 
## Remember My Name and Other Stories

Stephen Connolly

Published by

Brillig at Smashwords

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Copyright (c) 2002 - 2012 Stephen Connolly

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

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Table of Contents

1 Phil Mitchell and the Birthday Present

2 Anglican Perspectives on the Nativity

3 Remember My Name

4 The Rise and Fall of Apropos Warhead

5 Gustav Carlson's Autumn Leaves

6 The Gordon Highlanders' Farewell to Helpmakaar

7 The Duel

8 Her Big Day

9 Return to Big Love Island

10 Breadmaker Boogie, Breadmaker Blues

11 News From the North

12 Small Town Pretty Women

13 Fairy Tale Ending

Publishing History

About the Author

*.*.*.*.*

## Phil Mitchell and the Birthday Present

'What are we doing here, Charlie?' Linda leans back in her wheelchair and frowns up at the shop entrance, dazzled by the bright lights.

'It's your birthday,' Charlie tries to get his breath back. 'We're here for your present.'

'You can't afford anything in here, Charlie?'

It's only too true. God knows Charlie has tried to save his pocket money, the two pounds Mum hands out on a Friday evening. But the corner shop is so close and tempting and despite all his good intentions, his piggy bank is empty. Except for a foreign coin he found down the back of the sofa.

'Let's go watch some TV,' Charlie says as the doors swish close behind them. 'They might have Star Wars on again.'

Fluorescent lights gleam off cookers and washing machines and add a dazzle of highlights to the display cases filled with MP3 players and digital cameras. But today they're out of luck. In the TV section there's no Star Wars, just screen after screen showing EastEnders: Phil Mitchell red faced in High Definition.

Why do they do that, Charlie wonders. Why buy an enormous, flash TV and just watch EastEnders on it? What was the point?

'So what's my present, Charlie?' Linda tries to hide her disappointment. 'You're not...' she lowers her voice. 'You're not going to _steal_ something?'

'Yeah right. Stuff a sandwich toaster under my jumper?'

Star Wars is Linda's favourite. They've got all the videos at home. She can quote whole scenes from memory, even with Charlie teasing her. They've got the posters, the models, loads of the figures, even a pack of Star Wars Top Trumps, which Charlie has to deal carefully to make sure Linda always gets the Millennium Falcon.

A flock of shop assistants chat by the microwaves, ignoring them. Wednesdays are quiet, particularly at this hour when all the mums are on the school run.

'Tell me?' Linda demands, in the voice Charlie doesn't like, the whiny voice he hears when she's been stuck in the house for too long.

'You'll see.' Charlie trundles her past DVD recorders, even a few VCR machines on special offer.

'Come on,' she demands, jamming the brakes on and forcing him to stop. 'What are you up to?'

'Look...' he wants to tell her, but they're short of time – they're already late getting home. 'Just trust me. Trust the Force, Luke!'

It's just enough to make her laugh, break the tension.

'Just sit back and enjoy...' he stops himself, desperate not to give too much away.

'Well, this had better be good, that's all.' Linda relaxes back in the chair as he begins pushing again. At home, she stumps around on her walking sticks, but she stopped using them outside. The kids on the estate weren't cruel exactly, just curious; always asking questions.

What happened to you?

Does it hurt?

Will you die?

In the end, it was simpler to use the chair or stay at home.

Target in sight, Charlie thinks: the freezer aisle, running half the length of the store.

'Whatever happens...' he stops the chair to catch his breath before the big effort.

'Charlie, what are you talking about?'

'Whatever happens Linda, Happy Birthday.'

'What?'

Charlie gets rolling again, shoving the chair as hard as he can. As they build up speed Linda whoops in surprise and amazement, her hands tight on the arm rests. He pushes and pushes, digging his trainers into the vinyl flooring, accelerating as fast as he can, bread-makers and Digital Radios whipping past them.

'Charlie? Are you _mad?_ '

'Yes,' he gasps for breath. 'Just hold on.' Charlie has been planning this for days, sneaking in after school to memorise the route, even scribbling notes in the back of his homework diary.

At the start of the freezer aisle Charlie turns sharp right, the chair tilting at a crazy angle. Linda screams – half fear, half joy – and for a second he's convinced they won't make it, they'll tip over. He throws all his weight on the wheelchair, and just when he thinks they're going to tip over, the starboard wheels _wham_ back down on the floor, almost bouncing Linda out altogether.

'Charlie!'

They race down the long alley between the fridges and freezers and Linda gets it immediately, she makes the connection as he knew she would.

' _Ha!_ This is Red Four,' she shouts. 'I'm starting my approach _now!_ '

'Use the Force, Luke.' Charlie shouts back. 'Just use the _Force._ '

They rattle down the aisle, going like the _clappers_. Only now they're not Charlie and Linda, trundling past mere fridges and freezers in a branch of Curry's on a quiet rainy Wednesday, not any more.

Now they are Luke Skywalker and R2D2, hurtling in their X-Wing fighter along that deadly canyon on the Death Star, armed only with their skill and their daring and their Photon torpedoes, ready to blast the whole thing to oblivion, ready to give their lives for the Rebel Alliance. Charlie bleeps in Linda's ear and she whoops with delight. The fridges and freezers whip past and it's so like the film he could weep; Charlie can almost _see_ the laser bolts blasting past them, slashes of deadly green light. A security guard shouts after them. But Charlie doesn't care. Doesn't care that they will soon be thrown out. Or worse, marched home to face their mother's fury.

Linda is in seventh heaven and who can blame her: how many kids get to destroy the Death Star?

'Remember Luke,' Charlie shouts, as the mission is accomplished, as the red-faced security guard closes in. 'The Force will always be with You!'

* * * * *

##  Anglican Perspectives on the Nativity

'We shouldn't be here.' Father Michael looked over his shoulder.

'So you keep saying.' I knocked on the apartment door, the noise echoing down the dingy stairwell. The Bishop's directions had been accurate, but the address was in a dank _arrondissement_ in the south of the City, far from the Metro. It had taken us longer than I had expected to find a taxi.

'We were not supposed to leave the University district,' Father Michael looked wide eyed and scared; the strip lighting had bleached his blond curls to near white. I half expected him to wave his visa under my nose. 'And our flight leaves in less than three hours. Besides,' he dropped his voice. ' _Molloy_ is in Paris.'

'Molloy will never know we've been here.' I knocked again, harder. 'Here. Do something useful.' I passed him my holdall, heavy with chocolates, wine and perfume, the few luxuries I had been able to afford. Foreign travel was still rare enough to make any souvenir worthwhile. Still, I wished I had thought to leave them at the hotel.

A small, thin man opened the door; he frowned at us, but said nothing. He studied our clerical collars, our respectably dark suits and appeared to relax a little. A rank, spicy food smell drifted out after him, as if to see who had knocked.

_While you're in Paris_ the Bishop had said. _I need you to do me a favour._

'Monsieur Cahors?' I asked.

'Come in.' His voice was a surprise; clear, unaccented English. We followed him into a clean, bare kitchen, containing a single chair and table. Battered implements hung from hooks on the walls, chipped crockery sat on a shelf. I noticed an ancient mug, its surface glaze covered with fine cracks. Obviously some kind of commemorative object, it bore scrollwork and a faded picture of two people.

'The Reverend Henry Morgan,' I introduced myself. 'This is the Reverend Michael Smith.' Cahors ignored my hand, but somehow it didn't feel like rudeness. On the table, a plastic pot vented steam, a crust of bread beside it. Cahors looked from us to his meal, as though in two minds whether to offer us some or continue eating alone.

'You've come to see the Madonna?'

'You keep it here?' I was surprised but relieved: the less time we spent on the street the better – we couldn't risk running into a patrol.

'Through here.'

Cahors' studio was a bare empty place, but ideal for an artist, filled with a fine, clear light even at this late hour. The outer wall had suffered in the fighting; a large gap had been patched with panes of glass. Outside, the interminable _Banlieues_ stretched north to Beauvais and beyond. A Police helicopter hovered over some incident. Closer stood the scaffolding around the new Eiffel Tower.

'When are they due to finish that?' I asked Father Michael, but he sulked by the door, refusing to get involved. Cahors slid a table against the wall and covered it with a white cloth.

I checked my watch: we still had to pick up our cases from the hotel before heading for the airport. With only one weekly flight between Paris and London, we couldn't afford to be late as our visas expired at midnight. I felt only mild curiosity concerning our errand: I had seen enough paintings of the Virgin Mary to make the prospect of a new one less than compelling.

Cahors fetched a wrapped canvas from a cupboard by the door and placed it upright on the table. _Hurry up_ , I smiled encouragingly. Cahors glanced at us then removed the wrappings.

The Bishop had shown me a photograph, but the reality was... overwhelming.

The Virgin wore a simple, blue robe which masked her entirely apart from her face, which – despite a sad expression – was exceptionally beautiful. It could have been a Klimt, especially the stylised objects (Roses? Stars?) scattered around the border. Cahors had talent, he had given the picture a real sensuality which... disturbed me. I had always found the Catholic preoccupation with the Virgin tasteless, but this image... I was unnerved, shocked. It stirred in me feelings which I could not remember ever having experienced before, which both excited and scared me, attracted and repelled me. What was happening to me? Was this what Catholics felt before representations of the Virgin?

'Who was the model?' I asked, but Cahors shrugged and shook his head. 'You _invented_ her?' Was it possible? Could anyone conjure such a face out of thin air?

'I look at people,' Cahors turned to the window. 'On the metro, on the street, wherever I am. I collect photographs, magazines.' He was silent.

'And?' I turned to him. 'Monsieur Cahors?'

'Maybe I saw her face somewhere,' He shrugged again. 'Maybe I imagined it. I can't remember.'

I don't believe you, I thought. You know exactly where you saw her. You _know_. A telephone rang somewhere in the flat. Cahors locked the picture away and scurried out.

'It's magnificent!' Father Michael was all enthusiasm, patrols forgotten. My head reeled, I could say nothing. 'Obviously, a few bats short of a belfry,' he whispered 'Don't you think?' I ignored him, trying to hold on to the image of her face. I resented Cahors locking her away – didn't he trust us? I tried to find words for her expression, that tender, beautiful melancholy. I felt a terror that I might forget what she looked like, that I might never see her face again.

'Are you planning to exhibit the picture?' asked Father Michael when Cahors returned.

'It's only a study.' said Cahors, shaking his head. He frowned at us.

'And the final picture?' I asked. 'Where is that?'

'Notre Dame.' _Where else?_ his tone said. Father Michael and I looked at each other. 'Not the Cathedral,' Cahors said. 'Notre Dame de l'Alma.'

We walked out of the Metro into evening. Rush hour traffic congealed above us in multiple sparkling layers of red and white, much of the traffic obviously military. The lower commuter levels still allowed petrol vehicles, making the air thick and unpleasant. On the Metro, Father Michael had tried to start a conversation but Cahors had slumped in a seat, ignoring us both.

Out in the open air I was glad of the traffic noise, the chance to be alone with my thoughts. Cahors set off without a word and as we followed him along the pavement, I felt dizzy, light headed, a rushing sensation flooding my chest. The Bishop's mission now seemed of no importance – I was here to satisfy my curiosity, not his. I felt an intense anticipation.

'Where is he?' Father Michael bleated behind me. 'Father Morgan?' Cahors had vanished. I stared around like a fool, before realising that what I had taken for the inevitable _pissoire_ was actually the head of a spiral staircase. Cahors was waiting for us, a few steps below.

The staircase ended in a broad dark tunnel, stretching into darkness. Nearby I could see the battered remains of square cut pillars, giving the place the air of some ancient temple.

'Notre Dame de l'Alma.' Cahors pointed towards a distant building and set off into the gloom.

The Church could not have been more than a hundred or so yards away, but it seemed to take an incredible amount of time to reach it. I walked slowly, keeping behind Cahors. I could feel packed earth beneath my feet, occasional patches of tarmac and concrete; this was obviously the remains of some prewar roadway, abandoned beneath the city. The air was damp and foul and I could sense wary eyes staring at us from the fragile hovels set amidst heaps of unidentifiable rubbish.

'Why here?' Father Michael whispered. Ignoring him, I tried to picture that face, to see its tender, melancholy expression, to fix it in my mind. My shoe slipped in something I didn't want to know more about. My hopes fell and I was filled with doubt. What mystery could possibly live here? Amidst this squalor?

The Church was much older than I had assumed; possibly dating back as far as the twenty-first Century. It was a single storey high, a graceless mixture of breeze blocks, brick and corrugated iron sheeting. It looked shabby and derelict – something a farmer might cobble together to house livestock.

Inside, I had half expected the place to be completely empty; an abandoned, darkened ruin. However, it was brightly lit, clean and seemed larger than it appeared from the outside. A dozen lines of plastic chairs faced a snowy altar, above which hung a plain wooden cross. Before the altar stood a baptismal font, a green bathroom sink set into a tall wooden table. The first few lines of chairs were occupied; a huddle of dark-dressed adults and a mother comforting a fractious baby. To the left of the entrance stood a small shrine; to the right, a notice board angled out into the room.

The white walls were empty of anything resembling a mural; I felt a keen disappointment.

'Well, well, well.' Father Molloy emerged from behind the notice board and stood before us, hands clasped over his great belly, a grim smile on his face. 'Good evening to you, Father Morgan.' he nodded calmly to Cahors... and I remembered the phone call in the flat.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

'Aren't you going to introduce your friend, Morgan?' Molloy glanced at Father Michael, more amused at my discomfort than seriously wishing to knew who he was.

'Father James Molloy,' I said. 'The Reverend Michael Smith. Michael, Father James Molloy.'

'Well, now,' Molloy said. 'It's always a pleasure to see you Henry. Although I doubt if the authorities included this district in your Visa?' I said nothing. 'Was your paper well received?'

'What?'

'Your _paper_ , Henry.' said Molloy. 'Anglican Perspectives on... on something or other, wasn't it?'

'The Nativity.'

'Ah yes. Anglican Perspectives on the Nativity. It's always so... _refreshing_ to hear what you Anglicans are thinking.'

'It was well received, yes.' I thought back to the handful of clerics in the hall that morning, the silence when I had asked for questions at the end of my lecture. Once upon a time – according to Bishop Arthur – the Ecumenical Conference had been the place to be, a hot ticket, with people fighting for places. These days the Ecumenical Committee consisted of two old men, who mailed each other once a month to see whether the other was still alive.

'Good.' Molloy checked his watch and looked at the family waiting at the front of the Church. 'Good. Step this way.' I felt completely bewildered. 'Come on. Before they start.'

Molloy led us to the back of the Church, leaving Cahors behind. At the rear, what I had assumed to be plain white walls were actually canvas drapes; roughly made, they reached almost to the floor. My hopes started to rise.

At the drapes, Molloy stopped and looked at me. He cocked an eyebrow, as though asking my permission. When I nodded, he hauled on a rope and with a rattle of curtain rings drew the drapes apart.

Once again I looked at that haunting, beautiful face, feeling a joyous, painful recognition. Such beautiful, tender melancholy. Cahors had worked something close to a miracle: this was a woman who had loved, who had been loved, who had suffered for herself, for others, for her children. I felt tears forming, I had to breathe deeply to suppress a sob. And even as I stared up at her, I knew, I was _convinced_ that she was, or had been, a real person: somewhere – in Paris? – was the source of this face.

Too soon, Molloy replaced the drapes and led us away.

'How long have you known Cahors?' I asked.

At first I thought he wouldn't reply. I suspected that he was relishing my discomfort. 'Over five years now,' he said. 'He was living rough down here. Doing rubbish for the tourists, few though they are these days. He was obviously talented and we always have plenty of restoration work to be done. We found him somewhere to stay, got him some help with his... you know?' he waved a hand vaguely towards his temple. 'Cahors prays here most days.'

I suspected that Molloy was keen to get rid of us; if some roving patrol were to appear (unlikely as it seemed) he would have as many questions to answer as we would. Also, now that he had had his fun, he would soon grow bored with us.

'How did the church come to be here?' asked Father Michael.

'You'll be wanting to get back.' Molloy smiled sweetly.

At the front of the church, a robed attendant was filling the font from an enormous plastic bottle.

'We ought to thank Monsieur Cahors...' I said. A woman in the front row turned – perhaps hearing my voice – and I stopped, struck by an idea. I gazed along the rows of seats, searching the faces of the few worshippers. Could she be here? Could _she_ be sitting here even now? I searched every face.

As we rounded the notice board, Father Michael gasped. _My God._ By the entrance, a figure lay on the floor. I stepped forward, but Molloy stopped me. 'Ignore him,' he hissed in my ear. 'He's only praying.'

Cahors was lying on his front, his arms stretched out on either side, his body aimed at the shrine, the very image of perfect, abject devotion. His face, turned towards us, bore an ecstatic expression of almost fanatic adoration.

I had barely noticed the shrine before. Its open doors revealed a traditional Madonna and Child but the instant I saw the woman's face, I froze, recognising it immediately: that tender melancholy. But even as I stared at it, the differences between it and the mural leapt out at me; this was no stylised religious painting, this was a _portrait_. Cahors had seen this woman, she was real, there could be no other explanation!

'Out.' hissed Molloy, seizing my arm.

Outside, my chest heaved in the cold air. I turned to Molloy, wanting to grab him by his coat lapels.

'Look at you!' said Molloy. 'Morgan the Mule, blubbering like a child!' He shook his head contemptuously. 'You've sneered at veneration of the Virgin for as long as I've known you. Now look at you!'

'Who is she?' I said as calmly as I could. 'Please. You know who she is, tell me.'

'Father Morgan.' Father Michael tried to take my arm.

'Don't be so stupid,' said Molloy. 'I have no idea who she is. The picture in the shrine? Cahors had already painted that when I first met him; it's over ten years old. She could have been anybody.' I recognised that Molloy was telling the truth, or what he believed to be the truth. 'The original Madonna in the shrine had seen better days, so when Cahors offered his, the parish priest agreed.' I was barely listening. 'I suggested a mural and when Rome saw it, they decided to use it as part of the campaign for the next Marian Year.' Molloy seemed puffed up with his own importance, swelling with pride. If only I could talk to Cahors...

'Go home, Henry.' said Molloy, perhaps guessing what I intended. 'There is no scandal to discover here. Certainly nothing for Bishop Arthur to get excited about.' He glared at us, like a great bull. 'Cahors is not a well man and I don't want him bothered. Not by you, not by anybody else from...' he waved a hand dismissively 'from over there.' England now as remote as Timbuktu. 'The Cahors Madonna will be launched at the beginning of Advent.' Malice gleamed on his face. 'I will insist that you are sent a copy. Show _that_ to the Bishop.'

Back on the Metro, amongst the commuters, I felt numb. Father Michael glanced at me from time to time, and I could tell what he was thinking: Father Morgan, _Eminence Grise_ of Ecumenical Liaison, Bishop Arthur's hatchet man, brought low by a pretty face. A fine story to share with the Deacon's daughters. I imagined the old respectful greetings ('Good _morning_ , Father Morgan.') replaced by sidelong glances, whispers behind my back.

None of it was important. All that mattered now was her face, seeing that face again. Even though it would now be public property.

'This is our stop. Father Morgan?' Father Michael said. As he grasped my arm, I remembered the mug I had seen in Cahors' apartment. Mother had once had one just like it. I wondered who or what it had been commemorating.

I felt a jolt as I realised I had left my holdall in the church. I thought of the wine, perfume and chocolates, almost sad that our tickets and visas were safe in my jacket pocket.

Still, now there would be gifts for the Christening party.

* * * * *

## Remember My Name

Where the Hell is Sheila?

Derek scans the shop fronts, irritated and weary. How could she just have vanished?

The mall will be closing soon. There are only a few customers left, scurrying away from the piano music oozing from the PA System. Derek breathes the plastic scented air and wishes he was back on the coach with his Wilbur Smith.

Is that her?

A flash of green at the back of a shop, so Derek enters, glad to have a purpose, glad to be away from the glare of the fluorescent lights. Jazzy saxophone music now; different, but equally bland.

The shop sells expensive, useless tat. Fancy Goods they called it, in Derek's young day. He can see bowls of carved wooden fruit, embroidered knee pads for gardeners, draft excluders decorated as snakes.

A sullen teenager stands by the till ignoring him, mobile phone jammed between her shoulder and her ear. Her hands hover over the keys, awaiting some divine command. Cashing up, Derek thinks, eyeing the little plastic bags filled with coins.

At the back of the shop it's not Sheila's pashmina at all, but a young couple Derek doesn't recognise, in bright green fleeces.

Derek turns away, fuming.

And stops. He can't face the Mall again: there's nowhere to sit and his feet hurt. He turns back to the couple in green. Maybe he can start a conversation, pass the time of day.

The man is balding and round faced. Not what you'd call handsome, but cheerful looking. The woman is attractive, in an untidy way. Big wide eyes she has, and dark honey hair gathered loosely at the back of her head.

Derek approaches, curious. The back of the shop is devoted to souvenirs of Cerne Abbas, where the coach had stopped earlier. Tea towels, biscuit tins, cards, mugs; all showing the infamous chalk Giant with its mighty, erect penis.

The couple in green snigger together, like children.

Derek lurks behind an artificial tree, decorated with porcelain fruit. He breathes through his mouth, the better to hear what they're saying, his tongue tasting the air.

The man is holding something, showing it to the woman, both of them gasping with stifled laughter. The woman rests a hand on the man's shoulder, tilts her head back, closes those wide eyes, shakes with uncontrollable laughter.

It's a clock, the man is holding a clock, a simple metal circle of olive green on which is painted the Cerne Abbas Giant. Its penis is the hour hand, slowly sweeping out the time.

They laugh together, the couple in green; quietly, uncontrollably, oblivious to everything around them, as though they were the only two people left in the world.

Until she stops laughing. She leans over to the man and says something, quietly, her eyes wide as she gently, tenderly rests a finger on the Giant's penis.

Back in the Mall, shops are lowering their shutters, switching off their lights.

Derek marches through the cloying music, bewildered and angry. He imagines being locked inside the Mall for the night, bedding down in the gents, keeping still for fear of setting off the alarms.

What did she say to him? What did she say that made him stop laughing?

Derek wonders what she's wearing, under her fleece. One of those T-shirts, maybe? Like he sees on young people in the street; bizarre, obscene slogans, stuff he only half understands.

Remember My Name: You'll Be Screaming It Later.

Derek imagines them together, the couple in green, getting down to business in some motel, like in the videos Derek borrows from Norman next door. The beat, beat of the headboard against the wall, the wet slap of flesh on flesh, the moaning, the crying out.

Derek remembers that video he and Sheila once watched. Norman's wife brought it round, a Romantic Comedy they'd never got round to seeing at the cinema. At one point, the leading couple had started making love: Hollywood Love, all wailing saxophones, passionate kissing, clothes being shed. Beautiful people with bronzed skin and good muscle tone; clever camera angles, so you didn't see anything too shocking.

Tame compared to Norman's videos, of course. Derek had wondered what Sheila would have said if it'd jumped to the real thing, Norman cocking up maybe, getting his tapes mixed up.

As things were building to a climax, Sheila had tapped him on the knee, prodded him until he'd turned to look at her, wild impossible thoughts forming in his head.

'Those are the floor tiles I was telling you about,' she'd said, pointing to the screen. 'The ones in Mrs Menzies downstairs toilet.'

Derek thinks of his and Sheila's infrequent couplings. Midweek afternoons, the rain beating on the double glazing. What does she think as he grunts away? What goes through her mind?

'Get a, get a move on, will you? I'm missing Countdown.'

'What are you doing here, Derek?' Sheila rails at him, drops of saliva landing on his glasses. 'I told you to stay on the coach.' Her hands are filled with bright new carrier bags, her breath smells of coffee. She's not even wearing the pashmina.

'Thirty five pounds for the clock,' says a frowning stranger, who turns into the bored teenager from the Cerne Abbas shop. 'Thirty five and I'll not press charges.' A fat Security man stands behind her, arms folded.

Derek looks down at his hands, his sweating red hands, holding the dark green clock with its Chalk Giant and its penis hour hand, and the tears run down his face, and he can't stop them, no matter how hard he tries.

* * * * *

## The Rise and Fall of Apropos Warhead

'I catch you doing this one more time,' Collins bent over my desk and glared into my face. 'And you're out. Understand?' The office was silent around us. 'Last warning.' Collins marched back to his office, people bending over their screens as he passed.

'You stay off the Internet in company time, Billy.' Janis was furious; dropping myself in it was bad enough, but she was my boss; she would catch some flak. 'How many times have I told you?'

I found you, I barely registered what she said. I found you, I found you, _I found you!_

How long had I been searching for them? How long since that first whisper, that first mention?

A Saturday night, weeks before. Half pissed, looking for Fat Bob and Tony after the gig, hearing those two blondes we'd been trying to pull, chatting about a band.

_They're supposed to be amazing_ one had said. _You reckon?_

And their name, so unusual the first time I heard it. How could you forget a name like that? Weird to think of a time when their name was so new, so alien.

It would have been too easy if I'd found them the first time around; you'd think a name like that would be easy to find, but there was no trace of them on any search engine; just broken links, and _Page Not Found_.

For weeks I searched from home with no success. Then I started to take risks; to use my PC at work, against all the rules.

I was asking for trouble, and trouble was what I got.

I tried not to take Collins' bollocking personally; he did it to someone most days, it was his management style. The company did Telemarketing mostly, phoning complete strangers and trying to sell them insurance, holidays, cornflakes. A little data capture on the side, or stuffing envelopes for companies with better things to do with their time. A nothing firm, a nothing job. Something to keep me in rent until our band made the big time.

At home that night I logged on to the Web and entered the site's address, hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper – I had been writing it down when Collins had caught me. Fat Bob & Tony would be round later; they'd been taking the piss about my Quest for weeks, and I wanted to show them what I'd found, prove it had all been for real.

'Don't you be on that thing all bloody night,' shouted Dad. 'Billy?'

_Piss off!_ Words formed on the screen, slowly, slowly. Then a photograph, the one I'd been looking at when Collins had caught me.

Four guys and a girl, on a sofa in someone's living room. Young, with pale, serious faces. The guy on the right standing with his arms folded, leaning on the arm of the sofa, head turned to look at the others. The rest all looking at the camera, except the girl on the left, looking down at her cupped hands. The guy in the middle was holding up a mug, as if making a toast.

No names, no details of who did what; nothing. At the bottom of the page:

_You are visitor number_ _0000001_ _._

Cool, I thought. Downstairs Dad coughed at the TV. An icon blinked _Free Music Download_ at me. So I clicked it.

We'd been at school together, Tony and me. One rainy lunchtime, nothing better to do, we'd watched some guys on the Drama hall stage, struggling through Wonderwall. They were crap, but they started and finished at the same time, and when they'd finished, while we whistled and shouted and generally took the piss, they looked at each other and... what? Nodded? Something simple like that? I can't remember, but at that moment I felt a blast of pure jealousy, a serious bit of _I want that_.

That nod. Somehow it made them into a band and for the first time I realised that bands didn't come from another planet, they came from towns like ours, from people like us. If you had what it took.

Tony was sitting with his mouth open, I knew that the same thing had happened to him.

Want to be in my band Billy? he had asked.

You don't have a band.

I do now.

And so Glitterball was born. Who was in the band had varied, almost from day to day, but Tony was always the main man, the guitar god. I was the faithful sidekick, the quiet bass player. We'd tried to persuade Fat Bob to join, but he seemed happier just helping move the gear around.

We played local pubs (when we were old enough to get into them); covers of stuff we liked, and could play. Birthday parties sometimes.

Christ, why can't we get decent Broadband!?

I'd got changed, had a pee and made a mug of tea by the time the songs had finished downloading. I started the first one.

Imagine the sound of the world's most expensive guitar being dropped from a great height onto concrete, but somehow making a real chord? _Jesus!_ I thought, ducking my head like I had been punched in the stomach. As the song played, my gut tightened; even over the PC's crappy speakers, I recognised the quality. It was just so... good. So right, so completely what I wanted to hear, but at the same time so different to what everybody else was doing. Unexpected and familiar at the same time.

Straightforward guitar rock; boy and girl singing, a punchy bass line rumbling along underneath, some samples and keyboards. Just enough guitar solo to leave you wanting more, clever but simple lyrics, with a twist in the last verse. _Jesus!_

Sometimes you hear something in a song – the arc of a guitar solo, the way the tune rolls across a chord change – and there's a spark of _magic_ , something your whole body responds to and for a moment you get beyond dull, boring reality, get to a place where _everything makes sense_. Sometimes it happens at a really great gig, when the entire crowd becomes one. Like religion used to be, I guess. Like drugs can be, but without the downside.

Bullshit? Maybe. Maybe those moments can't be described, only experienced. All I knew was that it was the most incredible song I'd ever heard.

I played the others.

They were even better.

Some sad, some happy; some fast, some slow; some loud, some quiet. I nodded along, really getting into it. This can't be real? I thought. How could anybody be this good without me having heard about them?

The last song finished with a shocking, complex noise, like... I don't know. Like an infinity of exploding diamonds and I sat on the bed, mouth open, completely blown away. In the silence, the central heating fired up, but I shivered as I looked at the screen.

_You are visitor number_ _0000001_ _._

_Jesus!_ Could I really be the first person to have heard this?

How can I describe them, those glory days?

If you were there, you'll remember; if you weren't, what's the point?

Playing and re–playing those ten incredible pieces of music; to Fat Bob, Tony, to my Dad, to friends, friends of friends. To complete strangers who'd turned up on the doorstep, guys who'd heard I had found something worth listening to, something special. Now, looking back, it's all a blur; like they were all a single audience, crammed into every empty space in the house, all hearing those songs, those wonderful songs, for the first time.

People told their friends, posted the URL on other web sites, and the whole thing just mushroomed.

And then the mystery began.

Nobody could find them! Agents, record companies, newspapers, fans, all trying to get in touch, all desperate for a chance to interview them, make money out of them; touch them!

The hottest band in the world, and nobody knew where they were. _Who_ they were, even. Just their name, that strange, unfamiliar name.

I kept thinking, What must be going through their minds, right now? I kept waiting for revelation. Opening the front door after a day down the phone mine, I could feel my pulse speeding up, racing, waiting to hear: 'Finally, the news the musical world has been waiting for...' I checked the website every day, watching that counter racing ever higher. I imagined just seeing them in the flesh for the first time, watching how they held their instruments, how they moved about on stage, how they looked together. It was all just about to happen, any day now.

I felt like I had this constant buzzing, inside my head? So loud that I could barely hear other people. I was on a permanent high, balanced on the brink of revelation...

And the songs were everywhere _._ I mean _everywhere_. School kids singing at the bus stop; passing car stereos pumping out familiar noise; Bus drivers whistling; a newsagent humming. In pubs, clubs, supermarkets. People sampled them, mixed them in with their own stuff. They got used on TV, movie soundtracks.

My bedroom became a shrine. I had no poster, apart from a blow up of the picture from the web site. I would gaze at it for hours; they looked so casual, but somehow it intrigued me. I was certain the moment was important in some way, that it meant something.

I filled my room with all the press clippings I could find: the dailies, magazines like NME, Scientific American, even stuff like Women's Realm, simply because they had articles on the band. Some journalists had attempted to trace the money used to maintain the web page itself, but ended up at a brick wall; complex bank transfers and secret accounts.

So I started missing some Glitterball practice sessions? What could they expect? This was important. Christ, you don't find something like this every day? I had a responsibility.

There were mornings when, half awake, I really did think: Did I dream all that? And even by the time my eyes had managed to focus on the poster on the bedroom wall, I was only half convinced that it had all been real.

Tony started playing and we all joined in; a long–postponed Glitterball practice session in the 'function suite' of our local. The landlord hated the noise, but since nobody else ever rented it, he couldn't afford to turf us out. Tony's face contorted as he tried a guitar solo; Mick thumped away on drums, regular but uninspired; Derek tapped at his cheap keyboard, oblivious to the wrong notes. I buzzed along on bass, hating everything I was playing.

Tony's latest song sounded almost as bad as all the others he'd ever tried to write. He'd signed us up to play at a local Festival, a show case for local bands. He'd been getting more and more insistent about practicing, but I was finding it harder and harder to stay interested.

'Not bad.' said Tony as we finished, Fat Bob clapping from the back of the room. A girl walked in through the street door. 'Hi doll!' said Tony. She kissed him and I realised that this must be Kate, Tony's new girlfriend. Tony had been dropping hints about Kate for a while, especially her 'wonderful singing voice'. It pissed me off every time Tony mentioned her, his enthusiasm only making me more negative. It was like he didn't have the balls to ask us straight out whether Kate could join.

I went to the bar. On my way back with the drinks, something in me just snapped. Perhaps it was the juke box playing the first song I had ever heard from the AW website; Tony's effort was pathetic in comparison, derivative. By the time I put the tray down on Tony's amp, the decision was already made. Stalling, I drank my half pint quickly. Losers, I thought, trying to make myself angry.

'Going somewhere?' said Tony as I packed my gear away. The room went silent. I nodded and walked out, bass in one hand, amp in the other.

'What the hell's wrong with you, Billy?' Tony caught up with me in the car park. 'I thought being in a band meant something to you?' I didn't look at him. 'Or have you decided you want to be capturing data for the rest of your life? This festival is a real chance for us.' I tried to keep walking. 'What is this?' he shook his head. 'Is it Kate? Is that what this is all about? Or are you too grand to hang around with us, now you've found the great Imaginary Rock band?'

I could've thumped him then; given him a good kicking to remember me by.

'I quit, Tony.' I stopped. 'I'm out.' He stuck his lower lip out like a child. 'The band is crap, Tony.' I said. 'It's always been crap, and... and it's not going to get any better.'

'But that's just paying our dues, Billy. Nobody gets to be good without working at it. It takes time.'

'We've been paying our dues for too bloody long,' I shouted in his face, louder than I had meant to. 'And I've had enough.'

Tony nodded a couple of times, turned and walked back towards the pub.

'Life is too short to waste it on something you can't succeed at.' I shouted after him.

Six months had gone by with no revelation, no appearance, no news, no nothing. Somehow, the whole thing just seemed to run out of steam. The band just never showed up.

And then a new boy band came along; some bunch of posers polished for the limelight as part of a TV show. As for AW – I couldn't believe it! – people just seemed to forget them. Just like that. As though they had never existed.

It didn't help they'd never officially released any records, didn't exist on any chart. They'd never given a concert, never toured, never appeared on TV. I logged into the home page one night, and the entire site had gone. Photo, tracks, counter, everything. Only then did I accept that it was over.

For months afterwards, I found myself staring at people in the street, complete strangers; were you one of them? You?

We bumped into Fat Bob in the pub last night. He looked surprised as I introduced Janis.

'How're you doing,' I said. 'You still at the DIY place?'

'Still stacking the shelves,' he replied. 'You still capturing data?'

'That's where I met Janis.' he nodded. 'Even got promoted. Now I tell other people what to type.' We looked at each other and looked at our drinks, saying nothing until Janis saw some friends and went off to chat.

'I joined the band,' said Fat Bob. 'Did you hear?' He looked guilty.

'Glitterball?' He nodded.

'We've been doing some gigs.' And hearing it out of the blue like that, it hurt. But I hadn't wanted to belong, why should it matter if Fat Bob did? Why did I feel so annoyed, of having made a mistake?

Fat Bob asked changed the subject: 'How's the great Quest?'

'Janis tells me if I get too boring. Who knows?' I said. 'One day they'll be back.'

'To the number one fan.' said Bob, raising his glass.

Tony, Kate and the others turned up later. I looked for signs of strain, for hints that things might not be running smoothly. They looked good together; a team. They obviously weren't missing me.

'You should have stuck with us.' Tony said, smug git.

'Maybe I should've.' I looked around for Janis, desperate to get out. Kate offered to buy me a drink, but I made an excuse.

And then, over the noise in the pub, I heard an all too familiar tune on the jukebox. I smiled, looked around me, certain that people were thinking back to those glory days. I felt real pride.

Number one fan. At least I had that. I would always have that. Cheers guys, I thought, raising my glass in a toast. Wherever you are.

As we left, I looked at Tony and the gang, sprawled on a sofa against the wall. Fat Bob was standing on the right, across at someone who had just come into the pub. Kate was on the left, looking down at her cupped hands, counting her change. From the middle of the line, Tony raised his glass in a toast.

* * * * *

## Gustav Carlson's Autumn Leaves

The painting had been in the city for less than a week when Johansen decided to steal it.

Not because he liked it or because it was valuable, or because he was a criminal. Johansen had been a respectable accountant for many years, lived frugally and could not tell one picture from another. No, Johansen decided to steal the painting to outdo his brother Peter.

Peter was the youngest of the family, spoiled by their parents all his life. Where Johansen had studied hard and got a steady job, Peter had drifted around, frittering his money on strong drink and loose women, but somehow always falling on his feet.

Johansen loathed his brother, mainly for the trouble he had caused their parents down the years, but also (though he would never have admitted it) for the fun he always seemed to have, the good fortune that always shone upon him. So when Peter - living at home due to some 'temporary' financial difficulties - acquired a print of Gustav Carlson's 'Autumn Leaves' and hung it in his parents' dining room, Johansen decided to steal the original.

The theft proved simpler than he could ever have imagined, considering he had no experience of crime. On the following Saturday, Johansen visited the City Art Gallery for a reconnaissance. To his amazement, the building seemed deserted. Unknown to him, it was the day of the cup final – Johansen had no interest in football – and the city was buzzing; anyone who didn't have a ticket was glued to the nearest TV set. The police had been busy all day keeping rival fans apart, out of the bars and moving towards the Stadium.

Johansen eventually found staff and visitors tucked away in an office watching the match on TV. They were far too busy to notice him, so he hurried to the gallery containing Gustav Carlson's 'Autumn Leaves', stepped over a rail and removed the painting from the wall. Five minutes later, he was walking out of the building with the canvas rolled up beneath his arm.

'DISGRACEFUL!' the newspapers screamed as the police searched in vain for the painting and the thief.

'Genius!' Peter declared, as the family ate their Sunday dinner beneath their print of 'Autumn Leaves'. 'Walking out with it in the middle of the match? Genius!'

This would all have been balm to Johansen's soul, had he not been furious at his portrayal in the media. According to the police spokesman, the images caught on the gallery's CCTV footage showed a man so unremarkable that there was little hope of identifying him.

Unremarkable? thought Johansen. Me?

Alone in his apartment, he gazed at the original 'Autumn Leaves', feeling more resentment than triumph.

The next step was probably inevitable.

'Don't be so hard on him,' Johansen's father protested, as they bickered over yet another mess from which Peter had had to be expensively rescued. 'He's just... naïve.'

Johansen scowled at the print of 'Autumn Leaves' hanging on the wall.

And once again, inspiration struck.

'SUCCESS!' the newspapers blazed when Peter was arrested. And if the police were puzzled by his lack of resemblance to the figure in the CCTV footage, at least - thanks to Johansen's cunning - they had found his fingerprints on the painting.

There was a sensational trial, during which Peter's disreputable past was brought up in court and blasted across the press. He was quickly convicted and given a lengthy prison sentence.

Johansen comforted his heartbroken parents, confident that he would soon take his rightful place as the head of the family.

And then the artist Gustav Carlson died.

Within days, the value of all his paintings had shot up. 'Autumn Leaves' was sold for an immense sum, and the newspapers had a field day.

'DISGRACEFUL!' they screamed and in furious editorials protested at the exorbitant prices of paintings when ordinary people were going without.

And to Johansen's horror, Peter became the hero of the hour.

'A MODERN DAY ROBIN HOOD!' the newspapers called him and began a campaign for his release. A technicality was found in the original trial which lead to an appeal. In a gush of popular sentiment, Peter was pardoned and released.

The new owner of Gustav Carlson's 'Autumn Leaves' died and in his will bequeathed the painting to the city. Within a month it was back in the Art Gallery, on the very wall from which Johansen had stolen it. The Gallery even asked Peter to the unveiling.

Johansen took to drink, convinced that he would never be free of the cursed painting.

At the unveiling ceremony, Peter met a society girl and after a whirlwind romance, they married. Her father gave Peter a job writing for his newspaper, and Johansen found himself having to read Peter's opinions on a daily basis.

Johansen's drinking reached alarming levels, he lost his job and his world fell apart. Finally, one terrible day, he was arrested attempting to throw acid over the painting that had so blighted his life.

Peter and his new wife came to visit him in the secure hospital to which he had been confined.

They brought with them a present: a print of a famous painting. As Johansen was fast asleep, Peter left it propped up at the foot of the bed, so that it would be the first thing Johansen saw when he woke up.

* * * * *

##  The Gordon Highlanders' Farewell to Helpmakaar

'Look who's here!' you say, leading them into the lounge.

'We couldn't pass by without _dropping in_.' Angus's eyes are huge and manic behind the thick lenses. He holds Shona's hand, not letting go even when they have both sat down on the sofa. Shona glances at me, her expression blank.

'This calls for a dram.' you say, and you're gone before I can open my mouth.

The silence you leave behind, I don't trust myself to fill. Birdsong from the open patio doors, distant lawnmowers, Wimbledon from next door's widescreen TV. You have left your secateurs on the windowsill and I am transfixed, held by the sunlight glinting off the blades.

'Our flight leaves at _two_ ,' says Angus finally. 'Check in is at _twelve_ , plus we have to drop off the _car_.'

In other words: _We can't stay long._

I sit with gritted teeth, furious at you for leaving me with them. Another awful silence waits to be filled.

'They brought our _container_ yesterday,' says Angus. 'I couldn't believe how quickly they _filled_ the thing!' He looks at Shona, pokes his glasses back into position. 'Six _weeks_ before we see it again.' Another pause. 'In the _new_ house.'

'Here we go.' You put the tray down on the coffee table and pour whisky into glasses; the single malt, I can't help noticing. 'Now don't be daft. A wee sensation will do you no harm.' Angus and Shona submit with good grace. 'Happy landings.'

'Happy _landings_.' Angus repeats, and we raise our glasses.

'Got to do these things properly.' you say.

I look at Shona, and our eyes meet.

'Now you must meet Angus and Shona!' Kirsty Morrison leads me into the conservatory where the buffet has been laid out. A Burns Night get together for the usual crowd, complete with haggis vol-aux-vents, smoked salmon pizza wedges and the inevitable shortbread. The men bluster over Scotch, the women chat over Martini and lemonade.

Thick January rain falls on the double glazing above me. You are still in the living room with your cronies. I have been drifting from group to group, listening to the usual conversations: the weather, the new Parliament building, that bunker by the sixteenth green. I offer an occasional opinion, but I'm not like you. I don't have your easy flair, your gift for conversation. Neither do I invite contact from others, being dark, forbidding and not a golfer.

'Angus and Shona have bought the Stewart's old house.' says Kirsty.

Shona is handsome but quiet; blonde curls, warm brown eyes, soft voice. 'Shona knits _tapestries_. She's going to be doing all the decorating herself.'

Angus is... Angus. All eyes and teeth, like some bizarre creature hauled up from the ocean depths. Raw, red skin, as though he shaves on the hour. A booming, hearty manner which instantly sets my teeth on edge.

'And Angus reenacts Victorian _battles_. Isn't that exciting?'

'We'll be flying North to _South_ , fortunately.' says Angus as he waves his glass. 'So no Jet Lag.' A wedding present from your Aunt, those glasses. That traditional style, so clichéd, so heavy: I have always hated them. The grooves almost designed to form shrapnel should you ever break one.

'Still a long flight though?' you say. 'Must be over 12 hours?'

'Closer to _twenty_ ,' says Angus. 'Door to door. Cousin Fergus will collect us at the airport.'

'So where is the new house?' you ask.

'About an hour's drive _inland._ '

He doesn't say: 'When we're settled you must come down and stay!'

'A chance to see the _battlefields_ at long last.' Angus beams with delight, squeezes Shona's hand. 'Rorke's Drift, Isandhlwana, _Spion Kop!_ '

April. Dinner at the McKellar's, the Anderson's, the Reid's. Whenever we meet, Shona is polite but distant. I rarely think about her when not in her company.

A mouse: pleasant, but quiet.

Angus seems to grow more repulsive every time I meet him, until it becomes difficult to appear civil. It's happened before, with people I don't like. Chat sociably with them about greenfly, their week at the office, that tricky bunker by the fifteenth?

I'd sooner see them in Hell with their back broken.

'Fergus is finding us a _maid_.' says Angus. 'Says the trick to dealing with the Natives is never to let them forget who's _boss_.'

'Won't that be expensive?' you ask. 'A maid, I mean?'

'Oh, no. Black labour is _incredibly_ cheap.'

Finally, dinner at Angus and Shona's.

We are marched around the house to admire the new wall-paper, the expensive carpets, the beautifully dusted _objéts_. 'Now, we found this in _Phucket!_ '

After twenty minutes of Angus's Victorian militaria, I am ready to open a vein with one of Shona's kitchen knives, but you gamely follow him on, past the model soldiers and native spears.

Upstairs the troops disperse a little. Angus traps a group in his study: 'You must see my new _web_ site! I've put all the _Marbella_ photos on it.'

I manage to have a quiet nose around, entering the occasional room – don't they own _any_ books? – until I discover myself in what can only be the master bedroom. I turn to leave, but there stands Shona, resting her hand on a block of soapstone; a life sized head of an African tribesman.

She looks at me, considering.

I want to leave her to it, but she's between me and the door. Confused, I turn and stare at the picture above the bed.

More Victorian tat. Kilted soldiers march past a fort, banners waving, bayonets fixed. 'The Gordon Highlanders' Farewell to Helpmakaar' says the title. Why above the bed? I wonder, as Shona approaches.

I turn to face her. White faced and tense, Shona raises a hand and gently touches my face.

An absurd thought pops into my head: am I about to be dusted?

Slowly, slowly, she moves her hand along my cheek to my lips. Her fingers move down over my chin, caress my throat, and I close my eyes, unable to help myself, my heart pounding, echoing throughout my head.

We finally embrace, a slow meeting of worlds, the lightest of touches. Gentle, to begin with, her body warm and fragrant against me.

How easily we wrap around each other, the erotic hiss of fabric on fabric; the soft, wet sounds of our first kisses.

Music begins, far away downstairs; the breezy unmistakable tones of Jimmy Shand and his band.

'We sold some of my _BT_ shares to buy the new place.' Angus squeezes Shona's hand, strongly enough to make her flinch. 'But we'll hang on to the house here, for a _while_ at least.'

Can't they just go? I am sick of the sound of his voice. Even your smile has become fixed.

I am, of course, biased. Angus could spend his free time walking on water and curing the sick and I would still find reasons to hate him. I am consumed by dark thoughts, heavy with bitterness.

'Fergus says you can even get a decent pint of _Heavy_ down there these days!'

Spring is here. The lawns, the borders, the rockeries that have infuriated me for so many years are now my allies; they distract you, make you all too easy to betray.

Most days are a blur, I can concentrate on nothing but the weekend to come, our next meeting, my head filled with thrilling images of the week before.

Sunday afternoons: Angus sweating with his Zulu warriors on some football ground in Cumbernauld, you struggling with the bindweed in the back hedge, Shona and I wrestling under the sheets.

Afterwards we lie still, the sweat drying on our skins, getting our breath back. I gaze up at the Gordon Highlanders, perpetually saying farewell to Helpmakaar, wherever the hell it is.

We never talk in bed. Smalltalk is for company, for public occasions when we can't touch each other; drinks before dinner, discussing the weather, her taste still on my lips. And despite all the betrayals, there is something almost innocent about us, as though we are special enough to make our own rules, live by our own standards. The exception that proves the rule.

Do I feel any guilt?

Yes and no. I tell myself that you would not mind, that you would want me to grab these moments. 'What makes you happy, makes me happy.' you once said, although I doubt that Shona was quite what you had in mind.

I never think about the future, not during those golden days. Or rather, the future consists merely of the next time, the next meeting and no further.

'We'll also need a _gardener_ ,' says Angus, putting his glass down on the table. 'Can't have Shona looking after half an acre all by herself. Not to mention the _swimming pool!_ '

A Monday evening, late in May. You hand me the phone, mouthing 'Shona'.

She gets immediately to the point, cutting off my cheerful hello. In less than a minute, she destroys my happiness, lays waste to an entire continent of pleasure. There are no tears in her voice, no distress; she is completely matter of fact. It's over.

I stand absolutely still, listening to the dial tone, keeping the mask straight, terrified of giving something away. Although in hindsight, I would have preferred a scene or two, a blazing row. Something to endure and then put behind me, instead of this acid grief that I cannot even express.

'The new house is in a _compound_.' says Angus. 'Things can still be pretty dangerous in places, you can't beat some good honest _razor wire!_ ' Angus smiles, pats Shona's knee. 'Can't let anything nasty happen to you, my dear, can we?' He turns to us again. 'They have 24 hour armed response teams to look after security.' Angus leans forward, lowers his voice. 'I might even get a gun _myself._ '

'Such a shame about Angus and Shona!' Kirsty Morrison is first with the news, the final bombshell. 'They were settling in so nicely. We ought to buy them a little farewell gift - what do you think they would like? You were always such _pals_.'

'Well, we'd better be making a _move_.' Angus checks his watch and I start to panic.

What had I been to her? I have been asking myself over and over for weeks. Had she wanted me for myself, or was I merely a weapon, some means of hitting back at Angus in some bitter private war. Was I just a fling, a casual _fuck?_

Shona raises a hand and gently touches my face.

And how did Angus find out? Did she tell him? A long-stored taunt with which to inflict pain upon him, an ultimate weapon?

God knows I don't want a tearful farewell, declarations of everlasting love. Or do I? Frankly, I don't know any more. Maybe just a chance to say a quiet goodbye, away from the attentions of Angus.

My mind races, but I stay rigid in my chair. Invite Shona into the kitchen on some pretext? Ask you to show Angus something in the garden?

'We brought you a little _something_ ,' says Angus as they stand up. 'Shona, would you mind?'

'Oh, there was no need.' you say.

Silence as you put the glasses back on the tray. Angus stands by the window, making sure Shona can manage the few yards to the car.

Shona holds the flat, neat parcel away from her. Its size and shape jog a memory, but I can't pin it down.

'We hope you like it.' Angus beams at us both, rests his hands on Shona's shoulders. 'Just a wee _memento_.'

'Let's have a look.' You begin unwrapping. 'My word,' You hold the picture up to the light for me to see. 'The Gordon Highlanders' Farewell to Helpmakaar.' you read awkwardly from the title. 'That's really too kind!' You smile at them, while I grit my teeth.

Shriek obscenities, smash the thing over Angus's smug head, kick him down the driveway to his bloody car? I want to do it all and more.

I don't, of course. Instead, I find an unused, dusty 'Thank you' as the last moments run out. Last goodbyes are said, hands are shaken, cheeks chastely kissed and you accompany them to the car.

The picture is heavier than I had expected, the frame thick and ornate.

I look at the marble coffee table; solid, robust. I imagine the sound of shattering glass, the sting of the shards impacting, piercing my skin. The three of you standing there, pretending you haven't heard anything.

And for a moment, I see myself walking to the bathroom, to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and the slim, paper-wrapped blades that live there. My fists clench involuntarily as I remember the searing bite, the deep tearing sensation and I close my eyes, tight shut.

Hospital, again. Tubes and needles, again. White faces and wide eyes. Again. Your face bent over me, bleak so bleak.

No, I think as I open my eyes, as I make the conscious decision to open my eyes.

And I look at the picture, really look at it for the first time; the little faces, just tiny blobs of colour, really. And I realise we've been through a lot together. They have looked down on Shona and I, they have seen it all. I feel slightly embarrassed.

They are not laughing; they do not mock. Somehow, it seems important.

'Right,' you walk back in, already looking for your secateurs. 'Where was I?' You shake your head, in that way you do, glad to be rid of exasperating company when there is work to be done.

I walk up to you and put a hand to your face. Slowly, I trace a line along your cheek with my finger.

* * * * *

## The Duel

'Gentlemen,' Harrison's voice is strained, hoarse. 'Please select your weapons.'

May the Good Lord have mercy upon me.

My hand shakes as I reach into the case, the purple silk lining the only colour in this grim morning. The clearing, the ground, the very air, all drenched in pre-dawn mist. Black trees loom all around, as though waiting for my attention to wander, that they might approach unseen.

And all for Angela! My muse, my inspiration, my love. Such beguiling glances as I read to her after supper last night, may God forgive my vanity.

I make a fist to still my hand, then select the nearest pistol: dull grey metal, weighty and cold. A machine for killing.

Harrison offers the case to my opponent; his employer, the red-faced captain of infantry.

I remember the stories of duels in the popular press, the secret meetings at dawn in lonely woods. I never thought to be involved in such a venture myself, what would the archdeacon say?

The captain hefts his pistol, expertly pulls back the hammer and clears his throat. I echo his movements, fumble with my own pistol and nod at Harrison's enquiring face. My heart is loud in my chest; perhaps sensing the peril facing it? That it may have approached its last few hundred beats?

God rot all Parsons!

Load, cock and balance. Do this in my sleep after all these years. How many duels is this now? Seven? Eight? Never taken a bullet, praise God. And not likely to today, not from this lovesick fool.

Decent pair of pistols these. Harrison did well to find them at short notice. Still, it is what I pay him for. Not a patch on my own, of course. What has the world come to if a chap has to start taking duelling pistols with him everywhere he goes?

How I detest clergymen! Such a man worthy of my Angela? The sheer, jumped up nerve of the man. I've not been her guardian all these years just to watch her being snapped up by the first pot hunter to come along. If anyone is going to enjoy her favours, it'll be me.

Angela... That haughty face doesn't fool me, nor those shy glances behind your fan. I'll soon have you tamed. I'm not your guardian for nothing.

'You will each take six steps,' Harrison glares at them in turn. 'You will then turn and face each other, take your aim and fire.'

What would the Archdeacon say if he could see me now? Let alone the bishop.

My heart loud in my chest, I can hear little else. Is that a chaffinch? I stumble on the damp, coarse grass. What an embarrassment that would be. Having to call the whole thing off on account of a sprained ankle. The entire world, it seems, reduced to this misty clearing, these three men.

Angela. I try to fix in my mind her pale, beautiful face. If only she could be here to see my bravery. Such grace, such beauty; that it should be corrupted by this red-faced boor? When it's only too obvious what his motives are.

It cannot be allowed to happen. Though it cost me my life.

And turn...

Be full of birds, these woods. Shame I don't have that pretty little smoothbore with me, might pick up a brace of quail. Although probably just as well. A little tasteless, going hunting after a duel? Just as well I had Harrison pack these boots; nothing worse than trying to take aim with wet feet.

How dare this fool preach at me about my intentions. Honourable? What the hell does 'honourable' mean? And all the bloody poetry he spouts. Who gives a damn about Daffodils? No wonder the country is going to the dogs. A bride for your bed and heirs for the hall, that's what life is about.

I remember Salamanca. That French Guardsman, lunging at me, my pistol barking in his face. I soon showed him what for. What does this half-bred fool think he's going to achieve?

And turn...

The crack of pistols rouses the birds, starts them unwilling into the sky, quickly invisible in the mist. Harrison's wide eyes dart between the two figures falling to the wet grass.

Angela... My love, my darling. All... all for you...

My God that was close. My head? Just a scratch. No blood to speak of, thank God. He did well for a parson. Take my hat off to him. Brandy, that's the thing, get Harrison... Angela... Soon be mine. Lovely girl. And all that land? Prime, un-entailed real estate.

'Harrison, you _arse_ , where are you?' Getting too old for this. My God that stings. 'Help me up, damn you...'

A third shot.

The Captain's last insult lies unuttered on his lips. Smoke rises from the scorched, bruised hole – neatly positioned over the original graze to allay any suspicion.

Angela's hand is completely steady, despite the unaccustomed weight of the pistol.

Harrison's whistle brings rough figures bearing stretchers; behind them stumbles the ancient surgeon, his hand clutching his top hat. He kneels by the combatants, shaking his head over each.

But Harrison and Angela have eyes only for each other. The gleam in her eyes, the smile on her lips for Harrison, only for Harrison. He takes her hands in his, at last he takes her hands.

Free at last. After all the years of silent conspiracy, the whispered meetings on starlit terraces, they are free at last.

Through the trees, the thinning mist reveals the approaching carriage, the snorting horses.

'Gretna?'

'Gretna!'

* * * * *

## Her Big Day

'Rule number one,' announces the Squadron Leader. 'Switch off all mobile phones _now_.'

Nervous laughter as we reach into pockets and bags to comply. His face? What happened to his _face?_

'A novelty ring tone is the last thing HMQ will wish to hear as she bestows your _gong_.' Ramrod straight he stands, the Squadron Leader, taking us all in; measuring, assessing. Legs slightly apart, arms behind his back, completely at ease despite his ruined face.

HMQ? It still doesn't seem real, even after all this time, all the correspondence, all that expensive notepaper. HMQ, her face so familiar from stamps and Five pound notes. An elderly lady with a handbag and a hat, smiling as people bow and scrape.

'The numbers I have given you are important: do not lose them.' the Squadron Leader holds up a white, laminated 22.

All the twos, twenty two. I clutch my battered number 1, imagine HMQ playing Bingo. I check my frock again, flattening the loose folds down over the bandages. Should have worn the Navy blue; this green's a bit... I don't know. Strident? Wonder where Dad is. He's supposed to be in his seat, but I suspect he's wandering around looking for somewhere to have a sly fag.

'What are we not going to do?'

'Lose our numbers,' calls a brave soul.

'What are we _not_ going to do?' the Squadron Leader cups a hand theatrically behind an ear.

'Lose our numbers.' we chorus.

'Your number is directly related to the gong you will be receiving. Lose your number and I will send you home immediately and put your gong in the _post_.'

The waiting room is small and shabby, Mum would have been horrified at the state of it. Carpet well worn, wallpaper peeling in places, cobwebs visible on the ceiling: could be the function suite in a pub. I can just see her, shaking her head, opening cupboards in search of a hoover, a J cloth. 'Now this won't take a minute.' She would have loved all this, Mum.

My fellow awardees fidget and chat behind me, like children dressed up and buzzing for the party to start. The women spectacular in all the colours of the rainbow, the men grand in uniform or sleek in morning dress. All around, the sparkle of middle class bling, the heady aroma of perfume, after-shave, adrenalin.

One of them is Gary... Gary something, from that game show, used to be on after the football on a Saturday. Dad would know.

I wonder what he's getting. Hair much greyer in real life, face suspiciously smooth. And such white teeth? He was with a chilled blonde, earlier. Drop dead gorgeous (and bra-less: is that allowed, in the presence of Royalty?) in a yellow frock. Wonder who did her makeup, a perfect layering of peach and pink.

'Rule number two,' the Squadron Leader's chest is covered in coloured ribbons. I wonder what his name is: maybe it's with all the paperwork, stuffed in my handbag with my pills? And what happened to him? His face somehow melted and reset, shiny and just... wrong: a mass of congealed pinks and oranges. Does he have a wife? Sure I saw a wedding ring. How does she cope with that face? Sit down to breakfast?

Make love...

'Rule number _TWO_.'

The chatter stops and we hang on every word: the red-faced District Councillors, the dead eyed Chief Constables, the combed-over Civil Servants, the Charity Shop regulars, even the enormous West Indian lollypop lady.

'Five minutes before the off, make sure you have a good _pee_.'

I can't keep my eyes off his face as the laughter subsides. Something brave, maybe? Please let it have been something heroic, a secret mission behind enemy lines? I'd hate it to have been an accident with a deep fat fryer in the NAAFI. He looks so timeless. Maybe he's been here forever, drilling each new intake. I can just see him in one of those leather flying jackets – like that bloke used to wear on Blue Peter. Zooming off in a Spitfire to sort Jerry out, back into the mess and beers all round. _Cheers skipper!_

'My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,' the Squadron Leader says. 'Please welcome Able Seaman _Fisher_.'

We stare at the new arrival out in the main hall. Fisher, in pristine Royal Navy uniform, looks like some adolescent from a Victorian photograph album, that big square collar down his back? He can't be more than sixteen.

' _Bless!_ ' someone sighs.

'During the rehearsal, tradition dictates that a junior member of the household stands in for HMQ. Today's representative is Able Seaman Fisher.'

Fisher mounts the distant dais, stands behind its polished railings and turns a pink face towards us.

'The investiture is quite straightforward,' the Squadron leader says. 'When you hear your number, walk smartly into the Hall and wait by Captain _Marshall_. Captain? Will you make yourself known, please?'

Captain Marshall, a severe figure in dark blue standing just beyond the door of the anteroom, gives us a nod and a frown.

'Rule number _three_ ,' the Squadron Leader calls. 'When you reach the Captain, do not be tempted to _wave_ to anybody you might know in the audience. Wait patiently by the Captain until your name and citation are announced. Then proceed alongside the railings and halt directly in front of HMQ. Turn left to face HMQ and – depending on gender – bow or curtsey.

'Gentlemen bow from the neck: down two, up two. Nice and quick, no hanging about. Ladies, tuck your right foot in behind your left and bend down... thus.' and as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he produces a perfect curtsey. 'Any ladies unable to curtsey,' he doesn't look at me, and I immediately like him for it. 'Should bow instead. Now,' he calls. 'Let's see you all have a crack.'

For two surreal minutes he marches around us as we twitch and bend. 'Keep going. Try again, that's the ticket.' Finally he's satisfied.

'Once you have bowed or curtsied, proceed towards HMQ who will graciously bestow your gong. HMQ will offer her congratulations and engage you in _conversation_.'

'Rule Number _four_ : HMQ always speaks first. We address HMQ as Your Majesty in the first instance, Ma'am thereafter. Ma'am as in balm, not Mam as in jam. Repeat, if you please.'

'Ma'am as in balm, not Man as in Jam.' we parrot, self-consciously.

'Rule number _five_ ,' I can't stop staring at him. Although he doesn't seem to care, or even notice. Skin grafts? Plastic surgery? Saw some in hospital just like him. 'Don't get too chatty. There are a number of you to be gonged this morning. HMQ is due at Ascot after lunch so try to avoid repeating your entire bloody _life_ story.'

Is this all he does, now? The Master of Ceremonies, taking the awardees through their paces? Bit of a come down, surely? Although he looks like he could stand there for hours and not find it hard work.

'And please remember to say Thank You?'

More uniformed figures appear behind him, each bearing dozens of small boxes.

'HMQ will indicate the end of your investiture by shaking your _hand_. Take two steps back, bow or curtsey again, make a half turn to the right and continue out of the hall, to where Captain Hunt will guide you to the _refreshments_.

'Do you have any questions?'

Silence as the frocks rustle, the shoes creak.

'Excellent. We will now do a complete run-through in the actual running order, to ensure everybody knows the drill. Understood?'

Silence.

' _UNDERSTOOD?_ '

'Yes.' we chorus. A team now, a unit. Ready to do our duty and not embarrass ourselves in front of HMQ.

'Captain _Marshall_ , Able Seaman _Fisher?_ Are you both _ready?_ '

Behind me, Gary TV whispers a quiet joke and his neighbours laugh. From outside, a distant clatter of crockery, the dry burn of an illicit cigarette.

'Excellent,' The Squadron Leader consults a clipboard. 'Number _one_ please.'

I snap to attention, shaking, terrified. Not moving, I think. Staying right here.

But how could I do that to him? After all his efforts? How could I even think of letting the side down?

I grip the chair's wheels and roll forward, aware of each squeak from the tyres – I told Dad not to get new ones – the focus of every eye. I trundle forward and stop by Captain Marshall who looks down at me with a long, curious face.

The Hall beyond is immense. Immaculate in gold and cream, with red silk wall hangings and plush red carpet. God, I'm going to leave tracks in that. Famous dead people look down on me from gilded frames, quiet piano music sounds in the background.

My name leaps out from the PA System, loud enough to make me jump, followed by a brief 'For Bravery.'

Two words? Is that all I get?

Past the railings, I turn to face Able Seaman Fisher, who appears ever younger the closer I approach.

Bow two, Up two, Advance and stop.

He looks so young? And he's not really like the other face, that other young face, but he's so young, so painfully young, and the stars are going off in my eyes, the whine has started in my ears, that awful whistle flooding everywhere kind of a noise and as everything greys out I know what's going to happen no I think Christ no not now not here but it's too late nothing I can do about

'Are you OK?' The policeman looms over me, enormous in his fluorescent yellow jacket, boy face framed by blue sky, clouds, head dwarfed by his helmet, why did he put on such a big helmet? 'Miss?'

People struggle nearby, a voice grating 'Fuck you, fuck you, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou...'

I hear everything: the crackle of static from the police radios, boots rushing, engines running, children crying, that hoarse Devil's voice grinding on and on and on.

Wet, gritty tarmac against my neck; from the corner of my eye the battered lines of a hopscotch grid, the one just outside the Year 1 loos.

That smell all around me, that unmistakeable iron reek.

'Are you OK, Miss?' he says, and I'm not sure, can't tell. No pain, yet. Shock? Does shock do this? Freeze you? 'Just... just stay still, Miss. The ambulance is on its way. Can you hear me?'

Is it over? The children cry, all around me the children cry, thank Christ they've stopped screaming. Thinking – hoping – are they OK? Did he get to any of them? Did I do enough?

Harm children? Harm _my_ children?

'How... how many fingers am I holding up, Miss?' He can't bear to touch me, even under the protection of his enormous helmet; his hands tremble, his white face quivers.

Nerve myself, look down. Everywhere red, not scarlet like the movies but an awful brown, stinking red, God this was new on, only bought it last month sale Marks and Sparks try to move my arms one won't work shut my eyes terrified the stink is me it's _me_ and I'm terrified now, terrified of what might be wrong with me how he might have broken me cut me with that blade

I squeal, I can't help it. Over now, I tell myself. Over now. They don't last long, now.

Take a breath, then another. There. Better now. Loud, my breathing, the only sound in the immense, immaculate room, that and the tinkling piano.

The Squadron Leader takes his hand from my shoulder, his ruined face rigid, damp. He straightens, takes a bright yellow Post-it note from his clipboard and passes it to Able Seaman Fisher, grand behind his railing, who leans forward and sticks it to my lapel.

'Well done.' A Welsh whisper, cigarette breath.

Fisher shakes my hand with his hot, damp paw and I reverse (Bow two, Up two) relieved that it's over.

And there's Dad, right at the back of the rows of seats. I want to speed out of the limelight before he can break the silence, begin to applaud.

Behind me an abrupt, soft hiss of fabric and I know at once that he's saluted me, the Squadron Leader. And more than ever I don't want to face my fellow awardees, to see the looks on their faces, the hatred in their eyes; the sudden furious knowledge that they will not be so honoured and they would not deserve it anyway.

* * * * *

## Return to Big Love Island

'For God's sake, what is it now?' Throat dry, eyes thick with sleep, trying to focus on the travel alarm on the bedside table. _2:13am_.

'Quiet,' you hiss, hand over my mouth. Outside the motel, cars rumble past in the hot, dark city; each engine a slow wave on the beach.

Did we leave anything valuable in the car? A pretty crap neighbourhood, all drug stores and bars and fast food joints. A police siren in the distance – alien, unfamiliar – wailing up and down. So different when it's on CSI.

A cheap motel, the only place we could find on this Columbus Day Weekend in Albuquerque, New Mexico; a dozen tired rooms huddled around a dry, cracked swimming pool. Clattering air conditioning, cigarette burns on the carpet but no obvious signs of cockroaches.

Feels like I've only been asleep 10 minutes, my gut still packed with cheese and anchovies; a late supper from the 24 Hour Pizza place across the road, Cordell's Pizza on the sign. Place full of black guys, just hanging around, making me nervous as I ordered, their high pitched laughter sudden and loud like gulls, swapping complicated hand shakes.

'Listen,' you say, and now I hear them, from the room on our right. A metronome, a female metronome, beating out time. Soft cries, one after the other, sixty beats a minute. Every so often, one higher than the others, more urgent, like the seventh wave on the beach.

Every muscle in me tenses up. I can just see your silhouette, your hair curled and tangled in the blue dark, your skin damp and sleek like a seal's. You take your hand away, but before I can speak, the metronome moves into top gear, the pitch of her voice doubling. I want to laugh, but I can't. I breathe through my mouth, trying to make as little noise as possible so I don't miss a thing.

'Is she faking it?' I whisper, but you ignore me, tense and still.

Next door they go for broke, headboard beating against the wall, high pitched incoherent squeals as the dam breaks.

'That was never for real,' I whisper, trying not to laugh. 'Should we applaud?'

But then they laugh, next door. Not loud, but they laugh, and somehow it's more shocking than what has gone before; an authentication I can't argue with.

And I turn to you, opening my mouth to say something else, something sarcastic, but your mouth is on mine, your long, lean curves gleaming and gorgeous in the dim light, your hand on my belly. The sparks fly and we roll against each other, tangled together in the damp sheets, kissing, touching and tasting, hands moving here, there, everywhere, the taste of your breath rich and intimate in my mouth, everything familiar and new all at the same time.

And even as it's happening, I try to remember every moment, every sensation, fix them in my memory. The pleasure given and received, that joyous wanton look on your face as your head rolls back and your eyes shut, mouth open. Above me in the darkness, moving against me, both of us crying out, hands clenched, singing together an old, old song. Back on Big Love Island, after too long away.

All too soon it's over. We hug, catch our breath, all kisses used up. Close and easy and intimate all at once, arms and legs trembling from the exercise: we're not as young as we used to be.

I laugh, thinking of the day's long drive and the terrible weekend we have left behind. In the past now; something we no longer have to worry about. Ten years from now we'll still be saying: 'Do you remember that trip to New Mexico? That awful Motel?'

I can even start to forgive Miranda, your old school pal. Miranda, who emigrated to the States to make it big in... I've forgotten already. Hollywood? Human Resources? Homeopathy?

'You must come and visit, it's only six hours from Heathrow! You'll love Cal! Absolutely _LOVE_ him!'

Miranda and Calvin and their trailer home by the Interstate and all the things they hadn't mentioned in their e-mails. Like their constant bickering. Or Cal's five dogs, the sixty cigarettes Cal smokes each day or Cal's habit of sitting on the sofa oiling his hunting rifles. Topless.

After three long days, we're beginning to snap at each other too. We make our excuses and leave.

The final straw? Cal surfing porn while we tried to sleep on the inflatable mattress in the den: 'I'll keep the sound down real low, folks.'

A dreadful weekend, but – who knows? – maybe the far side of the pendulum's swing, the distance things had to go to give us the momentum to reach this amazing place: this bed in this motel room, at this precise moment in time.

Surely it's worth a bit of pain, to get to Big Love Island?

I laugh, and you laugh too – are you thinking the same things? – and maybe we have to: our first holiday away from the kids, in – how long? Spent in a trailer home with the couple from Hell.

'Sorry for being such a prick.' I mean it, I really mean it; I have a lot of grumpiness to make up for. But then you go tense, stop breathing abruptly.

The far room this time, the one on your left. A new metronome has begun, same rhythm, different voices.

I laugh, held tight against you, still feeling your warmth; I laugh, picturing the Wave, the beautiful wave of physical pleasure working its lusty, sticky way around the Motel, room by room.

A cheap motel, the rooms huddled in a circle around a dry, cracked swimming pool.

The idea is absurd and fantastic all at once: A New Mexican Wave. Football grounds, sport stadiums, fans standing up and down, and you know what I'm thinking, you're there already, laughing as I ask the question:

'How many laps do you think you can manage, darling?'

* * * * *

## Breadmaker Boogie, Breadmaker Blues

'Why couldn't she pick something from the wedding list?' Daniel frowned from the table by the Aga, the Tommy Hilfiger sweater taut across his gut.

'Daniel, keep your voice down, she'll hear you.' Alice puffed hair out of her eyes and continued rolling out pastry. From the living room came piano music, a Scarlatti prelude. Tucked between the microwave and the toaster, the breadmaker churned busily away.

'Alice, why do we even need a breadmaker with a Waitrose just down the road?'

'But I'd have to drive there, Daniel. You know Mummy. She likes people to do their bit for the environment.'

Daniel snorted and shook his Telegraph back into shape.

'You know how hard up she is,' Alice eased the pastry into a bowl and reached for the chopped apples. 'It was really kind of her.'

'But you'll still have to drive to Waitrose to buy flour,' he muttered. 'Completely pointless. Like all those Bloody wind turbines. And it looks like she got it at a car boot sale.'

'Daniel!' The breadmaker pinged and went silent. 'Can you put the olives in?'

'What?'

'It's time to add the olives. My hands are covered, would you mind?' she waggled dough-covered fingers. 'Please, darling? They're in the bowl, just next to the machine?'

'God above.' Daniel grunted to his feet. 'If it'll keep you happy.' He crossed the kitchen and peered down at the breadmaker through piggy eyes. 'Here?'

'That's it.'

The shock from the machine blew Daniel clear across the kitchen. He bounced off the fridge, rocking it on its base, and fell face down on the kitchen floor. Daniel gave a long low sigh, farted once and was silent.

'Daniel?' Alice slumped to her knees and inched towards him across the black and white tiles. 'Daniel?' she prodded his shoulder with a shaking finger. 'Daniel?'

The music went silent and Mother was there.

'Alice? What's happened? Oh, my God.'

Alice checked for a pulse at his neck but could feel nothing. 'He's dead.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.' There was a long silence as mother and daughter gazed down at the late Daniel.

'Thank _God_.' Mother said.

'Do you have to be _quite_ so heartless?' Alice got to her feet. Skirting Daniel's body she opened the fridge. 'Champagne?'

'Now who's being heartless, darling. In the circumstances, no. Drinking bubbly over the cooling body of one's spouse is apt to be misinterpreted.'

'True.' Alice retrieved instead a pleasant little Pinot Noir.

Mother opened a cabinet and reached up for wine glasses, the good ones. 'I have to say he's probably the most repulsive man you've ever been married to.'

'Do you think so?' Alice took the glasses and filled them, passed one to her mother and raised her own.

'Although, to be fair, he was probably the best insured. _Salut_.'

'Salut, Mummy'

'What a conniving so and so!' Alice shut the car door, removed her black hat and tossed it onto the back seat next to the wreaths. 'Daniel always insisted everything was tied up in trust funds and Swedish Government Bonds. "Can't get access in the short term, darling. Can't be done."'

'That's husbands for you,' Mother poured Dom Perignon into plastic cups. 'Not to be trusted. Breadwinners? Ha! Come on, darling. Wet your whistle.'

'Thanks. And all the time he had everything in short term cash deposits in the City. Earning practically _no_ interest.'

'Well never mind that, darling. It's all yours now. Cheers.'

'Cheers, Mummy.'

They sipped in companionable silence.

'You make a beautiful widow, darling. Have I ever told you?'

'Every time, Mummy.'

'Well it's _true_. Now, drink up. I want to get to the bank. It's...' she paused and looked furtive.

'What is it Mummy?'

'Well, it's cousin Julia's birthday next week and I promised...'

'Oh, _Mummy!_ '

'Don't be cross, darling. I promised we'd send her a little something.'

'Must we?' Alice shook her head.

'You know what a hard time she's had, darling.'

'But it only encourages her, Mummy. Julia needs to learn to stand on her own two feet.' Alice sighed. 'Not more than a hundred, all right?'

'Yes, darling.'

'Excuse me?' He was tall and lean and impeccably dressed and he'd been glancing at her all afternoon. There was obviously going to be no need for the "accidental" meeting Mother had originally planned.

'Yes?' Alice gave him a look, her best look; nervous, yet intrigued.

'And that's Jemima Hunter-Black on Tartan Terminator managing... yes, managing another clear round!' the announcer's voice drowned out the crowd's applause. 'What a superb performance!'

'Haven't we met somewhere before?' He raised his voice above the PA.

'I... I don't think so?' she half turned her head, keeping her eyes on his.

'I'm sure we have. Weren't you in Monte Carlo, back in the Autumn?'

'Monte Carlo? In the Autumn? Whoever goes to Monte in the Autumn!'

A month later.

The engine growled as Frank drove off, spinning gravel beneath his wheels. At the end of the drive he gave a double blast on the horn.

'Gorgeous!' Mother returned to the drawing room, rubbing her hands together. 'Absolutely gorgeous!'

'I know.'

'I do so _love_ an Aston Martin,' she said. 'Ferrari you can _keep_.'

'What?'

'And a credit rating to die for. In a manner of speaking.'

Alice sat in her armchair, her posture relaxed, yet elegant.

'You're very quiet,' Mother faced her on the _chaise-longue_. 'Is anything the matter?'

'Do you ever stop to think...'

'Think about what?'

'About what we do.'

'I know it's not easy, darling.' Mother tapped the _chaise_ beside her and Alice joined her. 'There is a price to pay, I do understand.'

'Mummy, we kill people for their money.'

'What's got into you tonight? It's been ten years now, you'd think you'd have got used to the...'

A long silence followed.

'I understand,' Mother sat upright and frowned. 'How stupid of me.'

'What?'

'I should have seen the signs.' Mother stood up and looked out of the window, as though hoping for a last glimpse of the Aston Martin.

'What signs?'

'You like this one, don't you.' Mother began circling the room.

'That's not it at all.'

'Admit it, darling. That easy smile, that floppy hair? Like a big puppy.'

'Mother?'

'I _knew_ we should have gone for that surgeon. You know where you are with a comb-over. What have I always told you? Nobody under 50, _nobody under 50_.' Mother sighed. 'But oh no. Alice knows best.' Mother stopped pacing and faced her. 'Well let me tell you _darling_ , easy smiles do not pay the rent. And floppy hair does not put bread on the table.'

'But surely we have enough money now? Why must we keep going on and on and...'

'I say when it's time to finish, Alice. Me. You may be the looks of the outfit, but I am the brains.'

'And don't I know it.' Alice's voice was harsh and cold. 'It's not _you_ who has to... to sleep with them. The touching, the...' Alice shivered and dropped her head. 'Do you know what that's like?'

In the silence, Mother and daughter avoided each other's eye.

'I know when father left...'

'Don't you dare mention that man to me, don't you _dare_.'

More silence.

'When I think of what that man put me through,' Mother resumed her circling, clutching her hands into fists. 'You have no idea what I had to do in order to survive. I swore on his coffin - on the very day I killed him - that you would never have to suffer what I had to. Understand?'

'Yes, Mummy.'

'Do you want to do without, without all... all this?' she spun on her axis, arms wide bestowing all of the beauty and finery of their possessions on her. 'Live like poor cousin Julia? Do you know how much a librarian makes?'

Alice sighed and studied her feet.

'No Mummy.'

'No Mummy.' Mother approached and took her hands. 'I know it's hard for you darling, but you have to trust me. I know what I'm doing. No child of mine is going to do without. I do have a mother's pride.'

'Look, Mummy!' Smooth piano jazz swirled around them. Warm light bathed the tables, the spotless plates, the gleaming cutlery. The ring on Alice's finger.

'It's beautiful,' Mother said. 'Cartier, if my eyes don't deceive me? Solitaire? 5 carat?'

'You have a good eye, Mrs Smith,' Frank smiled his beautiful smile. 'Nothing is too good for this young lady.' He smiled at his new fiancee. 'Although I did have to do some persuading.'

'Did you now.'

'Come on, Mummy,' Alice deflected her mother's acid smile. 'A girl can't afford to appear too easy.'

'Say you forgive us,' Frank took Alice's hand and kissed it. 'And promise you'll help plan the wedding?'

Mother smiled and gave in with practised grace.

'You know I would be delighted!'

'Excellent!' Frank beamed at his family-to-be and beckoned to the waiter for more champagne.

'Thank you, Mummy.' Alice beamed a steel smile at her mother, who returned it with interest.

'Well, I'd better start looking for a wedding present, darling. I know just the thing.'

Another kitchen, another spring morning, another happy couple. Birdsong from an open window, a breadmaker churning in the background. Outside, sunlight glinted off the bonnet of the Aston, freshly serviced and returned from the garage.

'I thought we'd drive down to the coast,' Frank scanned his Sunday Times, his open-collared shirt revealing flesh bronzed by the Hawaiian sun. 'Take a look at that boat, have lunch in Brighton. What do you think?'

'It sounds wonderful, darling.' Alice said, pouring more coffee.

'Would your Mama care to join us?'

'I'm so glad you don't mind her staying with us.'

'For you my sweet, she can stay forever.' Frank flashed his perfect grin.

'I don't think that will be necessary.'

'Wish that machine would hurry up, I'm dying for a piece of toast. Has it got long to go?'

'I'm not sure,' Alice glanced at the kitchen door and lowered her voice to a whisper. 'There's bread in the freezer, if you prefer?'

'No, no. I can wait. Your mother's been going on about that machine for days. And it was her wedding present.'

Alice opened her mouth again, but in came mother in all her finery.

'Good morning, my darlings!'

Alice rose to kiss her mother good morning, wearing her best smile. 'Good morning Mother. You do look lovely.'

'Good morning, Mrs S.' Frank teased.

'Frank, Frank, Frank!' Mother wagged a finger. 'What did I say?'

'Good morning, _Mama._ '

'That's better. Now, is there any toast? You can smell fresh bread from all over the house.'

'Ready any moment, I think,' Frank glanced at his watch. 'I was just saying what a wonderful aroma the thing makes.'

'I've always said,' Mother gave a sweet smile. 'That every home should have one.'

The machine paused just then, filling the kitchen with silence. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.

'There!' said mother, a beaming smile on her face.

'Is that it?' Frank got to his feet. 'Just the job. Shall I do the honours?'

His hand was a few millimetres away from the machine when Alice spoke.

'No, no, Frank. No! Don't touch it.'

Silence in the room as they stared at her.

'What?' Frank said, a puzzled look on his beautiful face. Mother glared at her, while trying to smile at Frank at the same time.

'Don't touch the machine Frank. Please, I'm begging you?'

'Alice, what are you talking about?' And he'd done it. He'd lifted the lid, peered inside and shut it again. 'I don't think it's done yet. Still looks a little... I don't know, pale?'

And before he could take a step, she was in his arms, wrapping herself around him, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks.

'I'm sorry Frank, I thought... I thought...'

'It's OK, sweetie!' Frank held her at arm's length, smiling his beautiful smile. 'I'm perfectly OK. What did you think was going to happen? That I might be electrocuted? Like my cousin Edward?'

Frank's smile vanished, so abruptly it might never have existed. Mother's face bore a look of pure horror. Frank pushed Alice away from him, so firmly she staggered on her feet.

'Edward Atkinson, remember him?' Frank, now somehow huge and menacing, glared at both of them, flexing his arms, his wrists, as though preparing for murder. 'After all, Alice. You were married to him. Your late husband Edward? Ringing any bells at all?'

'Oh my God!'

'Who are you? What are you doing here?' Mother advanced.

'My name is Frank, just as I said it was, Mrs "Smith". And I am here for Justice.' The word rang in the air above them. 'Justice for a decent man who did no wrong in his life and much that was _good_.' He left a silence, to reinforce the word. 'A man who was killed by a scheming pair of...'

'He was no saint!' Mother spat back at him.

'Mother!'

'Oh, the stories we could tell you about him, couldn't we Alice? All his funny little ways...'

'Don't try and twist things,' Frank said. 'I grew up with Edward, I knew him like a brother and I know that he did not deserve to die like that. Killed for his money, so that you two could live the high life and sneer at people who don't drive Aston Martins.'

'If you dare repeat a word of this,' Mother stood erect. 'I will have more solicitors onto you that you can... in fact, you can just get out now,' Mother, enraged, thrust a finger towards the door. 'Out! Get out now!'

'Mother...' Alice tried to intervene. 'No, you can't...'

'I am going to call our solicitor,' Mother walked to the telephone. 'And have you thrown out of the...'

The shock from the telephone blew Mother clear across the kitchen. She bounced off the fridge, rocking it on its base, and fell face down on the kitchen floor. Mother gave a long low sigh, farted once and was silent.

Alice could hear birdsong as she bent to her mother's still form.

'Is she...' Frank's voice was hoarse, strained.

'She's dead.'

'For a second,' Frank gave a great sigh and took Alice in his arms. 'I didn't think she was going to go for it?'

'You worry too much!' she rubbed her face against his chest. 'When she gets that light of battle in her eye, there's no stopping her. You did that so well,' she pushed her head back and gazed up at him. 'I've never seen her so shocked!'

'I thank you!' he gave a mock bow. 'We'd better get a move on. How quickly before we can transfer the funds from her account?'

'I'll do it now!' She beamed at him and retrieved her phone from the table.

'Excellent!' Frank skirted his late mother-in-law's body and opened the fridge door. He removed a bottle of Dom Perignon and put it on the counter.

'I can't believe I'm free of her!' Alice pressed buttons, concentrating on the screen as she navigated the bank's website, listening for the pop of the cork, the gush of pouring liquid; she licked her lips in anticipation.

'It's true darling. Get used to it.'

'All done.' Alice dropped her phone back onto the table and took her glass of champagne.

'Cheers, darling!'

'Cheers!' They clinked glasses, drank and then kissed warmly. 'To us.'

'Right,' Frank put his glass down and patted his pockets. 'I had better check with _my_ bank, just to confirm the transfer. Would you mind?' he handed her the champagne bottle as he removed his phone from his pocket.

'Delighted,' Alice too skirted the body of her late mother and reached for the fridge. 'You know, the first thing I'm going to do...'

The shock from the fridge blew Alice clear across the kitchen. She bounced off the oven, rocking it on its feet, and fell face down on the kitchen floor. Alice gave a long low sigh, farted once and was silent.

'Alice?' Frank knelt by his wife's still form and felt for a pulse. Finding none, he stood, took a long shivering breath and dialed a familiar number on his phone. 'Julia?' He smiled his beautiful smile and walked to the window, gazing out at the car sitting on the gravel. 'Of course it's me, darling. Who else would it be?' Turning, he leaned against the kitchen sink and gazed down at the two dead women. 'It's all over,' he said. 'Yes, both of them. It all went exactly as we planned.'

Frank lifted and drained his champagne glass. A noise startled him for a second, but it was only the breadmaker beginning to churn again.

'I've checked with the bank and the transfer has gone through, I'll be with you as soon as I can. Yes,' he laughed as he walked towards the kitchen door. 'Yes, I'm walking out now, honest!'

The Aston had almost reached the end of the drive when it exploded, a sudden, crisp noise that drifted into the kitchen just as the breadmaker gave a final _ping_ and went silent.

* * * * *

## News from the North

She stops exhausted at the top of the hill, the North Wind slapping her face as she clears the ridge. She has no breath left to continue: the ascent and the North Wind have taken it all.

She looks back down the sun-bleached hill at the two figures and realises they will reach her soon. Furious, tears running down her face, she stumbles on aching legs towards the final ridge, towards the sea itself; whose voice she can hear, whose voice blots out every other thing but the North Wind and the gulls wheeling above.

And when she gets there, when she looks down over the precipice, the sea leaps at the sight of her, tossing foam like lace.

A gull screams in her ear, shocking her into movement. She tears at her clothes with icy fingers, leaning into the North Wind. She tries to stay calm, to ignore the sounds behind her, the cries that do not come from the gulls. It is unbelievably cold. Already she is numb, the pale sun powerless to warm her. Naked, she stumbles towards the very edge of the cliff, the black rocks tearing her feet, making her bleed, making her gasp with pain.

There's almost no time left: they will be there any moment.

She takes a deep breath, but the North Wind snatches the air from her lungs, slaps her face, screams in her ears.

But she is not deterred. The North wind is why she is here. Her goal, ever since hearing the news of his death, ever since the realisation that she was not going to see him again; that he was lost forever in some icy hell at the roof of the world.

To come to this place and seek out the North Wind, at as close a point to him as possible; the hope that after breathing enough of the North Wind, feeling it on her skin, tasting and smelling it, she will one day recognise some trace of him, some spark of his existence.

I'll know, she tells herself. I'll know!

They have almost reached her, but she carries on, laughing and crying and breathing in and out. Standing tall and proud, taking one deep breath after another, her aching arms spread wide in welcome, gazing into the North.

The North Wind stills, caresses her skin like a lover, sighs in her ear.

Her parents stand behind her, old and confused. Breathless from the climb, they clutch each other in their misery and incomprehension. Do they suppose that she means to kill herself, perched like a gull on this sheer face?

Kill herself, when there is so much news to listen to?

And the North Wind gives another shout, rubbing its words like salt into all their faces.

* * * * *

## Small Town Pretty Women

'I want to see my father.' Gordon Baxter leans back in the red plastic chair and folds his arms, a sullen expression on his tanned face.

Cramond puts his empty cup back on the table but says nothing. He listens to the drone of the air conditioning, like it's only just been switched on. How many times has he been in this room and never noticed it?

Voices pass in the corridor outside and Cramond recognises one, that loud mouth Banks from Traffic, moaning about overtime.

Gordon Baxter frowns over Cramond's shoulder, checking out his reflection in the wall-high mirror opposite. He scowls, runs a hand through his fashionably untidy hair. Cramond studies the report on the table in front of him and waits.

He's waited twenty years: he can give it a few more minutes.

'Hello?' Baxter waves a hand, his tanned face sullen and arrogant. 'Are you listening to me? I want, to see, my _father_.'

Arrogant little shit, thinks Cramond – a professional opinion or mere dislike? – but still he says nothing. He knows when to be silent and when to speak. Not for nothing has Cramond been with CID all these years. Leave them to rattle on, you'd be surprised what they...

The door opens and DS Harrison pokes his head in. He gives Cramond the thumbs up and vanishes again. The door has closed before Baxter has even had a chance to turn.

Cramond takes a deep breath and closes the report, licks his dry lips.

Time?

'You people are all the same,' Gordon Baxter shifts in his chair, his battered leather jacket creaking as he stretches. 'You bring Dad in, throw your weight around. Just to make it look like you're actually doing something.'

Not so far from the truth, Cramond thinks. Until now.

'Never seems to occur to you that Dad hasn't bloody done anything.'

Cramond tries to concentrate on the angry sneering boy that is Gordon Baxter. He's a sideshow, Cramond knows full well. A distraction from the main event taking place elsewhere in the station. And yielding results, given Harrison's brief appearance.

The main event from which Cramond has been excluded, with good reason.

Talk to the boy, the boss had said. In front of the whole of CID, he'd said it. All of them standing there like a pack of hounds, tails up at the hunt's bloody end. All high on adrenalin; the air filled with the chilly chemical reek of truth.

'I _want_ , to _see_ , my _father_.' Gordon Baxter bored now, like some tourist ordering steak and chips in a Spanish café.

This will be where it ends for Cramond, his final contribution to the Decline and Fall of Philip Baxter. Here, in a dingy interview room reeking of stale tomato ketchup.

Perhaps I don't really want it to end?

'Are you listening to me? I _want_...'

Time.

'Your father is helping us with our enquiries, sir.'

'Christ!' Private school, remembers Cramond. Not the local State schools; nothing but the best for Philip Baxter's one and only son, his pride and joy. 'That's what you said the last time you dragged him in here,' Baxter scowls, stabs a finger at Cramond. 'This is _harassment_. And when Dad's brief gets here, you will all be in _Shit_ street.'

'Your father's solicitor is already here, Sir.'

'What?'

'Your father's solicitor is already with your father, sir.' Cramond smiles, rests his hands on the closed report. 'Even as we speak.'

That gets young Gordon's attention; that makes him sit up and take notice.

Cramond hopes the boys behind the two-way mirror are enjoying the show. Most of CID will be in there now, those who aren't watching Baxter senior. Cramond wonders what they are making of young Gordon, about whom they have heard so much.

Expelled from an expensive private school for smoking Cannabis. Reinstated, expelled, then a new school and the pattern repeated. Always his father bailing him out, always a new school ready to take him in, for hard cash up front.

It's only natural, Cramond tries to be charitable. Looking out for your own flesh and blood.

Young Gordon went to one college, then another. Never staying for long, never passing anything so mundane as an examination. Always leaving behind some wreckage, some girl with more ambition than sense. Philip Baxter is a big wheel in this town – his son (however much a waste of space) will always be something of a catch.

Gordon has his own business now, a nice little Estate Agents his father bankrolls.

'What enquiries?' Gordon says. 'What's Dad supposed to have done now?'

Despite the bluster, Gordon is looking a little green around the gills. Perhaps it's the reek of ketchup, which (to be fair) is doing nothing for Cramond's digestion right now. Gordon pulls out a packet of Marlboros and lights one. Against all the rules, but still Cramond slides his empty cup across the table to serve as an ashtray.

And drops the bomb.

'Your father has been charged with the rape of Miss Beverly Martin.'

Gordon is open mouthed, which Cramond can understand. Seems almost unfair, throwing this new name at Gordon; the name they've only known themselves for less than a week. In different circumstances Cramond can even imagine feeling sorry for him.

For years they've been trying to prove what Philip Baxter did all those years ago. The victims' names roll off the tongue, so often have they been mentioned in the media down the years: Miss Alexander, Mrs Bell, Mrs Hope and Miss Dean.

All raped then murdered, during a single summer, twenty years ago.

'Who the hell is...'

'Miss Beverly Martin.'

'Never heard of her.'

'Miss Martin grew up here in town, but emigrated to New Zealand just over twenty years ago, aged eighteen.'

'Well before my time.' Gordon Baxter rolls his eyes.

Almost, thinks Cramond.

Beverly Martin is almost the same age as Cramond, it turns out; born a mere two days before him. It's possible he might have seen her, passed her in the street. It's not that big a town.

'Two weeks before she left the country, she was attacked and raped by a man she has now identified as your father, Philip Baxter.'

'After twenty years? How the Hell...'

'Miss Martin's parents still live in town. Ever since she left they've been sending her copies of the Standard.' Baxter sulks, bewildered. 'Two weeks ago, the Standard contained this.' Cramond opens the report, slides the clipping across the table.

Young Gordon picks it up, frowns at Letters to the Editor and turns it over.

Philip Baxter, circled in red marker pen, smiles at the camera, surrounded by his fellow Rotarians. Good looking chap in his way, thinks Cramond; a small town Richard Burton.

'Your father must have assumed he was safe after all these years.' Cramond manages to stay calm. 'Miss Martin had almost managed to forget the whole thing. But seeing your father there, smiling? That had quite an effect on her.' Cramond thinks of the psychiatrist's report, forwarded by the New Zealand police.

'Eventually, Miss Martin – Mrs Sampson as she is now – told her husband the whole story. He got in touch with the Auckland police, and they contacted us through the British High Commission.'

Young Gordon's face is blank with shock.

For years they had wondered if there could have been attacks they hadn't heard about, survivors even. A witness? It was too much to hope for. Surely they would have come forward?

Surely?

The anger has pulsed in Cramond's head ever since the news arrived from New Zealand, robbing him of sleep, of what little peace he has managed to find over the years. Thank God she was still down under, Miss Beverly Martin. He does not know – despite all his years in the job, after all the blood and the shit and the pointlessness – what he might find himself saying were he to meet her.

Cramond leans over the table, resting his chin on his clasped hands, looks into Gordon Baxter's moist eyes.

'Your father has confessed, Gordon. To everything. The rapes, the murders. Everything.'

Cramond gives Gordon a moment, watches him light another cigarette with shaking hands.

But now it's payback time; payback for all the abuse Young Gordon has inflicted on the boys in blue over the years, all the well meant (if misplaced) loyalty to his dear old dad.

'Miss Martin has described the attack in considerable detail, and we wanted to ask you about it.'

Cramond counts four heartbeats.

'Seeing as how you were there.'

The air conditioning loud again in Cramond's ears.

'He took you with him, didn't he?' Gordon looks away, all the confirmation Cramond needs. Although it's not really a question, nothing Gordon can answer. Never mind something that could be used in evidence.

'Baby in a push chair?' Cramond continues. 'Perfect cover. Perfect bait.'

A father pushing his son along a quiet footpath; the middle of the day and everyone at work. Women stopping to chat, to admire the baby.

All women like a baby, don't they?

Gordon Baxter, head in hands, gives a single abrupt sob.

What can a one-year-old remember? Cramond is genuinely curious. What would he have made of it all, the sudden violence?

'I don't remember.' Gordon looks at the floor. 'I don't remember.'

Miss Alexander, Mrs Bell, Mrs Hope and Miss Dean.

Cramond always thinks of them in that order. He remembers the photographs, the passport-sized photographs of smiling women. Pretty, in a small-town kind of way.

Beverly Martin had been the first, it turns out. Six months later had come Miss Alexander, then Mrs Bell, Mrs Hope and Miss Dean.

Beverly Martin had survived. Baxter had been disturbed by something, someone. But he'd made sure with the others.

If she had stayed, Cramond thinks. Maybe – just maybe – she might have said something, talked to someone. If not after Miss Alexander, then Mrs Bell. If not Mrs Bell, Mrs Hope. If not... If not.

Miss Dean, thinks Cramond. Just started her teacher training. I'd just finished my probation, desperate to get out of Traffic. I'd just arrived for night shift when they found the body.

Strange. Even though they have Philip Baxter, Cramond no longer feels any anger towards him. The years spent trying to build a case have leeched away all the pain. Or made it so familiar to him, such a part of his life that he has stopped noticing it.

He can't even feel strongly about young Gordon, now.

Miss Martin, though? Cramond thinks. Miss Martin? Well... that's a different story.

Cramond's chair scrapes as he gets to his feet.

'Can I see him now?' Gordon's tears are drying, a lost little boy huddled in a red plastic chair. 'Can I see him?'

Cramond walks to the room's one window, undoes the catches and allows the outside world to rush in.

'Hey! I want to see my father! _HEY!_ '

Cramond pokes his head out, feeling the fresh air on his face. It's turned chilly outside but he doesn't care, despite his shirt-sleeves.

Finished.

Cramond closes his eyes, breathing in the traffic fumes from the ring-road, breathes slowly in and out, just like the therapist advised.

A bus halts for a red light, engine grumbling. Inside, faces turn to look up at him, and he wonders what they see, what do they make of him. A middle-aged copper with wet eyes?

'I want to see my father?'

* * * * *

## Fairy Tale Ending

Once upon a time, there was a handsome Prince who lived in a far-away land.

Late one day while hunting in the forest, the Prince met Seven Dwarfs. They stood weeping beside a glass coffin containing the body of a beautiful girl, her skin as white as snow. The Dwarfs told the Prince a dark tale of a noble Queen and an evil Mirror, of sweet Poison and bitter Apples; of a girl who seemed sometimes dead, sometimes alive.

Fascinated, the Prince stared down at the beautiful dead girl. Just then the Sun touched the horizon and as the sky turned blood red the girl stirred and opened her eyes. The Dwarfs howled in fear, reached for their axes and prepared to attack her, but the Prince knew what to do when he saw a damsel in distress and drove them off at the point of his sword. As the Dwarfs fled screaming into the trees, the Prince stared at the girl smiling tenderly up at him. At once, he shattered the coffin lid with his sword and released her from her strange prison. And so beautiful was she that the Prince immediately took both her snow white hands in his and declared his love for her.

Can she be real? he thought, helping her out.

Is he for real? she thought, her smile revealing strangely pointed white teeth.

And anticipating the bloody feasting to come, she thanked her lucky stars for the naivety of Princes.

###

##  Publishing History

_Phil Mitchell and the Birthday Present_ first broadcast on Corinium Radio, July 2009

_Anglican Perspectives on the Nativity_ published The New Writer, September 2002

_Remember My Name_ published The Quiet Feather, May 2005

_The Rise and Fall of Apropos Warhead_ published The New Writer, September 2003

_Gustav Carlson's Autumn Leaves_ first broadcast on Corinium Radio, November 2009

_The Gordon Highlanders' Farewell to Helpmakaar_ first published in the Leaf Books Anthology 'The Better Craftsman and other Stories', April 2007

_The Duel_ published Graffiti, March 2011

_Breadmaker Boogie, Breadmaker Blues_ was first broadcast as a Radio Play on StroudFM, September 2011

* * * * *

## About the Author

Stephen Connolly was born in Canada to Scottish parents. He was raised in Canada, Scotland and the Republic of South Africa, where the family emigrated in 1981. He returned to the UK to avoid Military Service with the SADF and worked at Butlins before training in IT. He lives in Gloucestershire and has been writing seriously since 1998.

Connect with me online:

Blog: http://planbsteve.wordpress.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/SteveConnolly3

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1224771783

Smashwords: <http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/SteveConn>

