 
Rohort Went to France

Published by Robin Young at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Robin Young

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Table of contents

Rohort went to France

A Snowstorm in Featherston

The Night in the Cemetery

Lottery Town

Teront

The search for the Father

Hombo

Scattered in the rubbish.

Justice?

About the Author.

Rohort Went to France

Rohort went to France. He took two bicycles, a tent, a one burner stove, some money and a woman. And when it was au revoir, their journey over, France behind, he took what he had brought, still some money, his equipment, but he was armed, France had brought ideas, the lifeblood for a book he would write again and he was with the same woman.

Rohort's career was in tatters, his finances in shreds, his uniform a replication of his status. Leather would no longer be the encasement for his feet, clogs hacked from wood would adorn them.

But France was affordable. Its hotels were clean and always with a bidet and the prices were at times an inspiration. There were camping grounds they were frequent, their prices were tres bon marche, cheap and the hot air that filled his mattress was free.

Rohort had been a successful crime writer, so successful what you and I enjoyed he measured with contempt, few could fake or could hope to imitate his lifestyle.

But this had been changed by some experience in the field. Instead of writing about crime he'd tried to solve it.

There was a spate of burglaries where he and his Cohorts lived Rohort had seen this as his moment.

The police were deemed unnecessary, he ruled them out, it was unthinkable him in need of help, his image would be damaged, his stature compressed, instead of being in the corps of the elite, he'd be just another shrunken shriveledged.

His most influential best seller Buy, Sell and Swap had been a boost for police recruitment, but what should be realized some worked, there was honest money, not everything that was traded had been stolen.

But the burglar was elusive, his activities remained unchecked, they ended with a break in the weather.

The crimes remained unsolved, the offender unpunished, but there were rumblings at police headquarters.

Recruits had sought his autograph for their manuals of instruction, such was his reputation

Not all were pleased with his elevated status, his diminution gave them a weapon..

An edict was issued, all police training manuals were called in, Rohort's autograph was to be expunged from each and every one of them.

This was humiliating for him, his autograph in the manuals gone, but there were rumours and they were damning.

The mantra became it was a homeless man the culprit would dwelt in a culvert. This conduit for water was near Rohort's house, but a dry spell enabled another purpose.

But the sun said farewell and it was hello to the rain, but more came than was welcome, there was flooding.

But the inundation was not due to detritus in the drain, it was blocked by home, its rudiments and bottles.

Rohort was surprised, each and every one was drained, not a cork was to be seen, all were empty.

Did he not realize the purpose of the thefts or that the contents passed through someone's stomach.

The size of the blunder would have made military intelligence gawp. His lack of comprehension was unbelievable.

At first he did not give up. This was understandable. His career and its success had commenced at school. When the other boy's parents were wondering how they were going to pay for his coeval's education, his problem was which sport's car and which girl tonight.

Money was a burden, it camouflaged the trees, but the branches were now bare, it was winter.

Rohort was unable to transcend his circumstances, his writing became repetitious the words budget and scarcity filled the pages.

He'd reached a crossroads. It was signposted. Dearth and Money Worries was one route, inescapable for many, for most the soldier's maxim held 'Never Volunteer'.

He gazed back at the path from whence he'd come, traveled by the few, he was no longer in the company of the privileged. He looked back, it was a tantalizing cornucopia and as he gazed it shrank and became like the contents of his pockets a vast empty space filled with nothing.

He looked once more at the signpost.

One board was blank there were no directions its purpose was for wishes. It was a darkened mess, blurred with much smudging. A pen hung from it and a sponge, both were worn and the sponge was discoloured by the wiping.

But Rohort could see two words, they were discernible, they'd been much written they traced an outline.

WIN LOTTERY.

The remnant of a bale of straw lay nearby, much was scattered, strands lay everywhere.

Clutching at straws he mused, such is the strength of hope.

His first reaction was the pen, but he saw the straw, hesitated, then retracted.

He had considered the Lottery as a theme, the leitmotif, he might write about it, he'd done some reading. Dossiers had been compiled on the lives of many winners. But there was a space, a glaring gap, the histories of the multitude that had never won.

He was lucky, he may not have won the Lottery, but his research was now a bonus, he'd learned about probability and understood the theory and knew about the bulging unfilled Gap.

He ceased his musings he turned once more to the signpost the fourth board resolved his dilemma.

NOTHING TO LOSE.

And nothing to salvage, salvation would not come from convention.

The orthodox would no longer serve.

The past would no longer guide.

Rohort wrote in his diary. ' **CHANGE'**. It was repeated several times.

He described his landscape, its bleakness its size there was nothing to be seen but the same unending view.

It became his passion to shrink the world, he wished to glimpse beyond the confines of his life.

"Why cannot it be compacted"? He asked.

This urge to miniaturize extended to his reading.

Darwin was examined, evolution was explored the fossils he found, the large creatures that were once, their replicas he saw, they were living but they were miniature.

But the exigencies of his situation would not tolerate delay. His clothes were wearing thin more layers were needed in the cold.

He confided in his diary.

'If I am ever to write again I need to know my subject. **CONTACT**. There must be **CONTACT**.

The last word was heavily underlined.

And so he decided to reside with the subjects of his theme. But in a house, he did not relish residence in a drain.

Rohort sought advice. Expertise was soon forthcoming.

But first came unexpected attention to his clothing.

"But look."

And he pointed to what would soon be tatters surely his wretched raiments would suffice.

Worn perhaps but they were too well fitting, the last gasp bin at the op shop was not their provenance.

Then came a warning. He was alerted to the Locusts.

"Locusts." He repeated.

They would be the other occupants of the house.

Never open a packet of cigarettes in front of any person and, if you are asked for one, you have always smoked your last.

Rohort did not smoke, but he drew in the information, his drilling about money was only brief.

But there was one item that was safe, vigilance would not be needed, no one had heard of thefts of soap.

Where he now lived revealed his desperation. He was the sole occupant of that house not paying fines. The owner was exempt, but not without absolution, another branch of government was his scourge.

There was one particular boarder that brought the visitation rubbish was the man's obsession.

It was in suitcases, tied in bundles, it pressed against the ceiling his room was filled to make space for more he used it as a bed.

This place of collection was known as the overflowing Tent, the fire department listed it a danger.

There were inspections, reports and endless correspondence it created more paper than the rubbish in the Tent.

But Rohort was mystified that the man should be paying fines, exclude rubbish and his behaviour was exemplary.

He was now having misgivings.

Why was he living here? How long could he last? And would the denouement be a continuation of his career as a crime writer?

But Rohort was unaware he was to add another strength, the publication of a where to say guide could be an option.

He was to learn that municipal munificence extended beyond drains, there was choice, the infrastructure was versatile, shelter was a facet for its use, the occupant of 'The Tent' had been discovered living at the tip, landfill a 44 gallon drum had been his residence.

To discourage others, the man had been prosecuted, he was fined the worry was the tip would fill with people.

Rohort lingered in that house, but with increasing uncertainty of its purpose. There was no drama and certainly no glamour, there was nothing to inspire ideas, life in a tent would have been more instructive.

One night he was awakened by the sound of chopping, to reach the toilet he had to pass through the kitchen.

There was a beast on the table and a crowd gathered round, there'd been a successful night's stealing, tomorrow's agenda would be eating.

There was some attempt at cleanliness in that house. Had this not been so, 'Tent' the former occupant at the tip would not have stayed and loved it.

Why park in a drum, when a warm room will do? There would be no yearning for the tip or homesickness such was the state of that house.

The tide of untidiness and the repelling ambient was held back partly with the assistance of a boarder. He wore rubber gauntlets, nothing else would be safe. His rent was shrunk for his efforts.

The man was leaving the toilet he held a large cloth, its purpose was for cleaning, he raised it close to his nose and sniffed a deep sniff, so intense the sound was clearly audible.

Audible perhaps, but visible too, Rohort could face no more.

His intimate knowledge of crime would contribute nothing to his writing. Criminals were supposed to be exciting, not people beset by hunger and afraid of using soap.

His diary was blackened he could no longer glimpse or even peer into the past would yesterday breed and be a plague? Would it become an endless tomorrows?

Suddenly he wrote.

'I must leave or I will become one.'

There was a break and then in bold capitals he wrote...

'ANOTHER OF THE LANDLORD'S HANDPICKED LUNATICS.'

He abandoned that palace, but its uninterrupted gloom pursued him. His ill fitting uniform he cast away and crime as a reservoir for ideas was torn up, it was rejected.

Rohort became as a survivor, a static object somewhere in a void, he was directionless, without purpose.

His dejected state was conspicuous it threw a wide net his Cohorts feared contagion.

"Why not write about travel?" Suggested one, it was obvious enough such was the extent of his wanderings.

The Cohort had known him for many years, he was almost a friend. It puzzled that his fictional characters never traveled.

Rohort brightened, perhaps an exit from the toils then he remembered the inconveniences at airports.

"There is France." The Friendly Cohort continued. Rohort's passport often bore its stamp.

A chunk of gloom fell from him like the launching of an iceberg France inspired a warm and welcome glow.

Merci for France he thought.

"Vive la France." He exclaimed in tones barely comprehensible to a native of the tongue.

His French was sparse, thin, toute de suit, San fairy Ann then a dribble. But he had been a visitor many times, St Emelion his favorite destination.

The ancient city on the hill, the steep narrow streets, the medieval walls. But the compulsion to return did not arise from the relics of the past, history was not the addiction.

It was the product of the pays, district the especial flavour in the bottle, fine hotels and degustation, wine tasting, in the country side around.

The popularity of Rohort's travels would be beyond denial, there was fascination with how those weighed down with money lived.

So certain was the subject, so alluring the appeal, the Cohort had his present packed and tucked up in the past.

But Rohort could not retrace the life he had once lead, even the luster had gone from his girlfriends. The most serious problem that he faced was the cheapness of his bed, creaking bed springs became part of his love scenes.

He had reached the nadir.

If he could not describe simple things like making love, then what was left?

Crime, the past and advice from signposts had to be packed and shipped to somewhere and somewhere had to be nowhere he would visit.

Rohort would write again, he was determined, his Cohorts saw his strength as travel.

They talked of the explorers and the strictures of their journeys, what mattered was to go there and be there.

'Go there and be there.' Became his mantra.

But then he wondered how would he get there.

"By air." The Friendly Cohort still had advice.

For most economy was the mode of travel.

He had heard about thrifty in the sky, planes were flying canneries, people airborne fish.

So Rohort had got there, but how would he move there?

Straightforward use terra thrifty.

Did this mean a tractor would he be riding on a plough?

The Friendly Cohort took him to his stable.

He expected straw, hay and the steeds of noblemen and kings instead he was in a shed filled with bicycles.

He wondered why so many bikes. The extra were for the occasional odd friend.

He had faced many changes.

He had vaulted from a childhood bike to a smooth fast car, from bed time stories read to him at night to companions who strode through the night without sleep.

And now the leap was to childhood and back to the hard narrow seat, propulsion again by pedaling, he'd welcome bed, he'd sleep.

But now he had an ally, he at last had a friend there was encouragement and many journeys.

But there was the wind and the hills, the continuous up and ever up and the shedding of effort, the moment of descent, it was tenuous, it was brief.

Rohort quickly understood the appeal of four wheels, but he remained steadfast to his steed without stirrups.

But his body was the same as any other, fitness was not exclusive to a coterie of few, the down hill rush was not preceded by a crawl, bunched contour lines were not a place to detour.

A rivet in his mind now snapped, his reveries were no longer filled by gradients.

France was now a little closer he might sometimes meet the Cohort's occasional friend.

But that category of person was not to join them on their journeys an unanticipated interception would preclude it.

Toni was not occasional, nor was she odd, nor did she indulge in borrowed bikes.

Toni's body was molded to her steed, no glue or fusion could grip tighter.

The tireless movement of the clouds, the slow procession of the scenes no better montage could be devised for stimulation.

Nor could the heat or the hot summer sun deter and thirst so compelling it would reach and wrench and in the night would force an exit from the bed and demand liquid as ransom for slumber.

Toni did not rattle in the comfort of a rut if there were cleats she would have slung a hammock in the sky, home and house were merely ranked as shelter.

The Friendly Cohort had never liaised with Toni, coincidence and steeds not found on pasture were the link.

Rohort was introduced, the new recruit for cycling, his vision was to make a tour of France.

Immediately that geographical location filled the conversation, all else was swamped, banished, nothing could intrude nothing could compete with Vive La France.

The Friendly Cohort was surprised by the vigour of the interest, had homework brought Toni's cartographic grip?

There'd been no secret study in the cover of a mai mai, duck shooter's hide, her Alma Mater was the Tour de France.

The name places rolled like the passing of the milestones Frejus, Toulouse, Carcassonne.

Rohort made a contribution. He'd seen the ancient city, La Citee, he'd seen it on his travels. His eyes had fixed and joined the gaze of many.

He talked of the waterway, the canal that passed through it. The canal de deux mers, the link between two oceans, that too was old and at its summit, at Le Segala, it was high, 220 meters.

Historic France it was engrossing. Go there and be there came echoes of the mantra.

They talked and talked, Rohort had to reach, stretch perhaps steal a ship and sail the intervening seas, whatever it would take he had to get there.

Toni knew France would not remain a cartographer's projection on a map nor would they be bisected from it by the ocean.

For Toni had traveled, had traveled many miles, stayed in barns, tents, bivvyed under buildings, a refugee from rent could take a lesson.

The Friendly Cohort was surprised by the bonding of the pair.

Was it France? Or ou la la or even both?

The excursions continued, they talked of nothing else but France, the topic money was parked in freeze and find.

Rohort was now launched, the Friendly Cohort retreated his spot was now a place in the background

The background had a tenant the foreground was always France they would go, they would go together.

Together they would go, prepared they had to be, was Rohort's body ready for the miles?

And so they set out for the wind and hills at home with the adjunct of the hot summer sun.

They would always break their journey in the sanctuary of the shade the shadow would rest their eyes from the glare. Often and frequently Rohort thought of rain, anything to dilute and damp the heat.

But then came the warm and soothing waters from the ground, thermal they took the tiredness that would not yield to sleep.

Rohort was deemed ready, faraway lands would now come next, but would a tent, a flimsy apparatus suffice for home?

He had misgivings. It was to be a long journey and an unaccustomed abode. He confided in his diary.

First he discussed his literary career. It would be an experience, definitely, ideas would follow, there'd be many, a multitude would want his pen.

But this was the crust, the peel around the mass that was the core, the thoughts that swam and took shape in his scribblings.

They were brief, but revealing.

Toni had and would make France possible. Without Toni there would be no France.

And as he wrote those words he saw a gap, a space. It was a void he did not wish to enter.

He wrote of their intimate experiences together. Her tight gripping muscles, a heart and lungs that barely stirred during those moments of making love.

He felt compelled to write, he must, nothing could deny his urge for publication. Did all that went between them have to lie buried in the dust? There had to be better than a worn and tatty diary.

But what of their relationship? Those moments undisturbed together could not be laid out on a slab, cold like a fish from the water. But then he saw an exit, he need not remain a fixture in the toils, he would write and with effusion, he would exhaust the urge and publication it would follow, but posthumously.

He'd go to France, its fields would give repose and unfamiliar weeds would prop his pillow.

For Toni France had never been a dream, not even a shimmer or an outline in a fog, but now it was concrete, immutable.

And so it would be France, the south and in the spring where hopefully the weather would be warm.

Rohort's first letter to the Friendly Cohort described the journey in the air, its strictures, the long hours encased within the confines of a seat. He wrote of migratory birds, their passage and the five f's; frequent flyers, feathers and of course flying fish. There was movement around the planet mankind was not alone to travel, but the discomfort was a challenge to its wisdom.

They had slept when first in the air, but were interrupted by the arrival of food.

The letter ran thus.

'Not even a feast for soup kitchen mice.'

But they were people, not rodents anxious to be slim and the impact on hunger would be minimal.

The passage of the food did not decompress the tank of unfilled hours and to fill the stomach was definitely not its purpose.

Then came the slow unwinding of the clock, sleep, any, perhaps scattered would be welcome.

And for Toni it was particularly hard. Her energies tied up within an airborne box, the options were sitting or standing.

Talking was not permitted, colloquy was banned and laughter would probably have caused the plane to crash.

There were those, the fortunate, who flew asleep, their journey filled with dreams, the voices would have unreasonably roused them.

It was then that Rohort thought of life alone and in a cell.

'Has soliloquizing yet been banned in boo, prison?'

But the journey in the air was replaced by the arrival of the ground there was a brief stop and then the final plane to France.

Toni knew she was in a foreign land, English was still spoken the habiliments were identical to those at home.

Rohort's comment in his letter.

'The provenance of what's worn here's the same as ours its China.'

The Friendly Cohort chuckled when he read the lines.

He mused.

'You'll see it in the check out queue, it's the same at any airport, the universal uniform they churn it out in China. Its worn by apparatchiks, it cloaks the dimmest stooge, examine any boarding lounge, spy on any cadre, the whole lot's in the kit, a mirror of what's worn in old Beijing.'

But what was different and not like home was the unmistakable smell of tobacco.

It could be smoked, there was an area for its purpose, but any nostrils, not just a dog's could detect it.

But despite the odium of the odour Toni had an interlude of sleep it was twenty minutes on the airport bench.

Their flight over France revealed the terrain that lay ahead there was snow, much up, but little flat.

Rohort shrank at the dimensions of the contours it was the inverse of a whorl of many lines upon the map.

Finally there was Nice and instead of hills the ocean, the contour lines did not reach the beach.

There was aqua below them its detail increased with their descent, there was also liquid with them on the plane. Some was in something, somewhere above them in the luggage and some of it was about to reach them. The mode of conveyance would not be a glass, nor was there an announcement of its coming.

The call came to fasten seatbelts, there was absolute compliance, greater exemplification of attention to airline safety could not be wished. Then commenced the dripping, provenance was the luggage, Rohort and another were its target.

The flight staff did not attempt to help them in their plight there was no attempt at extrication.

The extract from his diary ran thus.

'Most inconvenient what was I to do? Take it or take a bollocking.'

Sparse and Spartan was their wardrobe for the journey, they were cyclists, solitary, not travelers, cosseted with an escort on safari, weight and space were the determinants of what they wore.

Need and discomfort became the fuel for propulsion Rohort forsook the putative safety of his seat.

The other recipient was similarly propelled vacant space superseded that once filled by bottom.

They may have dodged the dripping and what would have been a wetting, but instead of liquid there came another menace sound.

A shrill voice from whence it came there was no doubt and where it went, its target, was obvious.

Rohort did not wish his emails to be electronic burdens, his missives tomes of gloom. He wrote of what had happened and anything salient said.

The barrage in the plane he précised thus.

'During landing bodies were for seats, none but the desperate risked the aisle.'

The Friendly Cohort read the lines, he snorted.

'And none but the fluent in the lingo of the native would wish to be searching for a laundry.'

He faded for a moment, but his thoughts were kept on track. There was a gentle ringing, it was from his washing machine, its cycle had finished.

Next the Friendly Cohort knew the sequence he was near the shadow of his clothesline.

But France would not be rinsed and washed away, somewhere without identity in the suds, it stamped his next pronouncement.

'Dhobi wallahs they would not teem and swarm in France.'

There was a light, France had brought illumination it lit up the dungeon of detergent, the immediate was forgotten, the washing line abandoned, he was back again with Rohort over France.

The voice had ceased, the dripping didn't they remained fugitives from it in the aisle.

There was a bump, the tarmac had arrived, then the terminal, this was France, it could be nowhere else, it was the only place on the planet for the uniforms.

A further reinforcement of their changed geographical location was the widespread use of tobacco, this was definitely not home.

They left the English speaking world behind with the passengers on the plane, within the geographical location of France all was French.

This bestirred an entry in the Friendly Cohort's diary.

'Soliloquizing would not be interrupted.'

The weather was a topic much on many minds its extremeness was the reason. Bathfuls had become the calibration for the measurement of rain, but there was daylight so thus there was the sun, the totality of cloud could not exclude it.

This cauldron filled with rain and hate and every little nasty was far away, not where they were, but its implications were clear and without equivocation. Pleasure and its cohort fun would cease, priorities rearranged, staying dry would be intertwined bracketed with eating. But there was one worry missing from this list of woe, habitation in a tent would not be envied.

Advice on avoidance was sought from a traveler on the plane stay south of the Loire was the prescription. An obvious point of reference, it was conspicuous in the cartography of France, Toni was unaware it was a river.

To reach this line of demarcation took five weeks of pedaling, but instead of rain the low barometric pressures would bring wind. Air from the bellows might feed the flame within the forge, but forced against the nostrils was big minus, headwinds took, they subtracted. There were moments of respite on the downward side of hills, gravity took, but gave back.

The discussion was concluded they were reunited with their luggage, next came a putting back together of their bikes. There had been a minor disassembly to fit them in their boxes a removal of some parts had shrunk their size. A request brought a place for this minor reassembly, spacious was the area assigned.

Planes came and went, the terminal filled and emptied, they were left unhurried to fulfill their task. Toni was learning in France time was not a metered item, measured out and divvied up in fractions, haste did not dwell within its borders.

Finally they were finished, they were quickly through the customs, scrutiny did not bring a pause, there was no inhalation in the haze, the tobacco smoke rose on up interrupted.

A space now appeared in their preparations. The mantra was go there and be there, ancillary, but unsung, what do you take there? Clothes were an item found on any list, they had brought propulsion, shelter and implements known to scullions. All this had come in four cardboard boxes, peeled away, deposited, their logos incomprehensible to handlers of French trash, their luggage had transmuted into rubbish. The space that appeared was its absence in their saddle bags, there had been no measurement of the volume of what they'd brought. The recycling station might be a place for cartons brought as luggage, but cyclists with too much gear would have to pause.

What was needed was found, a post office in the airport, but it was the Mediterranean, a two hour closure for lunch had just commenced.

They decided to wait but there was a lingual problem, fundamental and could not be ignored. Eating meant cooking, for this they had a stove, unknown was the French for its fuel. English was spoken at the information centres, the young lady in Nice had not heard of meths, methylated spirits.

The consumption of food wore away the time at the airport, the post office reopened, their business done, they left.

Nice was abaft, Antibe ahead, they were following the green boards to St Raphael. The day was sunny the road along the water flat, Antibe was reached in two hours without effort.

Some traffic lights brought a realization there was more than sun and views in France, there was a beggar he plied the waiting cars. A plea on a piece of cardboard was suspended by a string around his neck, manger, to eat, was the only word they knew. The well dressed Frenchmen took no notice, the lights turned green, they left they were not accosted.

In Antibe it was shop and a fortunate encounter with someone who spoke English and knew of meths. It was an older woman probably retired she'd had three years residence in England. It was not sold where they were but in another shop, as well as instruction in French there were street directions.

Their routine at the shops was one in and one stay with the bikes they wished the French for steal to remain unknown and in a book.

The motor camp was slightly back along the road from which they'd come, on their way they'd passed a works depot. The gates were being locked, it was the closing of the day and examination of school curriculum French came next.

They stopped, they spoke to the man attending to the gates, he grasped their need they sought the camp. Was this a triumph for the classroom?

He would have seen many laden cyclists pass this way before, this may have been clearer than their stilted French.

Language was now needed to direct their way to wither, gaps were found in the learning. Street directions had not been part of the little learnt at school, inculcation would come in the field.

That field was the interval of separation between where they were and their place of residence for the night, language would support the bridge to close it.

The roundabout was circumnavigated by a circulation of the finger on the palm but straight through was part of much unknown. It was never in the books at school, was it to the right? It took some weeks in France to clear up that one.

Then came some counting, not in the head but on the digits, which exit was it from the roundabout? Une, deux, trois, it was the third. Toni was trying, the French man smiled.

They said thanks, in French, that came straight from the text book, they remounted peddling was a rest from struggling French.

They passed a shop, was Antibe a necessary detour? But would meths have remained a problem unresolved?

They reached the camp first it was the office, their details, money and passports for I D. The man showed no emotion, they were just more of many, a tide across his door and he the resemblance of a railway ticketing machine. He was polite, they had a billet.

It was Toni's first day in France, but there was to be a second first that day, their tent was new, unused, slumbers within would commence on shores beyond its provenance of purchase. Toni's tent was old, there had been occasional repairs, problems were not wanted far from home.

Rohort had fallen from the apex, the nadir had been reached, France had arrived, his letter bore the postmark it would be the leitmotif that day in the Friendly Cohort's diary.

His writing was difficult, a scrawl, barely intelligible, had a spider fallen in his inkwell? Had it fled across the pages?

The entry commenced with a sketch, it was clear and clearly a construct unassisted by insects.

The scene a seaport somewhere in France, elephants were being disembarked from a sailing ship, the habiliments of the sailors were unfamiliar, they were from a bygone era.

There was a caption, it read thus.

'Replacement for a woolly mammoth missing somewhere in France.'

The graphics ceased, the narrative commenced.

His opening gambit was brief.

France equals liberty.

Rohort's letter from France was an injection, an infusion filled with vigor, the revolutions of his clothesline ceased to be the warden of his thoughts, there was a stretching of horizons.

The merits of detergent were discussed, discarded decisions were not needed, he was the equal of which or what to use. He wrote Egalite.

His symbols dived, had he filled his pen with mud? Guessing and a search for clues found this.

'The fraternity of suds will lose a member.'

The ramblings faded then fizzled out, but not so the fizz in France, the travelers and the journey became central.

Rohort's missive continued.

Their camp was on a hillside, its contour too steep for tents, terraces had been formed for that purpose. They were of sufficient size and adequately spaced, but waste there wasn't.

This intense use of land was to track them on their journey. France was vast, uncluttered, people did not swarm, the era of the throwaway had come, the peasant past remained modern France could not discard it.

Then came erecto time, up went the tent, cooking, mastication, simple fare perhaps, but hunger felled and quelled, simplicity also extended to seating.

Luggage restrictions brought priorities, which or what to take, a hat for the sun, yes, but what for the bottom? There was furniture in one camp, in the remainder it was park the bottom on the ground the exception was also the cheapest.

The entry in the Friendly Cohort's diary read.

'An unexpected inversion, little money, best comfort, the hard wooden seat a luxury.'

This lack was never mentioned in the tourist guide Best advice for cyclists in France, scouring the chapter 'Hints on Saving' found nothing.

The Friendly Cohort wondered at the omission.

The entry in the diary finished.

'At least something for the budget traveler.'

Go there and be there may have been the mantra, but some comfort found its way through the squeeze. Their tent was for extreme conditions, snow, wind, the cold, but by the measurement of any tent it was warm. It was snug, it was cozy, the hard ground did not intrude, mattresses filled with air were the buffer.

It was early in the season, tents were few and people so to match, but later there would be an inverse of what was now. Dense would be the occupation, voices inescapable, such would be the rationing of space.

Their first day was nearly over, rest imminent and welcome, their dreams lulling, not filled with gibberish, a metamorphosis of jabbering French.

The sun may have slithered from the sky, but France was still qui vive, its repertoire of tricks was not yet finished.

France was modern, water ran through taps, the contents of the toilet went where it was expected, but a collision with convenience came in the shower.

The outline and the resemblance was the same as any previously seen, but what was different and missed the roll call were the taps.

They were explorers in a foreign land, discoverers of the previously unknown. The pipes, the conduit for the water, finished at a button, they were entering new ground they'd stumbled on the tap. It was large, chromium, a press brought water the flow was from where it was expected.

Gracias, but the relief was too soon. There might be running water, but there was not a running out of tricks.

The direction of the flow was right, but the duration wasn't. It would be for an interval of time then would cease, to maintain it took more pushing of the button.

Showering became an endless alternation, the soaping of the body then the dabbing of the button.

Cleansing the cranium created employment for its contents, thinking became essential. Soap in the eyes can be painful, avoidance can bring moments without vision. At a critical time the water might cut out, there'd be a desperate groping for the button.

The mantra became for ablutions in the shower. 'If groping is essential, facing the button is a must.'

The Friendly Cohort had read the arms code. Identify your target. There needed to be a showering code for camping grounds in France, identify the location of the button.

This was the routine in all but two camping grounds in France. The second was reached after several weeks of pedaling. It was still very early in the season the camping ground was not completely opened. The usual ablutions block was not yet in use. But there was a shower, this time with taps, but the crimp was not entirely gone. They were issued at the office with a token, there was a slot box in the shower for its insertion this would bring the flow.

So there were buttons, tokens and in one camping ground a lever, to which there was attached a chain. This artifice was the tap, pulled down and held brought and kept the water, once released the flow would cease. French plumbing had now reached an unexpected level they would recommend a short course of training for its use. The possibility of guidance from another in the camp was precluded by the technicalities of the language.

So it was hang on to the chain and don't drop the soap.

The Friendly Cohort confided in his diary.

An ideal place for French commandos, highly suitable before exercises in the desert, a drilling in the use of scarce water.

This was to be the most expensive camping ground during their stay in France. It was right on the beach, probably world famous, St Tropez.

The Friendly Cohort wondered about the fame and its cause. Seventy million foreign tourists came to France each year, would less challenging plumbing have brought fewer?

For their first four days it was delightful Mediterranean weather, endless sunshine and warmth. There was wind, always from an unhelpful direction. Showering and the dhobi were concomitant. Clothes hung out would dry overnight, such was the balminess.

The weather changed and with it the routine for drying, instead of hanging from a line it was parked under the stretchy, the cord for securing luggage on the back of the bike. It worked.

The next day the route took them through Cannes it was a long, but flat and seemingly unending. Lunch was taken by a small park some children were playing in it. A baguette fortified, cheese was for strengthening, humus and tomato a culinary assistant, simple but the flavour was such they could overlook French plumbing.

Before they left France they were to take a solemn vow. A bread knife would become an item on the shopping list, they would renounce sliced bread, to eat or even consider it would be an affront to France.

The Friendly Cohort took note, they might not come home masters of the language, but they'd bring back a little of France.

They were through the city and would be on the coast all the way to St Raphael. It was flat at first then became hilly there were endless views of the water. The ups and downs were all the way to Aix.

There were no formalities at the camp that night, no questions, find a spot, sleep tight and pay on departure. The payment was quick and equally informal, from hand to hand to pocket. There were a few other instances of the rapid paperless transaction, but their needs were fundamental a berth not unwanted clutter, I.e receipts,

it would add nothing to their comfort or improve the quality of dreams, but there

was an increase in their knowledge of French. Money was the rivet, it fixed the focus on the banks, their appellation crossed borders, French or English, in both it was the same, a bank was a bank in both languages.

They were to learn that in France some German could be helpful. There were problems with a tyre, the ride was uneven, bump, bump, bump. A bike shop was sought and found. There was an examination and diagnosis, the tyre was deemed to be Kaput.

They reached St Raphael which became Frejus, there was no break, the one became the other, but the passage was flat and not of excessive duration.

When they first left the city there was a brief encounter with an odd unpleasant man. He was on foot, traveling their way, they called and waved it was a friendly gesture, but the response was unwelcome and unexpected. There was yelling and shouting and gesticulating, fortunately he was on a causeway separated slightly from the road.

Their load and the headwind slowed their speed, the man hastened, a lingering menace, but they had the wheels, the technology for movement, eventually he was behind them.

All was not always peaceful in France.

It was flat at first when they left the city, then came the coast with the hills and views. The descents were brief, a headlong rush to reach the bottom to begin again the slow uphill.

Cyclists may dream of other, but theirs is the same as all, they are living in a gravitational field. But the road was well graded, the ups might be lengthy but were not steep, it was always possible to ride, dismounting and walking was not necessary.

The summits would arrive and bring a pause the views deserved attention as did the body, a snack perhaps or a liquid intake. The downhill might be thrilling but it could wait.

The camp that night brought a one and only experience in France. A lady was in charge, she showed them to their place of encampment for the night and asked 'vous voulez', Si bon, o k was their answer. It was the only time they were taken to their billet, often it was ou vous voulez, where you wish.

The next day headwinds continued, but it was to be the last that was warm and sunny.

The road flattened out towards St Tropez, it was late when they reached the camp, it was bisected by the road part sloped down to reach the beach they were on the upside, they never enquired but proximity to the water may have cost more.

There was to be another one only experience in France.

The man at the office spoke fluent English with a Scottish accent. He also spoke French he was not a Frenchman who had learnt English in Scotland but a Scotsman living in France.

They had a long conversation with the man, it was restful to speak to someone again without the strains of miscomprehension, he guessed their nationality correctly they were not Australians.

They asked about the whereabouts of a shop. There was one in the camp. Did they sell porridge? He did not know he did not eat it. He gave directions to the shop. He was right about the porridge, muesli would do they were tired and did not wish to go any further.

They did a brief shop and then put up the tent.

The Friendly Cohort wondered about the criterions used to be a world famous beach.

He constructed a check list. Did any at home make it?

1. Hours of sunshine. Not quite, but some places were close, call it within orbs. Tick the box.

2. Wind, plenty of that, another dab with the pencil.

3. A Scotsman. There'd be many.

4. One who did not eat porridge, a disappointing yes, traditional eating habits eroding a triumph for foreign brands.

5. A Scotsman who did not eat porridge but was fluent in French, trickier but a round up would find something. Take the pencil tick the box.

6. Plumbing. And a big full stop, the ticking hit the buffers and a gaping empty box. There was nothing at home like French plumbing.

The Friendly Cohort sighed, our beaches were alright, but they failed the criterion, they would not make it to the tourist guide of the world famous.

From now on the weather was to falter. It was not the shining Mediterranean climate it resembled nothing they had read about. It grew colder, the winds stronger and the sky darkened and lowered and finally at Carcassonne there was snow and hail. It was not what they expected.

After St Tropez the route left the coast and went inland they were crossing a peninsula. There were more hills and at La Croix-Valmer a post office. They had a parcel to post there was a queue, it took an hour. During this time a man called out Vive La France, did patriotism ameliorate the wait? Another option might have been a rendition of the Marseillaise. They would have attempted to join in.

The peninsula was crossed, the sea again, the views, still more hills and of course the wind.

There was a stretch with very restricted outlook, they reached it later in the day, it was through high walls and tunnels, these were lit, glass topped the walls. It was a troncon, cycle track, wide enough for bikes, the terrain not flat, but easier. It was eight when they reached La Lavandou, much later than their preferred time for stopping. They had passed a camping ground earlier in the day, but there were no more till La Lavandou. There was daylight till ten, but it was gloomy through the walls. In places there were trees, they further drained the light.

At the office they were asked if they were Germans, another surprise in the land of many. Their provenance was explained.

The Friendly Cohort wondered at the error. Was it poor guesswork or was their attempted French affecting their diction?

The next day the route took them inland, it bisected a large promontory the coast was rejoined at les salins d'hyeres. They were on a troncon right on the beach. It was straight, flat and went for many miles, marvelous for those travelling in the right direction, i.e. with the wind abaft, unfortunately it was not so for them. There were few cyclists but many skaters all following the wind, a quality experience thus the volume on skates. They saw a car pull up two young girls got out booted up with skates and away they went.

At the approaches to Toulon they were arrested by the image on a very large bill board, it dominated, it was inescapable. A man dressed in a suit and a collar and a tie was crouching, his trousers pulled down, his intention obvious. There was a string of words, obviously a direction, use the plumbing not anywhere on the ground. They were to see this use of anywhere many times in France. Cyclists were few, motorists many, this advice was caused by and was for the benefit of the many.

This was a further mystification for the Friendly Cohort. He searched the travel brochures, magnification was sometimes needed, but no matter how far or where he looked there was never a mention of need or the absence of French plumbing.

Maintaining the commissariat could be difficult shops did not abound and were not easily findable. So if supplies were needed the routine became never pass a shop. The next one could be anywhere and anywhere could be somewhere and somewhere could be anywhere wherever that might be.

They passed a huge hypermarket on the route through Toulon. The car park was surrounded by a large grass verge.

Toni went in, Rohort sprawled on the grass. Lying in the sun and resting was beautiful, it was marvelous he could have lain there forever. Then a small car pulled up, the driver a man got out. It was not permitted to lie on the grass. Rohort tried to explain there were two of them, he pointed to the two bicycles he was waiting whilst his companion was shopping. Did not matter, he could not remain. The man took one of the bikes to a small wall where it could be propped, Rohort followed with the other. Rohort sat on the wall. That was not permitted. He could remain there, that was allowed, but he had to stand. So thus it was that in the supermarket no form of rest was possible, it was for shopping and nothing else.

The Friendly Cohort shook his head, was France a land of tyrants and many torments, persistent headwinds, forbidden rest. He had looked forward to the missives from afar, but now there was some dread, he feared their contents.

The shopping was finished without further incident, they were through Toulon and were back again on the coast and made camp at Sanary sur-mer.

There were now some seriously long hills. Easter was approaching and lilies were being sold in small bunches in celebration. The day into Cassis, the Thursday before Good Friday, consisted of two long hills, each took an hour to climb, the descents twenty minutes. There was absolutely no flat, it was up or down and that was the cycling for the day.

Cassis was on the beach at the bottom of a hill. They discovered the camp was further back from near where they'd come. The small climb back up was a deletion from what faced them the next day.

Toni went down later to the town, on the way back a car stopped some people from the camp saw her and gave her a lift back up. It was welcome, she was tired and it was a steep.

There were many staying in the camp, the holiday was coming. There was a slight annoyance that night. It was not caused by the French but by foreign tourists, Swiss. They arrived late, put up their tent mallets were used to drive in the pegs the ground was hard, this was unavoidable, but there was the accompaniment of an endless commentary, was it necessary? It seemed unreasonable. The next morning the occupants of that tent did some enforced listening.

The decision was taken to cross the river Rhone at Arles. Marseille was the other option, but it was a large city thus a long traverse, it would take most of a day also there would be serious navigational problems with an extreme likelihood of getting lost.

The next day Good Friday was their hardest in France, it commenced with a long hill, the vertical height was 700 meters, then a brief free wheel then some flat then a four kilometer hill with a short climb beyond the summit then a long and easy descent into Aix.

They had lunch at La Bouilladisse. During the day they had an encounter with French Ants. They passed a large patch of flowering thyme Toni wished to be photographed surrounded by the blooms she sat for the pose, unknown was the hidden swarming host. The Ants were large 10 millimeters long. The tiny creatures were just sociable, they did not bite, but the crawling horde was unwelcome, the pose was just long enough for the camera.

The Friendly Cohort wondered what France had next, there were Ants that did not bite, but French Wasps, would they be friendly?

There could be long hauls between camping grounds but they never free camped, fees did not involve a visit to a bank for economic aid but suitable places were scarce, trees for concealment, water and no prying eyes, there always seemed to be someone around. It was the inverse of their experiences at home no people, shops or camping grounds instead accommodation to suit the slimmest budget, there was no regimentation or charges amongst bushes by a river and the peace would not disturb the lightest sleep.

There was a camp on the road they were following into Aix, day's end they were going no further. It was a major relief, finding a camp was not always so straight forward, first there was the visit to the office tourism to find its location, the office would be situated in the centre of town, it was signposted and reasonably findable, then would come the journey to the camp, this could be some distance, also there could be some navigational problems, once they were given misinformation.

The camp in Aix was four stars. The woman running the camp was taking her daughter through the office routine. The mother was fluent in English. They were told the fee 130 francs. Rohort fumbled in his wallet, out came a 100 franc note, the woman was quick, that would do, the money was taken there was no paperwork they were given a site reference, their place to stay.

Four stars the camp and twinkle twinkle in the shower, the buttons to press remained, but there were longer intervals of flow, it was hot, soothing, an enticement to remain, not a rushed rinse to flee the tepid torrent.

They were told some heartening information there were no hills beyond them after Aix. It was almost true there was a long one as they left the town. There still remained the wind.

The next day they reached Salon in the afternoon, the office of tourism was not signposted, how would they find a camp? They passed a bicycle shop there was a crowd of cyclists in it. They went in. Vous etes perdu, you are lost, was the greeting. They knew they were somewhere in Salon, what they did not know was the whereabouts of where they wanted. There was a lengthy discussion amongst the young men then one of them volunteered to pilot them. This was one of many kindness s' they were to receive in France. Their guide was a teenager, a competitive cyclist he had won prizes he had aspirations for international competition. When they reached the camp they shook his hand thanked him took his photo and wished him every success for his future. They were very grateful for his efforts he'd taken them five kilometers.

Accommodation found, tent pitched then shopping. Rohort remained in the camp directions to the shop were obtained from a nearby camper they even offered to take them in their car. This they declined, the shop was two kilometers away, to reach it on an unladen bike would be a cinch.

They reached Arles the following afternoon, the camping ground was vast it was a large field, the reason for the extensive space was self evident, there was the sun and also much to see.

The town was situated on the Rhone, a large river. It had been important in Roman times, there were many remains, including a well preserved amphitheatre, the painter Van Gogh had been in residence and some of his work could be seen.

They were tired and sightseeing had to wait till the next day.

Tomorrow came and they went and looked.

There was a huge crowd gathered near the amphitheatre. This creates opportunity and need. Security guards were numerous and they found this reassuring; cycling pants mightnot have pockets to pick but there can be other problems. So there was law and order and food for the hungry, the crowd was thick and packed near the stalls selling food, it thinned, dissipated and became no more with distance

An enormous stew was being prepared in a vast dish shaped piece of hardware its volume was many multiplications of the humble kitchen dish. Instead of spoons a boat oar was used to stir it.

This inspired some verse from the Friendly Cohort.

Multiply the few gathered round the kitchen table

The answer is a multitude this multiplies the cooking.

It was believed the Friendly Cohort had stood out at arithmetic at school perhaps these few lines were confirmation.

The arena in the amphitheatre was surrounded by stone seating, used by the Romans, but not by the French, for them it was not sheer and cut from stone French bottoms sat on shaped and molded plastic. This modern contraption for comfort not aesthetics was suspended on pipes above the stone ones, white was its colour.

The Friendly Cohort wondered about the anatomy of the French, changes may have come since the time of Rome but French bottoms were not attuned to rock.

They spent the morning in Arles and had an easy afternoon's ride to a camp near Vauvert. At the entrance a sign stated English was spoken. There was no mistaking the accent the owners of the camp were English. But there was an omission from the notice, there was no mention of a dog. Toni's reintroduction to the English speaking world was a sharp nip from the owner's small dog. There had been no provocation, fortunately there were no unpleasant after effects it just hurt for some time. At the camp the origin of San Fairy Ann was cleared up. The French equivalent from which it came translated 'It makes nothing'. The British soldiers, the Tommies, fighting in France had Anglicized it.

The next day they were back on the coast they stayed at Palavas.

First there was a near miss with food. They reached a supermarket, it had just closed, Toni was quick she shot through the door from which shoppers were leaving.

The Friendly Cohort had just written his shopping list, a useful addendum, a guide for what to take but it won't pay for what you've taken. Time did not allow Toni scribbled guidance, entry alone was barely possible.

The camp was vast, filled with static mobile homes. There had been difficulty finding somewhere. They had gone to one camping ground, but it was motor and static homes only, no tents. This endeavour had failed, next stop the office of tourism, a phone call and they had somewhere for the night.

There was a large dog at the camp and every time it saw Rohort it would bark. It never failed. Proximity and distance and familiarity made no difference, visual contact would bring unstoppable barking. It was a mystery. The camp at times would swarm with people, they would be legion, the dog would see so many it would be accustomed. Toni was exempted. So it was not the language, English was allowed, it could be spoken, this was not the trigger. There was no explanation. Provocation was not the cause it had not been near them.

The Friendly Cohort was as baffled as the travelers, there'd been tyrants in France, much wind, a dog that bit and now one that barked. He hoped there wouldn't be a third.

The next morning the answer, the enigma resolved. They were paying at the office, the young lady was talking effusively they heard chien, dog, then later chapeau. It was his hat, it was camouflage and wide brimmed, they'd brought it with them. They'd seen nothing like it in France and nor had the dog.

Provence was very sunny, hats were not widely worn it was an unexpected absence.

The Friendly Cohort was relieved, the mystery cleared up and hopefully no more problem dogs.

Dogs were permitted in camping grounds there is a fee, they are a hazard for those cooking in the open. Their culinary efforts took place on the ground outside their tent the smells could bring a sniffing dog. French dogs like all dogs like food.

The next day took them inland away from the coast, there was a hill to climb and of course the wind. Did it ever give up? There was a succession of trucks passing them loaded with boulders, each truck carried few such was their size. But the road as ever in France was wide there was no sense of squeezing.

They rejoined the coast again at Sete. It was on hills around a harbour, it reminded them of where they came from, the capital at home. They stopped in the middle of a spaghetti junction to take a photo a pedestrian on the nearby pavement asked them if they were lost, they were o.k. The descent into Sete was steep the traffic thick, like all cities the navigation required concentration.

What was needed was found a shop that sold scarves some local guidance was indispensable. Next came the search for the exit from the town and the route they had to follow. They asked a motorist stopped at some lights.

He pointed to the signboard La Corniche raising his hand up and down, his arm pivoted at the elbow to the accompaniment of toujour, toujour, toujour, always.

They were soon out of the town, the road was straight, flat and right on the ocean, it was bounded on both sides by water. There was a camp at the end of this causeway, Marseillan plage, beach. This contained the shower where the water flowed unhindered there was cadence it was novel the unimpeded lathering. It was still early in the season, the main facilities were closed they were issued with a token for their ablutions.

The next morning they left to an accompaniment from a bystander in the camp tous droit, straight through repeated till they were out of hearing. More encouragement, there had been much, bon courage was frequent. The French respected their endeavors, in France cyclists had status.

The weather was deteriorating. Where were the 310 days of Mediterranean sunshine? The clouds were lowering the temperature dropping something nasty was coming.

They left the coast immediately the route took them through Beziers. It passed just inside the edge of the town. It was very old, the streets narrow. Once Toni climbed upon a wall to take a photo, they examined some of the buildings. They passed a huge rail marshalling yard.

They left the town, crossed the Orb River and took the more direct route to Carcassonne, the other through Narbonne was longer. There was a camping ground at La Croisade but it was ferme, closed, it was 6.15 when they finally stopped at Mirepeisseet. The wind as always was in their faces.

The next day the weather was almost at its worse cold with a gale but dry.

They wore coats and an insulating item inside their helmets, a wrinkle they'd brought with them to France.

The Friendly Cohort's summation. 'Brought inside their heads for use on top of their heads'

The road and the Du Midi canal were now following each other, it was to take them all the way into the centre of Toulouse. The canal ran from the Mediterranean to Toulouse and was joined there by the Canal lateral a la Garonne this ran to the Atlantic, it was known as the 'Canal des deux mers', the canal of two seas. The Du Midi is 241 kilometers long, it was the 17th century's biggest construction engineering project. It ran through many wine growing areas, this added to their French the word degustation, wine tasting, was ubiquitous. For days they were to see the word, it was brandished at them everywhere, but it repelled, it was too close a resemblance to the English word disgusting. There was no trying of the product of the pays, district, they were travelers, go there and be there, look, see, absorb not through the mouth but through eyes, the priority was to get there.

They had done some prior reading by a cyclist who had traveled this section of their route, a fortunate miscomprehension had occurred. Somehow they believed the high point La Segala was 2,200 feet not the 190 meters that it was. Toni knew altitude can bring cold this brought a revision of their kit warmth became an essential.

This altitudinous error was discovered subsequently in France. The correction came from a French cyclist. He'd cycled in the area, he knew the canal and the accompaniment of the wind on this last point their reading had not failed them.

The Friendly Cohort pondered the error and its outcome, he classified it a good mistake.

They stopped at Trebes, they were still 10 kilometers from Carcasssonne. The camping ground was close to the canal.

The next day worse weather was to come. A path on the canal took them into Carcossonne. Unexpectedly a most thrilling vista appeared. The ancient city, La Cite, it was elevated as always all ancient settlements were, this was for reasons of defence, it was distant.

There was soon an abrupt change of priorities, snow and hail driven by the gale. First the office of tourism, a glossy brochure, there was golf, tennis, an airport, a hospital and four cemeteries.

The Friendly Cohorts comment.

'Carcossonne had all bases covered.'

Their next base was a bus shelter, its purpose a dry place to eat. Bread and cheese were the victuals.

There were others in the shelter, Bon appetit was the only comment heard.

Municipal munificence was the Friendly Cohort's comment.

The camping ground was found, the tent erected, it was designed for four seasons, within was warm, without seemed like season number five.

They then made a tour of the La Cite, the ancient city.

The next day there was an improvement in the weather. There was still the wind. It was two days to Toulouse. It was a gradual climb to the high point of the canal at La Segala then 40 kilometers down on a troncon, cycle track, into Toulouse. But despite the downward gradient effort was still needed the headwind did not give up.

They stayed for two nights in a hotel, there was a tiny bathroom.

The Friendly Cohort's comment, perhaps not suitable for honeymooning couples.

They met Marie in the post office, she heard them speaking, she approached them she was a lecturer at the university. They were taken on a brief tour of the city's churches. In one was a black Madonna. Marie had lived in Australia to improve her English, but was homesick and the food was not familiar, and definitely not French.

They followed the Lateral canal out of Toulouse. There was still the headwind. The word Peage, toll appeared on the sign boards, they had never seen it before there was an explanation they reached a very high bridge, it enabled shipping to pass beneath it.

There were toilets on their side of the bridge Rohort vanished into one then a cry came from within. The sight of the bridge and the heavy traffic caused catharsis, ablutions equipment was needed.

This was successful but less successful was to follow. They were approaching the prune capital of France Agen. Prunes in many forms were on sale their choice was with them in croissants.

The diet was unaccustomed there was dislocation in the night.

It was not dreams of heavy traffic or of a high frightening bridge, but rumblings in the tummy and a mad, scrambling dash, but at least Rohort got beyond the tent.

They slunk away the next morning early.

Their duel with the wind was nearly over. They had two more days, but after La Reole the wind was replaced by hills.

Sauveterre was entered through an arched portal. It was to be their cheapest camp in France and the only one with outdoor furniture.

There was a large party going on nearby, but it did not penetrate their slumbers.

They were approaching St Emelion, there was advice on signboards of an ancient city

But a mention of its name in France suggested another purpose. The hand would be raised as if conveying a glass was St Emelion France's capital of grog?

Prune croissants may have been acceptable but they had no wish to be rolling drunk, the product of St Emelion they abjured.

Later at home they mentioned St Emelion, their interlocutor's knowledge was unknown and unexpected. He spoke of the unique nature of the country side and the very special flavour of its wines, St Emelion's reputation was widely known, not so Agen and certainly no passionate interest.

There was heavy rain in the afternoon the day they reached Blaye, there had been navigational difficulties in Libourne it was cold.

They took a hotel there was a radiator in the room they dried everything out, they warmed up. They were on the Gironde river estuary. They viewed the old citadel in the town.

The next day it was dry but a there was a gale, this time behind them.

They chose the verte, green route it was an old road not well graded there were some steep climbs.

The bonus that day was at Talmont, an ancient walled town founded by a thirteenth century English king it was on a promontory overlooking the Gironde its church was right by the water.

It is sometimes known as one of the capitals of hollyhocks.

The following day they reached St George de Didonne early, it was a brief ride. St

George is a watering place, they took a small studio and stayed for four days.

It was a new experience sitting at a table and eating off a plate with a knife and fork, a

time of relearning.

At Le Phare, old lighthouse, there was a memorial to an expedition in 1942 by British commandos. Five canoes paddled up the Gironde estuary to blow up ships in Bordeaux harbour. The raid was tragic, ten men set out, two survived, one went missing, hypothermia claimed one and the rest were captured and executed by the Nazis.

Was this the expedition that prompted the movie the Cockleshell Heroes they wondered, at the local office of tourism this was confirmed to be so.

There was also a 100 kilometer memorial walk way that traced their journey up the estuary.

France does not forget.

There was also a small repair job to Rohort's bicycle. There had been a persistent noise coming from the sprockets. There was no need for diagnosis, they understood the problem. The Friendly Cohort had recorded the sound. In his stable for bicycles he had a large cardboard cut out of a Dinosaur it held a large piece of partly eaten toast, next to it was the Friendly Cohort's impression of a prehistoric toast rack. A switch would bring the power. The Dinosaur would raise the toast up and down towards its mouth and at the same time a recording of the worn sprockets would be played, some clever lighting displayed the caption.

'The sound of a Dinosaur eating toast.'

The repair done, their brief holiday over, the journey recommenced.

Their route was inland to Rochefort then it was back on the coast to Chatellailon plage, beach there was a long promenade and a choice of several camps. They found one and spent the night.

The next night was in Lucon in what a novelist might have described as a seedy hotel, but it was clean. They had passed it on their way through the town they saw nothing else and had returned.

They entered through a bar, were directed to a room and parking was found for their bikes. There was a crowd in the bar most were sitting, when they left first thing the next day it was unchanged, they did not know if they were the same people or the arrival of another shift.

Rotation perhaps. Was the Friendly Cohort's quip.

When the Friendly Cohort saw the cost for their billet he labelled it Double Budget. It was tres bon marche, very cheap.

They were now approaching Nantes, a large city.

It was to contain an answer to a mystery that had dogged them since their first days in France; the location of a famous battle Agincourt. They had asked many times but the response never changed it was always the same no one knew anything about it. The French had been vanquished, driven from the field, the Friendly Cohort wondered if this was not a clue. Much time had passed since the ignominy, but the ignorance and its universality raised doubts, could it be, was it possible, it seemed too improbable, but could the French still be smarting from defeat?

Today brought the answer. A logo for Australia adorned the door way of a map shop the owner, a Frenchmen, had been a resident there for fifteen years. He was fluent in English. They asked him about Agincourt. He uncovered the mystery, brought resolution to the puzzle, they had the spelling wrong and of course the pronunciation, it was Azzincourt. The Fench were not hiding from disgrace.

The triumph may have been on distant soil, but Azzincourt the French spelling was too foreign for the English, too difficult, something easier for the tongue was applied.

On the embankment along the Loire, the river running through the city there was a brave admission of a dark and sinister past. There was a record of black birders, slave traders that had sailed from Nantes. Each ship was represented by a tile set in the pavement in the embankment.

The Friendly Cohort shuddered.

There were other reminders of a best forgotten past.

In Saint Nazaire a nearby port there is a huge and ugly building, concrete, rough with no adornments, there was no attempt at beautification. It is as it was when its purpose was finished. Nothing more basic could be imagined, a German submarine pen.

The submariners, the sailors had a life expectancy of one hundred days.

The commentary continued.

Many Frenchmen living in the port were killed by allied bombing. The intention of the raids was to stop the U Boat menace.

The Friendly Cohort wrote in his diary.

The reasons to Wish for Peace.

In Nantes they picked up a canal, it was to take them all the way to Dinan a town near St Malo where they would embark on the ferry for England.

The canal took them to Redon then they followed La Vilaine, a river that was made navigable by a system of locks and weirs. This would take them to Rennes where they followed L'Ille et Ranche another river made similarly navigable. The journey was much easier, no hills or wind.

It was a six day journey to Dinan and then a further day to St Malo.

Sometimes nuclear power stations were near their route. They were a lingering vista. Rising steam would be seen, then chimneys, at first distant, then nearer, then distant again, till they were no longer an interruption on the skyline.

But once their route drew them right in, it abutted the perimeter fence.

"No nearer." Said Toni.

Rohort concurred. It was ground on which they did not wish to tread.

Then two other cyclists stopped. They were Swiss, they both spoke English.

A discussion on the merits of nuclear power ensued.

"The problem." Said Toni and continued.

"We all want to live like rich Americans."

To people living in a tent and traveling on a bicycle it seemed like gross extravagance.

Central heating, air conditioning, large cars, were there limits to what the planet could absorb?

Then followed a prescription for the ills.

"Don't improve your knowledge of the English language and never watch a movie made in Hollywood."

America was not hated, but its example had to be eschewed.

There had to be a rejection of much that many wanted.

They rode bicycles, was this sufficient? Did this exempt further effort?

But no Hollywood, the sacrifice, the two Swiss men cringed.

Would the demands and the curtailments ever cease?

The tall chimneys of the power station towered above them.

Destinations had to be reached. The Group broke up it was now the turn for the two Swiss men to run the nuclear gauntlet.

They were following the canal into Rennes, there was a vacuum in their stomachs and a deficit in their larder. Action could not be deferred.

The small shops in rural France had sufficient to keep them rolling, but the burnishings and titillations to enliven their cuisine were only obtainable in the larger towns.

"Look." Called out Toni.

They were approaching a place of replenishment, a supermarket.

"Need a map and compass in there." Said Toni.

Its size and range of products was overwhelming. But is it possible to tell from the shape of an onion if it will induce more or fewer tears from the eyes?

"I would suggest a hand held electronic pilot." Added Rohort.

Then he looked up and pointed. A large and solitary word was above the entrance Flunch.

"Its Flunch time." Said Toni.

So they bought its ingredients and Flunched and definitely without sliced bread.

In Rennes they briefly split up.

Rohort encountered some Australians.

One had gone to night school to learn some French, but it had not been very successful. There were lengthy discussions on their travels.

Rohort discussed their accommodation and rudimentary cooking arrangements.

"But it did the job." Cut in one of the wives.

'But it did the job.' Repeated Rohort to himself. The so familiar language. Rohort felt emotion. It had been a long journey almost over they were only a few days out from the channel port. But those so familiar words, not heard for so long made him realize how far he was from home.

They were to see more Australians on their travels. In England and finally outside Raffles in Singapore. The familiar accents Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne.

Toni turned to Rohort.

"You've gotta wonder if anyone in Australia is doing any work."

Then came the final night, the camping ground in St Malo.

There was a young couple next to them and like most people in France they were French. The man could speak some English, his companion none, both were of an appealing appearance.

Rohort was inflating their mattresses his lungs the mode of compression. The air inside was the intermediary, the buffer from the brick like ground. They were comfortable by the measurement of camping perhaps not lulling like your goose feather bed, but for tired cyclists adequate.

Achieving suitable compression was for lungs drilled by effort, cyclists and others athletically inclined. Many were the huffs and numerous the puffs such was the effort needed.

The young Frenchman was watching, his companion had her hand on his shoulder. He enquired about the mattresses.

"It improves your performance." Said Rohort.

"Then perhaps I should buy two." Said the Frenchman.

Rohort could see there had been a misunderstanding.

The improved performance was not about Ou La La or activity in bed without pants. But the benefits given by a good night's rest, the freshness on waking, the banishment of reluctance, the readiness for a day on the velo, bicycle again.

Explaining this to someone whose knowledge of the language was limited was going to be difficult. He was sufficiently lucid and unfortunately too successful. There was an instant sadness and a sudden gloom.

"I'll have to somehow have to manage without those mattress's." Said the Frenchman and he turned and gave his companion a kiss, but there was a conspicuous absence of something.

Rohort was worried. He'd slipped, his grip was gone. This is not how he should be leaving France. He had to do better, there must be an atonement.

It was back to the mattress's and more air. Difficult, doable and he did it.

The Frenchman was watching he now had a smile. Rohort gave him a wink. All was well Rohort was ready for the ferry. He could say good bye to France. The final stretch was reached.

A Snowstorm in Featherston

I'd been lent a book a whodunit, but there was something about it. It was different to most whodunits the sleuth wasn't confident, wasn't sure of herself. She was younger than usual, had the looks and of course a companion and sessions without pants interspaced the probings and the delvings.

But there was still something, couldn't put my finger on it.

The endings were alright, no nerve wracking finish, the villains still at large and the final page looming.

And yet there was still something.

I thought of John then I thought why hadn't I thought of John sooner.

He was a specialist, whodunits were his field. He knew every blade of grass, yes John knew his daisies.

No plot was too obscure, no novelist's artifice too clever. The blind alley, the maze, he'd catch the reek, his nose would guide him.

He'd untie the skein, brush and card the details, the tangles, the invisible bunches he'd undo the lot.

But John's things were the endings who had done it, whose wrists would wear the handcuffs.

Then who would solve it?

Invariably not the police.

This lack of confidence in the police was of concern to John.

Was the trusted Bobby on the beat an idiot in blue?

And detectives – was there a test? Were large holes dug and blindfolds tied? Did falling in imply an ability to probe and dig and think?

But John had few possessions, a well worn dictionary and some cherished books. But they had no value. There'd be no quick sale and back down to the pub.

His only artifact of worth was his reading lamp. It'd been a prize. Its shape was the outline of a policeman's shadow. It would have alarmed the common thief. It was safer than treasure in a guarded vault.

John mused at the purpose of locks. Were they a device to keep him in or an attempt to keep others out?

There was crime. There was the wrong side of the grave and those who got there in a rush.

John even went to symposiums on public safety. They were hosted by the police. But white wash flowed and drenched and drove John out.

But I digress and I return to John's thing – the endings.

A few chapters read and he'd have his quarry.

But John was a champion.

Long before the end he'd know the outcome. He'd have the villain stitched, wound and sewn up in a bag.

There were ancillary interests, the motives the sinister side of his fellow man.

They were never noble, always base, hatred, a jealous lover, revenge.

John noticed too, they came in spates.

Was there collusion? Did novelists meet? Did they gather like witches? Was there a democratic forum? Was a motion carried by a vote? Did a majority decide how and even the best way to hate?

John wasn't sure, but self interest ruled it out.

A fresh approach might bring the break. What drilled the serried ranks?

John sought events, correlations, was there an invisible knot?

Did weather patterns sway the minds? Perhaps it was the seasons. Did the chill of winter have a say? Or was it the buzzing sounds of summer? Then there were other sounds. John ruled out the droning of our leaders.

Could a sporting fixture be a clue? Did the outcome matter?

He assembled information, drew graphs, but the lines fizzled out. There were gaps, empty spaces and vast amounts of nothing.

John had been too ambitious. He'd strayed he was beyond the boundary of his limits.

From now on he'd stick to the solution of whodunits.

Then there was how they did it. But here John baulked, he trembled, he was driven from the threshold. Poisoning, drowning in a bath. It was ghastly, too horrible, he retreated from the path.

But I had to see John I had to see him now.

I hesitated. What if he'd reached a critical point, a vital chapter in a book? He had no phone, the scourge was banished. The prospect of it ringing would pry upon his mind.

I'd chance it. I'd see him.

I made my way along a catwalk, then up a winding path. His home was an inaccessible eyrie, deliberately picked.

There was an uninterrupted view across the harbour the lights were a fantasy in the dark.

I reached the door, John was waiting. My heavy breathing and footsteps had been heard.

"At last you've come, I've waited." Was his greeting and he gripped and shook my hand.

Was I a life raft or a hope in clothes that spoke?

I entered.

"See – look." And he pointed to a scattered pile of books.

He continued.

"They'd give the bulldozer hiccoughs if I took them to the tip, landfill."

He wanted to talk. I was his confident, his silent interlocutor.

The dismal diet of reading was on the forefront of his mind.

Then followed the dissection of the cause of his despond.

First there were the plots. They passed they stood up, a tick mark for them.

Then the villains, John kept ticking. A nasty lot, they made him shudder.

And the endings, they took the tick. They were soothing and serene. A necessary lotion. Odd noises in the night would not cause John alarm.

Finally the sleuths and with them came the worries and instead of ticks a big black cross.

John made his analysis.

There were two types.

The first was a replication of a cadet fresh from the police training college.

The second a disguised, but titillated version of the first.

Usually female, still young enough to be attractive and the searching and the digging would be interrupted by some up and down in bed.

Then John put this new brand of sleuth in their compartment.

"They certainly didn't inspire the exciting, racy posters down at police recruitment."

"Have you signed the petition?" He asked.

I hadn't.

Then John explained.

The lurch in literary standards had caused dismay at the bookshop.

The fading of the sleuths and the increasing use of the police and their methods had convinced many that the police training manual had become a source of ideas for creative thinking. The petitioners sought excitement and drama and relief from the impact of the bureaucratic mind.

John had signed the petition and gone back several days later and crossed his name out.

"It's plausible enough. why did you do that?" I asked.

"At first I was as convinced as you are. Then I thought of the happy ending and the training manual."

John was right. Happy endings are not part of the literature for the guidance of the police.

This area of enquiry was now closed.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

John pointed to the books.

"Dare I ask you –can you face it –can you surmount the challenge?"

I shrank I might go backwards I could be eternally in reverse.

"You might fall, perhaps trip on some unexpected clue." He said.

It was a desperate hope. Whodunits were a puzzle. For me it was a long weary trudge to the final revelations.

I took a few books. It was burdensome reading. But John came round, the relief, rescue.

"Do you have the Great Zoo Robbery? It's by Rohort. It's the last thing he wrote that left your eyeballs in their sockets." He said.

He must have realized my plight. Perhaps I'd fled, taken flight. He was welcome like the rain after a long searing drought.

"At last some light." He said and pointed to the date of publication.

Till the Great Zoo Robbery Rohort wrote only best sellers, since then his efforts filled recycling bins.

And so it was with all the other writers.

A cut off point, a date, something had happened, simultaneously and to all of them.

John asked if I had any suggestions.

I had none.

I could add nothing.

My mind was like a wall that had been scrubbed free of graffiti, it lacked even the most incoherent of ideas.

But John was not disconsolate.

He recommended the Great Zoo Robbery.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

"Carry on as before. Slog through the pages, we may blunder from the fog." Was his exhortation.

I took the Great Zoo Robbery. It preceded the cataclysm. It belonged in the realms of that which could be read.

I was surprised.

I tried to put it down, I couldn't. It held me, I was gripped.

The police were pilloried completely and the sleuth, an illiterate old timer glided to an effortless solution.

Some burglars broke into the Featherston Zoo in a Snow Storm and stole the elephants.

The burglars were caught immediately, the elephants vanished without trace. Extensive searches revealed nothing.

The sleuth, the old timer was shown some aerial photos, he pinpointed the elephants exactly.

"Them's here." He said and pointed to a barn behind the police station.

He was handed some police forms to complete, he couldn't do so and his advice went unheeded.

The thaw came the elephants appeared, they were right outside the police station.

A snow drift had blocked the entrance to the barn. There had been ample forage.

It was a scathing testimony. Could the police be so incompetent?

Did Rohort hate the police? Was there an inner loathing? I'd write it down, I might forget, I must mention it to John.

Then there was his later work, practically unreadable. The police training manual would have been an entertaining contrast.

What had wrought the change?

What had torn down his stature?

The sharp division John believed confirmed the correctness of his theory.

There had been a happening, a roughing of the smoothness. Something had intruded into Rohort's and the other writers lives.

John held firm conviction.

"Have you discussed this with the committee at the bookshop?" I asked.

He hadn't. He was unwilling to discuss his ideas. I was his confident, the repository for his thoughts.

John suggested we visit Featherston.

It had inspired Rohort and might lead us to the trail.

We were surprised at what we found in Featherston.

First was the size. It was small. Second it never snowed and third considering its size, not surprising, there was no zoo.

There was an interesting museum and we whiled away many hours amongst its historic objects.

We read the visitor's book and of course the comments and came upon the name Rohort.

"Look look!" Said John. 'The date."

It preceded the publication of Rohort's final achievement by eighteen months.

Some event in Featherston had inspired Rohort's imagination.

But what followed was totally unexpected.

We were now known to the curator and mentioned that a well known writer had passed through the portals of his charge.

The curator talked of Rohort and an involvement in Featherston with a lady of much charm and beauty.

Rohort had been surprised. How could so dull and obscure a place contain so striking a lady?

He had lingered.

But the young lady remained unpersuaded by the male gender of her species. It was elephants that had captured her attention. She had books and books and pictures of them. It was her longing to see them in the wild.

But Rohort had travelled far, he had been on safari. He'd seen elephants, he could describe their surroundings.

The young lady was fascinated, she listened to his tales they saw more of each other she grew serious.

But Rohort had status, the importance of a prince his expectations did not match those of a mortal.

The young lady tried, every effort was made to please, but Rohort's requirements were impossible.

The people of the town despaired, they saw a gem defiled, but the young lady finally said what they were thinking.

"All I am to you is just somewhere to park the prick."

And she flounced from the room and Rohort was stunned, he was silent.

The sun shone and the clouds withdrew and there was gladness in that town and it's only horse frolicked and was frisky.

John thanked the curator, but there was yet more to come, the saga of Rohort was still running.

Elephants did not become the young lady's consolation. Her fancy became a policeman.

This was a serious indictment and a threat to Rohort's image, but the worse damage had not been reached.

The young lady glowed, she wore a halo of contentment she oozed happiness.

Rohort fled. He'd been swapped for a policeman, an exciting crime writer replaced by a stooge in blue.

Then came something like an advertisement break, only it was much longer Rohort was for the moment on hold.

A bus pulled up. A school party had arrived.

The curator sat down, typed, handed us a slip of paper. We made a donation and departed.

We had been referred to the Featherston Clarion a range of dates was included.

I was keen to press on, but John was reluctant. The unexpected news had excited.

Time and calm were needed for the turbulence to subside.

We sought retreat in the nearby hills. We had come prepared for residence anywhere.

We climbed to the highest point. Featherston was in miniature and remote.

"No spires or minarets but intrigue nevertheless." Mused John, as we gazed at that lovely view.

He began to discuss his findings.

My friend was now in control. The organization inside his head was as it usually was.

First there was Rohort's loathing of the police. The affair in Featherston, its unexpected finish and then the denouement, a crime writer swapped for a policeman.

Next there were the elephants, but they were straightforward, powers of detection were not needed. It was clear how they found their way into Rohort's mind.

Then there was the masterpiece, The Great Zoo Robbery, Rohort's final triumph.

John was silent. He looked endlessly downwards. The microcosm of Featherston was his focus.

Finally he spoke.

"He must have detested that place he must have been filled with an evil hatred."

Base motives had stirred the inspiration for the book. It was in effect Rohort's revenge upon the town.

The views were compelling. They subsumed, shrank and shrivelled our thoughts of Rohort.

The declining sun warned of the impending night. We tore ourselves away with enough time before the dark and descended.

The next morning we struck camp and returned to Featherston. The library was our destination.

A large painting hung on the wall. It was a reproduction of McSroggin's masterpiece 'Safari'. It had been a recent donation.

It was a vast unending savannah, it stretched and stretched.

It was filled with elephants.

The foreground was held by a few of immense stature. There was a gradual inversion of their size and number, and, in the background they became a microscopic myriad. There was a simultaneous impression of nearness and remoteness. And the whole, the sky, the sparse vegetation and the land had been contrived to form the vague outline of an elephant.

"More of Rohort's mischief." Mused John.

It was an unsettling influence, it distracted. And was a definite subtraction from our ability to think.

We churned amongst the back numbers of the Clarion.

"Look!" Said John excitedly and he pointed to a headline.

'Crime writers receive some practical education.'

We found a secluded alcove.

John wanted to be away from the elephants. Their glare was impossible to ignore.

But first there was an unwritten preamble. It came at a subsequent debriefing with the curator.

Rohort had aroused enmity. He had few friends in Featherston.

Its belle had been tarnished there was contempt for his scamperings. And the book, The Zoo Robbery etc had shaken the morale of its police.

What then followed was not so much revenge, but atonement.

The article had been contributed by the wife of a local policeman.

There had been some well publicized burglaries in an area where Rohort and the other crime writers lived.

Rohort and his Cohorts believed because they wrote successfully about crime, they could solve it.

Rohort was disdainful of the police, but his especial scorn was for police stations. They were filled with forms and missing documents, a barracks that would not release its brightest.

The slow footed were the messengers from that kingdom ruled by paper. Broken spades to do the digging, probe and hope inspiration would guide the questioning. Worn garden implements were less blunt than their minds.

The intelligent were needed they matched evidence with cases information had to be marshalled to make it possible.

And so orthodoxy was not attempted. A meeting was called. A retired doctor lived in the district. He'd had many years of prison experience. He was present, he counselled caution. But his words were as chaff, not even the breeze would listen.

The police were bypassed, a vigilante group was formed.

But they saw the burglar as barely a bother, there'd be no flicker of the pulse.

But nothing came of their endeavours, they were trawling in empty oceans, the depletion of their wine cellars continued.

But a hapless individual was seen. Rohort called him Soap. Not that he was a star in a soap opera, he wasn't, but unlike them he didn't wash and shower.

He was not the original owner of the clothing that he wore, their provenance had been charity

But the experience was a lesson for Rohort. It was cold on the streets and the moments passed slowly. The hours stretched, they lengthened they slowed the ticking of the clock.

It would be unlikely his sleuths would ever be the same. They'd be brilliant as always, but something would be missing, an ingredient he could not recapture.

Rohort could not forget the tedium of the patrols. It tarnished his sleuths, took the gloss from their sheen, there was greyness.

Already there were changes in Rohort's priorities, his ideas were being refashioned. Attire was no longer part of an armory of attraction, but functional, an attempt to keep the wearer warm.

And so the endeavours had not achieved their hoped for outcome.

A further meeting was called. The doctor was present, he spoke.

"Our problems are coming from Dish Washing Liquid."

He was drowned out by uproar he'd used the wrong label. Soap was the title. He was in the right aisle, but he'd got the wrong slot.

Uproar yes, laughter ditto, notice taken niliphant the noliphant(nil).

The hapless man was seen as a fellow passenger, a voyager in the night, a poor harmless wretch.

And the writers still believed in their capabilities.

But Rohort was less sure. There was even a creeping in of respect for the police.

And so the endeavours continued, but this time with assistance. The support was ancient and modern.

The tried was man's best friend the dog, on trial the product of invention.

But all that came were lessened waistlines, Rohort's shrinkage was spectacular.

And so the burglar remained the conqueror and the Cohorts the vanquished and a very humbled procession went down to Central Police Station.

An almost retired sergeant interviewed them.

Rohort was surprised. No forms were brandished.

But what followed was more perplexing.

The sergeant's mind was fixed on the weather. His attention never turned to the burglaries.

It had been a memorable summer, blue skies and hush. The sound of the lawn mower had been quelled, no rain no grass.

"Can't remember a summer like it." He said.

Rohort grew angry.

Their purpose was not to be the target of a meteorological dissertation.

But the sergeant ignored him.

The imminence of rain came under the microscope, blocked drains and possible flooding.

This was too much for Rohort.

First the seasons, then municipal incompetence.

He banged the desk with his fist.

The sergeant sighed, he groped in a drawer he fished and found some paper.

Rohort smiled. This is what he had expected.

But it was standard, unoiled, it was creaking routine.

It was da da di da.

Scribble, scribble, write, write. Get it down as fast as you can.

What went missing? How much and when? Were there any suspicions?

The answers came, they were transposed on paper.

The sergeant could be writing in his sleep. Crime was like a ceaseless clock, completely predictable.

The only surprises in the sergeant's life came in the random happenings of dreams.

His hand was well drilled, his pen stayed within the confines of the form. It never strayed. The compartment marked for office use only remained unscathed.

But this time there was a need for thought, there was pressure on the sergeant's concentration.

A storm was imminent, warning cones were flying.

It was raincoats and make all secure and policemen 'Batten down your helmets'.

There was lighting, loud thunder and a menace in the downpour.

"It's coming down cats and dogs out there." Said the sergeant.

"You mean elephants and snakes." The rain reminded Rohort of his travels.

Tame domestic creatures did not match the volume of the deluge. Rohort plucked two from the jungle.

But the designation made no difference, it could not change the outcome, the sergeant's fears were confirmed, there was flooding.

Rohort's house was encircled. His reflection was not smiling.

He thought he heard a sea shanty. Speed boats might appear there could be racing.

And when the waters receded what? What lurked? What vile surprise awaited?

Silt, there'd be no shortage, it would be well spread, it would be everywhere.

The beautiful colours and greens would be gone, brown would become the doctrine.

Rohort's khaki army would be taking the salute, not the admired roses.

The weather cleared, men in overalls appeared and the cause of the visitation was discovered.

A culvert near Rohort's house was blocked and unusual things were found in it.

A sodden sleeping bag and other clues of human intrusion and many bottles that had once contained liquor.

But the burglaries ceased.

The sergeant paid the writers a visit.

"No more trouble I believe." He said.

"Not since we called you." Said one of the writers.

"Amazing what a trip to the police station can do." Said the sergeant and he smiled.

The writers did not find this too amusing, especially Rohort.

He pulled out some papers.

"Now here's a list of what you reported missing."

He pulled out some more papers.

"I went up there when they cleared the drain and I made a list of what was found. It's a funny thing – identical bottles to the ones you lost turned up in the culvert empty."

"Empty." Repeated Rohort.

"You sound surprised - would you expect them to be full?" Said the sergeant.

Rohort said no more after that.

The doctor was present at this meeting.

Up to now he had listened – laughed at the appropriate places and had said nothing.

But now he and the sergeant explained to the fiction writers what had probably happened.

A homeless unfortunate had taken up residence in the culvert during a dry spell.

He saw the comings and goings. He was the spider at the centre of the web. He knew who was home and who wasn't. The writer's homes were his reservoir their contents would quench his thirst.

He'd probably befriended the guard dogs. They may have gone for walks with him at night.

The sergeant had had his suspicions. He knew of the culvert but had been busy.

And thus the article ended.

John's first reaction was the photo copying machine. The committee at the bookshop would be an avid audience.

"More than one mystery has been solved." Said John.

He'd been baffled by the sudden appearance of Rohort's cronies at Central Police Station. They'd filled all the vacant clerical positions.

"They've been in exploration mode." Said John and continued

"It's been a time of finding out."

Their impression of criminals and crime did not correspond with their experiences.

And burglars were not colourful but elusive and annoying.

My friend was confident, his analysis flowed.

"They've not gone to Central for therapy and rest, but to shore up their deficient learning".

Then there was Rohort, the decline and the deterioration of his work.

The outcome of the involvement in Featherston had found a chink. But it was Soap who had purged and washed away his armour.

Rohort had been outwitted by a homeless vagrant, out foxed in his own backyard.

His confidence was gone, he was unsure of his ideas and he clutched at his friends' experiences at Central for inspiration.

We scanned subsequent editions of the Clarion.

We came upon a letter, it had relevance.

The sergeant enjoyed a good whodunit. He was a fan of Rohort.

He found his work entertaining it was amusing, but unconvincing. His criminals were far too intelligent.

We had no further purpose in Featherston. It was the museum, the curator, we wished to say thank you. There'd be a debriefing, then go.

But I was filled with Rohort, I could talk of nothing else. Nothing could slow my torrent, the calm of the museum failed. I unashamedly dominated the conversation, I could not stop.

Rohort's disregard for others, his treatment of the young lady and his lack of sympathy for the homeless man.

Soap was a slave, a servant of the syrup, anguish filled each bottle.

But finally I ran out, my babble ceased.

The curator gazed at a small picture it hung on the wall above his desk. It was of a creature long since gone, the woolly mammoth.

Then he spoke.

"If the human race wasn't like it is, it would have been stamped out years ago by the mastodons."

The Night in the Cemetery

It is often said in death there is a new beginning and so it was with Steve at that most unusual funeral. There was a timelessness in his gaze amongst the gently ageing headstones, he was as sombre as the ambience.

A keener recruit for a position with a funeral undertaker could not have given a more favourable impression.

But afterwards at the post graveside function, he became the Steve we knew so well.

There were raucous shouts and laughter, empty bottles and glasses everywhere and soon the only liquid in sight was tea.

Low tide had arrived.

The tide may have gone out but the voices hadn't. They grew louder and louder and then Steve's came above the rest.

"There's no such things as ghosts."

This was interesting. I'd never heard Steve mention the life hereafter before. The visit to the cemetery had left some impression.

"There's no such things." He went on.

"You want to bet." Came an answer.

"I want to bet." Said Steve.

This was more familiar – betting and money.

"Bet you won't spend a night in the cemetery." Came another.

"You're on." Shouted Steve.

But money couldn't be risked haphazardly.

Horses are judged at the racetrack and assessment was needed for ghosts at the cemetery. It was only reasonable.

And in that instance the heads swung towards me like the card in the compass and I knew there'd be nothing reasonable in that which was to follow.

For years I'd umpired the cricket in the summer and had refereed the football in the winter and now I was to preside over the supernatural at the cemetery.

"No need to come dressed like the funeral undertaker and football boots aren't essential, but we need someone impartial." Was how Steve put it.

We were rapidly becoming a focal point at what should have been a solemn occasion I quickly acceded to his request.

Mild calm weather soon prevailed and our night out was upon us.

Antonio and I stationed ourselves at the cemetery wall and Steve disappeared into the tombstones.

One by one the lights in the surrounding houses went out. The sexton's was one of the first. A curvaceous outline appeared in the window, the curtains were drawn and the light went out immediately.

The houses continued to darken and then, after a considerable interval, a great mass of lights went out simultaneously.

I looked at my watch, that was it, the shoot out had just ended on the telly.

It was most uncomfortable standing at the cemetery wall. I lapsed into reveries of warmth and comfort and the purring of a most discerning cat.

An enormous hiccough wrenched us from our thoughts.

A disheveled man in very outdated clothing reeled and swayed past us.

He was followed by two more.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Muttered Antonio.

"Think of what?" I asked.

"Did you notice anything about them?" Asked Antonio.

"Notice anything!" I exclaimed.

"Their clothes for instance." Said Antonio.

"Oh yes." I answered and continued.

"They're like the funny old clothes in Grandad's wedding photos."

"Precisely." Said Antonio who continued.

"The attire of a bygone era and that's how ghosts are supposed to appear, in the garb of their epoch."

"But ghosts don't belch and hiccough." I interrupted.

"I know." Said Antonio impatiently and continued.

"But had we thought, we could have arranged some suitable clothing and some haunting."

An opportunity had been missed. We should have done some thinking. It would have been marvelous to see Steve fleeing from a ghost.

We made several patrols of the cemetery, but could see no sign of Steve or the later arrivals. But there was a strong smell of tobacco near one of the loftier monuments.

"Where do you think they are?" I asked.

"They have a home out there somewhere." Replied Antonio and he motioned towards the shadows.

We waited at the cemetery wall. A streetlight fell on some nearby headstones. I found myself repeating their inscriptions over and over again.

"Did you hear that?" Asked Antonio?

Had I been repeating myself aloud?

"What?" I asked.

"That." Replied Antonio and he pointed out into the cemetery.

I strained my ears and could hear distant laughter.

"What do you think it is?" I asked.

"Be Steve and his new found friends living it up amongst the departed." Said Antonio.

"I don't believe it." I said.

Antonio continued.

"Don't, but consider their situation. They have shelter."

I nodded.

"And when their revels are finished, they have the coffin lids for their repose."

I said no more after that. No more startling revelations for me that night and doubtless the dawn would bring some very commonplace explanation.

But I wasn't sure. There was a plausibility to Antonio's theory. It fit the facts made to measure like the little wooden boxes all around us.

The remainder of our vigil was long, monotonous and uninterrupted. The chimes of a distant clock measured out the hours, but eventually the dawn came.

Steve and his companions emerged from the shadows, Steve looked very faded. There was a brief exchange. The soup kitchen was mentioned and we departed.

Steve's account was somewhat disjointed, but that was understandable in view of his night.

The later arrivals had staggered upon him.

"Are you hiding from the missus?" Asked one?

"If you're spending the night in the cemetery, why not try one of the furnished rooms." Suggested another.

Steve wasn't sure about the furnished rooms, but he was feeling very alone amongst the tombstones and was glad of the company.

He followed, they stopped at a largish monument, one fumbled with the door, it swung open, in they went and it closed again.

Steve could just make out the arrangements by the glow of their cigarettes.

It was large family vault. The contents encasing the lawful occupants had been rearranged to form a bunk.

Cigarette butts and matches were strewn everywhere and at the end opposite the door a stack of empty bottles reached towards the ceiling.

An oppressive odour filled the chamber and Steve felt quickly overcome by it.

"What's wrong with a park bench on a mild night?"

Steve interrupted a general moan about the meanness of the city missioner.

"A park bench!" Exclaimed one of them who continued.

"There's no knowing who might set upon us."

"But what about the police." Said Steve and continued.

"Surely they'd offer protection."

"Police protect us!" And Steve was almost deafened by their laughter.

"But there must be other places." Said Steve, taken aback by their reaction.

There were, but they had their hazards.

Derelict and deserted buildings often vanished in a cloud of smoke and in the condemned boarding house the rush of rats for safety was generally the only warning of a smoldering mattress.

"But there must be somewhere you can stay." Said Steve almost in despair and continued.

"Surely some charitable institute would take you in."

They'd be taken in alright, but without their beloved potions.

"So now you see why we stay here." They chimed together.

Steve couldn't see a thing in that enclosed blackness, but he could comprehend.

By now the contents of their bottles was finished and it was lights out time.

They stretched out on the lids above the permanent occupants and were soon snoring their heads off.

"Did you sleep well?" I asked.

"Sleep!" Retorted Steve.

"Not a wink."

"I suppose the close proximity of the departed was disturbing." I suggested.

"It wasn't the departed that disturbed, but the fleas that swarmed all over me from the living they've hopped and tickled all night." Said Steve.

"How did the others sleep?" I asked.

"The oblivion of the bottle." Replied Steve.

Steve's account was held up by a hoarse persistent cough.

It gradually subsided, but the memory of that night hasn't.

Marriage followed. Nice girl Nora, we all like her.

But she has some terrible mornings.

We don't ask now. We know its Steve of course.

Some of his nights resemble the passage of a storm tossed ship, but instead of the cry of the gulls a jumble of epitaphs issue from the slumbering Steve.

Lottery Town

Few knew whose idea Lottery town was barely more could remember its early struggles of existence, but a searchlight shone on the reason for its birth. It was the winners. The behaviour of some was the chagrin of many, there was a sense of general despair.

The jubilant faces would gather at the annual reunions, some would be seen again later waiting their turn in a food bank queue.

It was a disenchanting sight, the abrupt change, the appalling new refugee like status. There was widespread disillusionment. Ticket sales were flat.

It was an onus on the lottery board. There was a growing belief 'That something should be done.'

In desperation it was announced that Lottery Town would be built. Here the winners would live, their prizes managed and further embarrassment averted.

How it would be implemented had hardly been considered. A committee was formed and the public's appetite for action was momentarily assuaged.

Assuaged perhaps, but the interest was not extinguished, the large sums of money were as oxygen to fire and naming the committee became a further quest.

There were a profusion of suggestions, but two labels quickly stuck. The Sin Eradication Committee and Uncle Righteous's experiment became the popular titles.

Life in lottery town was expected to be dour and lascivious behaviour unlikely.

There'd be no drenching with money of erotic desire lucre would not be a coolant. There were tales of extravagant spending, of unleashed amounts, of an undamming of want, but in Lottery town there would be containment.

There was now a lull. The public had been calmed, the crisis stalled and the conception of Lottery Town was on slow incubation.

In this state of inactivity the committee meetings were bliss. A large file marked quarantine became a hiding place for any difficult agendas.

The announcement and the committee's formation beamed forth a great ray of hope and brought relief to the town's originator. Old Magic Fingers was a legendary winner, but he was a fugitive from his prizes. His idea had become the idea of the town, but it was a fading vision.

He was always at the annual reunions, but they were less and less enchanting. I think it was the children. The raised hopes the excited expectations. But it was a lapse, an interlude. There'd be the inevitable mismanagement of funds and a return to a world filled with rigour.

"We'd have so many things." They'd say to old Joe, that was his name. But the things would wear and break and become nothings. And these were the disappointments old Joe found hardest.

The complexities of finance may have baffled the minds of children, but there were speakers and they were a mystery to Joe. But the rambling prolixity was often soothing. It would lull and though he would fight and struggle, he'd be carried away by sleep. But he'd be rescued by the clapping and somehow he'd manage to join in.

"And it our job to protect your investment from the capricious whims and gyrations of the market." The speaker was an expert, finance his field.

And spreading confusion was on his list of strengths. Joe was completely flummoxed. The words had no meaning, perhaps he'd dreamt them. Later he asked his friend young Sam.

Joe had been dreaming, the fish had been biting and whim had been muddled with fin. But deeper and more profound confusion lay ahead.

It was a subsequent reunion and refreshments time.

Joe had been swallowed by the crowd, his cake he'd have to savour. He was hemmed in, cut off from the cake stand there's be no second helping. Joe pondered this press that had suddenly engulfed him. There was a conspicuous unusualness, but it quickly ceased to puzzle him. There was no hint or hum of conversation, no one spoke, it was a crowd without stir or sound it was completely silent.

"The advice I give, I reiterate, I stress, I say and say again."

Joe knew the voice, he peered he saw the speaker. It was that expert again.

He stood at the centre of the crowd he was the reason for its gathering. He was expounding his ideas on the theory of investment. There was much interest in his thesis, he had a burdensome reputation. It was high it took him right up on the list his name was close to God's.

The expert gazed into his cup, he only drank boiled water. Reinforcement was deemed dangerous, his thought patterns might fragment.

The crowd continued silent, the wisdom continued.

"Ask a friend if you can borrow his white rats."

A sigh, almost a gasp went through that crowd, as though a paddle had passed through a soup of disappointment. The vista of riches had become a cageful of rats.

Joe was confounded. His first reaction was young Sam, but he hesitated. Sam might worry about him and these reunions. He might wonder if Joe was working properly, especially the part above his neck.

Joe'd heard about the market, but his knowledge was rudimentary. He had fisherman mates, they moaned about it, but the problem was the prices, never rats.

The guru had read extensively, from the writings of long ago by De la Vega, to a more recent update by Gerald Loeb. Caution was the watchword, never exemplified better than by a rat.

Old Joe had won several prizes, big ones. The money had come and gone, but it didn't matter to him, he had little use for it. I think he'd given most of it away and that was why he gave up buying tickets in the lottery. People would be stuck, short of money, problems paying the bills and Joe would help them out.

He'd see them again later, but nothing would have changed, it was as though a Drill Sergeant had barked out.

'As you were.'

Indebtedness levels unchanged, the same unpaid bills and worse the expectation of another bail out. Joe despaired, déjà vu and his view of human frailties could not have been clearer and it was then he renounced the lottery.

"If I don't buy tickets I can't win, if I don't win I can't help them out, if I don't help them out I won't see them make fools of themselves again."

Joe's logic was plain and simple.

Joe was staying with Sam when he won his first big prize. It was Christmas time.

The summons of a distant bureaucrat had brought Joe into town. His address had almost vanished into the filing. A tide of paper flowed, subsided then ceased.

Joe endeavoured to extricate himself from that building. There were fire exits signs everywhere and warning against using the lift during a fire. He followed some stairs, but they lead to a basement. There were more large notices, this time in a different colour. They advised evacuation procedures in the event of a flood.

Fire, floods but what of the pressing calls of nature? Convenience signs were nowhere to be seen.

Joe was in a car parking area, lost and in need of an essential service.

A kindly motorist noticed his predicament. The location of the plumbing was found and Joe was dropped off near Sam's house.

"Time of the year for turkey Joe. What a ya doing in the thick of civilization?" Was young Sam's greeting.

Then followed the dreary details that encroach upon and almost swamp our lives. The description of Joe's accommodation was just as dimming.

But Joe's stay was to be brief. The town was an overwhelming place. The harsh sounds, the incoherence of movement, it was an unfamiliar discord.

But Joe brightened up when the conversation veered towards the back country.

"Ya can't abandon us Joe, its Christmas time." Exclaimed the horrified Sam.

He was not allowing Joe to disappear on them during the season of good cheer.

It was a time for sharing. Joe was to stay with Sam. His accommodation was deemed unfit for a civilized person.

The two had met in a remote part of the country. It was foot access only and bring your own signposts. Sam was sluicing in a river for gold. Joe had more realistic expectations he was downstream on the coast whitebaiting.

It was reached by a rough track. In places it was strewn with windfalls from the gales and there were dead and decaying trees. The occasional rusty marker still hung from a branch and Joe had heaped up some cairns to assist with the navigation.

Joe had seen distant smoke it was from Sam's fire. He'd come upstream to see what was happening.

Sam's campsite was elevated above his working. Trees sheltered and shaded it from the hot noon day sun it was beyond the intrusion of the waters.

A bag of flour lay inside the entrance of the tent, but it was a place of reduced eating. The trees grew, they thickened, but Sam shrank and his bones protruded. There were strains on his wardrobe it couldn't match his changing outline.

"Like some downstream diet young fellah?"

And a large container was hauled out of Joe's pack.

Sam looked whitebait, fresh food, the flavour. Respite had arrived, Sam could face the menu. Whitebait would be pencilled in and rat bait struck out.

"I'll take payment for it in upstream money." And Joe pointed to the mining.

But the rocks and gravel and the endless flow of water did not represent scarcity.

Joe knew the difficulty of Sam's quest and had expected nothing.

He enjoyed the young fellows company and stayed for several days, before heading back downstream and away from some difficult eating.

Sam struck camp soon afterwards and spent the rest of the season with Joe white baiting.

The friendship was enduring. Unexpected meetings, but always far from road, gates and fences.

Then Sam met a lady. The canons of conformity were sated by a visit to a church and earmuffs became his habiliments of domesticity. Kath his young companion was a clever negotiator, they had been thrown in free with that mechanized evil the lawn mower.

But Sam was not a creature to be tethered to the grass there were still excursions to the wild and beautiful. In the winter there was the thrilling snow, but I think it was the spring that was the most compelling. They would visit Joe by the river. It was known as Joe's spot, but Kath renamed it a place of heavenly eating.

Then came Joe's visit, unannounced and at Christmas, Sam was lifted. They would talk and Sam would journey. The amorphous clatter of the neighbourhood would recede, the present and all that was around him would fade and Sam would imagine and relish places where goats and other dexterous creatures might be found.

Joe's choice of Christmas present was a hasty decision. Kath was dismayed. They were standing near a lottery outlet. A prize of unprecedented size was advertised, it had ignited an unseen enthusiasm. The multitude was buying. Joe was carried in. He was a novice buyer, no neophyte was keener. He affirmed the mantra there is no greater zealot than a convert. A recruiting sergeant could not have found a more determined man.

He needed guidance with his purchase, Kath became his pilot, although her knowledge and experience were little more than his.

His fervour, I believe, inspired their choice of numbers and briefly took from Kath the notion that lottery tickets were just more weight to press down on some poor dustman's back.

There was a crowd in that house when the draw for the lottery was made. Joe was sanguine, Kath dour, but Sam was nowhere in the spectrum. Money, chance and the working of the lottery were an enigma to him.

But the rest of them in that room expected the usual outcome. Almost nearly, but not quite, always close enough to keep the fish biting, but always a nibble, never a strike.

The numbers came up on the T V screen. They commanded a silence. Joe was hitting the target. First came three, then four, then five. The silence deepened and movement became as likely as stirring in a cemetery.

Aunt Maisy was taken with a sudden urge to cough. She was revered in the town, a model of living and health, her bed never filled by the worse epidemics.

Kath winced, closed her eyes then gripped her chair. The temples of commonsense were being invaded. The devil had arrived. Unlikely probability was urging on the besiegers.

Sam rushed to the toilet, a fugitive from the suspense, but a cheer went up before he could undo any buttons. Joe'd done it. He'd nailed the hard one. He'd hit big number six. It was down out and no longer flying.

He'd also brought an on the spot solution to Aunt Maisy's cough. It was gone she couldn't even clear her throat. He'd tackled the tickle.

But the most vicious barking fit would have gone unnoticed in the loud babble that followed.

Joe's hand was almost shaken of its arm. But calm came and lowered the tumult.

Kath raised her hand and motioned for all to be still. Joe stood on a chair and spoke.

"Does anyone owe any money?"

There was no response. Mouths remained shut, tongues tethered to their moorings. There was no stirring or churning of the silence.

Joe was puzzled. No money worries, an unfilled debtor's prison, pulse rates unfluttered by lucre or the lack of it.

Joe was trusting, but something budged and something turned the wheels inside his head, it was as though a long period of hibernation had ceased, his brain was waking to a new and unexpected burden.

He tried again.

"Do you all live in surplus?"

"Surplus!" And he was interrupted by a loud explosion of the word and Aunt Maisy's laughter.

Her cough had been containable, her mirth irrepressible. She knew most of them. Some were beyond the hope of any budget service. The confusion at the bottom of a waterfall was more ordered than their chaotic finances.

Aunt Maisy's laughter was the trumpet call that made all debt stand up and shriek.

Aunt Maisy surprisingly led the way in the confession of guilt, for Aunt Maisy to admit debt was almost like sin. She spoke of a time long ago before electronic banking and other mind mangling methods. A world without cash had not then been reached. It was everywhere, under mattresses, pockets, in people's hands, but in museums it was not to be seen.

There had been a coincidence of the worse winter on record and a temporary relocation of the power board's office for the payment of bills. It was inconvenient and remote.

Umbrellas were no use in the gale force winds and coats were almost wrenched off at the buttons.

Aunt Maisy was an exponent of the use of feet and only occasionally took lifts with friends.

She'd run a gauntlet of power disconnection and the hostile penetrating weather.

The lights in her house never went out but she'd lain in some extra candles.

Aunt Maisy's account would have been acclaimed. It would have been welcomed at any debt collector's conference. But the summary that followed was barely digestible. The numbers, they were passable, but the excuses, the suffocating whitewash, Kath was nearly driven from the room, not even a dog could swallow it.

Not fit for the passage down a dog's esophagus, but what of a sojourn in a credit man's ear?

It was one more plate of the same old diet, heading via a shovel down a credit man's throat. It was a remorseless theme so familiar it was sometimes whistled as a tune.

And all of it without correction was within the glossy covers of the association's big book, known by all professionals as the mendicant's lament.

Then Aunt Maisy spoke and the plague of gloom was lifted. An unexpected invitation had arrived to a wedding in faraway Oz. The bother of bulging budgets was a phenomenon unknown to her, but there had been no time to plan the fare.

Joe nodded. He knew about money and the allocation of resources.

"And a bouquet too for the bride." He added.

Then Joe agreed to pay down everyone's debt.

All the backs in that room straightened. There was a sudden upward movement. The spiders on the ceiling trembled. The handicap had been lifted.

Joe stepped down off the podium and there was a commencement of the counting.

In that motley midst there was numerate young lady. She was a bush accountant, a real fair dinkum one (genuine). A dweller in the forest, her world was trees and numbers.

Tetra the tally clerk was from a distant logging camp.

The schedule was complete, all indebtedness was listed. The slate was sponged, it gleamed. Next week's pay was pure and white, untainted by last week's spending.

There had been an onslaught on the prize, but like the excuses it was puny. The bounty remained dressed, ready for the slaughter.

Then Joe made an addition to the schedule.

Aunt Maisy – foreign travel.

It was heavily underlined and on the right hand side was an amount column with a dollar sign. Aunt Maisy was being given money not sacks of potatoes.

Then came the sub headings.

1. Fare to get there.

2 What to wear there.

3. Accommodation once there.

4. Spending during the holiday.

5. Miscellaneous – unforgotten and overlooked items, this was a generous amount and for many it would have been a dream.

Aunt Maisy was to enjoy her experience of travel. She was not to be a cipher in the budget herd. Joe'd heard about aeroplanes, a mate'd sworn he'd grow feathers first before he'd go anywhere again airborne. The squeezed cramped seats, the endless wriggling the beautiful blue sky was a place of torment.

Clothing and accommodation were to be commensurate.

No rummaging amongst the oddments in the lucky lot bin hoping to turn something up. Specials dress shop was to be right off limits and accommodation where sleep was possible and pilfering and plundering of gear was not an advertised feature or remotely possible. Aunt Maisy was not to stay in a modern version of an alms house paid for by the government.

Then Joe announced he was tired. Would everyone mind going home he'd like an early night.

The unexpected win and generosity were welcome. There was a stirring and shuffling and a movement towards the door. Joe's hand came in for another bout of shaking.

The chorus was busy.

"Have a happy night." Was chanted frequently.

In Joe's glossary this read.

Time cherished for being memorably uneventful.

The win had been a jolt, an intrusion into his pleasant vacuum of nothingness. He yearned for a period of inertia, of choking boredom. Even the mirage of excitement would have been unwelcome.

Finally the door closed and Joe and Sam and his young companion Kath were alone.

"There's them, there's Aunt Maisy and now there's you." And Joe gripped young Kath by the hand.

Then he dug around in his possessions.

"Got it." He said and out came a cheque book. The tattered traveler, the shipwreck survivor it's appearance belied the task ahead of it. Big numbers were being written in the battered book.

First there were the thems. Kath was to be the cashier and make the disbursement. Then there was Aunt Maisy's .

"And now yours." Said Joe.

And he handed Sam a valedictory notice to money worries.

"But what about you?" Protested Sam.

"My bank book'd be stunned by the numbers and there's far too many noughts. It could be the coming of a new kind of nothing." Said Joe.

Then it was bed, lights out and sleep. And in the haste no final bed time reading.

The next morning Joe was away unabluted. The cockerel was hailing a new beginning and the sounds from distant revellers were sliding into the shadow of one more yesterday.

And the reason for Joe's urgent exit was soon revealed to Sam.

The big win, the generosity, the banishment of debt. An airplane dropping leaflets could not have spread the word faster.

Sam had no idea the town contained so many penurious people. They came like a swarm of locusts. He was reminded of the seagulls on the beach, near and around the fishermen.

He'd wished he'd gone with Joe. Flight was a tempting option.

But Kath was unyielding.

"They'd have cleaned us out." She said.

The house would have been emptied.

The deluge of demanding people slowed, subsided and then became like a small stream in the summer heat, a trickle that disappears into the sand.

The outcome of an entirely random process had slotted Sam up many slots.

But more fortunate and more important was his decision to make his life with Kath.

The young lady may have brought flowers to the altar, but unseen, but like wedding cake was slice upon slice of sense.

Her perspective of the win was thus.

`We'll live like the rest of them round here, except unlike them we won't have to think about money.'

Paying the bills was no longer a time for somberness and foreboding and that hidden menace the direct debit could be forgotten.

Sam sometimes felt worms lived in his bank account. A healthy balance would unexpectedly become nothing.

But there were some changes. Need could not be denied.

Another lawnmower this time one that arrived in a carton. It was swish and Sam was through the swathe around the house.

But 'Ancient Harry' the loyal relic was retained. It was put out to grass in full view of the clippings.

It was a memento of how it was before the win. But its dissonance was, I believe, replaced by cheering.

The rusty remnants called roofing iron were firmly banished. Sam wondered how they kept dry. There'd be no more rushing to the pumps and bailing out during storms and heavy rain. And he'd be smiling through every weather forecast.

But the vagaries of the weather retained their status of importance. Sam's agenda was not distorted by the win. He sought the same unchanging pleasures, a tent was still an item highly prized.

He and Kath would venture where money could be exchanged for nothing, where the product and services of man did not exist.

But beyond the boundaries of worth there was still value. Effort did not disappear without reward. The sun would demand cooling liquid. The harsh climb held rest in contempt. Enticement did not surrender to exertion. The aches, that would turn a night's rest into a tempestuous journey, would not deter.

It was an ambient of endless stimulation. It was a lure Sam could not resist.

It was a place of hopeless addiction. But it was such good fun, no one thought of forming a support group for relief. Sam was caught by a compulsion, the urge would not give way to stress, there was no cure or remedy and Sam would just go back and back.

But enjoyable too and another inducement was there chance encounters with Joe.

"The living Joe, not the image in the papers." Was Sam's greeting.

He was referring of course to the annual reunion of lottery winners.

There was much interest, it brought the press in numbers, but anger and resentment were stirred by the event.

Leaders and other significant people of importance would be ignored, displaced and would disappear entirely from the news.

Joe was living in very rudimentary accommodation. Its sparseness would not tempt mice. It was far from roads and power. But Joe did have modern fire lighting equipment. There was ample fuel it came from a nearby river.

The location was chosen for its remoteness. It was the apogee, the furthest distance from any lottery shop.

"This is the place." Said Kath and continued.

"Certain for recuperation. You'll be completely cured. Rid of ticket buyer's fever."

Joe went very silent.

There'd been a slip, a big black blot, another dabble at the lottery shop.

Kath shook her head.

The flight, the locusts. Joe'd even read about it in the papers. The aftermath of the win. He'd expected something, but the scale was a shock.

A dibble and a dabble and another win, but Joe'd made his final purchase. It had been inculcated, beaten in that tickets did win prizes.

The money was a burden a load he could not face.

"The bigger the pile, the greater grow the problems." Was his comment.

There had been further rescues. People hauled out from debt.

But his endeavors were not entirely wasted his help was of some use. There'd be a pause, relief from debt and in the lull the bailiff would catch up on the crosswords.

Joe'd been daunted, his simple views contorted by the follies he had seen, his mind wrenched, its resilience deflated, it was like a garment that had gone many times through a wringer.

But a candle flickered, a light burnt. The example of the young couple and Aunt Maisy were a balm, the serenity in which he lived gave back hope.

Despair was near the ramparts, but there was water, there was still the moat.

Joe's views were shrunken, his beliefs compressed, but they lingered, they were not entirely gone.

"They can't handle the money." He was referring to the winners.

A problem had been clearly identified.

"Large amounts of money squandered in a short time and on what?" He asked.

A situation that would make any reasonable person wonder.

"It's their money, they won it, but they shouldn't be allowed to handle it." Joe saw wasted opportunity.

The foetal shape of lottery town was now appearing.

The money could be managed, a trustee found.

But there were still more contour lines to cross. There were the locusts they were not a bump, but a significant navigational hazard.

But Joe's brain was warm, his blood invading every crevice.

"They can't be thrown into the wild world." He said.

Padding and insulation were needed.

The gestation of Lottery Town had momentum.

"They need to live in a special place." Said Joe and continued.

"Away from the swarm and harm."

Lottery Town was set and firm, definite and in a rigid mould.

Joe discussed his ideas at the next annual reunion. He was a classic winner, a legend, but his status made no impact on his thesis.

A few scrambled notes were taken, a hasty précis made. It became a rudderless shape, adrift in the lottery board's filing.

It was the final ice, the cool reception was the chill, Joe's faith was in a lifeless tundra.

He'd made his final pilgrimage, he'd never again visit. There'd be a gap, an unfilled space, the chair of the great winner emblazoned 'Occupant Needed.'

But the lottery board was under siege. Enemy scouts had been seen, there was the rumble of faraway artillery.

There was increasing displeasure at the behaviour of some winners. It was filling more space in the papers.

Some unemployed journalist had been brought back into service. There was meat for their teeth to savour.

An atmosphere pervaded the board. There were frequent absences from meetings. Then someone blurted out the idea of Lottery Town.

No one could remember where the notion came from, provenance remained a mystery. Joe's theme had not vanished in a vapour. It had lodged, stuck, blocked in a conduit, somewhere in someone's head.

The concept was hailed its proponent was a hero. There was an announcement, a proposal had been made. A broad outline for Lottery Town had been agreed on.

There was respite and for a time peace.

Then came a most improbable coincidence. The government's popularity had reached a zenith. To criticize would risk the public's ire.

The white flag had been raised, all firing must cease. The media had no target.

But the still on the front was brief its termination spectacularly.

There was a story it was dire it spread only in hushed whispers. It involved the Lottery Town board. Its approval rating was taken to the nadir.

The wife of a winner of a prodigious amount was engaged in a most demeaning occupation.

The action station buzzer rang in the offices of the media.

There was a rush and a loud cry.

"Grab spears and sharp knives boys. Don't bother with pens."

The stooges in suits had become cannibals.

A report was concocted around the woman's misfortunes. It was slanted to imply it was somehow the Lottery Town board's doing. There was public anger. It was most embarrassing.

There was a desperate search, a solution was sought inaction was no longer tolerable.

The quarantine file was scoured, it was scrutinized in minute detail, but it offered no solutions.

A bright beam was shone on the team of Uncle Righteous. The committee was no longer a place of tranquil waters. There were frequent meetings, even work. It was a most unexpected experience.

There was panic, haste and a sudden announcement.

Lottery Town would be built.

The guillotine's blade was held steady.

But there were fears about the future size of the town. It might grow exponentially.

There was discussion and further discussion and then a proposal was made. An accumulation of assets would exempt residence.

Or as one sour winner put it.

"If you've got plenty, they'll give you more."

The Town was the envy of every mayor in the land. Deferred was an item unheard of.

The civic buildings and gardens were an architect's vision. It was a fantasy unimpeded by expense.

But many of its inhabitants weren't happy.

They were homesick. They yearned for the familiar, the rusty cars the potholed streets. They were unaccustomed to the lack of litter and the language it was barren the word budget was not in widespread use.

A restlessness was a bother in many of their lives. It added to the sense of alienation.

The advice of the town's psychologist was sought. But there was no explanation of cause or a possible solution.

There was a search, it was fruitless it led in many directions. Then a cure was inadvertently stumbled on.

A group of sufferers was taken on a tour. They travelled beyond the town boundary. They passed a shop, they saw prices again. Calm came. It was then realized it was necessary to worry about money.

Some renounced their winnings to return from whence they'd come. A service was set up to help them.

Many had great difficulty making it back to the other side. They lacked conviction. They had to be convinced life existed beyond money.

But one couple stood out, they confounded the budget specialists. They brought greying to anyone who saw them.

They were incorrigible, yet lovable, they were completely unforgettable. Reports and more reports were written, but no one had the heart to write the truth. Pens were never filled with ink, only whitewash.

Drink inspired an artist at an office party. Graffiti appeared on some filing cabinets.

Shoe string Sally and no frills Bill were here and we were too.

We were here to help you, but we need help too.

Rumours trickled from the town, they spread like spilt treacle. Even Joe was informed, nothing could stop their propulsion.

The outcome of his winnings had incarcerated Joe in gloom. But the announcement and the construction of the town had brought hope.

But its occupation and the tales that followed, dimmed, shut out and took away the light.

Joe felt ashamed.

He'd been generous, rescued people, had heard the shipwrecked mariner's call.

But his endeavours had been futile.

The Town was another bid to help, but it'd become a place of exile.

Joe sought sanctuary amongst the beautiful and the remote, where it is possible to gaze on views that never tire. The sound of the river would refresh and the ever changing shapes and patterns in the sky would titillate, inspire and deny monotony the vista.

No anaesthetic could so quickly dull and take away the pain. Joe could and did forget.

And every spring he can be found by that river somewhere in South Westland. Sam and Kath always visit. They never talk about the lottery anymore, just the season and the whitebait.

Teront

I was some towns away from home, could not really remember which one.

I had just finished in the toilet, a public one, was washing my hands, then I suddenly realized what I had been reading on the toilet door had relevance. It was not what was written, but who wrote it. I recognized the hand writing, it was familiar, Teront's.

It was typical public toilet literature, be the same anywhere in the world. A written edition of some erotic act, but its provenance Teront surprised.

Teront was a success, the ladies his strength, he was well liked.

There was clarity in his writing, it was convincing, he knew his subject it was familiar. But why not elaborate on another daily drill, perhaps the sound of munching cornflakes? Perhaps it was a wish to educate, it was certainly good guidance, but for whatever reason Teront became a scribe.

The population does not deplete, replacements for the departed arrive i.e. there are births. Life for most commences in bed, boy and girl, double or queen size, for some it is the back seat of a car. But wherever or whenever it does not matter, the outcome is the same, a desire, want, need satisfied till next time and of course conception might occur. This of course is the evolutionary intention, which for most is the received wisdom.

But wherever or what, sex goes on, most partake, if they didn't some of us would not be here. This ubiquity, this widespread participation will contain those who have the urge to write, perhaps they have no progeny it will be their only record, but why in public toilets, there are blogs, magazines where all else is ancillary and why not the publication of a book?

There are probably experts on this subject, this compulsion to write or more specifically its location. There may be printed matter, books, perhaps there are even conferences where sages gather and the mystery might be uncovered why so many carry pens. The need to poo brings the chance to write. The subject of course is on the minds of many.

But enough of my preamble, the relevance was not what or where, but who was its creator, was it Teront?

I dashed back in and in a flash had snapped it, the camera on my handy mobile phone, versatile equipment.

I had recognized the hand writing, but at leisure I sought further confirmation. Teront was a friend of many years, there had been occasional correspondence, some had been retained I matched the handwriting, there was no doubt Teront filled the space. But there was a further connection, the reading in the toilet had commenced with the outline of a bird, the barn yard rooster. This too was familiar, I remembered it from somewhere on a blog.

The handwriting was confirmed, the need became to find the bird, the icon on the blog.

The search, home reached, the discovery, the rooster the beauty in the flock. I had seen it, but had read no further, I'd probably expected a dissertation on the origins of eggs, a tome of technicalities, too much a burden for my mind, it would have swamped.

But now I read which previously I'd fled from. It was thus.

Teront had a Maiden Aunt. The lady kept a few chickens and a rooster. The hens were rotated, the old out followed by young replacements. Fresh screwing for the rooster the Aunt had confided. The new ones did lay more eggs, being nubile was not their only benefit. Probably the remembrance of youth propelled the Maiden Aunt. She may have dithered, which one should she choose she may have seen the altar as nothing but a trap. For whatever reason she saw the rooster got the breaks.

There were sometimes graphics in his blogs. There were chess problems, white to play, mate in four moves. They were always on a human bottom, a female's.

Teront had been a lady killer. He was liked, that was more than true, the smile on the face of who was with him was the confirmation it was always there. He had something, invisible perhaps, envied definitely, perhaps he's got a bigger you know what, was the sometimes sour comment. But the technical question might be asked 'How would it fit?' Size was not the explanation. Whatever it was he had something most of us would wish for. But I must stop. My effusive chatter must cease, a torrent of words about nothing will merely drive the reader to another book.

So I return to the tangible and of course Teront, his graphics and the chess. The legs of the subject were parted. The figures on the left cheek of the bottom were slightly different to the right. The impression was conveyed that the arm was stretched out, it had further to reach. There was a further conclusion that an art expert would reach, the painter would have done some guessing, but would also have relied on a mirror. A mirror fixed upon the ceiling above a bed. Was this the explanation? The reason may I say for Teront's success, but no, if this was so there would not have been a bedroom in the land without the attachment to the ceiling, a requirement inserted in the building code, the logic all on an equal footing or in this case no horizontal disadvantage. There might even have been a slogan promoting the idea.

'Equal enjoyment for all during exercise in bed.'

But enough of adornments for the boudoir, the trysting place and back to something about which I know nothing, art and to something of which I know a little Teront.

Chess was a strength, he was good, a mind that could perceive patterns. The doodlings revealed an aptitude for drawing, but in this instance they were a digression, a memento for the lady, a record of those happy moments spent in bed with Teront.

Enough of the graphics and now Teront.

Teront disappeared. I do not mean in the sense of a missing person. He was seen around, but in a different guise. He ceased to be in social circulation. He took up residence with a lady. Plural no, singular. No one knew his companion she just appeared, arrived with Teront. There had been other disappearances, Teront would vanish for a while, then return, but this time it was not alone. There was gossip, rumours, perhaps the lady was the reason for his absences. This was to remain a mystery with possible resolution. Teront and I were friends and I did not wish the friendship to be damaged by intrusive questions and so the matter rested.

Teront and the lady would not be seen, the grass in his garden would be uncut, hedges untrimmed, weeds would dominate and take control, windows would become dirty and unwashed. Then sudden frantic activity would overwhelm the chaos, Teront and the lady would appear, implements for tidying and cleaning would be used, drastic and decisive was the urge, the worrisome blot would become like all the other gardens in the street, unrecognizable.

And as suddenly as this activity would start, it would cease.

For some time it puzzled, then an explanation. There was a four weekly cycle.

I did some guessing. The horizontal slog, replaced briefly by energies employed in the vertical position, then back to parallel with the ground.

So Teront was for the moment packaged. I decided to dig into his blogs.

He'd talked briefly of a relation, an Uncle I think, of a tragedy, a car accident that had changed the unfortunate's life.

This brief synopsis was to tie in with what followed it was so unusual the blog could only be Teront's.

I had little idea of what I was to find, what was revealed was tragic. My curiosity became a scourge. Teront carried the disappointment and now it was my turn to share.

Anonymity must be preserved and so I call the Uncle M.

M was successful. Money derived from hard work and the right decisions.

He ran his own business. He was a fair and an honest employer and this extended to all his dealings, life at home was the same. Happily married with four children. Most would say he had it all and his conduct was such that it deserved to be so.

Then the police arrived. They were grave. Was something wrong? He mused.

A car accident. His wife and four children all killed. The blog contained few details. Hit head on by an overtaking car. Nothing remained of the other vehicle but scattered metal, the sole occupant had walked away unscathed.

Nothing else was said.

It was too much. What was there for M? How would he cope?

But worse awaited. His eyesight went, he could not see, he was blind.

He sold his business. He had many worries, but lack of money was not one.

There was no self pity, M was brave, but sometimes he envied the less well off their money worries.

I recoiled from what I read, but what followed was no better.

M and his wife had meshed between the sheets. They were in sync. They had taken compatibility to a level reached by few. The frequency and what they did, there were tremors in the bed such was the harmony. What waste, I thought why was this to happen? These feelings were reinforced by what I saw around me. The disappointing efforts of many in the boudoir, the futility of double beds whose only use was sleep.

This was Teront's blog. Did this explain his withdrawal from the world?

Did the disappointment hurt? It must. He had needs and thus the lady. Patience can uncover the arcane. Were his absences a search? Did this explain the lady?

I put Teront aside, after what I had read it was too much to say packaged.

The blog continued.

M had much energy it's use had been diverse and evenly spread. But he changed, a response to what had happened, the coping mechanism, the hanging on to sanity. The family man disappeared, the bedroom tremors became turmoil.

But these energies sought reciprocation. There was a sifting and a sieving, then came the young lady.

There'd been no measurement of looks, M could not see, so no energy was expended. But on the scale of good to unrateable she was a medium.

For the sake of anonymity Teront had called the young lady by the Greek symbol for the letter Alpha, the beginning.

In M's house plumbing worked, water pressure constant, fluctuating temperatures did not plague, vigilance was not needed in the shower the shout was never heard 'Turn the f ing tap off.' This was a new experience for Alpha. Showers had been an adventure, it seemed if anyone flushed a toilet anywhere in the street freezing cold water would spray and shock. Pub closing time became a definite no no for ablutions. There was a showering schedule. The best time to wash.

In M's house all this went. It took Alpha time to adjust, so ingrained, so totally stamped in was the habit.

I continued with Teront's blog, but I was mystified by the details of the plumbing. I have précised much of what was written on the subject, some was too technical to follow. But how could this have any relevance to the accident and what followed.

The blog continued. M could not see, but he could feel and he could smell, but odours were abolished by his plumbing. Alpha showered frequently, her body was whiff free.

M saw a space when they made love, it was not enough to feel, he had to smell.

And so in his methodical and practical way he sought to solve the problem.

He planned a trip, a holiday in the desert. Water would be scarce and showering difficult. And so they went and M's desires were sated.

This tale of doom contained some salvage. I knew of desert holidays, there popularity perplexed. Why journey in the fire and heat and scarcity of water. Then the explanation, the resolution to the puzzle, the file was closed.

I could relax posters for desert holidays would raise no further questions. Their appeal was now explained.

The blog was not quite finished.

Smell became an unexpected worry, Teront could think of little else, the silent pursuer would not go, nothing could shake it. His nights became a kaleidoscope of dreams for odourless perfume.

There were suggestions, cures, remedies, walking the most common, it was calming, therapeutic, but there was an omission, this was not the exit, no refuge from the toils.

Others would be walking many with a dog, there'd always be the reminder, the endless sniffing, the interest in 'you know what,' the smells left by other dogs.

Teront faced an uncertain future, but a gradual change came.

First his Uncle's eyesight returned, there was a concomitant reduction of visits to the desert and finally cessation.

Teront's worries about smells shrank, diminished and disappeared, but there was another breakout. Teront hadn't yielded completely to conformity.

There was a spate of graffiti on public statues. Chess problems adorned their posteriors. No one knew who did it, but two plus two equalled Teront.

Teront joined an art school. It was I believe an attempt to improve his capabilities with brush and paint and even yes the spray can. There was a coincidental cessation of the graffiti. It ceased, toute de suit, immediately.

I think some of his doodlings were uncovered in the rubbish, chess problems in unusual settings, sometimes on human bodies. Some questions may have been asked, Teront would have seen the possibilty of the graffiti being linked to him, thus it ceased.

Teront then became normal. I mean his behaviour became like most of those around him. One wife, **X** number of children and a mortgage.

A gap came in my life, an empty space, then I realised it was Teront. We were still friends, but I missed the Teront that had been, the old Teront. There had been excitement in his actions, but they were finished, I just wish there could be another Teront, the missing Teront, but alas that cannot be.

The Search for the Father

Their behaviour was not quite as it should be. I mean in the conventional sense. They weren't criminals their actions did not bring visits from the police. They did from time to time bring visits from the local midwife. You might ask was that so unusual, they were of the age that such services might be needed.

What was unacceptable and brought the tut-tutting and the gossip were the commencing actions, the initiating and eventually the midwife.

"They would not even know who was the Father." Became a standard line of gossip.

In this there was some truth, but did this matter. Most children grow up to be the same as everyone around them. Where are the many, those who stand out and are separated from the crowd?

These caveats applied to the gossips and tut-tutters but their cleverness and wisdom raised a challenge.

They had children, but they were replications of themselves. Hard working, god fearing, responsible and totally unnoticeable.

But the local swingers surpassed anything they could manage. This is an understatement that could be multiplied and squared ad infinitum.

One produced a crop of triplets. They were to become well known and eminent Rocket Scientists and this was all three. But this barely raised a ripple. It was Anna that shook the righteous. The infant was a prodigy she created a sound with voice and musical instruments that brought instant acclaim.

There was envy amongst the righteous. Rocket Scientists and a prodigy and their best efforts were dentists.

Had the local swingers found the silver bullet? This was a question that could not be ignored and had they the good, the pure and noble thrown away their youth? It was unsettling, there were persistent doubts. Would they have done better and been a swinger?

But enough of my preamble. This tome is not an attempt to explain a random outcome most of us have evolutionary desires.

What is of interest is to find the father of Anna.

From now on I will call the swingers the group, but no - that attaches a stigma and so I will call them The Friends. They were people who knew each other, were drawn by a common interest and are certainly not deserving of contempt. And let's face it without them there'd been no Anna and without Anna there would have been much pleasure missed.

The Friends were of the age when the next generation arrives, I e progeny, but because of how they'd lived it was not always known who was the Father.

But this hardly mattered. At school and at the kindergarten no child stood out or was so different and how serious is it if a son is an electrician and not a plumber would this be a worrying disappointment?

And then came Anna and a disturbance of the calm. Anna was the final progeny produced by The Friends. Whether this was coincidence or the result of what followed we will never know and it is certainly a question I will not attempt to answer.

I will suggest there was a collective wisdom. The analogy is the commonsense of a successful lottery winner, there is the treatment of the winnings and equally important the belief that there will never be another win and so no further purchases of lottery tickets and thus it was with The Friends, the conviction there could not possibly be another Anna and so no further children were produced.

But there remained the question who was the Father. Digging and probing revealed it was not the Husband of the Mother. That was unequivocal.

I do not wish to use the F word. A farmer fecks the fields, I.e: scatters seeds for planting. He may not feel like doing it, so it is F the B fields, then there is feckless, but that needs no comment. So instead of the F word I will use 'Did it'

Anna's mother and her husband rarely if ever 'Did it'. I do not mean they abstained, there just did not 'Do It' together, there was no shortage of volunteers to oblige, The Friends were always willing participants. But what they did enjoy was watching each other 'Doing It.'. There was a peephole in their bedroom and very subdued lighting, no opportunity to observe was ever missed.

And so one person is eliminated from the search.

It is possible at this point that the reader may be wondering about the paternity of the Rocket Scientists. That question will be taken out of the equation. There was a strong physical resemblance, I e they looked like the putative Father and tests were further confirmation. The reader can now focus on Anna and the search for Dad.

At first it did not matter. There were no physical resemblances, I e there was nothing to connect Anna to any of The Friends. There was no rush of volunteers to take a paternity test. One of The Friends had produced a brood that became well known to the police. No one wished to claim their paternity and so the matter rested.

Anna's success changed the status of the family. They thought of moving, but The Friends begged them to stay. They were the ones, unequivocally. They acceded. Deep down they knew life somewhere else would not be the same, an immeasurable something would be gone, the atmosphere could not be transported and so they stayed.

There were rumours of indulgent living, but one in particular rankled and made the Good and the Righteous squirm. Anna's Father had built a small crate I should correctly say it was built professionally. The service then packed all his tools in it, wrote on the outside R I P to D I Y. hired a helicopter took the crate far out to sea and consigned it to the deep.

This tale I believe was the most damaging. It intensified the envy.

"What did He do to deserve it? He's not the real Father he had to get someone else to 'Do It' with his wife." Was one sour comment

Many of the Good couldn't cope. Some had to move away, it was most unsettling. There had been frequent visits to the local library, books on parenting a perpetual request, but there were no explanations to the phenomenon of the Rockets Scientists or Anna.

But the Good had one consolation. The Rocket Scientist's putative Father was the real Dad.

Unfortunately this did not make the Good the Better. Some of the Good were not good at all but plain downright nasty. But this is not surprising for in the population there are those who are unpleasant and mischievous and they unsurprisingly made it their business to tell Anna that her Father was not in fact her real Father. They wanted to pay her parents back, for what you might ask, what was their sin? The sin was the envy in the bearers of the tale, the malicious gossips.

But they need not have bothered. Anna loved her parents and this is not surprising, no more loveable people could be found.

And this was more agony for the gossips. Their boomerang of poison had come back.

But years later Anna wished to meet her actual Father, the man who'd parked the 'you know what and where.'

There were intense efforts to track whoever he was down. But who was he? And this was the problem, how can you find someone when you do not know who he is? It would be very difficult most would say it would be impossible. Many years had passed since conception. To remember who'd done who and when so long thereafter is impossible, at least for most, few have a memory for details that remote. One Friend had kept a diary, it was very accurate, but it could not be located.

I believe it was thrown away when the brood that brought the police arrived and this I believe was reasonable. Who after all wants it to be known he'd Fathered crooks? It might not have been the diarist, but I am convinced it was the discreet thing to do, the priority was to keep the peace, we are Friends let it remain so.

Then came the breakthrough.

"It's Norman." It was an excited voice on the phone. It was one of The Friends.

Norman repeated Anna's mother to herself. Who was Norman? It was a mystery she knew no Norman and she wondered what it meant.

There was an instant explanation. The Friend had had a spring clean or more precisely a clean for many seasons. An old photo had been turned up. It was of The Friends. They were all completely undressed, starkers, totally in the bollock, they were all smiling obviously they'd just had a session.

They were all much younger, the efforts in bed were then more enjoyable, the sensations more intense.

Anna's mother was holding Norman's hand. Anna was the image of Norman. It was game set and match, they'd nailed it, they had the Father.

There was no need for scientific tests all they'd do is confirm the equipment worked.

But who was this Norman? He was not one of The Friends, but he was in the photo.

Gradually the memory came back the pieces of the jigsaw were put together.

Norman had made up the numbers for The Friends. One man was missing and Norman had stood in, a drink or two might have helped with the persuading, but was persuasion necessary, we will never know. What we do know is that Norman was there. His wife was a stern woman and certainly would have had nothing to do with The Friends.

Then Norman vanished. There was no explanation. One day he was not there. There was no note, no goodbye, nothing.

Norman had been lucky, he'd bought the right ticket in the lottery he had Meade the Maid in bundles or in more up to date English Lots of Lovely Loot.

This was an opportunity. He told no one and certainly not his wife.

Now was his chance to change his lifestyle. It would become life at a more leisurely pace. If he stayed there'd be no change. His wife would see to that. A bigger house perhaps, a newer car, but more leisure never.

And so he left. He didn't take much. A few clothes, his tools, he could keep machinery running there was a possibility he might occasionally work. He glanced at the alarm clock that was certainly not going with him.

Gradually he was forgotten. His wife found someone else to take up the slack and eventually it was as if he'd never been there.

And as far as Norman was concerned this was fine.

He became a man of leisure but also peripatetic. How he lived brought questions, he had money but he was supported only by sporadic work and so he would move.

But it was not always so. Sometimes he'd be overrun with requests to keep machinery running, his talent with the tools was soon apparent and he'd vanish to escape the burden.

He did stay in one place for some time. It was the people, they had something, they were very likeable, he led a conventional life, thus no questions and so he stayed. Then came an untimely and unexpected death.

Nothing else changed and yet everything changed, it was never the same, something had gone, an invisible indescribable something. It was hard to say goodbye, but he had to go and thus again he became a man of movement.

Then one day coincidental with the breakthrough someone he knew showed him a cutting from a paper. This person was not a friend or a cobber, but no matter where Norman went he'd turn up. There'd always chat briefly, there were never any questions and there was nothing sinister, but somehow he'd always appear.

The cutting contained a photo of two faces Normans of many years ago and Anna's. The resemblance was unmistakable.

"Your daughter." Said the acquaintance.

Norman did not know. He did not know what to say.

The cutting was quite rumpled, it had been cut out some time ago the acquaintance had obviously seen it, cut it out and waited till he saw Norman again.

The acquaintance could see it was a tricky moment for Norman.

"Keep it." He said.

There was a short farewell and he went.

It was of course the search for Anna's father. There was a request if seen make contact.

The resemblance could not be denied, but who had he 'Done It' with and when.

It haunted Norman. His life had been exemplary, no love affairs, no extra marital relationships, life had enough problems without finding more.

Then after much time he remembered. The Friends, the wild ones he called them, and that one night. But how did they have his photo. He was of course much younger. It was definitely him. And the acquaintance, the man who would always turn up?

Norman would make contact, he would confront the past. It was his daughter, she wished to meet him, he did not wish to disappoint.

And so they met and Anna loved Norman and she still loved her Father.

Norman's tools were freighted up and consigned to the deep and he lived the leisurely life that was his dream.

And there was a beautiful silence, words cannot describe it, the tongues of the gossips had been hobbled.

But the quest was not quite finished. There remained yet one more turn, was there any music in Anna's background was there an ancestor with an eponymous talent? This question was easily answered Norman had an old and very battered poster it was of a Grandfather, the lead singer in a rock and roll band. There were now new posters for Norman I e of Anna, but he was still very proud of his Grandfather.

Hombo

The boundaries of human knowledge are always shifting, they grow ever outwards, what is known becomes ever more. There is unceasing probing of the human body and that of animals and plants. The search for increased output never ceases and for tastier items to titillate and tempt, the ever increasing dimensions of our waistlines is the measurement of its success.

This has brought the question many ask.

`Which is more dangerous fighting in the pub or a diet of its pies?'

Combat would be obvious then ponder the well known saying.

'We dig our graves with our teeth.'

Is food our succour or a hazard?

A refugee from a land torn by conflict or strife would not hesitate to answer.

But how safe is that person with the frontline far behind, there's food, it's plentiful but its flavours, the temptation, it's a hidden danger. War is not the only hazard that we can face.

But science does not always win and one documented failure coms to mind the attempt to breed a chicken that can think. And so the saying `He's a Hen brain' remains. Thus an effort that might have modified the language failed.

But I digress, I will leave the study of etymology and return to what most would consider a more important leitmotif the human anatomy and more specifically our genes.

First I will explore an unexpected realm, politics and a recent era of a dark past. The Nazis had theories of racial purity, of racial hygiene and eugenics. But alas their methods were so horrible no one wished to believe there could be a shred of truth.

And so it remained, but gradually the importance of the genes became obvious. They could not be denied and the dark era I have referred became distant and for many a time unknown. And so it became if we can breed animals and plants to more productive, what about ourselves?

Having children it is sometime said is a lottery, its outcome random and unknown. From the screaming infants mouth can later come forth words that bring money, laughter and applause. We do not arrive at birth with a label there is no designation that says what we will be. Time and only time is the determinant then the translation of our efforts will be known. Has our little darling become a comedian, an entertainer or does the world have to make space for one more annoying clown?

But the new age of science has arrived and with it a changed arrival of children...

The mechanics of reproduction remained unaltered, I.e copulation etc. What was different was the predictibility of its outcome, it was no longer random or as the well known chant went.

`Fuck and hope.'

The randomness of reproduction was gone. Couples genes could be matched I e his with hers and the output of their efforts would be known.

The mantra changed, it became. `Prepackaged children with labels.'

Thus it became possible to breed a world without criminals, but policemen would discover there were dole queues.

But alas, like the chickens, there was another notable failure. There are some who stray into the incorrect bed.

You might ask why was this urge not bred out? It was agreed there should not be a total elimination of fun. But there was a reduction in the crime rate, fewer policemen and a redeployment for prisons and their staff.

One notorious lockup became a hotel, it was very popular with honeymooning couples, it was known as The Life Sentence.

The wish to create a perfect world did occasionally hit the buffers.

This matching of a couples genes caused problems few considered.

But I will return to the world as it once was, its culture and its movies. In them there were bad men, they were distinguished by their hats, the heroes wore brown the villains were in black, but with a shortage of little nasties, the ones we wish to hate, whose heads would the black attire adorn now?

But I have meandered and I will return to the theme, the elimination by breeding of problem people. It has largely succeeded and has brought changes in the language, how often do you hear a person referred to as a goat?

Boy meets girl, they fancy each other, fall in love, it's timeless. They marry and have children, past tense, they would have had children. In the clinical world of gene's testing it might be revealed there'd be an unsatisfactory outcome.

What then? Tricky.

Some prefixed dating with a genetic matching, jumping the gun perhaps, too clinical.

It might be possible of course that perfectly matched genes might belong to couples not matched for married life.

They might not love each other. At least this would eliminate bedroom battles and missiles in the kitchen.

The possibility of improved children changed behaviour. The unconventional became the conventional.

Love someone, live with them, but make sure the outcome of making love is by the best matched genes and this of course is possible because of the gene's bank.

Science does not give up. There are incremental increases in our knowledge. Eventually the outcome of matched genes became predictable.

Thus came the gene's bank. Its purpose the collection and dissemination of information.

But the records might be stale, they might not be updated. The most common omission was an unreported vasectomy. This failure could cause disappointment and definitely if the man was handsome.

So A and B marry, but the output of activity in bed or wherever might not be entirely their own. The wife's partner for the purpose of procreation might not be her husband, the decision with whom and in whose bed would be made entirely by the gene's bank.

And the husband in turn might get the summons from further down the street.

The solution was practical, it became acceptable and most times it worked.

The new world had arrived or in a nutshell, science deciding what went on in bed.

Homo sapiens had attained a new level. The Garden of Eden as a domain of residence ceased to be a mirage, man might yet return.

Then came Hombo, the dream slipped, it vanished.

Hombo lived in Ita Isha land. It was rich, it had scarce resources that were valuable and few to enjoy it's benefits and it was the inhabitant's intention to keep it so.

The citizens of this land had no callouses, few know where the contents of the toilet went, such was their disconnection from the world.

But being born in Ita Isha land did not necessarily confer wisdom and Hombo's was questionable.

His gene's code revealed that with the right matching he would Father a monster. I do not mean a hairy object with five mouths and a constant quest for blood, but a person with unquenchable ambition, a focused love for power to be attained and retained by any means possible.

Who you might ask would wish to uncage such a person. The world might have problems but a further multiplication might for most deter.

But alas not so for Hombo. It's outcome was too distant, its impact remote.

His ego demanded attention. He craved to outperform all those around. His progeny would shine, he or she would stand out and he, the Father, would be noticed.

The search came for the right match.

You might think that in a very poor country few would know about, let alone file genetic information. The cost, the sacrifice would be too great, but you are wrong. The inhabitant of such a land might have a gene's code sought beyond the border, perhaps in a palace where money grew on trees or was even used for decoration.

And if you thought it was only the female who made the journey, another blot, the male was sometimes sought for the resonations from his bollocks and for both it was a route from need and want.

So Hombo searched and it took him to Ichorochary. It was well known, its size defined significance. It's citizens teemed, many spilt beyond its border.

And so he went. He found Olif the lady that he sought, there was also a husband and children.

But the ambient of awfulness repelled him. He had never seen nor could envisage such a comprehensive totality of nothing, desperate mice would have difficulty such was the absence of succour.

Hombo shrank. There was darkness and a spreading shame. He wished there was an exit, but Olif and her husband saw money.

But there was worse, if that was possible. There were whippings, Olif's back bore testimony.

And so he explained his putative intentions. He needed general assistance in the house, for instance the making of beds, not mentioned was the time that would be spent within them.

Olif and her husband did not confer. There was an unequivocal, instant decision, Olif would assist. The prospect of the money was too great.

So Olif returned with Hombo to Ita Isha land. Her duties were fulfilled, but it was not possible for her to remain.

The horizontal slog with imported labour was OK, but if the intended evolutionary outcome resulted, I.e: pregnancy and birth, there could be problems. The progeny of such a union was not welcome, it was unlawful to remain, few would risk the exactions brought by breach.

So they returned together to Ichorochary.

There was a payment to Olif's husband for the loan of his wife and there was a promise of more. There was a stipulation of a ban on the whipping.

Occasional visits by Hombo confirmed this.

The infant arrived and Hombo was now a distant dad. It was a boy, its name Enam.

The child grew and it was soon obvious he'd be more than ordinary such was his urge to control.

The route to power in Ichorochary was through the party, Enam joined at the youngest possible age. His commitment was total he had time for little else. No meeting was too long, no speech too boring, whilst others slept, he would remain attentive and alert.

Then came an unexpected opportunity. There was an assassination of someone senior in the party Enam's plucky action spared the lives of more.

He was now the trusted lieutenant, protecting those he wished to supersede.

When the transition came there were no farewell speeches. It was swift brutal and ruthless.

Enam had attained his ambition he was slotted right in at the top. His Father or who he thought was his father was appointed internal security chief. His mother was parked in idle comfort.

But it was not enough to rule one country, the tyranny was spread, Ita Isha land became a vassal. This did not sate the Tyrant's ego, like his Father's it demanded more and more. There were images of him public places, The Great Achiever, his example was upheld there were exhortations, he would lead there'd be further triumphs for the nation unfortunately, the urgings and reality were mismatched.

The inhabitants of Ita Isha were not convinced. Their life of ease and comfort had been replaced the transition was to work and little else. Ita Isha land had an unofficial renaming, it was known by its citizens as 'Wish it wasn't land'

This enraged the Great Achiever the lack of gratitude was unbelievable.

There were more images and greater exhortations.

Hombo quaked, he saw the images, there was no doubt, there was a genetic connection the Tyrant was the mirror of himself.

Others noticed, Hombo was nicknamed the Lesser Achiever. It was not known what had happened.

But there was restlessness and dissatisfaction and a triumphal insurrection, the Great Achiever fled and definitely no valedictory speech.

There was general relief, but not yet for Hombo. There was interest in his resemblance to the Tyrant. This brought a probing of the gene's bank. Hombo's secret was out. He trembled, but he needn't, he was hailed a Hero. There had been growing disenchantment with the gene's bank, many chafed at its diktats with whom, when and in which bed, Hombo had revealed a dangerous weakness. It was the catalyst, it brought change. There could not be a next time, Tyrants could not be intentionally bred, the bank had to go and unequivocally it did.

And so today at the movies there are men in black hats, on the screen there is no camouflage, no covering of tracks, the villains are identifiable we know exactly who to hate.

Scattered in the rubbish

Some years ago, correction, many years ago, a memory lapse, then a jolt, a reminder, a hostile interjection, time is not a friend in the mirror. It was my student days, now faraway and remote, hard to believe they happened.

There was a task, a group of us were cleaning up an old house. It had been used for boarders. I came upon some papers, my intention was to read them. I didn't , I kept them or more correctly I didn't lose them.

Recently they emerged in another clean up. This time I took notice. The writer had had a rudimentary education, but the narrative was comprehensible, the tale was unusual. It deserved publication. I made corrections to make it presentable, grammar, punctuation, spelling, but the direction, the meaning it was unmistakeable.

And so brushed, polished, filed and cleaned it is here for you or the world to read.

It was a moment that Ted had dreaded. He knew it bewould be coming, the question was when.. Of course it might not have happened, but Ted was right.

It was Klinka's passing that Ted had feared.

Ted was an immigrant. He'd arrived in the country with nothing much in mind, he was young, barely out of school. He worked in offices, he was educated, it seemed the thing to do, but it didn't agree with him. He'd rather have been a battery hen, such was his perception of life sitting at a desk. Besides the job was hazardous, sitting in a room filled with tobacco smoke, it didn't agree with Ted's health.

So Ted made a career change, he borrowed a lot of money, bought houses no one wanted, they were cheap and filled them with people no one wanted, they could of course be sometimes wanted by the police.

It worked. No one was interested in what he did, the area was unloved. The neighbours were young people renting cheap flats, it was close to town, it was convenient, their sojourn there was temporary. They had their lives to lead, doing what young people generally do, parties, girlfriends, boyfriends, marriage for most was the exit from this whirl. During this interlude of carefree living the activities of their neighbours was

uninteresting.

The other people living in that area were the Foreigners. That was their designation. They were categorized by their spoken language, English was not their first tongue. They were not outcasts but were ordinary people, they had been displaced by war. For them it was a new beginning, the country a haven. Unlike the other occupiers in that area, they worked, saved and bought themselves a house.

Their expectations and priorities had been moulded by the conflict, Ted's business did not interest them.

And so Ted was free from spying eyes and censure. He did nothing illegal, it was different.

What was different were Ted's basic priorities, he was motivated by fundamental need. He needed money to pay his way, which meant income, his boarders were expected and made to pay the rent. The only other priority was don't downgrade the houses further, I e: no vandalism. He could see no point in upgrading the property, more rent perhaps and 'Better People'. But Ted was not fussy about who he dealt with, better to buy more property and watch the land values rise.

A further avoidance of censure were Ted's habits. He was not interested in liquor or socializing. Few knew him or anything about what he did.

Ted collected some unusual boarders. Many had habits that made them unwelcome elsewhere. Klinka it was to be discovered, belonged in this category.

Klinka had arrived many years earlier, probably 20. Ted did not bother with records, when people arrived or left or where they came from. They arrived they paid rent, they left they were forgotten. Some left feet first under a blanket, some in the custody of the police and some were simply not there, missing presumed gone elsewhere. His priority was the current crop of boarders and their rent.

He kept some records, it was unavoidable, the tax authorities had to be kept at bay, there had to be some explanation for his accumulation of property. Was there rent and how much? His experience in offices enabled him to do it. There were no beautiful annual accounts with pictures and optimistic forecasts, it was history in black and white and no more.

So where did Klinka fit into this picture? He came he paid rent, was quiet, no visitors and certainly no destructive habits. For Ted it was a room filled without a problem person.

Some year earlier, probably eight, there had been another passing, the transition from this world to the next. The man was not missed, there were no tears at the graveside. Money and junk were his specialties, insufficient of one and too much of the other. Klinka had assisted in the clean up. .

So how could Klinka, a model boarder, cause dread? Klinka had the figure of a person who did not eat much, the ultimate achievement in dieting. Usually he sat in the kitchen playing patience when Ted arrived to collect the rent, occasionally Ted had to knock. Klinka would squeeze out through the doorway, it was obvious something was blocking his exit.

This something was a hoard of clothes, bags, shoes and whatever, its weight at the local land fill was 3,800 kilograms approx. Six loads were taken by Ted in his van, one weighed in at 620 kg.

This hoard had been identified whilst Klinka lived, all that was unknown was its weight.

Ted was an expert at ignoring problems. It was probably an essential qualification for his job. It was certainly not an occupation for a worrier.

The hoard could not get any bigger, there was no space for more. Ted assumed Klinka would die and then would come the clean up. Ted outlived his boarders. He gave himself a better chance, no tobacco, weed, liquor and a diet of plain, regular and wholesome food. Funless perhaps but when he was shovelling up the bits that fell off some of the corpses he saw the benefit, he was not shovelling with the angels, but in this world and not the next.

"We have'nt seen Klinka since Saturday." Greeted Ted when he came on Wednesday to collect the rent. It was one of the other boarders. Ted guessed correctly what had happened. Police custody no, had left and gone elsewhere, most improbable, he was old and had lived there a long time, in hospital, the other boarders would most probably have known. One final option and Ted believed the most probable; death. In two hours Ted was to be proved correct, Q.E.D.

First knock on door. As expected no answer. Second got a key turned the lock and pushed. Turn the key yes, push it was impossible. Klinka's hoard and his body blocked the way.

Open a window, the entrance was blocked by a set of drawers.

Ted had a skill saw with him, it was fortuitous, the windows could be opened wide enough to admit its use. An attempt to open the window wider failed.

There was a gradual demolition job on the drawers, clothes and more clothes were pulled out of them. Then two television sets fell down, the drawers had supported them. They did not work of course, then it became possible to open the window wider. More and more was pulled out of this morass till finally it was possible to snake in through the window.

This part of the operation had taken two hours.

Ted saw two legs sticking out of a pile of something. The light was not good and it was hard to identify anything.

Ted did not do what most people would have done, he did not immediately call the police. He intended to do it, but not just yet.

There had been previous experiences.

On one occasion the police had worked on a body for some hours, it was probably suicide, there were live wires, some of the insulation had been scraped off, electrocution had probably been the intended cause of death. The police had been unaware of the hazard.

Ted discovered it when he was cleaning up. He started shovelling up the mess, bits had fallen off the body , the man had been dead for some days. He got a jolt, but carried on, then another jolt. He stopped, he saw wires, they were connected to the main.

The wires were familiar, then he remembered, they had been hanging in a tree, the deceased had seen them too. He showed intense interest. This had puzzled Ted. Now the explanation, there was intent.

He called the police. There were photos and the wires were made safe.

The man had been a veteran of two campaigns, the Western Desert, then Normandy and finally in Germany guarding the guards in a concentration camp. He was seventeen at the outset. It had been all too much. He was another victim of Hitler's Reich.

The deceased was an immigrant, he was from the British Isles, he had an accent, he did not speak Kwinglish, Kiwi English.

Then there was Jackson's passing. Jackson's was stretched out on his bed stripped to the waist, Ron was sitting in the room drinking.

"Is he ok?" Ted asked.

"I'm scared." Answered Ron.

"Put your hand on him." Said Ted.

"He's stone cold." Said Ron.

Ron had been drinking in the company of a corpse. What went down his throat was more important than the company.

The police were summoned and the body was removed and Ted cleaned the room up. It contained a crop of fleas.

Then who should arrive some hours later but a snoop, an apparatchik from the council.

The police had done some ringing up, but the snoop was too late, the mess and the fleas were gone.

Ted's rent did not cover room service and he didn't supply fleas, they were B.Y.O. Bring Your Own fleas.

There had been other experiences, Ted was wary of the police.

Ted cleared the clothes and whatever from around Klinka's body as it was passed out through the window. There were pairs of helpful hands outside, the other boarders, they packed it into plastic bags.

Ted's concern was the door, how to open it. The hoard of clothes etc. reached up to the ceiling and where the body and the door was it was steep and formed a cliff. As it was passed out through the window more and more fell down.

Ted did not have a lot of time to think about what he was doing.

His worry was the door. He knew of the capabilities of the police, smash the door down and get the body out. Who would put the door back up?

Ted had hung doors in the past, he'd had a work bench and tools, it was all set up. Now he had nothing, it was a task he did not wish to face.

Some might have said what about the body. The man was dead from natural causes, there was no question of a homicide enquiry. If someone had got in and killed him, how would they have got out? The body and the morass blocked the exit.

Ted could move and pick up the body but it would fall back and block the way. He could not ask a boarder to assist in the room. The police might have taken a dim and possibly a prosecution. Ted did not want to involve others and certainly not incriminate them. There were boundaries. There was also smell. Klinka had been dead for some days, there was a reek. It was an evolutionary signal, keep away.

There was a small quantity of liquor in the room, the boarders would not touch it.

The pins could be knocked out of two of the hinges thus separate them and enable the door to open, but the body blocked access to the lowest.

The room contained Ted, a body and a morass of blocking debris.

Ted climbed out of that room, washed his hands and called the police. His exertions for that day were over.

The bottom hinge was pried off with little damage, the door was rehung easily.

The police were sympathetic, Ted made a statement, the day was over.

Removing the debris was straightforward, there were pairs of helpful hands, it was soon done.

There was a small silver lining, Ted found a few useful items amongst the morass. He confided in his diary there was an easier way to acquire them, I.e: hand over money in a shop.

Justice

Many wondered how Clayton could bring himself to do it. A law abiding citizen, a man totally unknown to the police, killing the prime minister, PM, I e murder, certainly not manslaughter, I e an altercation in a bar, the outcome a body.

But Clayton did not see it like that and not without justification. He was eliminating a menace. And this view was shared by others. But this of course was not the majority opinion and certainly not that of the police.

The eulogies sang psalms of praise, a hero done down by a vile and loathsome killer.

But again there was not unison, other voices spoke, a microscopic few, the brave who dared to speak out.

Predictably they were swooped on by the police. If they could ensnare others in some plot the mood of public horror would win kudos. There was a massive search for the most incriminating blogger, but there was disappointment, the hounds were bound in, tethered by the borders, provenance came from foreign shores.

This brought further worries, was this some scheme of foreign intervention? There was plenty to keep policemen and politicians from peaceful nights of sleep.

But this belief of foreign intervention persisted. Clayton's family and close associates were watched. There was surveillance of all communications and bank accounts were scanned for foreign payments.

Does one man create history? A reasonable question. Napoleon's incarceration was followed by 99 years of peace, at least in Europe. Dredge history and more examples will emerge.

And this was how Clayton saw the current situation. A new PM installed in office paid for by promises he knew were unaffordable. Unaffordable perhaps, but paid for they would be. To become PM the candidate had convinced the country of his magic. Once in office for many a free lunch.

And this many was a calculated number, the total added to a victorious election.

But this idea hit the rocks at least in Clayton's head. To pay for the promises there'd be borrowing, to pay for the borrowing there'd be. And what would there be? Clayton unfortunately knew the answer or more precisely a reasonable approximation of what would follow. The PM and his cronies would disappear, their innings would continue,

they would bat on, unseen in comfortable retirement. So far so good, no one hurt, unfortunately it would not continue like that.

And unfortunately Clayton could see the denouement. Unemployment and its outcome. It haunted Clayton, he had no peace. Worthy people without work, without dignity, often estranged from children. The young could take an exit, depart for foreign lands, exiled, fleeing from an existence on rat bait.

Clayton discussed this often with his friends. They agreed, but what could be done, the PM was ensconced, he had the mandate, an overwhelming victory, the voice of the people was behind him.

This was no comfort for Clayton, he knew his friends were right.

His friends correct, ok, but there was a parting of the ways, he took it one step further.

The PM, the new PM did not give a 'you know what' about anyone or the country. There was one priority and only one and how it was achieved was an irrelevance. And this irrelevance was the worry, the cost and its disruption in people's lives.

The desire for power. But would the other members of cabinet be so driven?

Clayton could not believe it would be so. With the PM gone some kind of sanity would prevail. The irrelevant would become relevant, costs and their outcome would not be ignored. In short reason would rule the land. Napoleon went and there was peace.

Clayton's reasoning was not without precedent, he was not some loonie raving and screaming sought by men in white coats.

So there was the deed and its likely outcome, prison. Would that be a hardship? He'd have to manage without his wife's moaning, that would be possible. There would be no responsibility and plenty of time for reading. In short a rest from the tyrannies of daily life.

He knew he would not be welcome in the best clubs. The most he could hope for would be the annual reunion for jailbirds at Murphy's bar.

And his family, the stigma, they knew Dad, he had convictions and his wife, she would be staunch. Clayton was a nice guy, he was well liked, he was definitely no psychopath, self centered, angry, easily annoyed, he had friends.

Then there was the deed. It was not an easy moment for Clayton, taking the life of another, then came the moment, it was done. He felt relief. He was not a suspect despite

the evidence. The police could not believe it could be him. His profile ruled him out, no hint or wiff of malevence and his age, it was not the time when careers in crime commenced, but their termination when most offenders had reformed.

But all roads lead to Clayton, it could not be ignored and of course there was the pressing need for a conviction.

The police attempted a deal, a guilty plea m,, a lenient sentence, this was the wish of cabinet. They wanted the case shut down, the late leader a hero, they wished it to remain so. Was there some hidden scandal?

But more important and more palpable was the risk of division within the party. Merit barely ticked the box for inclusion in cabinet, malleability and a willingness to cringe before the leader took the pencil.

To summarise, the country was to be run by one man and a team of barking yes men.

Clayton knew this, he remained firm. He knew he would be eternally infamous, his name not in the hall of fame, but in some prison record. He had not done what he did to say yes it was me and then vanish into some comfortable prison.

I say comfort, but it is a relative term. To a former occupant of a park bench, the bed in boo, prison, would be ranked 5 star, but to someone whose slumbers had occupied a goose feather bed no description would fit the transition.

And so the plea was not guilty. He would be heard, that was his right.

The prosecution discussed the evidence, it seemed damming enough. Clayton had barely bothered with an alibi, others were never involved. This had been his wish, he did not want family or friends to be entangled with the police.

"And so you think you know best who should run the country? It is you who should decide, not the people?" The prosecution was trying a new ploy. They were attempting to portray Clayton as an arrogant individual who knew what was best for all.

Despite the forensic evidence, that was convincing enough, the prosecution was having its problems. It was Clayton's testimony that was creating doubts. He did not come across as a man who would take the life of another. It would be obvious to the jury he was a decent guy, this impression would be reinforced by a total absence of any record of crime. The prosecution dug and searched, but could find nothing. His private life was examined, again no blemishes. No extra marital involvements, and only one wife, there

was no quick flick and hello here's a younger model. They even discovered the flower beds in his garden were completely weed free. There was much they wished to withhold from the jury.

"Squeeze Germany till the pips squeak." Was Clayton's answer to the ploy.

This had been the slogan of the victorious party in the 1919 election.

It might have seemed like a good idea to a nation smitten with grief. But what did it mean?

You cannot squeeze a country, but you can squeeze its inhabitants, the ordinary German who had also gone through the war. There had been privation, many had lost their sons, sons had come back with limbs missing, there was trauma.

The flaws in the democratic system were being exposed. The slogan and its outcome, the rise to power of Nazi Germany.

How responsible were the leaders who rose to power on that slogan, with its advocacy to squeeze? It got them what they wanted, office and power, but then?

This then, it was fearsome, war, misery and worse for millions.

I would like briefly to digress and point out that then as now not all were convinced by the slogan and the need for squeezing.

There was Skimpy's famous cartoon The Lemon Sqeezer. The new prime minister is in miniature, his feet unattached to the ground, he is suspended holding the top of a

gigantic lemon squeezer. Of course lemon juice does not flow from it, but blood and munitions.

It was prescient.

The defense lawyer did not attempt to introduce this to the trial, it would be inadmissible as evidence, but he had the cartoon on the cover of a large book which he brandished from time to time in view of the jury.

The prosecution found this very annoying.

A point was being rammed home.

Clayton's trial was becoming an embarrassment for the government. There was an inconvenient parallel between 1919 and the irresponsible promises that had won them power.

This did not go unnoticed on the media. The cost of the promises were being examined. Even the blind could see the outcome.

But the greatest damage came from social media.

Skimpy's cartoon was resurrected. There were only two changes. The new finance minister's face and instead of blood and munitions, bodies with unemployed stamped on them flowed from the gigantic lemon squeezer.

The government was in disarray. The bullying leader was gone, the yes men had no ideas.

Then came rescue. Brilliance, call a fresh election. Most of the yes men vanished into oblivion, they were grateful to escape the glare. There were other benefits too, retired ministers perks and their overweight pensions. Their ordeal was over.

The trial and the election had become intertwined. It was impossible to separate them. It was totally unforeseen.

The prosecution had slipped. They were aware that their attempt to further blacken Clayton was a serious blunder. They could not back track and try and paint him white, the good guy, that was definitely off limits. There was no salvage attempt, the prosecution gave up.

They had changed the public's perception of Clayton. The public was no longer baying for blood.

Clayton was no longer the bad guy, the hated killer. And the victim, the late prime minister, he was now not seen as being virgin white , his mantle of great and goodness had withered, it had gone.

A question mark now hung on his eulogies, they looked odd.

Thus the jury was exposed to the tumult of discussion and debate. An impartial decision would be impossible.

Predictably there was a hung verdict. The police were half furious. The evidence pointed to a certain outcome, but they realised the jury had been overwhelmed.

Clayton knew he was tainted, the best clubs would be off limits. He'd had a close call with the law, he'd escaped from justice. The incoming government owed him a debt. It could not be admitted publicly, but his trial had got them elected.

Clayton had some remorse but one serious regret, he did not qualify for the annual reunion for jailbirds at Murphy's bar.

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About the Author.

Educated Lancing College, Sussex England. Served in Royal Navy for two years. National Service. (The draft.U.S). Occupation accountant. Other challenges married life and being a Father. Relaxation. Cycling, walking with pooch and a kitchen garden and of course reading. A resident of New Zealand

