTIMIDATION. Another Bute Writers project. Each meeting, one of the members would choose the title for the next project, and one week the Secretary (a close friend of mine and a down-to-Earth Yorkshireman) chose this one. Thank you for that, Arthur. Some really good stories came out of that particular project.

JAMIE. I've always enjoyed reading plays, and I remember studying Shakespeare and Arthur Miller at school. Reading books and plays later led to me writing my own. When I wrote Jamie, I was imagining a stage play, with strong emotions in a family situation – and the inevitable twist at the end.

THE WESTERN. This is probably my favourite in the collection. Again, a twist in the tale – and I particularly like the zany humour in this one. It makes fun of all those unbelievable Westerns I watched when I was a kid (whilst wearing the obligatory cowboy paraphernalia).

CARVOLUTION. I have had a life-long interest in Astronomy and studied Astrophysics at University. This story is a light-hearted look at contemporary scientific theories through the eyes of a journalist. Whilst in many ways we are living in an enlightened age, I strongly feel that we are in still in the Dark Ages as regards our scientific theories. Make your own minds up about this one.

BELINDA. This is the only story in the collection that was written in China, where I currently reside. It is set in the town of Suzhou, Jiangsu Province, and refers to a writers' group to which I belonged (Suzhou Artists and Writers' Group). I hope it gives you a feel for at least one aspect of traditional Chinese culture.

Best wishes,

Steve Howrie

Suzhou, China, June 2016
44 Acorn Grove

It was one of those cold, dark nights when you wished you'd stayed at home in front of a warm fire with your feet up, reading a good book. Had I taken that course of action, I surely would not be sitting in this four-by-three metre cell contemplating my fate - accused of the murder of Mr Ian Rankin.

Ian Rankin - now there's an irony. One of the greatest crime writers of the present age - to be revered in future years along with Agatha Christie and P.D. James. And another irony: who would have believed that not only had I been arrested for the murder of Ian Rankin, but the inspector investigating the case was called 'Rebus'.

Anyway, if only I'd stayed at home - if only the phone hadn't rung that night...

"Good evening, 334 6512, Caine speaking." Formal I know, but that's the way I answer the phone - ever since my days in the Civil Service.

"You've got to help me..." The voice was gravelly and faint.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Forty-four, Acorn Grove... come quickly... but please, no police..."

The voice trailed off and the line went dead. What was this all about? Why was he calling me \- and what did he mean by 'No Police'? I was intrigued. Then I experienced a rush of adrenaline as I thought of the excitement of being involved in something so strange, yet so compelling. I just had to go - I couldn't ignore this desperate cry for help. And despite the fact that a thought crossed my mind that I really should tell someone else about the telephone conversation, my enthusiasm to answer the call outweighed any common sense. And so I went off to forty-four Acorn Grove - alone.

The streets of Edinburgh were strangely quiet that Sunday evening. Cold, dark and empty. I would have expected to have seen at least one or two drunks, or a member of the homeless brigade, but there were none, not a soul in fact.

Acorn Grove wasn't far from my apartment, and I reached number forty-four in just over five minutes, walking at a brisk pace. Then as I pushed open the unlocked outer door, I had this feeling of foreboding - a nauseating apprehension in the pit of my stomach. But having been set on this track, it was too late to warn me to turn back - which is what I should have done, in retrospect. I know most of us think we have free will in life, but I don't think that's really the case. Once we choose a course of action, that's pretty much it – until another chance to get onto another track.

Inside, the smell was a strange mixture of mothballs and furniture polish, with a whiff of gunpowder. God, I sounded like someone on one of those Food & Drink programmes. How I wished I was tasting a rich, red Shiraz instead of the dank hallway of the tenement. In front of me, at the end of a dark passageway, a set of stone steps led upwards. I ascended the staircase, trying to be as quiet as possible. Sweat began to trickle from my temples with each careful step as I peered into the gloom - apprehensive at what I might find on the next level.

It was then that I wished I'd never played cricket - or at least, not been so damn good at it. As I stepped onto the first floor landing, a young man rushed out of a room, throwing a dark object towards me. For one second, I was standing in the slips of my old school cricket team as the batsman inadvertently edged the ball. 'Catch it!' my team-mates would cry. And that's why I caught the gun.

I'd never held a pistol before. It was quite heavy - black metal with a walnut handle. The man who'd thrown it had disappeared down a rear staircase, and I started to go after him; but as I passed an open door into the next room, I saw a body on the floor - face down. I immediately forgot about the man and went to help whoever was lying there. I put the gun in my overcoat pocket and gently shook his arm, whispering, "Are you alright?" A stupid thing to ask really - but that's what you say, isn't it? There was no response, so I pulled him around until I could see his face. "Oh god!" I recoiled at the sight of a hole right through his head - and a pool of blood. My mind started to race - thoughts coming twenty to the dozen. Should I call an ambulance, phone a friend - or perhaps just run away and pretend I'd never been there?

I stepped closer to look at the body. It was a man in his mid-forties in a brown coat and university scarf. He looked familiar - like someone I'd seen on television or in a magazine. Was this Ian whatsisname - the one who wrote all those crime novels?

Just then I heard the familiar wail of a police siren. I've never really liked that sound \- it always makes me feel guilty, as if I've done something terribly wrong and they're coming to get me. And that's when I remembered the gun - the one resting in my overcoat pocket.

"Oh god!" I groaned - I'd been set up. Whoever had phoned me that evening wanted a patsy; and there I was - standing over the victim with what I guessed must be the murder weapon, with my finger prints all over it. I had to get them off - or get rid of the gun - or just get away before the police arrived. I needed time to think - but there was only time to panic. And that's exactly what I did. Looking out of a window for a way out, I estimated that it wasn't too far to jump. But when I tried to open the window, it wouldn't budge a millimetre, let alone an inch.

Damn these sash windows! Then I discovered it was locked. I fumbled quickly to free the catch, and with a creaking sound the window eventually opened wide enough for me to exit. But it was too late.

"Stop right there." With one leg out of the window, I turned to see three policemen facing me - one in plain clothes. The other two were in uniform, with weapons clearly visible. It was the plain-clothed one who was talking.

"Bring your leg back inside the window - nice and easy now - and keep your hands where I can see them." I did what the man instructed, with my hands high in the air - just like in the movies.

As soon as I was clear of the window, the uniformed officers grabbed me, forcing me to the floor. A quick search revealed the gun in my overcoat pocket.

"I know what it looks like, but I can explain..."

"I'm sure you can," said the plain-clothed man - who I later learned was Inspector Rebus. "And you can do that down at the station. Take him away sergeant."

*

So this was how I managed to get myself in this four-by-three metre cell. I've signed a statement, of course, but I don't think anybody believes it. After sixteen hours of interrogation, I would have signed just about anything - but not a statement of murder. I still don't know who set me up for this - but I've a feeling it's someone I met in Prison two years ago. Oh yes, I've done a bit of time in the past - mostly petty crime, drugs of one sort or another - but nothing serious.

Unfortunately, they're bound to search my apartment and look for clues, and that's when they might find the bodies - the ones in the garden. As I said, I've never held a pistol before - but I am quite handy with an axe.

* * *

Yesterday

A suburb of the City of Leicester, England, 1964. The Beatles have burst onto the World Stage, and Deirdre Barker has walked into my life. I'm completely and utterly in love with the music of John, Paul, George and Ringo \- and I'm totally besotted with Deirdre. But as yet, neither the Beatles nor Deirdre knows the depths of my feelings.

Then the secret's out. To my closest school friends, I confess my love for the elf-like skinny one with the soft brown eyes and the voice like brown sugar. No, not Paul McCartney - Deirdre Barker. I believe that my ten-year old peers will never divulge such a secret to all and sundry. Wrong! The secret spreads round the classroom like scarlet fever, and before the day's out even our teacher knows. How embarrassing! And worse still, Deirdre knows too.

But the good news is that my feelings are reciprocated. Deirdre actually likes me! The Beatles sing: 'She Loves You, yeah, yeah, yeah.'

Deirdre and I exchange more than just knowing glances and smiles. I crumble at the sound of her voice as she greets me in the cloakroom with her trademark sexy, 'Morning.' I begin to have erotic dreams about her, even though I've yet to discover what erotic means. The Beatles sing: 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.'

It's 1965, and I'm ten years old – and I've begun to mature. I discover that my best friend, Gordon Cockroft, fancies classmate Jane Nourish. The four of us arrange a clandestine rendezvous at the local park, where the girls lie down submissively on the grass and ask us to kiss them. Wow! Gordon asks me why I've brought my football with me. I have to explain that I've told my parents I've gone to play football - they'd kill me if they knew the truth. The girl's aren't the only ones lying.

'Help!' the movie comes out, and John Lennon tells me, 'You're Gonna Lose that Girl.' He's spot on: Deirdre passes her eleven plus and wings off to Wyggeston Girls' Grammar School, whilst I (an eleven-plus borderline failure), get shunted off to Lancaster Boys' Secondary Modern School. Even though her house is only four hundred yards from mine, we lose contact. We're living in two different universes now.

The next three years are a nightmare as I undergo the transformation from child to adolescent. It's not a pretty sight. Lancaster Boys is Hell on Earth. Not even the Beatles can save me now, though I'm comforted by a 'Little Help from My Friends.'

Then one day in early February, as I'm looking out of my window contemplating my pathetic little life, Deirdre rides past my house on her Moulton bike. My legs turn to jelly and my heart beats faster than a Ringo drum roll. I'm captivated. The skinny elf has turned into a gorgeous creature, and Paul McCartney screams into my ear, 'Got to Get You into My Life.' Two Valentine's cards later, we're holding hands in the same park where we played as kids four years earlier. And once more, I'm completely and utterly in love.

But the Deirdre I rediscover at fourteen is now an alien creature to me. Mountains have grown where once was flat terrain... and what's that on her face? Makeup, a friend tells me. She really is from outer space. The little girl I knew is now a young lady, and I have no experience of dealing with young ladies.

She talks about things at school like Latin. She tries to explain it, but I say it just sounds like a foreign language to me. Our two universes impinge, coalesce and merge. We embrace passionately in the streets, loving the contact and loving each other. And yet we are from two different worlds.

Deirdre is an only child; I have a younger brother and older sister. Her parents are liberal and understanding; mine are authoritarian and rigid. She rides a bike and stays out until ten; I have to travel with my feet firmly on the ground and return home by eight. I swallow the humiliation of being walked home by my bike-riding, worldly-wise goddess, exasperated by my choice of parents. I really want to give them an end of term report: 'Could do better - much better.'

For English Literature, Deirdre studies A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it just so happens that a film of the play is showing at a cinema in Leicester. Deirdre asks me to go with her - on a real date! Although this means staying out until after 8 pm, my parents, surprisingly, agree - but only on the condition that my father drives us there and back. It isn't ideal, but it's that or nothing; so the lift it is.

Deirdre has her hair done specially in curls and looks like a princess - a fact which I (foolishly) never compliment her on. In the cinema, we sit in fluffy red seats and hold hands, and I awkwardly put my arm around her. We feel and look like a proper couple, albeit a rather young one.

The film ends, and my father's waiting to take us back. It's well after ten and he wants to take me straight home after dropping Deirdre at her house. But she asks me in for a drink, and I persuade dad to leave us - saying I won't be long (yeah). He says something about ten minutes, but I'm not really listening: I'm in love.

She pours two glasses of Coca-Cola, and puts on the Beatles Abbey Road. George Harrison sings 'Something,' a song I think he must have written about Deirdre, and she impulsively grabs my hand and drags me upstairs to show me her secret possessions: old photographs and the pony tail that she'd kept from Primary school. I can't believe that she'd actually kept her old hair! It only confirmed that she was indeed an alien being.

Then, just to embarrass me to bits, my father's at the door. I hadn't been straight back and he's furious. I'm not too pleased either, and won't go with him. I stay another couple of minutes with Deirdre, and then go home.

The next day, my parents and I have a 'discussion' - an argument about my freedom. I haggle for staying out till ten, but in the end have to settle for nine. Why were they being so protective - didn't they trust me to behave? Had they brought me up so badly that I was going to rape my girlfriend, or go rampaging through the streets of Leicester?

It was only years later that I discovered the reason for their attitude. My uncle John had been friendly with a Dutch girl called Yanni when he was sixteen. She was a year older. Yanni became pregnant, and her mother found out that John was the father. The two families got together and decided that the best thing for all concerned (the 'all' being the parents) was that John and Yanni should marry. Neither of them wanted to; but they agreed to stay together until the child was grown up. My parents were afraid that the same thing could happen to me.

After two months of being with Deirdre, the bubble bursts. Or rather, it slowly deflates. I never stop loving her, but I think she's gone off me. And she thinks I like someone else better - a neighbour called Debbie Branston. It isn't true.

John Lennon urges Deirdre and me to 'Come Together,' but I don't have the words, or the way to explain how I feel to her. There is no training in 'Love' or 'Relationships' at my school, and my parents don't know what to say to help. Perhaps they think I'll grow out of it.

And then the Beatles split up. It's as if they knew about Deirdre and me and decided to call it a day too. After all, they only wrote songs for us, didn't they? Paul, John, George, Ringo and Deirdre go off on their own individual projects. Deirdre's is someone called Nick Berkeley - an independent, darkly handsome type who makes me feel inadequate and angry at the same time. I had hoped to get back with Deirdre, but Paul tells me to 'Let it Be,' and so I do.

John Lennon was murdered in 1980 and (I later discovered) Deirdre left the Earth in the same decade. One clear autumn day she sat in her car, ran the engine, and allowed the poisonous fumes to put her quickly and permanently to sleep. I'll probably never know what had driven her to this – I can only guess. Deirdre and the Beatles were so much a part of my life in the 1960's that I can never forget about her - or them; they'll always be a part of my 'Yesterday'.

And in the end,

The love you take

Is equal to the love

You make.

(The Beatles, Abbey Road, 1969)

* * *

Kättja

It all started with an email out of the blue.

Dear Mr Ivanovich,

I am a great fan of your novels. I love the way you phrase things - there is a passion and intensity on the pages that we rarely find in Scandinavian literature. Have you ever considered having your writings translated into Swedish? You might achieve a larger readership in Sweden if you could do this. As it happens, I am a university student of English living in Sweden, and I would be very pleased to translate one of your books for you. I ask no fee - it is my love of your work that drives me, not financial gain. Please tell me what you think about this idea.

Yours sincerely,

Olga Svensson.

I was flattered, of course, and I told Jane about the email right away. She is my agent as well as my wife, after all. But she wasn't too impressed.

"Why would she want to do this? We have our own professional translators - we don't need anyone else. And anyway, demand for your books in Scandinavia isn't high enough to justify the expense at the moment."

"As I said, she's not asking for money - she wants to do it for nothing, for the love of literature. She likes my work and wants to share it with other Swedes."

"I'm sorry David, but I'm not that soft in the head. A young girl writes to you adoringly and you fall for it. If you let her do it, she'll present you with a bill for thousands of pounds and claim she's got a binding contract. All she needs is your word. This is exactly why you need an agent - someone who can see through chancers like her."

Jane was never one to pussyfoot around when it came to books and publishing. And she was right, that's why I needed her - it was her trade after all. She had learned to be ruthless, when necessary; it was the only way to get ahead in the cut-throat world of publishing. Not that she was ever cruel or callous with the budding authors who hopefully sent her their unsolicited manuscripts every week. She never sent out pre-printed replies, and always gave some encouragement or helpful tips. But she would never say anything was good or had potential if she believed in her heart of hearts that it hadn't. No point in giving the poor sods false hope, she would say.

But me, the author with a male ego bigger than my longest novel (six hundred and seventy pages), I couldn't help thinking that Jane was wrong about Olga - and that she had her own personal motives for rejecting the Swede. She was simply jealous, and felt somewhat threatened, I concluded.

Normally, I would leave Jane to reply to any mail concerned with the business side of writing. But this email, I argued, was from a fan - and I always replied to my own fan-mail.

So the next day, I sat at the computer, eyes glued to the screen, and began to write.

Dearest Olga,

I was very flattered by your email received yesterday. I had no idea that my books were read in Scandinavia. Translating into Swedish is a marvellous idea - though I would need to check with my agent and publishers first - just for reasons of copyright, you understand. Anyway, I'll get back to you as soon as I can on the translating. In the meantime, I'm sending you a signed copy of my latest novel, 'The Fields of Shame'.

With very best wishes,

David.

Mmm... that sounds all right. Oh, I'll need her address.

PS: Please send me your postal address for the book whenever you get time.

*

The next day, I checked my email. There was a reply from Olga.

Dear David,

You don't know how happy it made me to receive your letter... and a signed copy of your book on the way! My friends will be so envious. My address is: Helmarsberg 57, Malmo 20124, Sweden. I've also attached a photograph of me - just so you know who you're writing to.

Warmest Regards,

Olga.

Intrigued, I opened the photograph she'd sent as an attached file. Somehow I felt like a naughty schoolboy - and was glad that Jane was out at work.

Wow - she was gorgeous, really beautiful. I printed out the photograph and email, and then deleted both from my computer. I didn't want Jane to see a scantily-clad Swedish beauty sitting on my desktop - what would she think? Well, I know exactly what she'd think.

The next day at breakfast, Jane asked me about Olga. Sarcastically, of course.

"Any further news of Miss Stockholm?"

"Oh, just a short email. I said I'd send her a signed copy of a book - you know, like I do with all my big fans. She wrote back to give me her address."

"Can I see it?"

"What, the email?"

"Yes"

"Oh, I've trashed it. That was your advice, remember? 'Don't save any emails on the hard-drive - you never know who can gain access to your files from the Internet.'"

"Yes - but you kept an external copy, surely?"

"God Jane - I completely forgot. I know you've told me about doing that, but I can never find that bloody memory stick." Jane sighed, shook her head, and returned to reading her newspaper. Then a thought struck her and she put it down again.

"Then how are you going to send her your book - if you've trashed her address?"

"Oh, I copied it down. Remember good old pen and paper - what our grandparents used in the olden days? I'm not a complete idiot, Jane - I have written twenty-seven books y'know." I handed her a copy of the address.

"Malmo. Isn't that the prostitute capital of Western Europe?"

"No Jane, that's Basingstoke."

That night in bed, I dreamt of Olga. We made love and it was fantastic. I was in Sweden for a book signing, and there was Olga standing naked with a copy of my new novel. She smiled at me sexily, and I let her jump the queue. The next thing I knew we were together in bed in a swish hotel in Malmo. When I woke up, my arms were wrapped around Jane's body. She snuggled up to me sleepily.

"Mmm, I don't know what you were dreaming about David, but you were very sexy last night."

"Oh, I don't remember dreaming," I said, lying through my front teeth. My feelings were beginning to run away with me now, and I realised that the stronger the feelings, the bigger the lies. Was this plain and simple lust, one of the seven deadly sins? Surely not. That's all right for Nick Owens (a character from one of my novels) - but not for the author. But then, what was I doing wrong? If I fancied a young Swedish woman - so what? I'd really fancied the blond one out of Abba in the 1970's - it didn't mean I had any intention of actually going off and having sex with her.

After Jane had gone to work, I looked at Olga's picture again. She really was stunning. Perhaps I should go to Sweden to meet her - to discuss the translations? I tentatively put the idea to Jane at dinner that evening.

"What - go to Sweden - you must be mad!" she exclaimed.

"Well, I can't just talk to her on the internet - we need to meet face-to-face. This could be a big break for me in Scandinavia."

"Then if it's about business, I should go - you know that. At least we should go together."

I couldn't deny that Jane was right, so I let her book two seats on a flight to Malmo for the following Saturday.

*

We met Olga in the lobby of our hotel. I was expecting Jane to be cool and aloof, but she was incredibly warm and attentive as soon as she met the Swede. They talked about the books and the possibilities of translating them - which one would be best to start with, and whether the cover picture should be changed. After Olga had gone, Jane turned to me with a beaming smile.

"David - I was so wrong about Olga. She's such a delight. She's got a depth to her I hadn't anticipated, and I think she genuinely does love your work and would like to do the translations for nothing. We can't let her do that, of course. I mean, we must pay her something, even if it's just her expenses. It's better from a copyright point-of-view if we give her a fee.

"Very wise of you Jane - as always. So she's not the Swedish prostitute you imagined her to be?"

"Oh far from it, David. I'm sorry I said that - but you know me, always cautious." She paused for a moment. "Look David, if you don't mind, there's someone I'd like to see whilst we're in Malmo - a publisher from London who's got an office here. He might be useful for the translations of your books."

"Great idea - shall I come with you?"

"Thanks, but there's no need. Why don't you just relax in the hotel - they've got a fantastic pool here - and you can always think about your new book."

"All right - I'll do just that. See you later then - have a nice evening."

Seeing Olga in the flesh, had turned me on so much I couldn't concentrate on what was said at the meeting. All I could think about was my erotic dream; and whenever Olga turned to smile at me, the passion was unbearable. I knew it was wrong, but I just had to see her one more time before we left Malmo. So an hour after Jane had gone to see her publisher friend, I sneaked out of the hotel and called a taxi.

Arriving at her address, I almost ran up the three flights of stairs to Olga's apartment and then rang the bell - still panting from the exertion. When no-one answered, I thought she must be out, and turned slowly to walk downstairs. Then the door opened, and there she was - in a black silk dressing gown.

"Olga - I'm sorry, but I must see you..." I paused as my eyes caught sight of something through the open bedroom door – naked legs on the edge of the bed. Female legs.

"What is it David - what's so urgent?"

"Oh, sorry... it's not urgent - I mean, I've made a mistake - I'm sorry..."

Feeling highly embarrassed and very stupid, I practically ran out of the building and hailed a taxi back to the hotel.

*

On the plane back to England, Jane and I were both very quiet. I couldn't get over my immaturity in this situation, and mentally flogged myself for acting so impulsively. I'd wanted to believe that Olga would just open up her arms and embrace me - that she fancied me as much as I yearned for her. But in the end, I had to admit to myself that this had been no more than good old, unabashed lust - or kättja \- as the Swedes call it. And I could have ruined everything between Jane and me if she'd found out - despite her usual understanding about these things.

Jane eventually broke the silence.

"Did you have a good rest, David? I didn't want to wake you when I came in last night - I'm sorry it was so late. Benny insisted we went for a drink with the girls from his office after we'd talked. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not - I'm glad you went. How did it go?"

"Oh, great. Benny's really positive about the idea - he thinks the translations will do very well in Sweden - we'll just have to sign the contract he'll put together next week."

"Fine - I'll just leave it to you then Jane. It's purely a business matter now."

"Wasn't it always?" she said with a sly grin.

* * *
The Tunnel

Fear lurks in dark places. Go into a long, dark tunnel, and you'll know what I mean.

*

I don't like tunnels - particularly if I can't see through to the other end. But Samantha, well, she'll go where angels fear to tread - and back again. Forever the explorer, always pushing things to the limit. On reflection, I should never have gone with her that day; but she was so, 'Oh, you scaredy-cat - call yourself a man? You're more like a mouse.' I know she's always wanted a child, but there was no need to treat me like a baby.

Now I don't usually give in to such taunting. But I was feeling a little bit insecure that day, and I didn't want to be alone on the outside of that old railway tunnel whilst she confidently explored it. And I didn't want to be thought of as a 'mouse'.

It all started with blackberry picking. Sam loves making wine, and we both like drinking it, so we'd often drive into the country to pick up some free ingredients. The berries in railway cuttings are always pretty easy to find, and sheltered from the traffic they're usually tasty and make good jam, as well as wine.

So there we were, one Sunday afternoon, dressed in our old jeans, tee-shirts and boots, with plenty of poly bags and elastic bands. Then we came across the tunnel - an old, derelict, dark tunnel - and my heart sank.

"We can walk around it..." I said, vainly trying to put off the inevitable.

"You know, you're just pathetic sometimes Mike, a real girl's blouse." She was already heading towards the dark, forbidding opening, and I knew it was useless to try to stop her now.

"I'll get the torch from the car..." I started. But Sam wasn't interested - she was already inside the tunnel, purposefully marching along the lines of the old railway track. I sighed deeply, and followed her like an obedient dog, knowing that the tunnel was the quickest route back to the car; but also knowing I wasn't going to like this one bit. I suppose I should have run to catch her up, but I didn't; I wanted to make some sort of a protest. Then her voice came back out of the darkness, echoing along the walls.

"It's fine once you're in - your eyes get used to it. Come on Mike!"

So after pondering momentarily at the mouth of the tunnel, I stepped inside - just like a young child dipping his toe in the deep end. Oh well, here goes, I thought, carefully watching my step, following the sound of her confident stride.

God, it was a long tunnel; but Sam was right - your eyes did get accustomed to the dark after a few minutes, and I could see how the tunnel curved away to the left. No wonder we couldn't see to the end. All I had to do now was get to the far reaches of the bend, and I'd see the light. Then I'd be okay.

But after just a few minutes, I couldn't hear her footsteps any more - only mine. I stopped walking, and listened. Silence. I called out, "Samantha - are you all right? Where are you?" The echo of my voice resonated for a few moments, then nothing, not a sound. I started walking again, quicker this time, calling out. "Come on Sam, it's not funny \- tell me you're okay." I started to run, concern replacing my fears. What if she's hurt? What if there was someone there - a mugger or a pervert? I called out again. But only the echo of my voice returned to me.

And then I could literally see light at the end of the tunnel. It was almost blinding at first, my eyes having got used to the darkness. I turned to look back, the tunnel end acting as a spotlight on the walls, but no Sam. Then a thought: perhaps she'd reached the end of the tunnel and gone back to the car? I ran out into the light and up the steep embankment, my mind racing - hoping I was right.

But at the top of the embankment, I found only an empty locked vehicle. I retrieved my torch from the boot, and turned back to the cutting. She must still be there - there was no other explanation. I stumbled down the embankment, nearly falling on the incline, and ran back towards the tunnel. No such fear of darkness now - I was driven on by a bigger fear: losing Sam.

Then, in the gloom, I saw a figure was walking slowly towards me, some fifty metres from the end of the tunnel. I shouted out in relief, "Sam - thank god!" But there was no response - only the slow walk of this figure towards the light. Slow and measured, like the walk of an arthritic. My heart sank as the figure got closer: it wasn't Sam - it was an old woman. I waited for her to reach me - I needed to question her: she must have seen something. As soon as she was close enough, I called out.

"Hello - have you seen my partner? She was in the tunnel..."

Without speaking, the woman continued to walk towards me. She must have been at least eighty – older perhaps. But the resemblance to Sam was chilling.

"Audrey?" I asked, thinking it could only be Sam's mum.

"Michael," she replied, "something's happened to me..." I froze as I saw her clothes - the jeans, the tee-shirt, the boots. All Sam's. She fell into my arms, arms that were used to holding the firm body of a twenty-seven year old; now they held the frail body of someone fifty or sixty years older. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Mike, I don't feel well... please take me home."

I led her away from the tunnel, my mind in turmoil. What had happened? How could this be Sam? What was in that tunnel?

The next day, I woke up half believing it had all been a bad dream. We had fallen asleep in each other's arms that night, exhausted by the torment of the previous day. I hoped to wake to find Sam as I'd always known her - young, lithe and attractive. But Sam was not in the bedroom or the bathroom. I quickly looked around the rest of the house, calling out.

"Sam? Sam where are you? It's going to be all right love - we'll get help. There must be an explanation." No answer. I went back to the bedroom to get dressed - and found the note.

"Dear Mike, I don't know what happened to me yesterday - or why - but I've got the idea that if I go back through the tunnel the other way, I can reverse it. Just call it female logic. I know how much you hate these places, so I've taken your car and gone back on my own. Please don't try to stop me - I can't think of anything else to do. I'll be back soon - one way or another. Love, Samantha."

I was distraught. I had to go and find her - I had to help. She couldn't just shut me out like this. Sam's car needed some work doing on it - it shouldn't have really been on the road - but I took it anyway. I drove like a maniac and just prayed that I wouldn't be stopped by the Police.

At the cutting, I found my car. I quickly checked that she wasn't inside, and then headed back to the tunnel. Stupid, headstrong girl, I thought. Why didn't she let me come with her? But then, that was just like Sam. Some things never change.

At the entrance to the tunnel, I had that feeling again. But I bit my fear, and called out her name. My voice echoed along the black, damp walls. And then I heard a low rumbling, an unnerving sound that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the tunnel, sending a shiver down my spine. It was almost as if the tunnel was talking to me, warning me to stay away. But I couldn't - not when Sam could be in there. So I switched on my torch and started to walk purposefully down the dark passage, calling her name. Then, about halfway along, I heard her voice. "Mike... I'm here... at the other end. Everything's fine... I'm back to normal."

Thank god, I thought, and began running towards the sound of her voice. I wanted to see for myself; I wanted to hold her in my arms and know everything was all right, that she really was back to normal. But as I ran, I heard the rumbling sound again - louder this time - followed by an almighty thunder.

"What the...." I turned to see half the roof falling in behind me, and dove to the side to avoid the falling stones and bricks. Dust filled the air, and for a few moments I struggled to breathe. And then something very strange happened. I can only describe it as electricity - a feeling of being in a force field of some kind. I was turning fast, very fast, and then I blanked out.

When I came to, I had a very odd feeling... one I'd had before, but couldn't place. I looked up to see Sam's smiling face. Her young, beautiful face. She was indeed back to normal, and she was kissing me gently, rocking me in her arms. I tried to speak, but no words came out. Then I heard her say, "I told you not to come, Mike, but you wouldn't listen. But at least I've got what I've always wanted now - you beautiful baby boy."

* * *
The Incomers

Azum & Nadir bent their heads upwards, their eyes squinting in the bright autumn sunshine at the International Airport. Above them, two hundred new incomers were flying in to Britain from overseas. Nadir sighed.

"Well, here they come again - another load of takers."

"Nady! Don't be so ungracious - we must welcome the new arrivals to our country."

"Why? There's already enough mouths to feed without any more flying in to sponge off us. They just grab what they can regardless of how it makes us feel. They're pushy, they steal and I don't trust them. And they're always causing trouble; you can be sure they'll be fights and squabbles when they're around. They should go back to where they came from - as soon as possible." Azum knew there was no point in arguing with Nadir when she felt strongly about something. But he tried to offer a different point of view.

"Look, I know how you feel; but we're the same race - there should be a brotherhood amongst us."

"Should and 'is' are two totally different things. I say deport them. There's enough of us to get rid of the lot of them." Azum took a deep breath.

"Well, I don't know if that's true anymore. I've heard that in some parts of the Midlands, incomers now outnumber the Natives..."

"What! This is getting ridiculous! I wouldn't mind if they adopted our customs...."

"Some do Nady \- an awful lot do - be fair..."

"Perhaps some do - but most don't. They want all the advantages of our society, but they won't even try to learn our language or customs."

Azum was getting tired of this conversation. He didn't like to be at odds with Nady - but that was exactly how he felt: at odds and annoyed, though he didn't want to show it. Instead, he stretched his body and sighed.

"I'm getting a bit stiff here, Nady. I'll just have to go for a wander for a bit, if you don't mind."

His companion didn't answer. She knew when Azum was hurt; and now it was best to leave him on his own for a bit to think things through.

As he left, Nadir watched the planes as they came in to land, wondering what it would be like to emigrate to another country. Would she fit in with another society - learning their language and customs? Or would she expect others to fit in with her way. After thinking for a while, Azum returned to sit beside her, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Sorry about that," he said. "You were only saying how you felt. It's just that I see things a bit differently."

"I know you just want things to be nice - everyone getting on together without any of this bickering or fighting. I can understand that. There's enough trouble in the world without us birds getting involved. We don't want to end up like those humans, after all."

"Now there's a species that could do with some manners," said Azum.

Nadir was quick to agree. "I'll say. We think the Starlings are bad - but humans! Well, where do you start?"

"You're right," he said. "Compared to them, Starlings are angels - even if they are Scandinavian."

"Yes, if we could deport most humans, there would be enough food on this planet for all of us - the Starlings, the Black-Ones, the Ones of the Sea... In fact, all bird-kind would rejoice if humans left this planet for good. There'd be enough nuts, seeds and berries for everyone - all year round - without the humans getting their greedy hands on them."

"Talking of food, Nady, I've just seen some lovely grubs over there..." And with that, the two grey pigeons flew off into the distance.

* * *
The Road to Ruin

The Island of Ruin, situated off the West Coast of Scotland, was one of those places you'd visited as a child, but never returned to since. Quaint, Victorian and a little run down - but with a big heart and a warm welcome.

Mainly due to its location and small population, there was very little crime on the island. Oh, the odd shop window broken on a Saturday night, the occasional traffic violation, and a bit of drunk & disorderly - but that was about it. Nothing big at all. Nothing, that is, until one day in February.

Inspector Stuart Willis knew something was up when he arrived at work one Tuesday morning to find his Sergeant ashen faced, lips trembling.

"Is everything all right, Ken?"

"They've gone, Sir."

"Who's gone?"

"Not who - what. The books \- someone's stolen the books."

The Inspector was puzzled. "Why on Earth would anyone want to steal our accounts books?"

"No, not those sort of books, Sir... the writers' books... their new anthology."

The Inspector sat down heavily, amazed. In thirty years in the force, he had never heard of such a hideous crime on the island. After a few moments taking stock of the situation, his police mind snapped into gear. "Right, I need coffee - black, strong, two sugars - now!" Suddenly he was alive; this was why he joined the Police Force, this is what he had been trained for. He hit the intercom button on his office desk. "Susan, get me the Serious Crimes Squad on the phone - and cancel all leave."

It had taken Ruin Writers' group three years to put together their third, and arguably their best, anthology of short stories. The first batch of books had only arrived two weeks ago, and the launch of the book at the island's Discovery Centre was due in two day's time. Whoever had committed this heinous crime clearly did not want the book to see the light of day. But who was it - and why?

The group's chairman was Katie McPherson, a retired nurse married to a local doctor. She looked considerably younger than her fifty-nine years, and was not only a very good writer (specialising in the Zulu tribes of the nineteenth Century), but also an excellent chairman. She greeted Sergeant Ken Pollis warmly when he called to see her about the theft.

"Will there be a body, Sergeant?" she asked as she poured two cups of tea in her best China.

"Well, I wouldn't think so. There isn't usually in these cases. It's really books we're looking for."

"Only, if there is a body, my husband would like to do the autopsy..."

The officer put down his cup, a little concerned. "Oh, I really don't know about that - autopsies are outwith my jurisdiction..."

"Please Sergeant, he really needs the work." Katie was on her knees now, desperation in her eyes. The officer pulled her to her feet, promising her that should a body be found, he would certainly keep her husband in mind. Then he made a sharp exit.

At the group's meeting place, Secretary Colin Hempstead, a former accountant from Yorkshire, showed the Inspector where the books had been stored prior to the theft.

"They were right here, Stuart," he said, pointing to a rectangular area on the carpet. Since helping the Inspector out with the newly installed CCTV system on the island, Colin had got to know many of the police officers quite well, and was on first name terms with most of them. "We'd left the books in Phil's care. He's quite a conscientious and trustworthy fellow - it seemed safe enough."

"And who might 'Phil' be?" the Inspector asked.

"Phil Stevens \- one of our members. He lives here - or I should say lived here. He's emigrated to Australia.

'I've always wanted to go to Australia,' thought the Inspector, as images of warm, sandy beaches and sexy women in bikinis flooded his mind. He was snapped out of his reverie by Barbara O'Meara, another member of the club, and a former chairman.

"I hope you're going to find these books for us, Inspector Willis. They cost us a lot of money and a lot of hard work. We want them back - pronto." The Inspector didn't have to be introduced to Mrs O'Meara. He had crossed swords with her on more than one occasion.

"We're going to do our best - our very best - to retrieve these books, Barbara. You can count on us. By the way, what was the title of the book?" Barbara shook her head in disbelief.

"Don't you ever read the papers? It's called, All Roads Lead to Ruin."

*

During the next two weeks, the Ruin Police went all out to find the missing books. Extra manpower was drafted in from the mainland, and door-to-door enquiries gathered apace. Suspects were rounded up, including the Head Librarian, the Manager of the Waste Paper Plant, and the Director of the Roads Division of the local Council. The latter because it was well known that the Council used pulped fiction mixed with bitumen for road repairs. Jeffrey Archer books were particularly good for this. A reward of £100 for information leading to the recovery of the books was advertised in the local newspaper and on bill-boards. Many witnesses came forward claiming to have seen Phil Stevens on the Island, but all sightings turned out to be Bogus (Sam Bogus, that is, landlord of the White Stag pub, who had an uncanny resemblance to Phil Stevens).

Then one day in March, there was a breakthrough. Colin Hempstead received an email from a writers' group on the mainland. It said (in Times New Roman, 12 point text, double-spaced), 'I know where the books are - and so does Jimmy.' The email was signed 'Anon,' with the word count underneath. The first 'Jimmy' that came to Colin's mind was Jimmy McPhee, the Treasurer of Ruin Writers. He lived in an outlying village on the island, having retired there from the big city two years ago. Rather than contact him by phone or email, Colin thought it wise to go to see him in person.

At the door, Jimmy was clearly nervous, his eyes darting from side to side. "Colin - wh-wh-what brings you here?"

"Can I come in?" asked Colin.

"Actually, I'm right in the middle of an episode of Sherlock, and Marjory's washing the cat..."

"It's about the books Jimmy..."

"Oh. You'd better come in."

The two men sat in the living room, facing each other across a bowl of fruit, and Colin laid the cards on the table. "I've had an email from a writers' group across the water. I think there's something you need to tell me, Jimmy."

"Oh god, I said I wouldn't say anything..."

"You're protecting someone, aren't you Jimmy? Is it Phil?"

"Phil? Well, not so much..."

"Who is it then?"

With a big intake of breath, Jimmy said, "It's Katie."

Colin sat back in his chair. "Katie? How is she involved?"

"After we got the books, she saw how many we were giving away, and she was concerned that we wouldn't be able to sell enough to cover our costs. You know how much we paid for these books, Colin. Willow are not the cheapest of publishers - though they did do a really good job. Anyway, Katie got me to take the books to the mainland and sell them to other writers' groups. I had them in a lock-up and sold them from there."

Colin couldn't believe his ears. "But if only she'd said - I'm sure we all would have agreed to the plan. It's a great idea to sell books to other clubs."

"Ah, yes - I wish it had been that simple."

"Go on..."

"Well, the book sales went really well. I've only got a handful left..."

"That's brilliant!"

"Then Phil came up with the idea of pretending they'd been stolen, not sold. Katie'd already insured the stock against loss - so with the insurance and the sales money, we'd have a tidy sum. In fact, we were going to split the cash three ways..."

Colin was in shock - he couldn't believe what he was hearing. No wonder Phil disappeared off to Australia. "Where's the money now?"

"I can't tell you, Colin - I'm sorry. I've said too much already. Katie's going to kill me..."

"She's not like that..."

"You don't know her, Colin - I'm deadly serious. She'll do anything to keep this a secret... anything."

*

A week later, Colin received a phone call from the Inspector. "Good news Colin: we've found your books."

"You can't have... I-I mean - that's marvellous! Where are they?"

"We've got them at the Station - I'm just reading one now. Did you really do that with a young woman from Halifax?"

Colin phoned Jimmy, who phoned Katie, and all three went down to the Station to retrieve the books - the books that should not exist. When they arrived, they were led into the Inspector's Office.

"Thank you all for coming - but I'm afraid I've misled you: there are no books. Just this one I picked up from the local library. And I think you know why."

The three writers looked at each other. Then Katie said, "I can explain..."

"There's no need," interrupted the Inspector, holding up his hand. I've seen through your little ploy. The books weren't missing at all - you've had them all along, haven't you? Since we started this investigation, you've had a dozen newspaper articles, numerous reports on local and national radio, and even a television interview on Scotland Today. That sort of advertising would have cost you thousands of pounds - tens of thousands even. And that's all that it was, wasn't it? A publicity stunt to sell more books."

Colin shrugged his shoulders. "That's about the size of it, Stuart. I'm sorry for wasting your time."

The Inspector let them know that sorry wouldn't quite cut it, after the amount of man hours spent looking for the books; but in view of the fact that he wanted to support local groups, and they had helped to put Ruin firmly on the map, half a dozen complimentary copies of the book for the Police Station library would be acceptable.

As they left the Station, Jimmy turned to Katie. "What are we going to do now?"

"I think we'd better order some more books," she said with a smile.

* * *

Brenda

Sam was the sort of person many people would want dead. Even perfect strangers after meeting him for just a few minutes would be mentally sharpening their knives, or practising a lethal karate chop to the neck. To call him obnoxious was the understatement of the millennium. How one man could single-handedly rub so many people up the wrong way without even trying was one of the seven wonders of the uncivilised world. He was an expert at being disliked - no doubt about it. Probably all the practice he'd had, his wife Brenda would say.

The real puzzle for me was what Brenda saw in him - why did she ever get married to such a bigot? It was obvious why he married her though. At forty-five, Brenda was a very attractive blonde with fantastic figure and great personality. She must have been a stunning twenty year-old when Sam first met her on the opening night of a new show in London.

When I first met Brenda, she never mentioned Sam; and I, for some reason, just assumed she was either divorced or widowed. And the way she came on to me wasn't exactly like a married woman. Or, I should say, it wasn't like a happily married woman - which she certainly wasn't. It was only later that she told me about her husband – when we were just getting to know each other better.

"What! Why didn't you tell me this before?" I exclaimed.

"If I had, would you be here now? Your young, firm, fabulous body lying in bed next to mine? You'd have run a mile."

My expression was one of utter denial. But she was right, of course. I'd have stayed well away from the wife of Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith, the famous multi-billionaire who spent more on wine in a month than I earned as a journalist. But I wasn't ready for what was coming next.

"Kill Sam - your husband? You must be mad! But why?"

"How long have you got?" And she proceeded to tell me everything about him. At the end of the monologue, it was no longer 'why would you want Sam dead?' but 'why on Earth did you marry him?'

"Oh, I don't know... I was young, impressionable. I hadn't been away from home for very long. And he was always the centre of attention - always told a good story. People did genuinely like him twenty years ago - before the fame and the knighthood."

And then there was the money.

"He wasn't rich at first - not when I met him. It was only later when his investments paid off. Then we were rolling in it - big houses, fabulous cars - even our own private jet. It was all worth it then."

"But now?"

"No woman can stay in a relationship without love - no matter how many cars, boats and holidays abroad you throw in. Unless of course you're shallower than a kid's paddling pool." But that was certainly not Brenda.

I made the obvious suggestion - obvious to a man, that is. To a woman like Brenda it was completely insane. "What, divorce Sam and lose everything?" I was going to say something about keeping her self-respect, but thought better of it.

The next day, I hoped her murderous notion would be forgotten. I'd put her mood down to the drink and a bad day with Sam. Yes, Sam. That had changed everything for me. One moment I'm totally besotted with an angel that's wandered into my life, the next I'm sharing Bathsheba with her husband. And though they'd stopped having sex long ago (so she told me), I couldn't get it out of my head that I was always going to be the clandestine partner - the one whose name could never be spoken. Me, along with Macbeth and Beelzebub. And she was always going to have murder on her mind - and I didn't like that... not one bit. I wanted to have Brenda all to myself, without Sir Samuel in the picture.

So when we met up for cognac and carnal love in her Chelsea flat, and I discovered that Brenda was more adamant that ever about the idea of disposing of the man who had gone well past his sell-by date, I was starting to come round to her way of thinking. After all, he was already old, he was despised by humanity, and he was obscenely rich - probably at the expense of starving children in Africa. Yes, this man had to go - and I was the one to do it. Brenda's mood changed as soon as I capitulated; and the great sex afterwards convinced me that this was the right decision.

The following day she breezed into my Fleet Street office without a care in the World, and a broad smile on her face.

"We're going away to the Algarve for a fortnight... and that's when I want you to do it." I looked round to see who was listening. Jenny and Phil were close by, and were looking straight at me, awaiting my response. So was I.

"It being?"

"The article of course. The richest man in Britain and his twenty-five year marriage to ex-dancer Brenda Evans. Their final holiday in the Algarve..." I nearly choked on my coffee.

"F-final...?"

"Oh yes, I'm bored with Europe - the Caribbean is so much more vibrant." She was playing with me now, and I was just a mouse confronted by a tiger. But I was in love.

"Right! Yes, the article... the Algarve. Sorry, I thought that was next month. No problem Lady Maxwell, I'll arrange it with my editor."

I recovered my composure, and Jenny and Phil turned back to their work. I firmly led Brenda down to the canteen, which was deserted at that time of the morning.

"What's going on, Brenda? What the hell was that all about?"

"Relax, David \- it's all part of my plan."

Brenda's plan was simple: she wanted to stage Sam's death as an accident - an accident that could never, ever be interpreted as murder. She told me Sam had a heart problem and needed medication to normalise his condition. She planned to substitute his usual medicine with sugar pills, and then get him really worked up, really angry about something. He would then take the placebo, and have a massive coronary. At his age, it would be fatal.

And this is where I came in. I would interview Sam in his apartment in Praia da Rocha, Portugal, and act as the probing, jibing journalist, à la Jeremy Paxman. Brenda suggested tackling him on blood sports. He was a strong advocate and supporter of fox-hunting and spoke at several rallies and on television. But I wasn't convinced.

"But how can you be sure this will work? I mean, people often recover from heart attacks."

"Yes, I know. But Sam's already had two this year. He's not going to survive another - not without his medication."

So it was all set up. I got the go-ahead from my boss to interview Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith for the Sunday supplement, and flew from Gatwick to Faro on the Monday morning flight. Brenda arranged everything with Sam, who hadn't been keen at first. But when he heard my name, his mood changed completely. My reputation couldn't be as bad as I thought.

*

On Tuesday I met Sam on the balcony of his tenth-floor luxury apartment. I'd seen his pictures dozens of times - in newspapers, on television - but he looked much older than the photographs. Older and tired. Perhaps he was fed up of this life and longed to leave it? I hoped so - it would make me feel much better about what I was about to do.

In the warm April sunshine, I set up my phone and began the interview. It started politely and amicably. We talked about his knighthood, meeting the Queen and his wine and art collections - then I went for the jugular.

"I've read about your position on fox-hunting. Are you familiar with the recent research by American academics that correlates the abuse of animals with serial killers?"

Sam looked at me squarely, not blinking. He didn't seem at all phased by the question. Rather, he stared at me like a cold-blooded hunter with his eyes on his prey.

"I'd rather talk about why you're screwing my wife."

I was stunned. My heart began pumping quickly, my mind racing - searching for an answer, for a way out. He picked up his whisky, took a sip, and returned to stare at me, awaiting a reply. Then he spoke again.

"I've been following your little exploits for months now. You think you're so bloody clever, you and that slut of a wife, with the flat in Chelsea she thinks I know nothing about." He pulled out some photographs from his jacket pocket and threw them on the table. "But she's wrong." The two pictures that landed in front of me said everything: Brenda and me, side-by-side in all our nakedness together. I was speechless. Sam continued.

"I could ruin your career with just one phone call - and I don't even need photographs to do it." He paused for a moment, sitting back in his chair. "I'll give you fifty thousand pounds to stop seeing her again - ever."

Things were definitely not going to plan. Fifty thousand pounds was a lot of money to someone like me - nothing to Sam. But to never see Brenda again? I just had to get out of there - I had to tell Brenda about the photographs, about Sam knowing. I switched off the recorder and hurriedly picked up my notepad and pen. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. As I made for the door, he called after me.

"You really haven't an option: fifty thousand pounds or you'll never work in journalism again."

I opened the door, paused, then said, "I love her... and I'm not letting her go." And I was gone - straight back to my apartment to phone Brenda.

I tried all evening to speak to her, but only got her voicemail. I didn't want to leave a message in case she was with Sam, so I phoned the airport instead, and discovered that the first available flight back to London was the next day. I packed everything and had a very restless night, eventually falling asleep watching a very depressing film in Portuguese.

The next morning, the television was still on and I changed the programme to BBC News 24 \- the thing I always watch in the morning. Sam's photograph was there, and I turned up the sound.

'The multi-billionaire Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith was found dead yesterday in the Algarve, after falling from the balcony of his tenth floor apartment in Praia da Rocha. The British Special Branch is assisting the Portuguese authorities in their investigations into his death, which is not thought to be accidental...'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I scrambled to get my mobile phone and desperately tried to phone Brenda. What was going on? But just as the phone switched to voicemail again, there was a knock at the door.

"Senõr Green, we are investigating the death of Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith, and we believe you may be able to assist us with our enquiries. Would you mind coming with us to the Police Station? Oh, and we will need your notebook and tape recorder."

I'd been set up - I must have been. But all I could do was grab my things and go with the police officers to the station at Portimão, where I am now.

I didn't do it, of course. But I know who did: Brenda. The heart condition was no more than a ruse. She pushed Sam over the balcony - or got someone else to do it - and now I've taken the fall.

End of Statement. David Green, 27 April, 2011, 3.30 pm.

* * *
The University of Roger

Dave and Roddy in a bar in Yorkshire, England.

Dave: D'you know who I saw last week?

Rod: No, who?

Dave: Roger.

Rod: Oh god - not Roger! What did he say?

Dave: Nothing. He just came in and plonked himself down on a chair next to me.

Rod: Well he is a bit of a plonker.

Dave: That's what I said. Well, not to him of course - to his mum.

Rod: Gloria?

Dave: Yes.

Rod: What was she doing there?

Dave: Oh, nothing really. She just came to tell me that Roger's going to University.

Rod: Get away.

Dave: Yeah, that's what she said. She thought getting away would do him good.

Rod: What's he going to study?

Dave: Prawnography.

Rod: Yer what?

Dave: Prawnography. Apparently it's the study of seafood. He's combining that with Rocket Science.

Rod: Oh yeah, what's that: the study of green salad?

Dave: No, rockets - astronautics and all that. Anyway, I can't see him surviving as a student, can you?

Rod: No, not really... not till he matures a bit. He can't hold his drink, I can't understand a word he's saying, and he's always falling asleep. It was hard enough for us to stay awake at Uni.

Dave: Speak for yourself!

Rod: I mean staying awake at lectures - not at the bar.

Dave: Oh, right - I'd forgotten about lectures. They did spoil things a bit, didn't they? But hey, remember those nights in the Student Union - what a laugh we had!

Rod: I'd rather not talk about that, Dave.

Dave: Come on, it was fun. And your scars have almost healed now. Well, the physical ones anyway...

Rod: I said I didn't want to talk about it, okay?

Dave: All right, all right - keep your hair on. Nobody meant any harm. How did we know you'd doused your head in alcohol when Pete took out his lighter?

Rod: Jenny said it was standing up...

Dave: Perhaps you should have sat down then?

Rod: My hair \- Jenny said my hair was standing on end and looked ridiculous. She said alcohol would do the trick...

Dave: Mmm... smoking probably wasn't such a good idea then?

Rod: I didn't think... I was a bit drunk.

Dave: A bit? You tried to kiss Wendy at least twice.

Rod: So?

Dave: Wendy – Jenny's Labrador, remember?

Rod: Oh Right - that Wendy. (Pause.) It does make you worry about Roger though, doesn't it? What Uni is he going to?

Dave: Gloria says it's the 'University of Life'.

Rod: Oh, Barnsley then?

Dave: Yep.

Rod: I envy him in many ways, y'know. Being young again - your whole life ahead of you...

Dave: Getting drunk every night...

Rod: Gate crashing parties...

Dave: Throwing up fish suppers...

Rod: Water fights in the refectory...

Dave: Chucking meat-balls at the kitchen staff...

Rod: Mmm... childish really. But you're only young once. How old's Roger now, by the way?

Dave: Two and a half.

Rod: Well, he should fit in nicely then.

* * *
Organized Intimidation

Beth Brown, fifty-nine years old and looking more like her mother every year, came downstairs to the kitchen where her husband had been working. She was clutching her prize poodle, Ben.

"Jack! Get that greasy rag out of my sink. How many times do I have to tell you? It's a disgrace - it really is." Beth turned to Ben, kissing him on the nose.

"Daddy is so naughty with his dirty, dirty rags - isn't he Ben?"

Ben began licking Beth vigorously on the cheeks, while Jack sullenly took the oil-spoiled cloth from the sink and sidled off to the garage, saying nothing as usual.

He used to talk back to Beth - but it only made things worse. The more he defended himself, the more vicious the attack. 'Organized Intimidation,' he called it. What had he done to deserve this? When they first got married, it was all wine and roses. She was a different woman then, and probably would have washed and ironed the dirtiest of rags lovingly for him. And he was a different man too. He certainly wouldn't have left his oily cloth in the kitchen sink - he would have been more considerate than that. But now he didn't care anymore. If it rankled her, so much the better.

What did she really want from him now? There was no lovemaking - that ended several years ago, ever since Jack took early retirement. And thinking about it, that was probably the turning point in their relationship. He was always home, and they spent so much time in each other's company, loving had turned to loathing.

Couldn't she just leave him alone now? Whatever he suggested, she contradicted. Whatever he thought was right, she thought was wrong. If he said it was going to be a fine day, she'd say 'It'll probably rain'. If he suggested going out for the night together, she'd say: "What, with my arthritis? You must be mad." But she still managed her nights out with the Bridge Club. It was one bout of intimidation after another - a terror campaign that she was determined to win - and there were no two ways about it: it had to be her way.

A few days later, Beth took a taxi into town to buy her groceries. Jack would normally drive her there once her week - and put up with her complaining about the price of tomatoes and everything else; but that morning he said he had a terrible headache and stomach upset and just wasn't up to driving into town. He would stay in bed instead, he said, adding, "Don't worry about me," knowing that she wouldn't.

After an exhausting day at the supermarket, Beth returned home in a taxi, struggling with the shopping, huffing and puffing.

"Well... that \- was - a - nightmare - a bloody nightmare. I'm not doing it again \- my hip is causing me agony."

Then she stopped in her tracks, dropping the four heavy bags on the floor - staring in disbelief at the wall in front of her. Written in bright red paint on the green living room wallpaper were the words:

"We've got him. £30,000 - or you'll never see him again. Don't call the Police or he's a gonna."

Terrifying images flashed through Beth's mind and she ran out into the garden. But there lying sleepily in the sun was Ben. She picked him up lovingly, stroking him quickly.

"Oh Ben, I thought they'd got you - but it was just a sick joke by some naughty, naughty people." Then another thought occurred to her. Where was Jack? If someone was trying to steal Ben, surely he must have heard something. She went back into the house and shouted upstairs towards the bedroom.

"Jack, Jack - who did this in the living room - who was it? Have you called the Police?" There was no answer. Typical, she thought. Always there when you don't want him, and never available when he's needed; just like it used to be in bed. She struggled upstairs, still holding Ben. Jack must be asleep - but she'd soon wake him up.

But in the bedroom, she gasped in horror for a second time as she found everything in a complete shambles. Drawers pulled out, clothes scattered everywhere, ornaments broken.

"Oh no!" She gasped, her eyes falling on her empty jewellery box on the floor. She dropped to her knees, desperately looking for the valuable jewels; but they were nowhere to be found. And where was Jack? For a moment all her anger was directed towards her husband - the usual suspect. She stood up angrily.

"Jack!" She shouted at the top of her voice.

There was no reply. And then it suddenly dawned on her - the message on the living room wall: they'd taken Jack. But why - why would anyone want him? She just couldn't understand it. And thirty thousand pounds...? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the telephone. Beth froze for a moment: was it them?

She picked up the bedroom phone, putting the receiver to her ear, shaking. A gruff voice with a foreign accent was on the other end. "Bring the money tonight, in a brown paper bag. Leave it behind the drainpipe in the alley next to the Chip Shop in Victoria Road."

"I haven't got thirty thousand pounds!"

"Then find it \- and quick. Leave it where I said at midnight, and don't look back. But call the Police and you'll never see your husband alive again - ever." The line went dead.

Beth sat down on the bed to think. Twenty thousand pounds was a lot of money. She and Jack had just that amount in the bank in a joint account; but that was their savings and Jack's private pension money. A terrible thought swept through her mind: was Jack worth it? What if they did kill him - what difference did it make? She would be thirty thousand pounds better off and could go on a long holiday to forget about the whole situation. But how could she think like this - it was her husband's life she was playing with! What about calling the Police? No, the man said he'd kill Jack if she involved them, and he sounded serious - deadly serious. And you never know what these terrorists can do.

Unthinkingly, she began to tidy the room - putting back the clothes in the drawers and making up the bed. Housework always helped her think clearer. Then she came across a picture of them both when they got married - and another with the children. Loving thoughts of him flooded back - all the memories of the happy days they had spent together in the past. And she knew what she had to do.

Downstairs, she telephoned a taxi to take her to the bank. She couldn't turn her back on Jack now - not after all these years together. At her local branch, the assistant had to call the bank manager to authorise the withdrawal of so much money at short notice.

"You do realise that you'll lose a month's interest if you take this money out now, Mrs Brown."

"Yes - that's fine, I don't mind."

"All right, the cashier will get the money for you. But because of new banking regulations, I'll have to ask the purpose of this withdrawal."

"Oh, I see, yes. Well, it's our silver wedding anniversary this year, and I wanted to treat Jack, my husband, to a special holiday - a world cruise. It's a surprise, though, so please don't tell him about it."

"No, of course not... I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. I hope you have a lovely time together."

Beth collected the thirty thousand in fifty pound notes, smiled sheepishly at the cashier and manager, and shuffled out of the bank to the waiting taxi.

That evening, when it was dark, she surreptitiously slipped out of the house, and walked down the road towards the Chip Shop with a brown paper bag containing the money, stuffed into her shopping bag. Depositing the money behind the drain-pipe in the alley as instructed, she took a quick look around, then walked home as quickly as she could.

Back in the house, she flopped exhausted into bed. It had been a long day and a bit of a nightmare to say the least. She hoped she had done the right thing.

The next morning, as she was in the bathroom, the doorbell rang. She quickly patted her face dry and tip-toed downstairs, still in her dressing gown. Through the opaque glass front door, she could see no-one outside; so she took off the chain, unlocked the door carefully and looked outside. Just to the right of the front path, lying on the wet grass in his pyjamas, was her husband.

"Jack!" She called out and ran to his side. There was a cut on his forehead with congealed blood.

"You've been bleeding - are you all right?"

"I am now love, now I'm back"

"What happened to you - what did they do to you? Why did they take you?"

"Let's go inside and have some tea - I'll tell you all about it"

Inside, Jack told Beth about the kidnap - the struggle, how he cut his head, the mind games and the intimidation. And how he was so glad to be back. Beth told him how worried she'd been, and how much it made her appreciate him.

"So you must have given them the money, Beth?"

"Yes - yes of course. I had to. I couldn't go to the Police, and I couldn't let them do anything to you."

They embraced each other in a warm hug and kissed.

"It's good to be back, Beth."

"It's good to have you back, Jack - it really is."

That night, they made love for the first time in five years. Afterwards, Jack turned to Beth while they held each other tight.

"You know Beth... this abduction was probably the best thing that could have happened to us."

"I was thinking the same thing Jack. I did wonder before why on earth anyone would expect ransom money for you. But now I remember what a great lover you are - I can understand it."

They smiled at each other, and kissed again in a passionate embrace.

*

A week later, Jack suggested they had a take-away, instead of Beth cooking that evening.

"What a good idea Jack - and we could open that bottle of wine I got for our silver wedding anniversary." Jack looked puzzled.

"But that was four years ago."

"Yes I know - but don't tell the bank manager that," she said smiling.

Inside the Take-Away, Jack accepted and paid for the food he'd ordered. The waitress gave him his change.

"Oh before you go, Mr Brown, the Manager has something for you." A squattish man came out smiling.

"Don't forget the 'Special' you ordered," he said with a thick Russian accent.

"Thank you - I won't," Jack said accepting the brown paper package. He opened it up, looking at the wads of fifty-pound notes, and took out one bundle.

"For your trouble, Sergei."

"Oh no, it was no trouble - it was good fun in fact! I hope I didn't scare your wife too much - and I'm sorry about the cut on your head; but you did say it had to be realistic. Did it have the desired affect?"

"It did Sergei, it certainly did."

* * *

Jamie

Jim opened the front door with his key, as usual, and entered the house.

"Hi Linda - it's only me."

"I'm in the kitchen," she called back.

Jim removed his black overcoat and red striped scarf, hanging them carefully on the coat-stand in the hallway, and moved into the kitchen, where his wife was taking something out of the oven.

"Mmm - that smells good!"

"It's for tomorrow," she said flicking his fingers away, "so hands off!" He grabbed her waist instead, cuddling her.

"Actually, I fancy something else... I've missed you." She reacted to his touch immediately."

"So have I..." They began to embrace, then a thought struck Jim, and he pulled away for a moment.

"Where's Jamie?"

"Who's Jamie?"

"Very funny. Our son of course."

"Oh yes, well, you'll have to wait at least nine months for one of those - and we'd better get started tonight, if you're in such a hurry." She tried to kiss him again, but he pushed her back.

"Linda, what are you talking about - what's wrong with you? I just want to know where Jamie is - our nine-month old child. Be serious for a minute."

"Jim, have you been drinking? I don't know what you're talking about - you're not making any sense. I know you'd like a child - but we don't have one, you know we don't. So what's this all about?" She stared at him - and he glared back. Anger and confusion coursed through Jim's veins. What was going on? This didn't make any sense. He turned on his heels and went into the lounge, then upstairs to the bedroom.

His search became more and more frantic, louder and louder, as he pushed furniture around in a desperate attempt to find his son, or at least some signs of him. There was nothing. He ran downstairs back to the kitchen.

"He's at your mother's, and you didn't want to say - is that it?"

"Jim - you're out of your mind..." She went into the hallway to pick up the phone. But he grabbed the receiver out of her hand and slammed it down.

"You're not phoning anyone until I get answers."

"Get away from me Jim. I don't know what's got into you, but if you don't calm down, I'm going to call the doctor - or the police."

Jim froze where he was. Linda really didn't seem to know what he was talking about - how could this be? He went into the lounge to think. Pouring a large whisky from the drinks cabinet, he paced the floor. Yesterday, he had a son - a beautiful little boy. He could remember spending the whole of Sunday afternoon with Jamie whilst he watched the football. He even changed his nappy at half-time. Now his wife tells him he doesn't have any children. Rationally, this couldn't be happening. He couldn't have a son, and then suddenly not have one. So either Linda was lying - in which case he had to find out why - or he's having delusions, big delusions - and he needed help. But either way, he would just play along with her for the time being.

He returned to the kitchen, where Linda was sitting at the table - sobbing.

"Linda - I'm sorry, I don't know what got into me. It must be the stress at work. I've been putting in long hours recently - you know I have. And you're right that I want a son - that's why we're saving up, isn't it? I guess I should loosen up a bit." He cuddled her and kissed her forehead. "Everything will be fine, I promise. There's no need to phone anyone. I just need a bit of fresh air - all right?" She nodded without speaking, and he went to get his coat and scarf. As he closed the front door, Linda picked up the phone in the hall and dialled a number.

Outside, once he was out of sight of the house, Jim took out his mobile.

"Hello?" the voice said on the other end.

"Dave, thank god!"

"Jim, what's up?"

"Tell me the name of my son," he said.

"The name of your son? Don't tell me you've forgotten already?"

"Just tell me \- it's important."

"Well, Jamie of course. What's the problem - can I help?"

"No - I just needed to hear that - thanks." Jim rang off and went inside to find Linda watching television in the lounge.

"I'm back."

She turned and smiled at him, saying nothing, and then returned to the TV.

Still with his coat on, he tiptoed upstairs to their bedroom and retrieved a case from under the bed in which he kept important documents. He had to get some evidence to confront Linda with, to prove that they had a son, to prove he wasn't going mental. Jamie's birth certificate - that would do it. He found his own and Linda's, but not Jamie's. In fact, no documents mentioning Jamie at all. She must have removed them, he thought. Then he went into Jamie's room. It was completely empty – no toys or signs of his ever having been there. What was going on? Why was she doing this? He pulled his mobile out of his pocket again and redialled a number. The phone was engaged. He kept trying, until at last it rang. He whispered urgently into the phone.

"Dave - it's Jim again. Look, I need you to come round right away - can you do that?"

"Well, if it's important.... what's this about Jim?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."

"Okay - I'll be there in ten minutes."

He disconnected, put the phone back in his pocket, and sat thoughtfully on the bed. Soon after, the doorbell rang. Jim ran down the stairs, calling to Linda, "I'll get it!" But at the door was a stranger, not Dave.

"Hello Jim - I'm Doctor Franklin. Your wife called me." Linda was standing behind Jim in the Hallway.

"Please come in Doctor Franklin," she said ignoring her husband.

"Thank you Linda." The doctor passed a confused and exasperated Jim.

"Linda - what is this? I told you not to phone anyone..."

"Jim, would you mind making us a cup of coffee?" said the doctor.

Not knowing how to respond, and not wanting to over-react to the situation, Jim went to the kitchen. He tried to remain calm and focussed. He took a jar of instant coffee out of the cupboard and tried to spoon coffee into two cups. But his hands were shaking so much, the coffee went everywhere. He exploded, throwing the jar and spoon to the ground, and stormed into the lounge.

"Right - I want to know what's going on - and I want answers now. What have you done with our son Linda - and why have you hidden his birth certificate and all his toys?"

Both the doctor and Linda looked up at Jim in alarm.

"Jim, we've been through all this..."

"Yes - but I'm not satisfied. I'm just not going to pretend I haven't got a nine-month old son called Jamie while you tell this man that I need a psychiatrist. I don't know why you're playing this game, but I'm going to find out. And where's our normal doctor anyway? I suppose he doesn't exist either."

"Mr Robinson, I don't understand. Your wife called me because she's been having pains in her abdomen. She said she thought it could be connected with her pregnancy - with which I concur."

Jim was struck dumb. Pregnancy? How, when? They took precautions - they didn't want another child so soon after the first. How could she be pregnant again? And why hadn't she told him?

"Mr Robinson, are you all right?" the doctor asked.

Just then the doorbell rang again. In a daze, Jim turned slowly and went to answer the door. It was Dave. Jim just stared at him for a few seconds.

"Well, here I am."

"Sorry Dave - come in. We're in the lounge." Dave followed Jim through and was greeted by Linda.

"Hello Dave - this is a surprise. Do you know Doctor Franklin?"

"Yes - he's my GP. How are you Chris?"

"A little confused, I must say. I came round to see Mrs Robinson, but it's Mr Robinson who doesn't seem very well."

"Look, there's nothing wrong with me - absolutely nothing. I'm glad you're here, Dave, because we can clear this whole bloody mess up - once and for all. I'm not the one who needs help - it's her. Tell me: do I or do I not have a young son called Jamie."

"Jim – what's got into you? You've already asked me this tonight."

"I know - but for the benefit of everyone here, I need you to say it again. I'll explain in a moment." Jim turned to Linda to watch her reaction.

"Well, all right then. Of course you don't have a son called Jamie... or any other name. You don't have any children Jim."

Jim turned back to look at Dave in utter disbelief.

"What!"

"I know you've always wanted a son Jim. But until Linda has the child she's carrying, you'll just have to wait." Jim could not believe what he was hearing.

"But... but you said on the phone... you confirmed earlier... why are you saying this now?" He grabbed Dave forcibly, pulling his face close, shouting at him. "Tell me what's going on Dave."

"I don't know what you're talking about Jim... you need help mate."

Incensed, Jim picked up a heavy bronze statue with one hand, still holding Dave with the other.

"Tell me where Jamie is, or god help me, I'm going to smash your bloody head in.

Linda pleaded with her husband to let him go, whilst Doctor Franklin calmly reached into his pocket for his mobile phone and left the room.

"Don't hurt him Jim - you're not well!"

"You're all in this together, aren't you Dave? You, Linda and Doctor Frankenstein."

"Doctor Franklin, Jim; it's Doctor Franklin," said Linda.

Jim looked squarely at his brother. "There's something not right here - and I'm going to get to the bottom of this, do you hear me Dave?" Then he turned to Linda "And you?" She nodded. Doctor Franklin returned, and tried to calm the situation.

"Why don't we all sit down and relax. I'm sure we can work things out - there must be a sensible explanation."

"I'll make some coffee," said Linda going to the kitchen.

Jim sat down on the sofa, exhausted by the events. He was in the middle of a nightmare and he just wanted to go to sleep and wake up with everything back to normal. Then the doorbell rang again.

"I'll get it," said Dave getting up quickly. He returned a moment later with two uniformed Police officers.

"Good evening Mr Robinson - Jim isn't it? We were just wondering if you'd like a little chat - nothing serious."

Jim suddenly felt trapped; he had to get away. For all he knew, the Police were in on this too. He leapt up out of his chair, but the officers blocked his exit; and while he struggled in their arms, the doctor took out a prepared hypodermic needle from his bag and pushed it into Jim's arm. The effect was instantaneous, and his body went limp in their arms. As the policemen dragged Jim out of the door with the doctor's help, one of the officers turned to Linda.

"We'll take good care of him, Mrs Robinson - don't worry."

"Thank you officer," she said tearfully."

Once she'd closed the door, she turned to Dave, putting her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him. They smiled devilishly at each other, then ravenously embraced.

"God, I've missed you," he said.

"You don't know what it's been like, putting up with him when I longed for you," she replied.

"But it worked, didn't it?" he said.

"Oh yes, it worked all right. Let's go and get Jamie.

* * *
The Western

"I told you to get the hell outta here. Now what part of the words 'beat it' don't ya understand, dumbhead?"

I glared back at the cowboy with the three-day old stubble and greasy black hair.

"I guess the next thing you're gonna say is, 'this town ain't big enough for the both of us', huh?"

"You took the words right outta ma mouth. So what are yer waitin' fer?"

I turned to Sam the barman, who nodded and poured me a straight bourbon. Leaving the drink on the bar I picked up my Stetson and walked slowly towards the greasy cowboy who stood between me and the door. I stopped inches from his weather-beaten face and scowled.

"All of a sudden, I don't like the smell of this town. It's all yours cowboy." I pushed past him towards the swing doors, catching the smell of stale beer and cheap tobacci on his breath. "And one more thing: have a drink on me. It's the last one you'll get in this part of town." I hit the dusty street, leaving behind jeers and laughter from the cowboy's sidekicks. I paused, and then returned to the Saloon, leaning on the doors - just as the cowboy had downed the whisky in one.

"Oh, and by the way cowboy, that drink was poisoned."

I turned again and walked down the street - this time leaving behind a stunned silence. Seconds later a thud on the Saloon floor told me the concoction had done its work.

I put down the pile of loose A4 pages and turned to Mel.

"Well - what do you think so far?" She was quiet for a few seconds, then said,

"You did surprise me with that bit in the Saloon. I quite liked it though. Is this your first Western?"

I nodded. "Do you think it'll sell?" I asked. She screwed up her face in the same way that I've often screwed up a manuscript.

"I don't know. I'm not sure about the place," she said.

"You mean Doncaster?"

"Yes. You don't get many cowboys in Doncaster, do you?" The builder who made a complete mess of our extension last year came to mind. And then there was that plumber who tried to charge me fifty quid for changing two washers. But I didn't think this was what Mel meant.

"Well no... I guess there's not many cowboys in Doncaster - not in real life. But this is fiction," I said.

Mel went quiet, collecting her thoughts, trying to decide the best way to tell me that my version of a Western was not worth the paper it was printed on - and I only paid one pound ninety-nine a ream for it. Then she said, "Read a bit more."

I wandered over to the Sheriff's Office and rang the bell...

"Did you say, 'rang the bell'?" Mel interrupted.

"Yes - one Aunt Jean uses when she wants something. Not an electric bell."

"Okay – just checking," she said and sat back. I continued.

Matt Black, one of the Sheriff's Deputies, came to the door, chewing tobacci. He leaned lazily on the door frame.

"Yeah?"

"I'm looking for Jim."

"Jim's not in \- he's up at the Dooley's place. I reckon there's trouble up there again." The Dooley's stayed on the outskirts of Doncaster, and they were always causing trouble. The Sheriff would need my help.

"You're not going up there, are ya?" the kid asked.

"Sure. Coming with me?"

Black spat into the gutter. "No way - that's a one-way ticket to the undertakers."

I caught Mel's expression again. "What is it now?" I asked.

"A one way ticket to the undertakers..."

"So?"

"You mean you can get a return ticket?"

"No, of course not. It's just an expression..."

"A pathetic expression if you ask me."

"It's how Black speaks - he's a moron." Mel tightened her lips as if to say, 'he's not the only one.' But she let me carry on.

So I headed on up to the Dooley's Place. The sun was low in the sky now, but it was still hot, and boy did I need a drink. But that would have to wait - because I'd just seen Jim. There he was, face down in the dirt, lying in blood. Jim's blood. Shoot! I muttered, dropping off my horse and keeping low. I looked over to the Dooley's ranch on the hill. Someone's gonna pay for this, I vowed, and I didn't just mean the funeral.

"Is this book going to be all about killing then?" interrupted Mel.

"Of course it is - it's a Western. The Americans are like that - just look at John Wayne or George W. Bush..."

"I'd rather not, thanks."

"You know what I mean - shoot first and ask questions later."

"When they're all dead?"

"Yes."

"Okay, it's your story." It was the way she said 'your' story that worried me. It was unnervingly reminiscent of her mother, and my life wasn't worth living when Linda spoke like that. But I continued:

I made my way up the hill, crawling in the grass like a Comanche Injun. I'd spent six long months in the Nevada desert with the tribe, and they'd learned me how to live and fight like the best warriors this side of Reno.

I edged closer and closer to the ranch-house, trying not to make a sound. Soon I could see figures moving inside - two or three at least. I ran the last few steps to the side of the wooden cabin, catching my breath. I could hear voices now - and the loudest was a woman's. It must be Ma Dooley. She was worse than all them men folk put together; she scared the living daylights outta me for sure. Then I heard her say, angrily,

"Now I wanna know, for once and for all, who shot the Sheriff?"

"Eric Clapton," said Mel.

"What?"

"Eric Clapton shot the Sheriff. Don't you know the song?" Well, of course I knew the song. But I'm not going to put a rock musician in a cowboy story, am I? So I told Mel that we couldn't have Eric Clapton because he's not from Doncaster. But Mel wasn't going to give up so easily.

"He could have travelled there - in a stagecoach." As soon as she folded her arms I knew I was in for trouble. So I tried to compromise.

"What about Eric Dooley?" Mel shook her head. "But they're all Dooleys," I urged. "It's the Dooley family!" I cursed introducing Mel to my Eric Clapton CD collection. Why couldn't I have stuck with the Dooley Brothers? Then I had an idea.

"How about 'Eric Clapton-Dooley' - a double-barrelled name - and he shot the Sheriff with his double-barrelled shotgun?" Mel smiled and I knew I'd won her back.

"Okay - I like that," she said. "Eric Clapton marries Mel Dooley and that's how they get the name."

I gave her one of my quizzical looks (I have several). "Mel Dooley? Where did she come from?"

"Sheffield... or Rotherham. I don't mind which." I was beginning to wonder who was writing this story. But I took a deep breath, and resumed the tale \- redrafting it as I went along.

I managed to edge close to a window and caught a glimpse of the old lady: it was Ma Dooley all right. In the room with Ma were her sons Mike and Joe, her daughter Mel, and Mel's man Eric. After a couple of minutes, Eric Clapton-Dooley stood up, guiltily.

"Ma - it was me: I shot the Sheriff."

I looked at Mel. Her eyes were closed now, and her arms no longer crossed. I tucked them under her blanket and gently kissed her on the forehead. I love her to bits, but it probably wasn't such a good idea to read the first draft of my Western to my precocious eight-year old daughter. Or perhaps it was: she might just have helped me to get this book published.

* * *
Carvolution

As a journalist, you're always looking for the next big story, the one that makes you rich and famous. Having said that, money has never been the strong motivating force that it is for others. Otherwise, I'd have been an accountant.

But fame and prestige - being noticed and acknowledged - that's a different matter. I was brought up in a large family, where I received very little attention from my parents and had to fight for recognition - sometimes physically fight when it came to my big brother John. So when I grew up and left home, I vowed that one day I would become someone that people would want to talk to – and hence the step into journalism.

So here I was, then, about to interview a man whom most people acknowledged to be one of the greatest minds of the twentieth century: Dr Carl Robbins. My editor hadn't been quite so complimentary.

"That man's a nutcase!" he yelled at me in his office.

"All great thinkers are eccentrics - you know that," I replied. "Copernicus and Galileo were both branded as lunatics when they postulated their ideas."

"Don't give me all that postulation crap - talk normal English will you. You're a journalist, not a frigging academic. Wake up Zack." But I wasn't going to be put off so easily. I told him I'd work on the Dr Robbins interview in my own time and still do the magazine column I was really paid for. He grunted what I took to be an affirmation, and I left his office before he changed his mind.

I arrived at Dr Robbins home having found his address on the Internet. It was a large greystone building in the New Forest, miles from the nearest village. I parked my car and stepped outside, drinking in the atmosphere. Here I was, outside the home of a man who had changed the thinking of everyone on Planet Earth - including my editor, though he'd never admit it. I had an immense feeling of history as I locked the car and walked down the gravel pathway to the front door.

Now in his nineties, Dr Robbins was understandably not in the best of health, and required round the clock attention. His nurse answered the door and I introduced myself.

"Oh, Mr Waters, please do come in. Dr Robbins is so looking forward to meeting you," she said. "He hasn't talked to any journalists for such a long time now."

As I walked with nurse Peters down a long blue corridor with peeling wallpaper, I reflected on how sad it was that such a genius lived out his remaining years in isolation from the World. Was this the fate of all farsighted men and women? We stopped at a door with nothing more than the number twelve on it.

"Here we are - just let me see if he's ready for you." She popped her head round the door without knocking and then beckoned me in. "Well, I'll leave you to natter. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?"

"A black coffee would be nice, thanks. No milk or sugar."

"A man after my own heart", replied a frail, grey-haired old man sitting in a lived-in armchair and wearing an old maroon dressing gown over blue and white striped pyjamas. "Make that two black coffees would you Margaret."

The nurse nodded and smiled at me as she left, leaving me alone with Dr Robbins. At first I wondered how any revolutionary theory could emanate from the man I saw before me. But as we began to talk, his brilliant mind soon began to shine through. I kicked off by asking him how it all started - how did he come to that 'Eureka' moment?

"At that time, my scientific career was all but over. I was approaching sixty-five, and retirement, and my goal of making a great discovery, and thereby a name for myself, was then just a distant dream. So I wasn't prepared for the ideas that suddenly came to me."

Just then Margaret returned with a tray containing two cups of steaming coffee. She placed the cups and a plate of assorted biscuits on the small round coffee table between us.

"I brought Dr Robbins favourites. They're all different shapes and sizes, but made from the same flour." She smiled at Dr Robbins, and he smiled back, as if sharing a private joke.

The old man waited until the nurse had closed the door, and then continued.

"I recall it was a Friday night. A documentary was showing on BBC2 – the Horizon programme I think it was - and the subject was advances in Stellar Physics. Are you familiar with the theories of astrophysics Zack?"

I had to admit I wasn't. But Dr Robbins patiently gave me a basic introduction to Stellar Theory.

"If you look up at the dark, night sky - far away from the glare of street lights, and not on a night when the moon is full or bright - take a closer look at the stars. Preferably through binoculars or a small telescope. You'll see that stars are not all white points of light. There are red, orange, yellow and even blue and green stars. And they're all different sizes and intensities. At first, in the early days of astronomy, little attention was paid to this. But in the early twentieth Century, astrophysicists realised that what we are witnessing is 'stellar evolution'. Stars are not static bodies - they change just like we change. As human beings, we are born small and young; we expand and develop, become stronger and brighter, then begin to decline. We shrivel, grow old and weak, and then die. So it is with stars. Young blue stars, grow into larger, more radiant, white bodies, which develop into strong yellow stars..."

"Like our Sun?" I interrupted.

"Exactly like our sun," the doctor exclaimed, now animated by his own descriptions. "The yellow stars mature and become large orange stars, which expand further to become cooler red giants. After that, things can go one of two ways: if the star is very large, its own gravity will force it to completely collapse into itself, forming what we call a white dwarf, or even a black hole."

"Yes, I've heard of those..." I found myself saying, trying to show that I knew at least something about the subject.

"But I bet you've never seen one!" The doctor was jesting with me now. I had to admit I hadn't.

"Well, of course, nobody has! But the theory says there are millions of them in the universe."

I picked up my coffee, thinking about what he had said. I did wonder what black holes had got to do with his theory - but I thought he would come to that. The doctor gingerly picked up his own cup, his spindly hand shaking with the weight of the coffee, so I reached over and helped him put the cup to his lips. He took a few sips, and continued.

"Throughout my career, I always needed several stimuli at once. It was never enough to just read a book - I would have to put some music on, or the television - or sometimes both. So when I turned on the Horizon programme, I was already reading a magazine." He paused as if reliving the moment, his eyes wandering to look out of the window towards the gardens surrounding the nursing home. "Wheels in Motion \- that was the title. Couldn't think of it for a minute - that's what happens when you get to my age, I'm sorry. Anyway, I'd always been a great car enthusiast and had a monthly subscription to the magazine. Read it cover to cover - even the ads! And then - bang! Eureka! It was suddenly so very obvious."

"A real Rolls Royce moment?" I replied. The doctor chuckled.

"Yes! You could say that. All these different cars in all sorts of shapes, sizes and colours, with no apparent rhyme or reason for their design. That had always puzzled me. I could never understand why there were so many different types. Why weren't they all the same - like the Germans' black VW Beetle in the 1940's? And then the explanation was staring me in the face. Carvolution \- the evolution of one vehicle into another - just like in Stellar Physics."

I found myself nodding in appreciation of the great leap in thinking that this man had made. Without his intelligence, we would never have discovered or understood one of the fundamental principles of Car Mechanics.

"It must have been a very special moment," I observed.

"Yes it was - very special. My mind suddenly went into overdrive - if you'll excuse the pun. And the theory was so simple. Over millions of years, a bicycle evolves. It finds a need to go faster and faster, and starts to develop a small engine - and hey presto, we have the first motorbike. Over the next thousand millennia, the bike grows a side car and an extra wheel, and it isn't a great leap from there to a three-wheeled car - the Robin Reliant. The bike is adjusting to the changing climate of the Earth, which, during the last Ice Age, was extremely inhospitable - as you can imagine. Through the need for greater stability, the Reliant develops a fourth wheel, and the Mini car is born. Moving on, its need to survive the harsh climate, and travel further and faster, the car increases its engine size and carrying capacity, and we have the appearance of Fords, Peugeots, Renaults and Nissans - and then Mercedes and Bentleys. Finally, at the top of the tree, the Rolls Royce.

The doctor sank back in his chair with great satisfaction - as if he had just postulated the theory for the first time. Like everyone else, I was introduced to this theory at Primary School, and I never questioned any part of it at the time. Probably because it was taught as fact rather than theory - and how could my teachers be wrong? But having heard the hypothesis from the horse's mouth, as it were, something troubled me - and I just had to voice my thoughts.

"Dr Robbins, it was fascinating to hear you reiterate the theory of Carvolution \- to get it in your own words. I really felt that I was there, reliving the discovery with you. But there's just one aspect of the theory that troubles me. Can I ask you a question about it Doctor?"

"Of course you can! You're a journalist, aren't you? You're meant to ask questions." I nodded foolishly, and he continued. "When I first came up with the theory, there was great opposition to my ideas, and so many questions. I was shunned by many of my colleagues for years, and the Church still doesn't acknowledge the theory as fact \- despite the overwhelming evidence. So go ahead."

I didn't want to pick holes in his ideology, but there was something I just had to clarify. "If every bicycle and car evolves into something bigger and better, why do we still see so many bicycles and small cars still around? Surely they would have all evolved into BMWs, Mercedes and Rolls Royces by now?"

The doctor smiled and nodded to himself, as though he'd heard this objection thousands of times before. "Consider the stars that we talked about previously. They were not all created at the same time. We're looking at various stages of evolution over millions and millions of years. So it is with bicycles and cars. Bicycles will inevitably evolve into Bentleys and Rolls Royces, just as our sun will inevitably become a White Dwarf. This is just how things are in the Universe."

I understood his reasoning, but I still wasn't satisfied.

"But what will happen to the Rolls Royce - what's the next stage in its evolution? Will it develop wings and fly?"

I was being a little sarcastic, I have to say. But the doctor smiled at me again - more broadly this time. "Where do you think aeroplanes come from?" he asked.

I was stunned. This had never been mentioned at school: cars becoming aeroplanes! I wanted to question him more; but the nurse entered and, having put down her tray, turned to me and said that if we were finished, Dr Robbins could really do with a rest. I thanked the doctor for his time, switched off my recorder and picked up my bag. Dr Robbins had closed his eyes now and I left quietly, whispering goodbye to the nurse as she put a blanket over him. But she seemed oblivious to my leaving.

As I walked back down the corridor toward the front door, my mind was trying to take in the morning's events. My thinking had been turned upside down by what I'd heard that day.

On reaching my car, I was somewhat relieved that my Ford Escort had not yet turned into a single-engined Cessna. Not that I didn't want to fly home, but I could no longer accept the theory of Carvolution as fact. It just didn't ring true. And as much as I hated to admit it, my editor had been right about Dr Robbins - he was indeed a nutcase.

As I turned my car's ignition, and took one last look at the building, I couldn't help noticing the sign high up above the entrance - something I hadn't seen earlier. It read: 'The Charles Darwin Home for Retired Academics'. Well, well, I thought: one deluded soul in the footsteps of another.

* * *
Belinda

It was a cold, dark night at the Bookworm. The members of the Suzhou Writers and Artists group were all huddled around the electric heater, and the meeting was just coming to an end. "Well, I think that's just about it... see you all in two weeks' time," smiled Erin. "Spring can't be far away." We said our goodbyes, and headed for home.

"Share a taxi?" asked Sybil.

"Sure, why not."

Both Sybil and I lived in Suzhou Industrial Park, a relatively new area to the east of Suzhou Old Town , Jiangsu Province, and we often shared a taxi on the way home after our meetings. But just as we were heading for the door, something caught my eye. Or I should say 'someone'. When a young woman is crying all alone in a place like the Bookworm, you wonder why and want to help – it's just human nature. So I told Sybil I'd catch her later, and went to see if there was anything I could do.

The woman was Chinese, early thirties, dressed all in black – apart from a blood-red scarf around her neck. As I approached, she averted her eyes, trying to hide her tears; but she couldn't hide her pain. "Are you okay? Ni meishi ba?" She shook her head and turned her face further from mine. I got closer. "The place is closing in a minute – can I get you a ride home?" The tears turned into a flood, and she broke down. I put a hand on a shoulder to comfort her. "Come on," I said guiding her out of her chair and towards the door. She didn't resist.

We walked to the main road in the cold rain, and I looked hopefully for an empty cab. Never easy to get a taxi in the rain from the old town, but eventually I saw the welcome green light of a cab, and flagged down the car. "Qu na li?" the taxi driver asked once we were safely on the back seat. But I wasn't sure where we should go.

"Do you speak English?" I asked the mysterious woman. She shook her head without looking at me. Then I remembered a late night coffee bar in Shiquan Street, not far from the Bookworm. At least we could dry out there, and perhaps she could write down her address for me.

I sat her down in a quiet corner of the café and ordered two cups of coffee. She said nothing, but nodded her thanks, still hiding her eyes. I took out a notepad and pen. "If you write down your address, I'll get you home," I said. Still nothing. "Xie nide xia dizhi," I struggled to say in Chinese. Suddenly, her lips turned into a broad smile, and her eyes caught mine.

"Your Chinese – so bad!" she said, tears running down her cheeks. I smiled in relief, knowing she could speak some English. But then as quickly as she'd smiled, she cried again. "Oh, why he have to die...?"

"Who?" I said. "Who are you talking about?"

"Yi Tian... I loved him so much..."

Yi Tian, it turned out, was her husband.

*

From that chance meeting, a closeness between the two of us quickly developed. There was something so intriguing and sensitive about this woman that I just could not let her go. Yi Tian had died in a terrible car accident a month ago, she said, and she desperately needed someone outside of the family to talk to. So we began talking on the phone, by text and online. Then we dated a few times, got closer, and kissed. And after that I was hooked. I dreamt about her when we were apart, and submerged my soul into hers when we were together. Then one day we made love - warm, exquisite, beautiful love - and I knew she was the one for me. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with the young Chinese woman who called herself Belinda.

But one thing puzzled me: we always went to my place - she never invited me back to hers. At first, I said I understood when she talked about the 'ghost of Yi Tian', and not wanting to compare me with him – which she thought was inevitable once I visited her home. But as the weeks and then months passed, I began to feel more and more uncomfortable about her reasons. After all, she showed me where she worked, where she shopped, and pictures of her close friends – and Yi Tian must have been associated with all three. And now it was six months since he died - so why not show me where she lived?

"Don't you think it's time?" I said one day as we walked alongside Jinji Lake. It was an uncomfortably hot August day, and the breeze across the lake was a welcome relief.

"Time for what?" she asked.

"Time to see your apartment."

She sneered, as if to say, 'not that again,' and looked out across the water. I pulled her round to face me. "What are you hiding Belinda?"

"Nothing," she said pushing herself away from me. I said no more and we walked the rest of the way back to my place in silence.

*

A week later, I did something I never thought I'd stoop to: I followed her home from work. I had to keep my distance at first - she could spot me a mile away with my blond lao wai hair and white skin. But with her Walkman, she seemed oblivious to the rest of the World. She walked for about two hundred metres, and then caught a bus. It was packed full of commuters and I managed to keep hidden by standing at one end whilst she was at the other. I nearly didn't get off the bus, with so many pressed against the doors; but I just made it by shouting 'rang yi-xia!' as I pushed hard, and then continued to follow her down Renmin Road. I knew the area well; ironically, it wasn't far from where I lived when I first came to Suzhou.

She crossed the road and turned left into an estate, then entered an apartment block with a large number eight on the outside wall. By watching the lift ascend, I discovered she was on the third floor. I ran up the stairs – just in time to see the door close on apartment 303. I have to say I felt a great sense of satisfaction having managed to follow her undetected. Now I could discover exactly what secret she'd been hiding from me for all those months. My finger poised over the doorbell – for one moment doubting the decision to go down this particular road. But in-for-a-penny, in-for-a-pound, I thought. I should have stuck with the penny.

A man in his late forties stood inside the open door and stared at me. I was taken aback. Then I said nervously, "Belinda zai bu zai?"

"Sorry, he said in good English, "you must have the wrong apartment."

I was left looking at the closed door for several seconds before slowly walking downstairs, feeling very stupid and hurt at the same time.

*

I didn't see Belinda for the next two weeks. She phoned me, but I always had an excuse not to see her. I was ill, I had school work to do, I was tired. She must have suspected something was wrong, but I didn't care: she'd lied to me, and my world had just been ripped apart. Yi Tian wasn't dead; or he was and she'd found another man to live with. Either way, I wasn't going to be two-timed by any woman, even one I was deeply in love with. Especially by one I was in love with.

Then, one Friday after work, she came round to my apartment. I opened the door, but didn't let her in. "Why are you avoiding me?" she said. She looked tired and sounded hurt. But I had my own share of hurt – and anger. She tried to touch me, but I pushed her hand away and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"Why did you lie to me... about Yi Tian?"

"I didn't – what do you mean?"

"He's not dead, is he?"

"What?"

"I saw him... I followed you to your apartment, and he opened the door..."

"You've been spying on me?"

"It's true, isn't it?"

"That was my uncle. Since Yi Tian died, I live with aunt and uncle. And they will never accept you... not a foreigner... so I couldn't take you home." I was stunned. "So now you know," she said, "and I am ashamed."

I thought for a minute, and then said, "But when I spoke to him, he didn't know your name..."

"No, of course not – I only use that English name with you."

Our relationship was never the same again. By spying on her, I'd shown I didn't trust her; and that in turn had broken the trust she had in me. It was over.

*

A month later, I was back at the Bookworm with the Writers' group – but it was hard to concentrate on writing. The place would always remind me of Belinda, and the love that I'd lost. Then half way through the meeting, Jacqueline returned with some drinks from the bar. "Hey, I just noticed a young woman downstairs crying, she seems pretty upset. Do you think we should do something?"

"Yes," I said, "leave her there. It's not worth the heartache."

"Touchy," she said to the others.

"I'll go and see her," said Erin.

I sat there thinking of the universe, and everything that happens, and why it happens, and what's important, and how you're always given another chance. And then I said, "It's okay, I'll go."

* * *
Other Books by Steve Howrie

Bucket & Broom in China

(Fiction, humour).

SYNOPSIS:

A very funny, light-hearted fictional diary, seen through the eyes of misfit twenty-something Simon Broom. After starting a microbiology course, Simon lands an English teaching job in Shanghai, China, and heads off on a life-changing adventure with quirky girlfriend Julie Bucket. The story covers eight months in the young couple's lives, as they interact with other expat teachers and strive to find themselves in an alien culture.

READER REVIEWS:

This is absolutely and utterly hilarious! I am very picky about my humor; most of what passes for it is witless and dumb. Yours is of the smart observational kind, and wickedly funny.

(Andi Brown, 'Animal Cracker').

What madness! Is getting a job in China really that easy? Wonderfully escapist stuff with plenty of smile-raising moments. On my watchlist as we speak.

(Simon Marks, 'That English Weirdo').

I like it! An easy read for when you need cheering up or when relaxing by a pool.

(Claire Lyman, 'Inevitable').

A la Adrian Mole - a really humorous foray into teaching.

(Sarah Churchill, UK).

Bucket & Broom Tie the Knot

(Fiction, humour).

This is the continuing story of misfit Simon Broom and his side-kick girlfriend Julie Bucket as they experience life in China, as told through Simon's eyes, ears and everything else! In 'Bucket & Broom Tie the Knot', the couple have finally found their feet in Shanghai – and Simon finds that Julie really is pregnant. But who is the father? Simon is driven from pillar to post whilst he strives to answer this question – stumbling across American journalist Sam James on the way. Falling in love with Sam, Simon is more confused than ever about his life and turns, as usual, to his friend and mentor Anton for guidance. Meanwhile, we meet the Bucket family for the first time, and catch up with Simon's father, who makes a surprising announcement. A cocktail of entertaining and interesting questions about life are humorously mixed with Bucket & Broom's unique blend of comic rapport to produce the Bucket & Broom philosophy on life.

Time Leap

(A time travel novel)

Whilst waiting to board his plane to New York from London Heathrow, Simon Broom discovers that the mobile phone his Chinese wife Niki Ling gave him for his birthday has one function that other phones just don't have: the ability to travel through time. Confused by finding himself in the year 2001, and astonished at becoming a real-life time traveller, he attempts to use the situation to stop the 9/11 World Trade Center attack, which is due to happen that day.

Returning to his London home in the present time, he discovers that his actions have had a far greater affect than he could ever have imagined. Not only events, but his wife's memories have been changed to in order to accommodate the new future he has engineered. He attempts to prove to her that he can travel though time, and eventually Niki believes him. This prompts the two to embark on a series of time travelling adventures in an attempt to change the past, and thereby affect the future. Their travels inevitably bring them into contact with other versions of themselves in past and future time zones, with mind-boggling consequences.

*

All books available on Smashwords and through the Kindle stores at: amazon.com, amazon.co.uk and other Amazon websites.

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