
### The Jeremy - Snaps of the Dragon

#### By Jo S. Wun

* * *

Copyright 2010 Jo S.Wun

Cover design & illustrations copyright 2010 Jess Harpur

2nd Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-4523-2581-1

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#### License

This eBook is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. In simple terms, this means that you are welcome to share this book with anyone by any means you choose, providing that:

\+ You credit the author and illustrator for their work +

\+ You do not use it for any commercial purposes +

\+ You do not alter, transform, or build upon this work +

* * *

#### A Note From The Author

This book is free. If you get something out of reading it, and you would like to show your appreciation by giving some money to someone, then I suggest you make a donation to Médecins Sans Frontières. They'll make good use of your money.

Alternatively, you might like to donate to Creative Commons.

Thank you.

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##### Dedicated to our ancestors and all who came before them.

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The events described in this book are based on a true story.

* * *

## PART ONE

### Snapshot No. 1

   On the 4th day of June, in the year 7460 – according to the Byzantine calendar – an event took place the real significance of which was barely conceived at the time. Nevertheless, we can be reasonably sure that the conception of the Jeremy did, in all likelihood, happen while his parents were indeed stark naked. After all, although not entirely beyond the realms of possibility, it seems unlikely that the Jeremy's father – despite his generally conservative British attitude – kept his socks on during a warm African night in June. However, this fact has never been verified – it seems an indelicate question to ask – which adds a modest amount of mystery to the event, don't you think?  
   His conception was significant in as much as the creation of any child is significant. Of course, the creation of children does not absolutely guarantee the continued existence of our species; there may be some catastrophic event – perhaps a cosmic process – which kills us all off, or we may even manage to make ourselves extinct through some lunacy of our own, a possibility which seems to be gaining ground in an apparent race to oblivion. But for many of us, creating children is the best and possibly only way to make a meaningful contribution to the future.  
   Later in his life, the Jeremy would struggle with the morality of the argument that, in certain cases, the best contribution to the future some persons could make would be _not_ to have children at all.  
   But let's not get ahead of ourselves. He wasn't even aware of his own existence yet. That happened some days after the closing ceremony of the Spermatazoan Olympics, so graciously hosted by his mother.  
   In true Olympic style, one sperm, who at the start was merely another contender among many, having proved beyond doubt his absolute fitness for victory – over a long and gruelling course – thrust himself headlong into his moment of glory with a cry of, _"Long live the embryo!"_  
   As challenging and arduous as the course may have been, this Prince of Sperms was but a sprinter carrying the baton of life to the marathon runner who would be the Jeremy.  
   We can safely leave it to qualified scientists to determine the _exact_ moment that his awareness began to flourish. For our purposes, the knowledge that there _was_ such a moment – a moment at which he began to _feel_ – which inescapably occurred at some point between the Prince's victory and the emergence of the Jeremy into the outer world, is sufficient.  
   What was it that he felt? His very first sensation? Did he feel warm? His environment was undoubtedly warm by our standards, but to judge warmth he would have needed some experience of different temperatures against which to make a comparison. His mother's body was working hard to maintain a Goldilocks environment for him, one in which conditions were just right, where variations were kept to a minimum.  
   His first sensation didn't really do justice to the word. It was nothing more than the registration of the state in which he found himself – the norm, the baseline, the point of reference by which he would notice changes as they happened.  
   And happen they did, and he was duly aware of them. But at this stage, it was very much a case of things happening _to_ him, rather than him _making_ them happen. He was pretty much a sitting duck at the mercy of his surroundings. And, as it happens, he looked much like a duck at a similar stage of development, too.  
   However, life was easy. He didn't have to do anything much at all, except grow at an astounding rate. But that also just happened, without _any_ conscious effort on his part. Indeed, very little seemed to be under his control, but it would not be long before he could deliberately dip his toes into the deep waters of human endeavour, by literally wiggling them.  
   At first, his source of knowledge about his environment was restricted to the detection of movement. But as time passed, his other senses began to awaken, and in due course, he was able to make his limbs move, blink his eyelids and hear sounds. Most of these sounds were of his mother's body gurgling away as it carried out its normal digestive processes, but later on, he began to detect sounds from the external world, a world of which he had no comprehension.  
   The Jeremy inhabited a perfect playground, where he felt safe and secure. But, as the saying goes, 'all good things must come to an end'. And what an abrupt end it was. One moment he was playfully kicking with his lower appendages while simultaneously attempting a spot of rolling and tumbling, the next his world had literally collapsed around him. And before he had time to come to terms with that, he found himself being forcibly pushed towards a gash in the now fluid-less sack which had so recently been his haven. He struggled violently against this unwelcome turn of events, but no matter how hard he tried, he was powerless to prevent it. It seemed he was about to die!  
    _"Waarrrghhhh!"_ he screamed (and had this event occurred at any later, vocabulary-rich date in his life – as if that was possible – he would still have screamed _'Waarrrghhhh!'_ ), in precise expression of his feelings.  
   And so it was, that at a few minutes after midnight on the 11th of March, in the year referred to in the Christian calendar as 1952, the Jeremy found himself forced into a cold and uninviting world.

*

   And the rest, as those fond of a cliché might say, is history.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 2

   History? That's as may be. It was all in the future for the Jeremy. In the present, 'cold' and 'uninviting' about summed it up. It was cold, not just because he was naked, but also because, 'twixt conception and delivery, his parents had returned from East Africa to dear old blighty. And it was uninviting because – well who in their right mind could describe the clinical environs of a hospital delivery room as _inviting_?  
    _"Waarrrghhhh!"_ he yelled.  
   The shock of recent events was of galactic proportions in his mind, and on top of that, he was experiencing new shocks, nasty ones which were jostling for pole position in his consciousness.  
    _"Waarrrghhhh!"_ he screamed again, without any thought for the fact that he was repeating himself – something he would later be taught, somewhat dubiously, is a heinous crime against both literary and oratory style.  
    _"Waarrrghhhh! Waarrrghhhh! Waarrrghhhh!"_ he shouted.  
   There was nothing about his new environment which could persuade him there was any more suitable comment to make. These sensations were not pleasant. He'd never felt cold before, and now that coldness had somehow got inside him, apparently through the holes in his face.  
    _"Waarrrghhhh!"_  
   And it was noisy. The gently muffled sounds he'd been used to, had been replaced by sharp, harsh noises which managed to find their way right inside his head. And that could only mean one thing. He had more holes in him.  
    _"Waarrrghhhh!"_  
   Even his _'Waarrrghhhh!'_ attacked him.  
   And there were completely new sensations. There was this stuff called light which was bouncing around all over the place, and some of it was getting inside him too!  
    _"Waarrrghhhh! How many holes have I got in me?"_ he wailed, in a state of near panic.  
   He was shortly to discover there were indeed more, but he would find, to his relief, they were for output rather than input. Much, much later, he would initially be very surprised to find that, for some people, this was not always the case.  
   What horror would be next? During his teens, he would hear stories about alien abductions wherein strange beings would – amongst other unspeakable deeds – prod, poke and peer at their victims, who were completely powerless to do anything about it. These stories would trigger an uncanny resonance within him.  
   It took a moment for him to comprehend it, but the next sensation was pleasant. He was nestling on some sort of soft, warm cushion. He could hear reassuringly gentle sounds, and the cushion moved ever so slightly, in a pacifying, rocking motion. There was an attractive smell too. His fear and panic began to melt away, and practically without realising it had happened, he found he was drawing in a warm fluid which had a very pleasing taste.  
   It was almost as if things had gone back to the way they'd been before. At least, if he concentrated very hard on this latest development, he could very nearly convince himself it was so.  
   His distraught _'Waarrrghhhh!'_ turned to a contented _'Mmmmmmm'_.

*

_    "Mmmmmmm,"_ he murmured.  
   What a wealth of meaning in a single, barely spoken word. In the following days, weeks and months, the Jeremy fluctuated, often erratically, between _'Mmmmmmm'_ and _'Waarrrghhhh!'_ From this elemental vocabulary, an eloquent verbal practitioner would eventually grow, but there was an intermediate stage through which he would first have to pass.  
   Gurgling, in all its varied forms, was his first step on the road to literacy, and soon after the start of his journey, his verbal expertise would expand to include not only _'Wahraarrrghhhh!'_ – an extension of _'Waarrrghhhh!'_ reserved especially for use on any occasion which required extra emphasis – but also _'Gusk'_ , _'mish'_ and _'guck'_.  
   In the meantime, in common with most babies, he displayed an effortless capacity to seize the moment. 'Seizing the moment' often meant taking the opportunity, when lying naked on his back, to conduct experiments regarding the capacity of bodily fluids, of the not-so-precious variety, to combat gravitational forces when expelled. Unlike some babies, he had an insatiable appetite for experiments of this type, industriously persevering long after most of his contemporaries had succumbed to the bidding of their mothers.  
   This behaviour should not be confused with what some say is the dark art of pooping in a freshly donned nappy. While he did indulge in this form of behaviour on more than one occasion, it was merely an example of the natural proclivity of living creatures to dispose of waste material with little regard for the convenience or sensibilities of others.  
   Whether accidental or deliberate, his pristine-nappy soiling activities provoked his mother to respond, _"Oh you naughty boy!"_  
   But although those were the words she used, she always said them as if they meant, _"How sweet you are!"_  
   Language comprehension was not his strongest suit at this early stage of his life, which was probably just as well. He would have plenty of opportunities later on to figure out why people say one thing, but mean something else. In the meantime, even though he'd neither understood the words nor that he'd done something 'wrong', he was astute enough to decipher the underlying message.  
   His mother was full of love for him. Given time, he would learn to exercise some control over his bodily functions, but there was an implicit promise in her tone that his failure to do so would not result in any form of punishment. Nothing he could do would make his mother angry. Nothing he could do would make _her_ say _'Waarrrghhhh!'_  
   His conclusion that his mother doted on him was entirely accurate. Nevertheless, he appeared to test this theory on a daily, hourly or, on some occasions, even a minute by minute basis, but it would be many months before he faced the first hint of his mother's wrath.  
   What a joy it was to have the freedom to explore the limits of his world, even if it was a relentless struggle to overcome the barriers to his explorations. Barriers which included, for example, his propensity to poke himself in the eye whenever he grasped an object and raised it with the intention of giving it a thorough once-over.  
   For the most part though, the Jeremy's life was everything he could hope it would be. His apparent efforts to test his mother's seemingly unshakeable love for him had done nothing but confirm the truth of the hypothesis. Consequently, he trusted her with his life. Of course, he had no other choice, but there is a world of difference between absolutely trusting someone because you believe you can, and trusting them because you have to.

*

   Where, you might be wondering, was the Jeremy's father during all this time? Working of course! And if he wasn't working he'd be in the pub, or failing that, in his chair, reading the newspaper or listening to the wireless, or perhaps snoozing off the effects of a visit to the pub. Like most British men in the nineteen-fifties, in his view, it was a man's duty to be the breadwinner and a woman's place to be at home, looking after the children. Actually, that attitude had begun to change as a result of the war. Women had taken on traditional male roles while the men were away fighting, but it had yet to be fully accepted as normal, especially now that things were back to _normal!_ Men and women knew their respective roles, and woe betide anyone who voluntarily crossed those invisible demarcation lines.  
   So it was that the Jeremy had the equivalent of an unreliable dial-up line to his father, and an always-on broadband connection to his mother.

*

   There was another face which sometimes appeared in his field of vision. It was curiously similar to his mother's, but smaller, not only in its physical aspects but also in its capacity to convey the impression it could be consistently relied upon.  
   Sometimes it smiled and chattered noisily, sometimes the opposite. Sometimes the face would be contorted into a strange caricature of itself, sometimes funny, sometimes disturbing. At other times, it would extend its tongue and waggle its fingers while inserting its thumbs in its ears. But its most distinguishing feature was that it appeared at seemingly random intervals, for no apparent reason, did whatever facial gymnastics it deemed suitable, and disappeared again, often without warning.  
   He'd utilised his entire vocabulary in an attempt to establish a stable relationship with the small face. But the inconsistencies of its responses had defeated all his efforts. Even his trump card, the judicious use of a well-timed _'Wahraarrrghhhh!'_ , failed to produce predictable results. Sometimes the small face would attempt to use its diminutive arms to pick him up, more often than not failing miserably, leaving them both in complete disarray. At other times, it would disappear before he'd even finished the second syllable. Its erratic behaviour remained a mystery.

*

   Much of the Jeremy's world was a source of mystery.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 3

   The day started like any other. The Jeremy woke to find himself presented with a slightly blurred view of the ceiling, adjusted his focus to include Gusk – his name for the little furry creature that always hovered a few inches above his face – checked he still had the use of his arms and legs, and in so doing, confirmed what had come to be an unsurprising and exceedingly tiresome fact; he was lying in a pile of shit which had been generously marinated in urine. The knowledge that it was his own shit and his own urine was not much of a palliative. There was only one possible course of action.  
    _"Waarrrghhhh!"_ he shouted.  
   He knew he'd probably have to repeat it several times before his mother's face appeared next to Gusk. He also knew that some days he'd have to repeat it more times than others. But it rarely got to the point of _'Wahraarrrghhhh!'_ And on those very rare occasions when it did, his mother would be extra loving when she arrived, apologizing profusely.  
   The crux of the matter was, he knew she would come. She would appear and that would signal the start of the morning ritual. Not a ritual he particularly enjoyed, having exhausted his fascination with fluid mechanics, but one he happily endured because the end result was worth it. Besides, all through it, his mother would speak to him in soothing, reassuring tones.  
   On this particular morning, she appeared right on cue. She had an exceptionally chirpy disposition too – it was as if her face was bathed in the light of her own personal sun. He smiled and gurgled appreciatively.  
    _"Mish,"_ he said.  
   Often, he would find that his _'mish'_ – a multi-purpose word somewhat similar to the Joker in a pack of playing cards – would be followed, moments later, by an involuntary _'guck'_. The _'guck'_ would be in response to his mother touching parts of his body. It was a touch which produced a pleasurable sensation, but one which could not be endured for too long.  
    _"Guck, guck, guck, Guck, GUCK, guck, Guck, guck, Guck,"_ he giggled, as his mother playfully tickled him.  
   He noticed, with some interest, that he was being dressed in new clothes. Mostly white, with a bit of blue here and there. They had a smooth feel where they touched his skin, and made a rustling noise when he moved. He laughed, jerking his arms up and down. These were funny clothes! His mother laughed too. There was a hat as well, made of the same material. It felt a bit cold to the touch when his mother put it on his head, but not an unpleasant coldness. He laughed some more, and dribbled some saliva down his chin.  
   He was startled by his mother's swift reaction. In a blur of movement, she produced a handkerchief and the saliva was wiped away. The Jeremy found this unexpected behaviour disconcerting and expressed it with a _'Wrhgh'_ , an abbreviation he sometimes used as a forerunner to a full blown _'Waarrrghhhh!'_  
    _"Oh I'm sorry my darling. I didn't mean to startle you. I just want you to look your best today. There, there..."_  
   The sound of her words permeated his mind as she gently picked him up, clasping him to her. He didn't need to understand their linguistic meaning. He settled into his mother's arms, listening to the beating of her heart while searching for the nectar. Soon his startlement was forgotten.

*

   He must have drifted back to sleep for a while, because the next thing presented to his conscious mind was the movement he'd come to associate with an influx of lots of interesting visual stimuli. His mother was carrying him while she walked. Not the way she'd carried him earlier – that was comfort mode. This was travel mode. She'd propped him up so he could see over her shoulder. He liked it when she carried him that way because things stayed in his field of vision for longer. When he was facing the direction of travel, things were forever disappearing before he could get a good look at them. Besides, it was a bit cold today, and it felt warmer this way round.  
   There it was – the big expanse of grass. He'd seen it before, but when he wasn't actually looking at it he could never picture it the way it really was. The _green_ of it. He spent a little time pondering the different greens he'd observed and their relative greenness. But it taxed his faculties just imagining colours in his head.  
   There was a bird strutting about in the grass. It spent most of its time looking around with little darting motions of its head and neck. Every once in a while, it would apparently glimpse something, and pause to peck at it before resuming its staccato perusal of its environment. Then, in a flurry of jumps, skips and wing-flaps, it took off and flew into the sky.  
   The Jeremy was not in the least bit amazed by the bird's ability to fly. Birds just did that. But he was fascinated by their flight. He watched the bird fly away, first in this direction and then another. It held his gaze for a long time, until his concentration was interrupted by a change in his mother's pattern of movement.  
   He felt the g-force acting upon him as his body was accelerated upwards with every step. His head wobbled in response, echoing the motion. He heard the change in the sound of his mother's footsteps as her shoes made abrasive contact with the stone steps, which obligingly appeared under her heels. And then he heard other footsteps from unseen feet. Whose feet were they?  
   His mother paused. He noticed there were hundreds of little specks of colour randomly placed on the ground. Of course, he hadn't yet mastered the art of counting, so for him, quantity was a simple matter of one or many. In this case, even 'many' seemed inadequate as a descriptor. As his mother turned through ninety degrees, he was just able to catch a glimpse of a cluster of the coloured specks rising from the ground. Picked up by a gust of wind, they swirled about as if they were all joined together by invisible elastic ties.  
   In his new orientation, that which came into view was the small-faced person, who was looking up at him from below. One of its hands was clutching his mother's coat belt. It made no funny or peculiar facial movements. It just looked up at him, and began absent-mindedly twisting the belt. He returned its gaze. It wasn't a stand-off sort of gaze, just two observers observing each other but having nothing to say.  
   He tried to adjust his position, but found his movements were restricted. He gave another wriggle. As he did so, he felt his mother's grip on him tighten very slightly, and then the steady thunk, thunk, thunk as she patted his back. The rhythmic thunking had a hypnotic effect and was sufficiently distracting that he forgot about being unable to move. Dr Benjamin Spock would have been proud of the Jeremy's mother. She adjusted his shawl to keep it snugly wrapped around him. He quite liked his shawl. It kept him warm even if he couldn't do much wriggling, something he liked to do for no particular reason now and again.  
   They were on the move once more, and he detected the change in ambience as they passed through the big, open doorway. He'd noticed the effect before, but it was still interesting.  
   There were a lot of people inside, mostly of the big variety, and more were following behind him. He thought he might have seen some of their faces before, but things were moving fast. He found it hard to focus on any one face long enough to be sure. But he could detect that lots of them were smiling, and the smiles appeared to be aimed in his direction.  
    _"Mish,"_ he said.  
   But this time there was no involuntary _'guck'_.

*

   The Jeremy resurfaced from a reverie. A quick check of his sensory inputs told him he was still in the big building, safely in his mother's arms.  
    _"Mish,"_ he said again.  
   Still no _'guck'_ , but it did generate a gentle squeeze in response. His mother stood up and moved again. Not very far this time. She simply took a few paces forward. Then he heard a voice which was vaguely familiar. 'Familiar', in as much as he'd heard it in this building before, but not in the sense of being particularly fond of it. It sounded slightly surreal. Of course, he had no awareness of the surrealist movement, but even so, the voice was no less surreal.  
   It was a good deal closer to him than usual. Every so often it would pause and his mother would speak. Her voice was slightly odd too, not at all like the way she talked to him. Then she fell silent, gently rocking him in her arms. The voice continued on in its surreality, this time the pauses filled by his father's voice. It was more difficult to tell if _his_ voice sounded odd because the Jeremy had much less historical data to go on.  
   The surreal voice was at it again, the only noticeable difference being the filling of the gaps, first by one voice, then another. He thought he might know those voices too, but he couldn't see the faces to which they belonged, so the identity of the speakers remained just out of reach. His mother continued to rock him gently.  
   Things were happening again. His mother was removing his hat which was a bit of a surprise. The contact with the air made his head feel somewhat chilly. It didn't make any sense to him, but she often did things he didn't understand. He was used to that.  
   What she did next _was_ strange. She held him out in front of her, not quite at arms length. It was as if she was going to give him to someone, but he couldn't feel any hands preparing to take hold of him. He lay there in her outstretched arms, looking up into the vast space between him and the curved shapes of the far away ceiling.  
   A face appeared a short distance above him. When it spoke, it proved to be the source of the surreal voice. He couldn't remember any previous occasion when he'd seen it at such close range, and certainly not from such an angle. It was smiling, or rather, had the appearance of smiling. He felt unsure if this was a face he could trust, and he was certainly glad his mother was holding him, no matter how strangely. The face spoke again and, as it did so, in to view came something else.  
   It took a moment for him to figure it out, but it looked a little like the jug his mother used when she bathed him, except this one was a bit more fancy. It had a pattern on the side, but he couldn't make out the detail due to the angle at which it was held. Almost as if it was able to understand his difficulty, the hand which held it slowly began to turn, enabling him to get a better look.  
   Time decelerated to very nearly a complete stop at the exact moment the meniscus of the water appeared at the lip of the jug. That is, of course, everywhere except inside the Jeremy's brain where the neurone cavalry had already begun its charge, mobilising all idle cells as it went. The order for adrenaline was given and it was there in an instant, a testament to the impressive efficiency already in place in this developing environment. Next up was the order to take evasive action. Like fire-fighting bucket-chains on steroids, the message was passed from cell to cell on its concurrent journeys to the muscles in his arms and legs. The muscles obeyed without question, but in a tiny fraction of a second, the feedback showed their efforts were not producing the expected results. In a last ditch attempt to prevent what was rapidly becoming inevitable, the Jeremy's vocal chords were primed for action.  
   In the conscious part of his mind, the foregoing events could be translated as, _"WHOA! BE CAREFUL! THAT WATER IS GOING TO FALL OUT OF YOUR JUG AND LAND ON MY HEAD! HEY!! IT'S SPILLING!! IT'S SPILLING!!! WHAT'S GOING ON!!? HELP!! I CAN'T MOVE!! SOMEONE HAS PUT ME IN A STRAIGHT JACKET!"_ swiftly followed by, _"MUM!!! HELP ME!!!!!"_  
   But help was not forthcoming. As the cold water splashed onto his head he yelled _'WAHRAARRRGHHHH!'_ as loud as he could, over and over again, partly because of the shock and partly because he desperately needed his mother's help. This was a living nightmare. Dreadful things were happening and yet his mother seemed oblivious to them. No, it was worse than that. She was aiding and abetting the perpetrator, and, at the same time, she was smiling and talking to him in the gentle tone she normally used _after_ he'd had a bad experience. But this one was still going on!  
   The Jeremy was frantic. His safe world had been shattered. And up from the depths of his mind came horrific memories. Something he'd previously buried so deep he had no knowledge of its existence. But now the memory of the terror and pain came flooding in like a mental tsunami. He could see the eyes peering at him from behind the mask. He'd been just as unable to protect his penis then as he'd been unable to protect his head now.  
   He could yell _'WAHRAARRRGHHHH!'_ no more. His defence mechanisms had done all they could. His mother was holding him close again, but there was no substantiating evidence to suggest she'd retracted her arms in direct response to his cries.  
   His vociferous yelling subsided, becoming virtually silent sobs. He was quiet. Not the contented quiet of an infant-in-arms, but rather, the quiet of a creature whose nervous system has been so overloaded, it is afraid to open its eyes for fear of what it might see.  
   And just to top it off, he was pretty sure he was lying in a pile of shit again. But it would have to wait until a lot later in his life before he would see his plight in regard to the wretched contents of his nappy as having any symbolic significance worthy of a smile.

*

   Afterwards, there had been spirited attempts at urbane conversation, interlaced with tea and cucumber sandwiches, about the standard of the catering, the décor and Mrs You-Know-Who's 'misfortune'. But that had all passed the Jeremy by. He was far too busy conducting a large-scale damage limitation and repair exercise. It demanded, as a pre-requisite, copious amounts of sleep, which the remains of the congregation indulgently interpreted as him being _'watched over by angels'_ , with much attendant _'oohing'_ and _'aahing'_.  
   Had he remained awake and also been endowed with the superhuman zapping powers he would later imagine for himself, the 'remains of the congregation' would not have been a polite reference to the fact that not all the attendees at the earlier ceremonious violation had accepted the invitation to partake of tea and cucumber sandwiches  
   He slept, but he wasn't aware of any angels. Indeed, for quite some time he wasn't aware of anything at all. His sleep was the deepest of sleep. The sort of sleep that is needed to shut down the system for essential maintenance. The sort of sleep from which we emerge a slightly different person.  
   When he did emerge, life appeared to be normal. The rest of the day was much like any other. The next morning, the customary ritual came and went with the usual pile of marinated shit. Small Face put in a fleeting appearance and made the obligatory strange faces. Gusk's little-furry-creatureness seemed unchanged. And yet, there was something different. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but it was definitely there. Of course, in the strictest sense, at his age he had trouble putting his finger on anything. He was, after all, still in the early stages of learning motor control.  
   It would have been obvious to any reasonably adroit observer, that the difference was in the Jeremy himself. But for him, it was not obvious at all. Indeed, had it been obvious, its effect would have been severely diminished.  
   His family had no need to do anything special to come to terms with recent events. None of them had perceived his experience as traumatic, and, perforce, none had any feeling of guilt or duplicity. The Jeremy, on the other hand, had faced a decision he wasn't expecting to face. It was a decision which had to be made at a level where intellectual weighing of possible outcomes had no part to play.

*

   Fortunately, homo sapiens, in common with other living creatures, have what can be thought of as layers of security which ensure their best chance of survival. For example, had he found himself abandoned somewhere north of the Arctic circle, although he obviously wouldn't have lasted long at such temperatures – no doubt expending some of his valuable energy on shouting _'WAHRAARRRGHHHH!'_ for all he was worth – his system would have done all it could to ensure his continued existence. This would include the sacrifice of body parts less essential to continued life, such as hands and feet, while all resources were directed to maintaining the function of the vital internal organs, such as the heart. Drastic circumstances demand drastic actions.  
   He hadn't been physically abandoned, neither in the Arctic nor in any other location, but he had been emotionally abandoned, even if it was only temporarily. At his young age, his physical survival depended almost exclusively on his mother's care and attention and, just as importantly, on his acceptance of it. There had to be a bond of trust. But that bond had taken a severe beating and the memory of it was a danger to his survival.  
   System Maintenance had no hesitation in wrapping it up in a leak-proof container and burying it as deep as possible. No qualms here about suppressing the Truth. No room for agonised debate and bleeding-heart hand-wringing regarding the rights of infants. The system knew what it was doing. Truth was a luxury item which survival could ill afford.  
   And it worked. The Jeremy did feel a bit strange, but only in as much as he thought he might have forgotten or perhaps mislaid something. He didn't spend an awful lot of time pondering the matter, and having noticed that a revelation did not appear to be imminent, pushed the whole thing to the nether regions of his memory.  
    _"Oh well,"_ he thought, _"I must be getting old!"_  [1](../Text/Section0017.xhtml#C3Note1) and switched his attention to gazing at the ceiling with its wonderful myriad patterns, unaware of the truth that they were in fact either cracks, marks of an indeterminate nature, or water stains from leaks in the cottage's old slate roof.

*

   And so the days passed. Each one bringing more opportunities to learn the lessons vital to continued growth. Sometimes his days were filled with joy, sometimes with frustration. Sometimes, it was the sort of frustration you might feel if you were trying to thread a needle in the dim light of a restless candle, while wearing thermally insulated suede mittens, in temperatures cold enough to cause exhalations to condense into an instant personal fog, and the only available thread had a frayed end.  
   But whatever the content, his days were always filled to the very brim. Each day a new adventure.

 ~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 4

    _"What happens if I push down with my right arm and my right leg at the same time?"_ queried the Jeremy.  
   Very little intermediate filtering took place between his thoughts and their conversion into actions. So little, that to all intents and purposes, there was none. Not really surprising considering his skill with language, and therefore his ability to reason, was at such a rudimentary stage of development.  
    _"Woohoo! This is fun!"_ he thought[1](../Text/Section0017.xhtml#C4Note1), as his eyes relayed the rapidly changing scene to his brain, the optical messages supported by synchronous tactile sensations.  
   Rolling over unexpectedly like that broadly offered two possible responses. He plumped for fun rather than fear, for the simple reason that his capacity for recognising potential danger was extremely limited.  
   So far, almost all of his 'what happens if' experiments had returned benign information. These propitious outcomes were due, in large part, to the care provided to him by his mother, who assiduously paid attention to potential dangers at all times, making sure his immediate environment was as safe as possible. The fact that up until recently he hadn't been able to actively _do_ very much, either, had also contributed to this happy state of affairs. But regardless of all that, most of this benign information was cast into the _boring_ category in quite short order.  
   These were the days during which he metaphorically wore a large L-plate to designate his learner status. One could be forgiven for thinking it was also a magical plate, if one was that way inclined, because it was simultaneously visible to everyone, no matter what the angle of their approach. As a novice, no one expected very much of him socially, which meant that numerous exceptions to normal etiquette were extended to him. He could dribble down anyone's clothing without fear of retribution, regardless of their social standing, and could, at least until he 'went onto solids', even throw up his dinner on their best suit with just as much impunity.  
   Of course, this relaxation of social mores was not uniquely proffered to the Jeremy. Such concessions are given to any infant of a similar age. The old and infirm are often the recipients of such concessions too, albeit, in certain circumstances, a little more grudgingly. Those 'certain circumstances' usually arise, when the grudgor believes the grudgee, is wittingly using their age and apparent infirmity, to blackmail or bully the grudgor into relaxing those social mores. But let's not get caught up in that digression.  
   The peculiarities of social customs had no relevance to the Jeremy because they presuppose a level of self control which was far in excess of his capabilities. For instance, expecting him not to fart in a lift was a preposterous idea when he had yet to gain sufficient control over the peristaltic actions of his anal tract to master the art of regulating his faecal excretions – a rather convoluted way to avoid saying that he still randomly shat in his pants.  
   All the same, _learning_ was what his life was all about, simply at a less intellectual level than pondering the vagaries of human social conventions. There was a whole heap of stuff he would have to learn before he even got close to such considerations.

*

   If learning can be defined as the receipt and assimilation of information, then he'd been learning from the moment of his conception. His mother's ovum had been the schoolroom. It contained not only _her_ wisdom but that of her ancestors too. To this house of learning, the Sperm Prince brought the wisdom of his father and _his_ ancestors. The Jeremy came into existence as the recipient of their combined wisdom, a wisdom he stored at his innermost core.  
   In that schoolroom, layer upon layer of the embryonic Jeremy learnt from that core, the knowledge disseminated to each new layer at a hectic pace in order to fulfil the nine month curriculum.  
   After the graduation ceremony, despite its somewhat messy and frightening nature, he had quickly and enthusiastically embarked upon the next stage of his education. Much of it was learnt at the same subconscious level as the lessons in the kindergarten of his mother's womb, but he was also learning to consciously use his senses to understand the world around him.  
   These were thrilling days, packed full with lessons. But thrilling or not, he wouldn't consciously remember them. Many were to do with the management of his body, his motor functions. Indeed, his occasional over enthusiastic use of them would, before long, suggest a tendency towards reckless driving.  
   Nevertheless, as infants go, he was rather quiet from a verbal perspective. But when circumstances implied it might be beneficial, he didn't hesitate to engage in the demanding business of making use of his personal vocabulary. It was _personal_ because it often seemed that only he knew what his 'words' meant.  
   It is quite astounding the number of variations that can be achieved by careful use of inflection, emphasis and tone, but when your vocabulary consists of five words – 'Waarrrghhhh!', 'Mmmmmmm', 'Gusk', 'Mish' and 'Guck' – there is a limit which is all too easily reached. And the fact that three of his words didn't always sound the same when they came out of his mouth, and the other two were barely words at all, didn't help much either.  
   Nevertheless, unaware of his own shortcomings, he often concluded that his listeners were either deaf, inattentive or just plain dumb-headed.  
   For instance, how many times had he tried to tell his observer that he was tired but couldn't sleep because the tinkly-tinkly tune coming from some hidden object was getting on his nerves, only to find his 'words' had been interpreted to mean, _"please make sure the tinkly-tinkly tune (which I dearly love and wish to hear twenty-four hours a day, every day, if at all possible, thank you very much) does not stop"_.  
   It was enough to make even the most patient person _'WAHRAARRRGHHHH!'_ very loudly. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out the consequences of _that_. More tinkly-tinkly bloody tinkly!  
   Things took a turn for the better when he filled his mother with delight at his first utterance of the word 'mama'. Of course, that utterance was completely unintentional, amounting to no more than a happy juxtaposition of random sounds. But he was quick to perceive the enchantment on his mother's face, and vaguely connected it to the sound he'd just made. His perception didn't include the comprehension that the rapid appearance of not only Small Face but also his father, both visibly excited, was a signal that he should repeat it.  
   His new audience were mouthing sounds at him in a rather exaggerated way, somewhat similar to the way some people talk to foreigners, and those they believe to be half-wits. Not especially for their benefit – he would have done it anyway – he continued his experiments with various combinations of sound. But nothing he came up with had the effect on his new observers which he'd just witnessed in his mother. He felt slightly disappointed, which mirrored the countenance of each of the three faces before him.  
   It didn't last long. His mother picked him up and cuddled him. He was in the process of going over the sounds he'd made when out popped 'mama', again. To his surprise, they all began doing a kind of dance in which it seemed important that he should be the centrepiece around which it revolved.  
   Big people were mighty strange. It was hard to fathom what made them tick. He was often taken by surprise at their reactions to seemingly trivial events, particularly when those trivial events emanated from him. But he had, despite the oxymoronic nature of the notion, become used to being startled. In much the same way that in later life he would relish the thrill of riding a roller-coaster, he'd learned to go with the flow when, for example, he was picked up and tossed, sometimes literally, into the air.  
   There were exceptions though. Sometimes, a big person – one with whom he was not very familiar – would begin this activity. He often felt disconcerted when that happened. There was an important element missing. He simply didn't feel safe. Fortunately, his vocabulary was perfectly equipped to deal with _that_ situation.  
    _"Wahraarrrghhhh!"_  
   That usually did the trick.  
   But wait. Let's not build up the wrong sort of picture of this boy. Most of the time he happily and quietly enjoyed himself, closely examining everything he could grasp, while remaining safely within range of his mother's watchful eye. Sometimes, he even enjoyed the company of Small Face who, mercifully, had developed a little more finesse in her dealings with him, being less inclined to prod, poke and maul. He enjoyed the company of his father too, when he was there, but the most comforting times were with his mother. It was always good to know she was nearby. Gradually, he gained more and more confidence, embarking on unaided explorations of his immediate environment, the boundaries of which, he soon came to think, were only there to be pushed.  
   Good days were these. Long gone were the endless hours spent staring up at ceilings while he lay almost helpless in his cot or pram. Those days were indeed gone, consigned to the pages of photograph albums and neural network storage. Time moves implacably on, dispassionately ticking off the seconds, one by one, constantly consigning NOW to the history books on a journey to a bright new future.

*

   For the Jeremy, it was all about NOW. Life was something that happened in the present, lingered for no more than a moment, and sometimes presented an enticing invitation to the immediate future. With his mind uncluttered by preconceived ideas, conventions and taboos, he never hesitated to poke his nose into whatever took his fancy – even if the consequences proved, on post-mission analysis, to be undesirable. Health & Safety was a concept that had yet to penetrate or encumber his world.  
   Exploration of everything within range, or even a little beyond it, was his raison d'être, and the fruit of his labours was knowledge. He knew much more than your average Joe about the look, feel, smell and yes, the taste of many things, including that interesting patch on the inside of the right rear leg of the kitchen table, the sticky one just beneath the change in the pattern in the grain of the wood. Now that was something which took an explorer of the Jeremy's calibre to find.  
   About half of his free time – which may at first seem a rather daft notion, but there were meal times, bath times, nappy changing times and more besides, none of which fitted with the Jeremy's idea of free time – about half his free time was spent on his hands and knees. Careening here and there, just following his fancy (and sometimes his nose), this was the period when his tendency for occasional recklessness was in danger of becoming a reputation.  
   His explorations kept him happily occupied most of the time, but there was a problem. The returns on investment from his voyages of discovery had recently been diminishing at an alarming rate. Not only that, he'd also incurred the wrath of his mother on a number of occasions, a relatively new experience and one which was _truly_ alarming.  
   It was particularly upsetting because it all seemed so arbitrary. His simple logic didn't make much use of multiple levels of 'what if' enquiry prior to taking a particular action. For example, he'd found the best way to find out what a hole was for was firstly to look inside it, and then, if that didn't provide a satisfactory answer, to poke one of his fingers in, or all of them if he could fit them inside. This usually produced some useful data and sometimes, on some happy occasions, something tasty (his concept of what constituted a hole included the interior of a jam jar). What was so different about the three little holes in the box on the wall?  
   One of the advantages of being conscious almost exclusively of NOW, is that the unpleasant things that happen, such as your mother throwing a wobbly when she sees you about to poke your finger in an electric socket, quickly pass into indirect memory. There, the reference to the experience, with all its pain and suffering, is carefully filtered so that only a hint of the original flavour remains, but it's enough of a hint to remind us to avoid situations which might unleash the full-flavoured version in the future.  
   The remainder of his free time was in large part spent, for want of a better description, sitting on his arse. Note that the description did not include the word 'idly'. The Jeremy was rarely in a state which, even by imaginative scoping, could be described thus. Quiet yes, idle no. His waking hours were spent investigating whatever was to hand.  
   He was a natural exponent of a primitive version of the scientific method, a characteristic shared with many, if not all, of his peers. While he didn't posit his hypotheses in very sophisticated terms, preferring to keep things simple – so simple that his hypotheses were often indistinguishable from those usually presented prior to executing that old favourite, the Bullina Chinashop procedure – he was certainly thorough in the testing phase.  
   The concept of non-destructive testing was an alien one to the Jeremy, who felt there was a risk that much valuable information would be lost if he didn't go 'all the way'. Indeed, his experience had proved this to be true time and time again. For instance, had he not adopted that attitude, he would not have discovered the source of the noise in the 'shake-it-shake-it-shake-it-make-a-lot-of-noise' thing. True, it no longer made _any_ noise no matter how much 'shake-it' was applied, but that seemed a small price to pay, a sentiment unfortunately not shared by his parents.

*

   A small but increasing percentage of his time, was spent undertaking a new activity to which he'd aspired for quite some while. He wasn't very proficient at it yet, but nevertheless, it intimated future possibilities of exploration which, up until then, had been stuck squarely in the realms of his wildest dreams.  
   He took a few more steps, teetering slightly, like a drunk who has fallen down enough times to know how to roll with it, laughed loudly as he marvelled at his achievement, and began to think of the places of interest to which he could now gain access.  
   Sadly, the ability to walk didn't deliver everything it had appeared to promise. He could live with the occasional stumble and, once in a while, the unexpected appearance of a doorpost directly in his path when his guidance system malfunctioned. These were minor inconveniences. And it was true that walking enabled him to get around marginally quicker, and gave him a more normal view of his surroundings. But the disappointing aspect was that his surroundings changed almost as soon as he conquered gravity enough to take a few steps.  
   All the interesting objects, which had been tantalisingly just out of reach before he'd successfully adopted an independent vertical orientation, were no longer where they had been. Most of the newly accessible places, which had held such promise, were now devoid of anything at all, let alone anything interesting.  
   It didn't seem fair. Much of his incentive to master the art of standing unaided, and then walking, had been his perception that the rewards for his efforts would be access to new objects. He hadn't understood that all the encouragement he'd received wasn't about gaining what he perceived as suitable rewards, it was about learning the skill itself.  
   He concluded that his parents should have made it clearer, but not being one to hold a grudge, he soon put the whole affair down to experience. He would, however, be a little more careful in the future to ensure contracts were well defined, and to examine the small print for gotchas.  
   On the whole, he welcomed his new toddler status and enjoyed it for its own sake. He could often be seen walking round in random circles, accompanied by unabashed giggling.  
   His new skill was also the cue for new apparel. Light blue in colour, his walking reins were a perfect fit. During practise sessions indoors, he found his mother was adept at using them to prevent him falling all the way to the floor when he stumbled. He liked his new reins.  
   After their first excursion outdoors, he didn't like them nearly so much. It wasn't that he was fickle, it was simply that he constantly adjusted his opinions to take account of new data. The new data, in this case, was that a secondary property of walking reins had revealed itself to be their easy use as a restraining tool. To be fair, his mother only used them in that manner when she detected he was in imminent danger. And it was just as well she did – he had yet to get to grips with the idea of his own mortality.

*

   That the words 'walking' and 'talking' rhyme so well is probably an irrelevant coincidence, but it does seem there is a strong link between them. In many toddlers, walking encourages and accelerates talking, their new mobility allowing them to find new things to talk about. And for some, talking is what becomes their defining characteristic. Toddling helps them search out donkeys with hind legs of suitable proportions on which to practise.  
   The Jeremy regarded talking as a useful means of communication, but he couldn't agree with the assertion that you can't have too much of a good thing. He was not a babbler, not even close. Donkeys were definitely interesting creatures, but he was happy to leave their hind legs in place. Besides, he'd have had a hard job talking the hind legs off _anything_ with a vocabulary which consisted of just ten words: 'mama', 'up', 'cat', 'book', 'ball', 'dadadadadada', 'bibi', 'bobo', 'bababa' and 'koko'.  
   The fact that the last four in the list were not recognised as ordinary words by lexicographers was of no concern to him. He regularly used them to mean all sorts of things, and sometimes, just because he liked the sound of them. 'Dadadadadada', although hinting that it might fall into the same category as the last four, was slightly different because it was simply meant to be 'dada'. It was just that once he got going with the 'da' sound, he usually found it hard to stop after only two repetitions.  
   He also found himself at odds with the lexicographers over the meaning of the words he used. For example, a typical lexicographer might define the meaning of 'cat' as firstly, _'a small domesticated carnivore, Felis domestica, bred in a number of varieties'_ , secondly, _'a member of the family Felidae, carnivores such as the lion, tiger, leopard etc.'_ and then finally, via increasingly esoteric definitions, as _'a woman given to spiteful or malicious gossip'_.  
   Ignoring the more esoteric definitions for the moment, the Jeremy felt the lexicographers were being a little on the strict side. For him, anything that was at all furry, had features that could be described as a head and body with a number of appendages attached, which moved (or did not), made a noise (or did not), or possessed any of these attributes in almost any combination, was most definitely 'cat'. He would also have argued that the correct word to use for the _'woman given to spiteful or malicious gossip'_ was 'mama', but for no other reason than all female humans – who were not Small Face – were tentatively 'mama', at least until he got a good look at them or heard their voice.  
   While it is true that his increased vocabulary removed many of his previous communication frustrations, there were still times when his words were misinterpreted.  
    _"Up,"_ he said, thinking it a simple matter for his mother to understand that he wanted her to get the 'shake-it-shake-it-shake-it-make-a-lot-of-noise' thing from the high place where she'd put it.  
   The fact that she'd placed the rattle there due to its non-functioning state after his intimate examination of its interior, had no bearing on his desire to have it. Maybe the 'make-a-lot-of-noise' bit had been restored to its former glory. But it all came to nought anyway because what did she do? Gripped him under his armpits and lifted him above her head, jauntily chanting _'up, up, up!'_ as she did so. Fortunately, on this occasion, her misunderstanding had resulted in an enjoyable experience, but that was not always the case, and sometimes, exasperation took hold.  
   He was very fond of the taste of apple. It sometimes made him screw his face up in a distorted fashion, but he liked that exciting taste. His word for apple was 'ball'. After all, apples were spherical enough, and if you glanced out of the corner of your eye at the fruit bowl on the table at the end of the room, you would be hard pressed to say, with 100% certainty, whether it contained solely apples, a mixture of apples and apple-sized balls or solely balls. The fact that oranges, grapes, and even pears were also described by the Jeremy as 'ball' was not the point.  
   When the craving for that exciting taste had taken over your mind, how distressing it was if you asked for 'ball' and you were given – a ball! It was enough to make you jump up and down, throw it away as hard as you could, cry, scream and shout _'BALL!'_ repeatedly, all in the hope that someone would get your drift and supply THAT TASTE! NOW, PEOPLE!  
   Multiply the exasperation he felt by the number of times the ball was retrieved from its far flung resting place and returned to him, as if it was some sort of game, and you will begin to get an understanding of just how exasperated he could get.  
   Such exasperations acted as an incentive to enlarge his collection of words still further, and to fit them together in evermore complex ways. That is not to say he began to admire the intrinsic beauty of language, it held no interest for him in these early days. Language was simply a means to an end, an end which often had some sort of physical gratification associated with it, or at the very least, would elicit a piece of useful information. There didn't seem a lot of point in using unnecessary words if the object of the exercise was to achieve a particular outcome.  
   Fast food had not yet become a universal phenomenon, but he was applying a similar principle to his verbal communications. Why say in ten words what could be said in five, or better still, three? Had he had the business acumen, he might have come up with 'Fast Frazes', or perhaps 'Phast Phrases', and made his fortune marketing the idea long before the advent of SMS.  
   Discarding such flights of fancy, it's as well to remember that the phrase 'make or break' did not apply to the events in the Jeremy's life at this time. The demands his mother placed upon him were as lovingly flexible as those made by any toddler's mother. Nevertheless, his fascination with making and breaking things continued to occupy his mind for a good portion of his time.

 ~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 5

   The sound was quite a surprise to the Jeremy. He'd expected some sort of audible confirmation of success, but for no good reason he could think of, he'd imagined it would have more of a ring to it, like the _'gding'_ which confirms a scoring contact by pinball on bumper. Not that he'd ever heard a pinball machine in action, or even seen one at rest. The point is that an encouraging _'gding'_ would have allowed him to continue his investigations into the ways of the physical world, unperturbed.  
   Alas, it was not a _'gding'_ but a _'denck!'_ It steamed full-speed-ahead into his auditory canals, precipitating his immediate and unceremonious eviction from the makeshift research centre he'd earlier created in his imagination. Worse still, the _'denck!'_ was visually augmented in a way that rather emphasised the very real and probably deleterious nature of the event. Even before he'd registered the sound, he'd seen the tiny particles as they burst away from the small piece of brick he'd thrown, dispersing on impact into a small dust-cloud, a cloud which seemed to hover a little longer than the laws of physics implied it should.  
   On the bright side, his experimental testing of his ability to calculate the correct trajectory – for a small object to make contact with a larger, moving object – had proved a resounding success. Not only that, he'd also proved, with equal success, his ability to transmute his calculations into sufficiently accurate control of his muscles. It should have been a time for congratulatory backslapping, jubilant celebration and uproarious cheering.  
   Unfortunately, there was something he'd neglected to include in his calculations. He had assessed, correctly, that the workers on the building site – who had become used to the presence of a small, four-year-old boy observing their labours from the periphery – would not object to him making use of a small fragment of brick for an important experiment. Indeed, had they been asked by a passing stranger, they would have said, _"don't give a monkey's_ 1 _  what he does as long as he don't get in the way and don't ask too many questions,"_ in that off-hand way that workers often use as a means to advertise their macho credentials.  
   Despite his careful assessment, what he'd failed to take into account, was the reaction of the passing motorist who owned the large, moving object which he'd commandeered as his target.  
   In his defence, it must be said that he didn't single out, with any malicious intent, that particular motorist or even that particular car. It simply happened to meet the requirements of the experiment: firstly, object size and secondly, occupancy of that place in time and space which defined it as moving in the desired manner. Nothing about its exquisitely smooth and unblemished paintwork, its glistening chrome decorations and accessories, its sparkling windows or the splendour of its white-wall tyres had even slightly influenced his decision to select it. It was certainly true that in other circumstances those very features would have been a source of fascination and possibly awe, but on this occasion, they were as significant as a handful of dust in a sandstorm.  
   Speaking of storms, he was smart enough to realise there was a big one brewing, and like so many sailors before him, he judged he had but two choices. He could brave the storm and take on board the distinct possibility that he might go down with his ship, albeit in a blaze of glory – something which an innate sense suggested might well be less than it's cracked up to be – or head for the nearest safe harbour, where the chances were he'd survive to tell the tale.  
   On another day, he might have carefully weighed the pros and cons of each course of action, taking into account as many factors as possible, both obvious and subtle, in order to come to the right decision via an objective ethical analysis of the facts, and then stood firm, erect and strong in resolute defence of his scientific enterprise. On this day, he legged it as fast as possible towards the beckoning welcome of his front door, wherein lay the safe harbour which had become the object of an overwhelming desire.  
   The building which was the recipient of the builders' construction skills was, if truth be told, completely out of character with its surroundings. The Jeremy lived in a small, terraced house – commonly referred to as a cottage in those parts – which had been built, along with most of the other nearby dwellings, in the previous century. The textured red brick and large picture windows of the new building were in stark contrast to the plastered exterior and small, multi-paned sash windows common to all the others.  
   These merely aesthetic details were of no concern to the Jeremy. He'd never seen a building of any description being constructed and, therefore, considered it a top priority to observe as much of the process as possible. His mother became aware of this when, on their first outing past the site, he dug his heels in, behaving like a dog which has decided to mark a lamp-post with its 'scent' even though its owner is intent on moving on. It took much cajoling, and not a little firmness, to persuade him that gazing at the proceedings on the site was not the prime objective of their trip. Of course, it was the confection of delights which lived within the corner shop, and his mother's intimation they were requesting his presence, which he found the most persuasive argument.  
   It was a ritual through which his mother had to struggle every time they went out, but the lure of goodies was becoming less and less effective with each invocation. The magic of the cement mixer had cast a spell on him which the promise of a Sherbet Fountain, or a packet of Parma Violets, was less and less likely to break.  
   This almost daily drama did not escape the notice of the workmen. In common with men at work everywhere, they viewed such a series of events as an excellent opportunity to commune with the attractive young mother on the pretext of being sympathetic with her struggle to deal with her son's obstinate determination.  
   It was as a result of these encounters, over a period of several weeks, and bolstered by the crew's assurance that _'he'll be alright, love'_ – which carried with it the implication they would keep an eye on him – that his mother eventually decided, given her knowledge of her son's nature, to let him watch from the edge of the site for a short time.  
   On the basis of trial and success – there was no room for error – the length of time he was allowed to watch un-chaperoned from his observation point at the corner of the site, grew from not much more than a minute to considerably longer. His interest was indeed confined to the marvellous goings-on within, a fact which came as no surprise to his mother. She had observed his fascination with _things_ , the study of which could occupy him for long periods of time, his attention neither waning nor getting snagged by other events around him. He was a good boy too; which, of course, really meant that he generally did what he was told. There didn't seem any reason to suppose he would change.  
   However, a phrase close to the hearts of financial advisers – assuming we accept they actually have hearts – which feels right at home in amongst the small print, goes something along the lines of 'past history is no indication of future performance', a handy little get out when their advice turns out to be rubbish.  
   The Jeremy's mother never sought their advice in regard to his likely future behaviour but nevertheless, their sneaky little phrase would have represented wise and pertinent counsel.  
   But, in fact, his behaviour barely changed at all.  
   On the day in question, he was watching one of the labourers loading the mixer, and he was impressed by his accuracy. Every time he swung his shovel, the sand flew off the end of it in a loose lump which all ended up in the mouth of the mixer several feet away. He never missed. One of the others was tossing bricks, two at a time, to his partner on the scaffolding. The Jeremy noticed how each pair of bricks hardly separated during their flight, a bit like the grains of sand but on a much larger scale. Then he began thinking about the arc of their flight through the air.  
   Before long, he began throwing small bits of brick – there was no shortage of them where he was standing – at an old and bent metal bucket nearby, calculating what the arc of their flight should be before he threw them. He got quite good at hitting his target. And then, of course, it was no longer a challenge. He needed something more difficult to hit. A moving target would be best, that would really test him. But there wasn't anything moving on the site, apart from the builders, and he didn't want to throw anything at them. It was the smallest of steps to widen the field of play to include the road and the plethora of anonymous moving targets thereon.

*

   So it was, that very shortly after the _'denck!'_ , the Jeremy crashed through the front door, and darted up the stairs to the playroom he shared with Small Face. Thankfully, he thought, she wasn't there. He was thankful for her absence mainly because she had a habit of asking far too many questions, the vast majority of which he categorized as either dumb or downright intrusive. There were exceptions, like when she asked him if he would like some chocolate flavoured milk, but even then her subsequent delivery was often not up to much.  
   His mother had told him that Small Face was his sister, but he wasn't sure he knew what that meant, other than she lived in the same house, called his mother 'mum', his father 'dad' and more often than not, behaved in annoying ways. Why did she have to move things? One moment his favourite die-cast miniature steamroller was in the middle of the floor, _exactly_ where he'd left it, the next it was hidden in the toy box. He wondered if it was something all sisters _had_ to do, but mostly he just accepted it as one of life's mysteries, for which, it seemed likely, he would never find a satisfactory answer.  
   His mother had also told him that he should love his sister, but it was quite some time before he realised that 'love' and 'tolerate' were not quite the same thing.

*

   He wasn't aware of what had happened after his hasty departure from the scene of the crime, having wisely turned his attention exclusively to the workings of the die-cast miniature steamroller mentioned previously. However, he was given a clue the next time he plucked up enough courage to resume his activities at the edge of the building site.  
    _"'Ello you young scallywag! You should've lobbed the whole brick!"_ the foreman laughed, with an enormously exaggerated wink.  
   The Jeremy didn't know how to respond, so he said nothing and smiled his best smile, a smile which provoked a bit of friendly hair touselling.  
   The Jeremy never knew it, but the foreman had witnessed the experiment, and had taken it upon himself to mount the defence which the Jeremy had adjudged to be too much of a hot potato. He and his fellow workers had developed a soft spot for the Jeremy, and viewed him as an honorary member of the gang. Detecting a threat to his young friend's well being, he'd intercepted the angry victim of the crime – who was advancing towards the Jeremy's front door, having correctly identified the source of what he believed to be a personal attack – and in that manner adopted by men who are confident in their ability to look after themselves, quietly suggested that he take his posh, shiny car and, _"poke it where the sun don't shine, or p'raps you'd like me 'n' the boys to do the pokin' for you?"_  
   It does seem grossly unfair on the poor car driver, but whatever the rights and wrongs of it, he was bright enough to speedily calculate that the choice between a spot of T-Cut, applied to his car by his own fair hand in the comfort of his driveway, as opposed to a spot of iodine, applied to his cuts and bruises by some burly ambulanceman in the middle of a public thoroughfare, was not a choice that needed much deliberation.  
   Was this episode some awful personal karma visiting just desserts upon him for indiscretions in a previous life? Or perhaps a test of his Christian belief in the tenet of 'turn the other cheek'? If it was the latter, then his initial response rather implied his belief wasn't strong enough to influence what he actually did, at least, not until the other cheek was threatened.  
   In fact, he viewed it as just another example of how the world was against him. It was a view he continued to hold until a brief but erotic encounter with an unbelievably attractive and free thinking young lady – who insisted on holding a copy of Kerouac's 'On The Road' at _all times_ – allowed him to rationalise it away with the thought that the episode had taught him something about the nature of his attachment to material possessions.  
   The young lady in question also introduced him to the Chinese Zodiac, informing him it was the year of the Monkey. She said it would be the year of the Rooster or Cock the following year and its associated element would be Fire, too. She told him she was born in the year of the Tiger and Tigers were unpredictable, rebellious, colourful, powerful, passionate, daring, impulsive, vigorous, stimulating, sincere, affectionate, humanitarian and generous.  
   The relationship came to an abrupt end when, after receiving this information, he made the crass mistake of saying that his cock was definitely on fire and in need of a passionate pussy for a bit of monkey business.

*

   As for the Jeremy, the events of the day didn't leave him unscathed. Fortunately, his mother was unaware of the day's drama due to the foreman's intervention, so he didn't have that explaining to do. But that didn't mean he was off the hook.  
   He knew he'd done wrong, even if he hadn't meant to. He was worried about what God would think, and he couldn't stop feeling guilty. He was sure it was a sin, and that meant he had a black mark on his soul, and God was angry with him. He fervently wished it hadn't happened, but there was no escape. God had seen him do it because He could see everything, and that meant He was watching right at that moment too. He wished God would see he was really a good boy, but he feared that God wouldn't agree. Would God punish him for his sin? He feared he knew the answer to that too.  
   As bedtime approached, the knot of fear inside him grew tighter, and he tried everything he could think of to avoid the inevitable. He went through his entire repertoire of activities which might provoke interest, and preferably participation, especially from his mother who he knew was the final arbiter regarding his bedtime. When he'd exhausted all the legitimate ploys, he began those activities which parents define as 'playing up', in a desperate, last ditch attempt to delay the trip up the creaky old stairs, even though he knew it was a lost cause.  
   The floating heads would come again, he knew it. They frightened him so much. They never actually said or did anything, apart from appear at the bottom of his bed before coming around the side towards him, but the threat level was off his scale. They often came. He knew they would come tonight.

*

   Fear seized him, making the hairs not only at the back of his neck but on the whole of his head feel like they were electrified. As he lay there, motionless, the blankets drawn close about him, pulled up to just beneath his eyes, he stared at the foot of his bed in the semi-darkness, straining to see if anything was there.  
   His mother knew about the heads because he'd told her. She'd said they were just ghosts, and he shouldn't worry about them because his Guardian Angel would protect him. He'd tried to tell her that he only ever saw the heads, and he'd never seen his Guardian Angel, but she'd said, _"Oh, don't worry my darling. He's always there."_  
   She seemed so sure about it that he thought it _must_ be true. He told himself that his Guardian Angel probably was there, and it was just that he couldn't see him, but he still had lingering doubts.  
   His childish logic suggested to him that a Guardian Angel was, as everyone knew, a special kind of angel who was strong enough to defend him against anything, and therefore, he was likely to be big. If he was big, then he would have large wings. If he had large wings, then it seemed really, really, really likely that he would have noticed him if he'd put in an appearance. He hadn't even seen an angel with small wings. The only explanation he could think of was that his Guardian Angel was invisible. But it wasn't a satisfying explanation; the heads weren't invisible. He could see them. And they seemed to be able to do exactly what they liked. So even if his Guardian Angel was invisible, what was he _doing_ to protect him? He went over it again and again, but no matter how he looked at it, he couldn't deny the logic, or his doubts.  
   While he couldn't deny his doubts, he tried hard to suppress them because having them made him feel guilty. It wasn't that he felt guilty about having doubts per se, it was because these particular doubts meant that he doubted his mother. And that gave rise to a painful conflict for which he couldn't find, and had no hope of finding, a solution. At four years old, the Jeremy was learning to punish himself for attempting some critical thinking. And what's more, he was learning to think that he deserved to be punished.  
   How he wished for his Guardian Angel. He wanted his Guardian Angel more than anything else in the whole world that night. He knew the heads were coming.

*

   He wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep or if he was still awake, but either way, he was certainly frozen with fear. The four heads were there, at the bottom of the bed. He could not, dared not breathe. If he stayed still enough, perhaps they would go away, or at least not come any closer. If he ever truly needed his Guardian Angel then this was the moment. He would never have a greater need. He silently pleaded for help but none came. And they were coming, coming around the foot of his bed, floating towards him, closer and closer. He begged for help with every ounce of his life.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 6

    _"Because they are nuns."_  
   It was one of those answers which, while true, completely missed the point of the question. Everybody knew that if you were a nun you had to wear those clothes. What the Jeremy wanted to know was why did they _have_ to?  
   It would be a while longer before he got to grips with the notion of choosing the right moment to ask a question. As yet, he hadn't even mastered the art of not choosing the wrong moment. The wrong moment, on this occasion, was the point at which his mother was about to leave him in the care of said nuns on his first day at school.  
   St Joseph's RC Primary was a small school. There were just two classrooms. The small classroom, for the first four years of attendance, and the big classroom, for the remaining years, up until it was time to move on to secondary school. The terms 'small' and 'big' had nothing to do with the size of the rooms. They referred to the size of the children in them.  
   He didn't cry, scream or indulge in a tantrum, stoically standing his ground as he watched his mother leave the room. He didn't like the room. It was big, and he felt very small and awkward in it. He couldn't see anyone he knew, and he didn't know what to do or how to behave. He'd only been up and about for a day, having spent several days in bed suffering with stomach ache. He'd missed the first day of term.  
   Sister Mary Margaret smiled at him and said, _"C'mere to me now. Don't you be worrying yourself, you'll be on the baker's list again, so you will, may the good Saints protect you."_  
   He looked up at her and gave a half-hearted smile, purely because her smile was the only part of her communication which he thought he might have understood correctly. It wasn't just the Irish accent, it was her unfamiliar way of phrasing things, and the fact that much of it didn't make any sense at all.  
   He felt he was quite close enough to her already, and any closer would mean he was touching her, and that didn't seem right. And as for the baker's list, well he didn't know if he'd ever been on it or why the baker would have a list in the first place. What was it for? He was far from convinced he wanted to be on it but the thought that there might be some cake involved was nudging him towards acceptance. He also had a small concern about the _bad_ saints, even though they hadn't actually been mentioned.  
    _"C'mere will you now. I'll not be hurting you will I. You're a quiet one, so y'are, God love us,"_ this time with a broader grin.  
   Reluctantly, he shuffled a bit closer, until he could feel the black material of her habit touching his arm and leg. She looked a little surprised, and took a small step backwards saying, _"Well, let's see now. Where will we be putting you?"_  
   He'd never heard the word, but nevertheless, 'nonplussed' was exactly what he felt. Her behaviour was most peculiar. He couldn't think of what to say, so he tried another tentative smile.  
   Sister Mary Margaret took his hand in hers and led him to the far corner of the room where there was a group of ten small desks. At nine of them were seated small boys and girls of about his age.  
    _"So, you'll be wanting to know who the new boy is, so you will, God love and bless you,"_ she said to the group, who were staring at the Jeremy with that open curiosity common among five-year-olds.  
   There was one exception. The girl in the corner. She was furiously scribbling with a blue crayon on a piece of paper on the desk in front of her, simultaneously supplying a narrative in the form of _"an' that's the blue sky"_ , apparently for no one's benefit but her own. She seemed completely wrapped up in what she was doing.  
    _"And what is it you're after drawing, Eileen?"_ enquired Sister Mary Margaret, in a not unfriendly tone but one which demanded, and got, Eileen's immediate attention.  
    _"It's a picture of Mummy an' Daddy an' our house an' a tree an' there's grass an' flowers an' blue sky an'...an'...an'.......a birdie,"_ said Eileen, without pause for breath.  
    _"A birdie is it? And where would the birdie be now?"_ enquired the nun, observing its absence from Eileen's drawing.  
   Eileen paused for a moment, then said, _"He flew away."_  
    _"And where is our Heavenly Father, blessed be His name?"_ asked Sister Mary Margaret, not wishing to miss any opportunity to praise Him, even if the link was tenuous at best.  
    _"He's... he's... ,"_ began Eileen, as if she knew the answer but couldn't quite remember it.  
    _"He's all around us, watching over us and guiding us every day, so He is,"_ pronounced Sister Mary Margaret, joyfully.  
    _"Sit here beside Steven and you be a good boy now,"_ she instructed the Jeremy, _"and we'll all be giving thanks to God, our Almighty Father, for loving us so dearly."_  
   He wanted to sit next to Eileen because she hadn't stared at him like the others, and he wanted to look at her drawing too. He'd seen Steven at church, although he hadn't known his name, and even though he didn't have much of a reason for not liking him – apart from the fact he'd stared a little too intently – he still didn't want to sit next to him. It was simply that he didn't like the _look_ of him. But there was nowhere else to sit.  
   He sat down.  
   Sister Mary Margaret went to the front of the class, and held up the big ebony crucifix which always hung from her waist. She didn't have to ask for silence.  
    _"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,"_ said Sister Mary Margaret, slowly and clearly.  
   Each child moved their right hand to their forehead, then to their midriff, and finally, to each of their shoulders in time with the words.  
    _"Amen,"_ they chorused.  
   And then, led by Sister Mary Margaret, they closed their eyes, put their palms together – while holding their hands in front of their faces – and recited a prayer in that musical style which children adopt when repeating things they've learnt 'parrot fashion'. The prayer was what was affectionately known to most of them as the 'Glory Be'. The Jeremy's corner, being new to the game, did their best to keep up.  
    _"Glory-be-to-the-Father—and-to-the-Son—and-to-the-Holy-Spirit—as-it-was-in-the-beginning—is-now—and-ever-shall-be—world-without-end—Ah-men."_  
   He'd heard it before, but this was the first time he'd been expected to join in and say it out loud. He wondered if he was the only one who didn't understand what it meant. 'Glory' was a concept a little too advanced for him, and as for the second half of it, he didn't have a clue. Fortunately, it was soon obvious to him that there was no requirement for him to understand it. All he had to do was make the right sounds come out of his mouth.  
   Over the coming days and weeks, he came to the conclusion that much of school was about making the right sounds come out of your mouth at the right time. And sometimes, it was about making sure that no sounds came out of your mouth at all, like when any of the Sisters held up their crucifix.  
   Learning by rote was the modus operandi at St Joseph's. The words _'repeat after me'_ came to act as a special neural switch in the brains of the pupils. It was an automatic override switch which caused them firstly, to stop whatever they were doing, secondly, to listen intently to the sounds which came from Sister Mary Margaret's mouth, and thirdly, to do their very best to imitate the sounds while simultaneously committing them to memory. Sister Mary Margaret used various techniques to reinforce the commitment stage, but the most common was to make whatever it was that had to be remembered into a song, or at least a chant. The Jeremy learnt his ABC by singing along with his group.  
   It was quite hard work because there was a lot of stuff to learn. One moment he would be chanting, _"three-twos-are-six—four-twos-are-eight,"_ and the next it would be, _"I-believe-in-God—the-Father-Almighty—creator-of-heaven-and-earth."_  
   Then again, sometimes it might be, _"i-before-e—except-after-c,"_   or perhaps, _"Hail-Mary-full-of-grace—the-Lord-is-with-thee."_  
   But despite it being hard work, he found it quite easy to learn things that way. And he enjoyed demonstrating his ability by reciting what he'd learnt because it often resulted in a lot of praise.  
   Life at St Joseph's could not be judged all work and no play though, not by a long chalk. There were official 'playtimes', one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The Jeremy always looked forward to the mid-morning one because each child would receive a small bottle of fresh milk, one third of a pint to be precise. It was a cool, refreshing drink in the summer, but in the colder months the bottles were placed around the base of the large coal-fired boiler in the centre of the room just as soon as the milkman had made his delivery. The boiler was a permanent fixture, protected by a fine mesh metal guard which completely enclosed it. On cold days, warm milk was something to look forward to, the more so because the boiler's ad hoc milk-warming function was much better than its space heating abilities.  
   Sometimes, even the work in lesson times was more like play. Especially so when they were asked to draw pictures – the Jeremy could never think of drawing pictures as 'work'. In good weather, they went outside for their Physical Instruction lessons. They would line up to take their turn at various activities such as jumping over a horizontal bar – technically the high jump, but with the bar set at around twelve inches off the ground, it seems an exaggeration to name it thus – or zigzagging in and out of a row of small, coloured beanbags, placed at equidistant intervals over the length of the playground.  
   The Jeremy enjoyed Physical Instruction, particularly jumping. He was always keen for his turn to come, and he would silently encourage each of the children before him as he waited in line. This encouragement manifested itself in an involuntary jerking of his right leg at the very moment each child was about to leap. Unfortunately, this habit was noticed by the other children, who thought it both funny and strange. They would point at him and giggle whenever he did it.  
   He hadn't managed to establish any close relationships with any of the other children, and he was beginning to feel he was somehow different. The more he tried to be one of the gang, the more this feeling grew. He didn't like the feeling. It was as if he was an outsider. On the occasions he'd tried to join in with them at playtime, they'd just ignored him, continuing their game as if he wasn't there. He didn't tell anyone about it because he thought it might be his own fault, and he didn't want to hear it confirmed. Sometimes, he would pretend to himself that he _was_ part of their game, in an attempt to deny the unpleasant reality.  
   He couldn't understand why the other children were so unfriendly. What was it they expected from him? Sister Mary Margaret always told him exactly what she wanted. Like _'draw a picture of baby Jesus and the three Kings'_ or _'repeat after me'_. Although it wasn't always easy to give her what she wanted, at least he knew precisely what she did want. The children rarely told him what they wanted. In fact, they didn't talk to him much at all.  
   What he didn't know, and whether it had anything to do with it is debatable, was that he _was_ considered an outsider. He was designated so because his family hadn't lived in that small country town, or failing that at least within the borders of the county, for generation upon generation. He was also unaware that the somewhat derogatory term used by the locals for such people was 'foreigner'.  
    _"What do you expect from a foreigner!?"_ could be heard as a disdainful rhetorical question in many a pub or tea room, both of which were places where locals met to gossip and maintain their high opinions of themselves.  
    _"She said, 'Good morning Mrs Parsons,' in that voice of hers, as if she thinks she's gentry."_  
    _"Well, what do you expect from a foreigner!?"_  
   Like it or not, having been born in Leicestershire, the Jeremy's mother was a foreigner. His father also fell into the category, notwithstanding the fact that _his_ father was the resident vicar in a village not five miles distant. Even that respectability couldn't save him. The simple fact of the matter was that his father's birthplace was in Cambridgeshire. So despite the Jeremy's birth in the local hospital, his heritage meant his status could be nothing but foreigner. Not that anyone had ever used the term to his face, least of all any of the children at school.  
   Be that as it may, it's possible that it was his behaviour which caused the other children to treat him as they did, rather than any perceptions they had about his roots. After all, he was still inclined to be economic with his words – a description in which others of a less charitable nature might have used the word 'stingy' rather than 'economic'.  
   From the Jeremy's point of view, it was simply a matter of saying only what was needed without any superfluous embellishment. It didn't occur to him that lots of people _like_ superfluous embellishment, possibly because it allows them to indulge in it too. And he had yet to understand that sometimes, a little embellishment can add clarity.  
   Whatever, the absence of embellishment in one tends to show it up for what it is in others, and often results in embarrassing silences. Whether it was an inherent part of his character, or something which had developed as a reaction to life's experiences, made not a jot of difference. He was unable to bring himself to say more than he thought necessary, despite finding embarrassing silences just as embarrassing as his verbally flatulent companions. His brevity would get him into trouble.

*

    _"Sister?"_  
    _"And what is it you're wanting, Jeremy?"_  
    _"Are you wearing clothes inside... there?"_ he asked, pointing at her habit.  
    _"Mother Mary and Joseph! It's the Devil's got your tongue! May the good Lord have mercy on us. Oh Heavenly Father, we pray for Your forgiveness. Help us poor sinners banish the Devil and his wicked ways from our thoughts!"_  
   He hadn't expected _that_. He didn't understand what had just happened. Up until that moment, Sister Mary Margaret's habit had been the opaque disguise it was intended to be, successfully denying the existence of an ordinary woman, with real womanly features, beneath it. His thoughts had barely penetrated it, but he still hadn't been given a proper answer to his question about why they had to wear it, so he'd been undertaking a little speculative thinking.  
   Although he hadn't consciously made the association, he'd come to see Sister Mary Margaret and her habit in the same way you might think about someone posing with their face poked through the hole in one of those things you find at the end of the pier. What _are_ they called? They have a life sized painting of a strongman – or sometimes a voluptuous woman in a polka-dot bikini – on a big piece of board, but there's a hole where their face should be. And you can stand behind it, and put _your_ face through the hole and have your photograph taken.  
   He was merely wondering if Sister Mary Margaret was a nun all the time, or whether it was only when she had her face poked through the hole in her habit. And if that _was_ the case, then he thought it quite likely that she wore ordinary clothes inside the habit. Ordinary clothes like his mother wore. Or Mrs Hartley, next door. Maybe a dress, or perhaps a skirt, or slacks, with a blouse and, if it was cold, a cardigan. He thought it was _obvious_ what _'are you wearing clothes inside... there?'_ meant. He was quite puzzled, and not a little alarmed, at her reaction. And it wasn't over yet.  
    _"Let us pray to the Holy Mother."_  
   Out came the crucifix, and they all recited the Hail Mary, dutifully following Sister Mary Margaret's lead.  
   He saw Sister Mary Margaret's reaction as incontrovertible proof that there was nothing about her, absolutely nothing, that could be described as ordinary. He thought it almost certainly meant she didn't wear ordinary clothes inside her habit, either. Yet despite her belief to the contrary, the alternative vision of in-habit reality had not materialised in his mind.  
   He decided to let sleeping dogs lie, or rather, because they weren't sleeping, he hoped their cacophonous barking would die down sooner rather than later. Either way, he thought it would probably be safest if he didn't ask any more questions, or say anything at all if he could help it, just in case the Devil got his tongue again.  
   At that moment, another thought popped into his head. Did she ever get out of the habit? Perhaps she _couldn't_ get out of it? Was she sealed inside it? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The stiff white bit around the hole which she poked her face through was tight against her skin, and the bit round her neck was a close fit too. She wouldn't be able to lift it off even if she wanted to.  
   Without slowing, his train of thought diverted up another track. Where was the Devil now? He shivered. Was he waiting to get his tongue again? Had he got his thoughts instead of his tongue? Was it the Devil planting them in his head? That was scary, but on balance, he was more worried about him getting his tongue because that had proved to have consequences of a very tangible nature.  
   It was frightening. Was the Devil always in his head? How could he tell? He never _tried_ to have evil thoughts. He didn't _want_ to have evil thoughts. In fact he didn't want the Devil anywhere near him. And the worst of it was that it seemed his evil thoughts happened even though he didn't want them, and on top of that he didn't _know_ they were evil until after he'd had them. Praying _after_ evil thoughts had popped up in his head, or worse, found their way to his tongue, was too late as far as the Jeremy could see. What he needed was a prayer he could say which would stop it happening in the first place.  
   But that would have to wait because his attention was redirected when he thought he heard his name mentioned. Sister Mary Margaret was asking the other children, in a roundabout kind of way, to pray for him when they said their bedtime prayers.  
    _"Now don't you go forgetting on me Jeremy, and all of the rest of you too, when you say your prayers tonight, you must pray to the Holy Father, blessed be His name, to ask Him to help us poor sinners banish the Devil and his wicked ways from our thoughts."_  
   This was not a welcome turn of events. He didn't feel in the least bit grateful, viewing this latest development merely as more evidence that everyone thought he was different, and not in a nice way.  
   Sister Mary Margaret went on to tell the children that they must always be on their guard against the Devil, who was lurking everywhere, just looking for a chance to steal their souls.  
    _"And we all of us know what happens if the Devil steals your soul, don't we now."_  
   Just to be sure they did, she spelt it out for them.  
    _"If you let him, the Devil will trick you, so he will. And when he's after stealing your soul, he'll be making you do terrible, bad things now, and sure you'll be burning in Hell forever, so you will."_  
   The children were silent, and she paused long enough for her message to sink in.  
   She hadn't spoken her words with any histrionics or melodrama. Instead, she'd adopted, and slightly adapted, that lilting style commonly used for telling those more charming children's tales, the sort that might feature lambs frolicking in green meadows on a summer's afternoon. Experience had shown it to be a far more effective way of scaring the living daylights out of children. And for Sister Mary Margaret, that was, of course, merely an expedient way of guiding them onto the path of righteousness.  
   And then she added, _"And we won't be wanting that, will we now?"_  
    _"No Sister,"_ they murmured in reply, their subdued tones a sure indication, in her view, that her words had worked their magic. Or rather, because Sister Mary Margaret didn't think she believed in magic, it would be more correct to say that she assumed their subdued tones meant she had indeed scared them half witless, and considered it a given that the result of that would be their adherence to the straight and narrow, as defined by the Heavenly Father (ably assisted by a succession of earthly cohorts, who'd fortunately been able to provide the finer detail wherever it was deemed to be lacking).  
   Sister Mary Margaret smiled. And then, without further ado, changed tack, suggesting the children might like to draw a picture of mummy and daddy. For the Jeremy, 'drawing a picture of mummy and daddy' was not very high on his list of preferences. 'Finding an emergency exit' vied for top spot with the much more attractive solution whereby the whole day disappeared without trace. But he fervently wished that drawing a picture _was_ at the top of his list, because he was scared that wanting the other things was the work of the Devil.  
   He drew his picture of his parents very carefully, making sure to include God on a cloud in the sky. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should draw the Devil hiding behind a tree, to show he understood the danger, but he decided against it in case it was the Devil _making_ him think he should be included.  
   His dearest wish was that his brain would just stop. He wanted to hide somewhere safe, somewhere where the Devil couldn't find him. But he couldn't think of anywhere. He wanted to go home, but even there he wouldn't be safe. Home was where the floating heads were.  
   Someone made of lesser stuff might well have burst into tears. But it wasn't the stuff he was made of which kept him from crying. It was the certainty that it would attract further unwelcome attention if he did, and he'd had all the unwelcome attention he could handle for one day.

*

   As he lay in bed, his thoughts returned to his need for a prayer which would stop the Devil getting his tongue. Driven by necessity, he made one up as best he could.  
    _"Please God, don't let the Devil get my tongue."_  
   He said it as loudly as he could, inside his mind, the outward signs of which showing up as tension in his facial muscles. It was the first time he'd made up a prayer of his own, one which hadn't been prompted by someone else. Of course, he said his prayers every night at bedtime, but he only prayed for things he'd been told he _should_ pray for. Like all the sick and poor people. He'd prayed for them earlier when his mother tucked him in to bed, but he hadn't expected to get a personal answer. He'd just assumed that God would do it. His new prayer was different.  
   God hadn't responded yet, so he said his prayer again, but this time much more slowly and with lots of emphasis on the _'please'_. He waited for what he thought was a long time, but still he heard nothing. It was very disconcerting because Sister Mary Margaret was always telling them that God hears everyone's prayers, no matter how big, small, good or bad you were, just as long as you meant it with all your heart. Perhaps that was it. He said it again, and added, _"and I mean it with all my heart."_  
   Why didn't He answer? A simple, _'Okey-doke'_ or even just, _'Okay'_ would have done fine, but the silence left him feeling very lonely and more than a little worried. Was God so angry with him that He was ignoring him just to teach him a lesson?  
   He decided to have a conversation with himself. Just a thought conversation, not talking out loud. He wanted to make sure he could hear himself when he said something in his head because, he reasoned, if _he_ could hear himself, then surely God could hear him when he said his prayer?  
    _"Can you hear me?"_ he silently asked.  
    _"Yes,"_ he silently replied.  
   He hadn't had any real doubt about it. He knew he would be able to hear himself even before he checked, but he did it anyway, partly because he needed to do something to fill the silence.  
   Perhaps he wasn't saying his prayer the right way? He thought for a moment about the normal, everyday prayers he'd been taught. There was the Sign Of The Cross, the Hail Mary, the Our Father, and the Glory Be. He had to admit that his prayer didn't sound nearly as grand as any of them. Even saying Grace before meals sounded more important. He recited it to himself to see if it would help.  
    _"Bless-us-O-Lord—and-these-Thy-gifts—which-we-are-about-to-receive—from-Thy-bounty—through-Christ-our-Lord-amen."_  
   He thought it might sound better if he modelled his prayer on that. It wasn't easy. He was so used to regurgitating it in one long sequence of sounds that it took several attempts before he managed, _"Bless us O Lord. Please don't let the Devil get my tongue. And I mean it with all my heart. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."_  
   It still didn't sound quite as good as the proper prayers, but it was a lot better than it had been to start with. He said it several more times until it began to flow quite fluently. He was sure God would hear it now.  
   Before he realised that God still hadn't acknowledged his request, his mind was sidetracked into thinking about the words he'd pinched from the Grace prayer. In order to extract them, he'd been forced to think about the sentences as _words_ rather than as a collection of sounds. He began thinking about the words of all the prayers he recited, and what they meant. The short answer was straightforward; he didn't know. He decided to stop thinking about it because doing so wasn't helping in the slightest.  
   But, as everyone who has ever tried it knows, deciding to stop thinking about something invariably has the opposite effect, causing the unwanted thought to expand to fill every crack and crevice of one's brain.  
    _"Bless—us—O—Lord—and—these—Thy—gifts—..."_  
   The words danced round and round in his head. The more they danced, the less he understood them. And the less he understood them, the more they took on a visual appearance in his imagination. Each word was imbued with a life of its own, with 'Lord' leading the major players in a merry jig while the lower case words moved aside to clear a path.

*

   Nobody at the school appeared to notice, but after his day of unwelcome attentions, the Jeremy became just that little bit quieter, that little bit more introverted. He also began to suffer from a very painful stomach condition. It wasn't the usual 'Monday morning stomach ache' beloved of those who would prefer the weekend to go on forever. The Jeremy's condition could strike at any time, and was truly painful. Of course, he was the only one who could link it to his memory of that day, and the fear it might happen again. But even though he _could_ , he didn't, preferring to suppress the memories.  
   His mother became quite worried, and took him for a consultation with the family doctor. He prodded and poked around the Jeremy's abdomen, eventually conceding that he didn't know the cause, but suggested it might be linked to his diet. His mother immediately protested, in somewhat offended tones, that she might not have much money but she was always careful to make sure her children ate a balanced diet.  
   Doctor Ross retreated behind his desk with an, _"I'm sure you do,"_ and went on to say that he was merely suggesting that the Jeremy might have an allergy to something he was eating.  
   Slightly embarrassed that she'd mentioned her financial circumstances, before hastily exiting the surgery, his mother agreed to test the doctor's diagnosis. She was to do so by removing one item at a time from the Jeremy's diet, in the hope that the offending food would be identified. And true to her word, he first had to endure going without cheese, then eggs and so on, for several weeks.  
   Of course, this strict regime revealed nothing about his mysterious stomach problems which continued to lay him low at random intervals. The regimen merely deprived him of the pleasure of enjoying his meals. It was fortunate for him that he went home for lunch instead of eating school dinners. Had his mother asked the school to adhere to her dietary demands, yet more unwelcome attention would no doubt have supervened.  
   He was mightily pleased when his diet returned to normal, the 'test' having been inconclusive at best. Contrary to expectations, his condition immediately improved which launched a posse of question marks which galloped around inside his mother's brain, looking for the right questions to latch onto. That no further questions were ever asked of Doctor Ross suggests the records would show the posse as 'missing in action, presumed dead'.

*

   The Jeremy's recollections of his days at St Joseph's _after_ his alleged brush with the Devil were lost in the mists of time far more rapidly than would be considered normal, suggesting they'd been discarded rather than lost. But he could recall events which happened at home quite easily. Like his sixth birthday, for which he received a Lone Star long-barrelled cap-firing revolver and ten rolls of caps. It remained his favourite toy right up until the following Christmas, and was regularly at his side, regardless of whether he had any ammo.  
   A roll of caps was often one of the items clamouring for inclusion on the list of things which his pocket money might buy. Each roll consisted of one hundred 'caps', in the form of little blobs of 'something' – a bit like flattened match heads – which were stuck at about half inch intervals on a quarter inch wide strip of very thin cardboard. When inserted in the gun, pulling the trigger advanced the roll and sent the hammer crashing down on the next cap, creating a satisfyingly explosive bang, often accompanied by a wisp of smoke and the smell of burnt gunpowder. When gobstoppers, Black Jacks or aniseed balls ousted the roll of caps from his shopping list, he substituted _'Peeyowng! Peyowng!'_ – the sort of noise that passes many a young boy's lips to simulate gunfire, his variant carrying with it an implicit ricochet.  
   Not long after his birthday, his mother began to get fat. She informed him it was because she had a baby growing inside her. He didn't think it looked much like a baby, it just looked like a fat tummy, but he didn't mention it. His mother told him that soon he would have a baby brother or sister. He thought about it for a while, and decided he'd prefer a brother. He already had a sister, and she was enough trouble as it was without another one. But he didn't mention that either.  
   When Neil arrived, the Jeremy studied him for a while and came to the conclusion that babies were not very attractive creatures. On top of that, they made a lot of noise and smelt bad most of the time, but nobody else appeared to notice. He carried on as normal and let them get on with it. 'Normal' included shooting Neil with his gun. It got him into trouble. He didn't understand what all the fuss was about. After all, he was just applying standard gun-toting rules; if it moves, shoot it! He was fortunate that his parents hadn't embraced the whole psychoanalysis thing too deeply, otherwise questions about him feeling rejected because of the newcomer might have been discussed much more seriously than they were.  
   As it happens, the Jeremy did feel rejected. Not because of Neil's arrival on the scene, but because it was the first time he'd got into trouble just for shooting someone. He didn't blame Neil, he hadn't made a fuss.  
   Life changed, but not in any big way. Things just took longer than they had before. He still had to go to school, but the fact that it took forever waiting for his mother to prepare his brother before they set out was more like a bonus. It seemed to delay his arrival there.  
   In the Spring, he welcomed the news they would be moving house, even if the prospect of going to a strange new school was daunting. St Joseph's held nothing but painful memories and the threat of further mental anguish. Anything seemed better than that.  
   If it wasn't for those small bottles of milk, the Jeremy might well have been convinced that St Joseph's was standing at the gates of Hell itself. Sister Mary Margaret was scary. Sister Mary, who taught the big children and rarely said anything to the small ones, was scary. Father John, who sometimes visited and spoke in whispers to Sister Mary Margaret, was scary. And that was before he'd even begun to think about the Devil lurking in the shadows.  
   When it came right down to it, there wasn't a lot _not_ to be frightened of. He wasn't sure if he was more frightened of the Devil or God Himself. The Devil and the fires of Hell scared him no end, but God's absolute power, and the discomforting fact that he never did get an answer to his prayer, trumped the Devil every time.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 7

    _"Adder!"_ shouted the Jeremy, as vivid mental images surged into his mind, instantly displacing all else. His excitement was rocket propelled, prompting a verbal repetition so fast it nearly merged with the second syllable of the original.  
    _"Adder!"_ he yelled again.  
   He also found his right arm extending towards the ceiling, aided in its quest for altitude by repetitive hopping on the ball of his right foot.  
   The cause of this unexpected outburst? Hearing the question, _"Can anyone tell me the name of Britain's only poisonous snake?"_  
   It was unprecedented. No mere words had ever caused him to react so swiftly, and with such certainty. There could be no doubt. The adder was the poisonous snake in question, and, incredibly, he'd had first hand experience of this very creature and recently to boot – indeed it had been first boot.  
   He began reliving the events in his mind. He, John and Roger had been on an exploratory trek into the woods at the bottom of the road when what, at an initial glance, was without question a cow pat juicily planted in the middle of the path, turned out to be a dead snake, curled up like a Catherine wheel. At least it was dead right up until the moment when casual prodding with the Jeremy's right foot had disturbed its sleep. Three young explorers had leapt in unison several feet into the air and, cartoon-like, hit the ground running.  
   It was only later, in the safety of home territory, that the snake's 'adder' identity was revealed. Like an unexpectedly brilliant gift retrieved from the sawdust of a lucky dip barrel, this sensational news came after enthusiastic descriptions of the encounter had been given to parents. Needless to say, the revelation also came with stringent admonitions regarding safe practices if, against better judgement, a foray into the woods was unwisely undertaken in the future.  
   As sensational as the news had been, he had been wise enough to adopt an appropriately serious expression, specifically designed to pass parental standards of believability. Internally, he embarked upon a victory parade worthy of any homecoming hero, the survivor of an encounter with the deadliest of animals just the thought of which set the heart pumping. Cascades of neural tickertape mingled in the air with the triumphant notes of the marching band which had taken up temporary temporal residence. This surely was a glorious moment. The Jeremy had been ecstatic.  
   And now, the ecstasy had poured forth again with dambusting ferocity at the mere mention of snakes. Nothing could rain on his newly rejuvenated parade. Nothing, that is, except the voice of Miss Heart who, up until that moment, he'd classified as quite a nice teacher.  
    _"WE don't shout out in class in THIS school!"_  
   The harshly spoken words infiltrated his rekindled cerebral celebrations, and set off an explosive device the nature of which any self respecting terrorist would have been immensely proud. Accurately placed, the word bomb took out the CJU (Central Joy Unit), demolished all the surrounding cover, and left him critically exposed.  
   As if to rub cordite in his wounds, after a pause she added, _"Can anyone tell me the correct answer?"_  
   There was silence, except for the sound of young bodies trying to minimize their profile in a futile attempt to hide. Everyone knew the Jeremy had already given the correct answer.  
    _"Oh come now. One of you must know. Roger, surely you know the answer,"_ she said, focussing her gaze upon the unfortunate boy.  
    _"Yes Miss,"_ came the mumbled reply.  
    _"Well come on then, speak up! Don't keep us all waiting."_  
    _"An adder, Miss,"_ said the hapless Roger, his voice dripping with misery.  
    _"What was that? We couldn't hear you. Speak up boy!"_  
    _"An ADDER, Miss,"_ the unhappy boy repeated.  
    _"That's right, Roger. Well done!"_  
   Roger agreed whole heartedly that he'd definitely been well done, if not roasted to a crisp.  
   The Jeremy had been expertly isolated, explicitly excluded from the 'WE' which constituted 'THIS' school. How well-crafted were those words of Miss Heart. And the follow up had been a veritable coup de grâce, except it involved no mercy whatsoever and, furthermore, no intention to end any suffering.

*

   It was the start of the Jeremy's second term at Eastfield Primary School. It was also the start of the first term after the summer holidays, and consequently he'd moved up a year along with the other children in his class.  
   Despite its foreboding address in Workhouse Lane, his new school's airy, light atmosphere had come as a welcome change from the sulphur-laden fog of St Joseph's. It was a kaleidoscope full of colour in comparison to the previous malevolent monochrome. No Sister Mary Margaret in her black and white habit here.  
   In his first term, before the summer holidays, he'd taken to Miss Robinson from the moment he set eyes on her. The kindness she showed him, together with her sensitivity to his predicament as the new boy in a class that had long ago established its pecking order, had soon marked her out as his favourite teacher ever.  
   In the remaining weeks of that term, his introversion had lessened, and in John and Roger he'd found two friends with whom he formed a democratic alliance. None of them was the leader. There was rarely any disagreement between them, and on the occasions when there was, it was settled by 'eenie-meenie-mynie-mo', or some other process of apparently random selection.  
   The alliance lightened his outlook on life, and he took great pleasure in spending playtime with his new friends. Their favourite game was 'lorries'. It consisted of shuffling around the asphalt playground in a slow, mechanical way, while manipulating an imaginary steering wheel and emitting engine noises. The shuffling was necessary because the heavy loads they were hauling made it impossible to lift sole from asphalt. Much care had to be taken not to go off the agreed route, and extra special attention was needed when undertaking difficult manoeuvres such as reversing.  
   It remained their favourite game until the Jeremy's mother returned, with him in tow, to the shop where she'd bought his school shoes. Unaware of his activities as a haulier, she said she expected shoes to last longer than a few weeks. She wasn't successful in her bid to get a complimentary replacement pair, and had to buy new ones with money she could ill afford. She was heard on several occasions thereafter to bemoan the abysmal quality of modern manufactured goods.  
   Despite his mother's investment in the new 'tyres', or more truthfully because of it, the Jeremy's haulage business closed shortly afterwards, unable to carry the guilt-edged cargo any farther.

*

   His almost involuntary anguine outburst occurred on the first Monday after school had resumed the previous Thursday, after the summer break. It was a good idea to restart school in midweek, especially after the long summer holidays, because it gave the children a few days to settle in before getting down to the business of real education at the start of the first full week.  
   He wished it was not so, but the Jeremy had unmistakeably been on the receiving end of some 'real education' from Miss Heart. And he was intelligent enough to realise that any chance of support from his recently acquired companions had also been dealt a fatal blow. His exuberant willingness to share his recent brush with things of a dangerous reptilian nature was drowned in the rising riptide of humiliation.  
   What a stupid mistake! How could he have allowed his overwhelming desire to answer to cause him to break such a fundamental rule? Had he learnt nothing from his time at St Joseph's? Had he been so lulled into a false sense of security by the wonderful Miss Robinson that he'd failed so miserably to detect the different character embodied in Miss Heart?  
   That different character scoffed at the idea that you might make allowances for an eager seven year old. After all, the Jeremy would be eight in six months time. Clearly he should have developed better self control by now. An 'example' had to be made.  
   And what an exquisite example Miss Heart had conjured. The deftly dealt humiliation was surely a small price to pay in return for such a valuable insight; keep your passion to yourself and, above all else, know and obey the rules, or suffer the consequences.  
   The immediate consequences were a distinct reddening of the Jeremy's cheeks and the missed opportunity of a possibly valuable educational story for his classmates. By her outstanding achievement in class that late summer's day in 1959, Miss 'Leaden' Heart earned her rightful place in the annuls, nay the anus, of the educational halls of shame.

*

   It was a serious blow to his confidence, and precipitated another change in his character, a reversion to his former introverted self. He studiously avoided answering questions in class from then on, just in case he made another error of judgement. In fact, he avoided being the centre of attention in any way at all, and dreaded being directly asked questions in case he got the answers wrong and was made to feel a fool again.  
   At school, being the centre of attention included taking possession of the ball in a game of football and, even more so, taking his turn at bat in cricket. How he hated it. The football thing was not so bad because he could pass the ball, as quickly as possible, to another member of the team. That way he could minimise his time in the 'spotlight'. Cricket was a whole different – _ahem_ – ballgame. And while that might well seem a case of stating the obvious, the point is that the odds were that any batsman, whether the Jeremy or the best there was, would make a mistake sooner or later. And in the Jeremy's case, it tended to be sooner.  
   A mistake had become anathema to the Jeremy. A mistake made you vulnerable to criticism, and that meant someone would tell you, in front of everyone else, exactly how bad you were, usually via ridicule and humiliation. Sadly, _constructive_ criticism had apparently not yet been invented, and his diligent assessment of criticism, as painfully encountered at the hands of Miss Heart, was that it was not something to be welcomed.  
   He was in fact the recipient of constant constructive criticism. The reason he didn't include it in the data-set on which he based his critique was that it was delivered so well he didn't think of it as criticism at all. It just seemed like good old common or garden encouragement. Which, of course, it was.  
   His mother encouraged him whenever she could, and did her best to provide him with interesting and stimulating toys. His favourite was his Bayco Building Set from which he fashioned quite complicated model buildings, responding well to the encouragement he was given. Sometimes, it would be in the form of a challenge.  
   His mother understood that _'can you build a house with a fireplace and a chimney?'_ – after having been shown his latest creation from which they'd been omitted – produced much more enthusiasm than _'where's the chimney? You forgot the chimney! How are they going to keep warm without a chimney?'_ Indeed, a veritable mansion with a garage, a balcony, and two chimneys was the result of her insight.

*

   Talking of chimneys, the Jeremy was hypnotically fascinated by fire. His eyes were drawn to flames, even to embers and smoke. Combustion of any sort always grabbed his attention. When the opportunity arose, he couldn't resist the temptation to get some hands-on experience. But in point of fact, he didn't think of it as 'temptation' at all. He simply viewed it as a rare opportunity not to be missed.  
   It was indeed by pure chance that he came across a box of Bryant & May's Safety Matches, within easy reach and unguarded, on the small table in the hallway of his grandmother's house. He and his family were staying there, while they were 'between houses', courtesy of his grandmother and two aunts. He looked at the box for a while, then picked it up and shook it. It produced a dull rattle, suggesting the box was full.  
   Nothing else happened. There were no alarm bells, no one came rushing into the hallway, there were no incendiary explosions. He held the box in his hand for a few more seconds, feeling the roughness of the striking panel with the tip of his forefinger. Then his arm moved and the box was in his pocket. And still nothing happened.  
   He went out into the garden. Nobody there. He walked around the outside of the house. Nobody to be seen. He took the box out of his pocket and looked at it again. He turned it over and looked at the reverse side. Same as the front. 'Bryant & May's Special Safety Match – Made In England'. He wondered what was _special_ about them, but the outside of the box offered no clues.  
   He pushed the drawer half-way out of the sleeve and marvelled at the contents. The brown match heads spoke to him, whispering of fiery adventures, inviting him to partake of their power. He closed the drawer and returned the box to his pocket. He needed somewhere private, or at least a place where nobody could easily see what he was doing.  
   Both his mother and father, having noticed his fascination with it, had regularly cautioned him with the words _'don't play with fire'_. Even so, as a concession, his father would sometimes let him strike a match to light his cigarette. But his father always held his hand while he did it, so the Jeremy didn't feel he was really doing it at all. That was about to change.  
   He had no intention of 'playing' with fire. That would obviously be a silly thing to do, and besides, he'd been told not to. No, this would be an investigation, an experiment. There would be plenty of time for play later. There was some serious research which demanded his attention first.  
   The garage at the side of the house was empty. At least it was empty of car, which meant there was a considerable amount of free space in which he could work. There was also, what is practically a statutory requirement for any self-respecting garage, a genuine cornucopia of interesting artefacts on the shelves lining the two side walls and yet more goodies stacked up underneath them. But for all the intrigue those things presented, the box in his pocket beat them all hands down.  
   He shut the door carefully, not wanting to make a noise in case someone heard. It took a while for his eyes to adjust because there was not much light filtering through the windows. There were only two and they were quite small, not much more than narrow slits, one at the top of each of the two big wooden doors where Auntie Betty drove the car in and out. The glass was that knobbly patterned sort which is often used in bathroom windows. They were the only source of natural light within.  
   They weren't dirty. All the windows at his grandmother's house were regularly cleaned by a man who came with his own special window-cleaning ladder, a bucket and some cloths. The Jeremy liked to watch him do his job. He was very quick, and he usually whistled while he worked, especially when he was up his ladder.  
   Today, everything was quiet. He removed the matchbox from his pocket, trying not to let the contents rattle. He knew the likelihood of anyone besides himself being able to hear was small in the extreme, but he was taking no chances. Opening the box carefully, he removed a match and held it between forefinger and thumb while he examined the head. Remembering his father's wise words, he pushed the drawer back into the sleeve, _'to avoid accidents'_. He placed the match head at one end of the striking panel, and dragged it towards the other end.  
   Nothing! It had made a scratching sound, but that was all. He was decidedly miffed that he hadn't succeeded on his first attempt, especially because he'd done it before, even if it was with his father guiding his hand. He'd often heard people say _'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again'_ , but it didn't encourage him much. It appeared to imply it was likely you weren't going to succeed on your second attempt either. What else could _'try, try again'_ mean? After his third attempt and still no flame, he had to admit, begrudgingly, that there was some merit to the saying.  
   His face lit up on his fourth attempt, bathed in the light from the flaming match. It cast dancing shadows around the garage. He was mesmerised as he watched the flame steadily consume the match, turning it into a blackened crinkle. He could feel the heat of it as it crept closer to his fingers. To his great relief, after his recent spate of failures to get it to light, he blew it out at his first attempt. He squatted down, carefully laid the burnt match on the floor, and immediately returned his attention to the contents of the box.  
   The world outside the garage had ceased to exist. In fact, even the contents of the garage which were not within a radius of about four feet were in no man's land. A second match flared. Hooray! Right first time! The flame's exotic dance enthralled him once more until, inevitably, its beauty had to be extinguished. How sad that such beauty was so short-lived.  
   The dispiriting death of the flame set the Jeremy to thinking. All he needed to do was to find something to keep the flame alive a little longer, and then he could watch how artfully it lived. He felt every flame deserved to stay alive. He felt it was his duty, perhaps even his destiny, to help them.  
   Cocooned in this private microcosm, the rights and wrongs of what he was doing didn't manifest themselves in his mind as having any correlation with good and evil. It was simply a matter of setting up the experiment in the right way, which, if done correctly, would ensure it didn't go wrong.  
   He scanned his immediate surroundings for a suitable piece of combustible material. Something big enough to sustain the flame, but not so big that it would get out of control. There was, in fact, a vast amount of combustible material in the garage of a highly flammable nature. Had it been commercial premises, it would have been adorned with a sign stating something like _'DANGER! No naked flames within 50 feet!'_ in big red letters, not to mention a legal requirement to have a number of bright red fire extinguishers available for use at a moment's notice. Fortunately, the dangerous stuff was all tightly sealed in containers. There were cans of paint, bottles of paint thinners and screw-top oil cans containing various substances, including petrol. They were all around him. But that was not the sort of combustible material he was looking for, so he left it all safely sealed away, sublimely unaware of its existence.  
   What he was after was a small piece of wood, or perhaps a strip of cardboard. The only wood he could see was the dismantled set of legs from a coffee table, the top of which was nowhere to be seen – probably an out of fashion monstrosity which had been stowed away somewhere and long since forgotten. He swiftly dismissed the idea of using the legs on account of their size, and because he'd already decided it would be best not to leave any incriminating evidence of his activities.  
   It wasn't that he thought _he_ was doing anything wrong, but he was fairly certain that neither his parents, nor his grandmother, nor either of his aunts would agree with him. Luckily, he knew the saying 'what the eye doesn't see, the heart won't grieve over', and he'd found it was well worth remembering, especially when undertaking what might be considered activities of a questionable nature.  
   There was still, however, a proverbial fly in his logical ointment: God.

*

   The Jeremy had previously figured out that an _ordinary_ fly in your ointment was not such a big deal. You just had to get rid of it fairly sharpish, _before_ it had a chance to muck up the ointment. Ideally you oiked it out while its wings were still flapping. You could readily do it using tweezers, or even an old lolly stick. Then all you had to do was discard the bit of ointment in which it had been stuck, to remove any residual contamination. Ointment; good as new. What was all the fuss about?  
   The Jeremy had figured out quite a lot of stuff, but most of it was securely locked inside his head where only he could truly understand the logic of it. He'd never seriously considered trying to explain it to anyone else, partly because he didn't know if he could find the right words, and partly because he thought it was all so obvious that everyone else must see it too. If they didn't, they must simply be pretending they couldn't, for some reason.  
   The overarching problem, was that God was not an ordinary fly. He was, what was the word? Omnidirectional? No, that wasn't it. The one that means everywhere at once. Omni—, omni—, omnipresent! That was the one. He'd given that quite a bit of thought. Of _course_ God was everywhere, that was obvious. But that didn't mean He was always looking at _you_. Sometimes, He probably had to blink, and sometimes, He would probably get distracted by what someone else was doing. What if He had his back to you? None of His pictures showed Him with eyes in the back of His head. Or on stalks, like a snail's eyes. The Jeremy had a SeeBakroScope which let him see behind him, but he couldn't imagine God using one. It didn't work very well anyway.  
   He'd received it as a gift from Father Christmas. It consisted of a small, black plastic tube with a mirror encased at one end. The tube was about the diameter of a half crown, perhaps two inches long, and open at one end, the end you held to your eye. The other end was where the mirror was, fixed at an oblique angle inside the tube. In the side of the tube there was a round hole. If you held the tube correctly aligned, the mirror gave you a view through the hole which allowed you to see what was behind your ear. It was a bit like having a rear view mirror with a 95% blind spot.  
   But disregarding whether He could see behind Him or not, what about the times when He _was_ looking? What would He do if he didn't like what He saw, or He could see you were in danger? Wouldn't He speak to you and say, in a voice that could only be His, that you should stop? You wouldn't _have_ to do what He said, because of your free will which He gave you when you... when _exactly_ did He give it to you? The Jeremy wasn't sure.  
   He'd never heard God speak to him. Once in a while, he'd imagined what God's voice _would_ be like, and he'd said things to himself, in his imagination, in a voice he thought might sound like God's. A big, deep, man's voice, with lots of echo. But that was just him pretending. He'd never heard it for real. It seemed pretty obvious that He'd know what sort of voice to use if He wanted the Jeremy to believe it was Him, because God knew everything. But He never had, or if He had, He hadn't spoken loud enough, which couldn't be true because God was cleverer than that.

*

   Just to be on the safe side, he asked God if it was okay to carry on with what he was doing. He waited for about thirty seconds because he thought God might be a bit busy, but God didn't say anything. He took that to be a thumbs up, 'no-news-is-good-news' sort of response. He knew that perhaps, technically, he should have waited for a definite answer, but past experience had shown that he would probably have to wait a very long time, and most likely wouldn't get an answer at all. Besides, he didn't have all day. Someone could walk in the garage at any moment.  
   His wandering vision, in its search for fuel, alighted on the bale of hay in the large wooden box next to the side door through which he'd entered from the back garden. It might seem an odd thing to find in a garage, except perhaps, to those who have heard of the archaic English law which apparently requires any London Hackney Carriage – a 'Taxicab', to give it one of its modern names – to carry a bale of hay at all times.  
   Auntie Betty did indeed drive a black sit-up-and-beg Ford Popular which, as it happens, bore a vague resemblance to a London Taxi. However, unless she led a secret double life wherein she did a bit of moonlighting – not only masquerading as a London cabby but also using an unauthorised vehicle (which could only just pass muster as a cab in the dimmest of moonlight) in which to do it – then she was in no danger of contravening section 51 of the London Hackney Carriage Act 1831 by failing to carry her bale of hay.  
   In fact, the bale of hay was there because the garden shed was too small to accommodate it, having an overfull inventory consisting of sundry implements, gardening, for the use of. The hay was used as bedding material for the rabbits who lived in the hutch in the bottom half of the garden.  
   The Jeremy pulled a small piece of straw from the bale, about six inches in length, and twiddled it between his thumb and fingers.  
    _"Perfect,"_ he thought, as he returned to the area of the concrete floor which he'd co-opted for use as his lab bench.  
   He laid the straw down and picked up his box of matches. It's not quite clear at exactly which point the box of matches had become _his_ , but he'd formed a strong personal attachment to it fairly shortly after it had found its way into his pocket.  
   He struck another match, but this time, instead of gazing at the majesty of the flame, he put the box down and picked up the piece of straw with his left hand, while being careful to keep the match burning in his right. Satisfied that everything was going according to plan, he held the end of the straw in the flame. It didn't catch quite as easily as he'd expected, but he was immediately struck by the difference in the way it burned compared to the matches.  
   He'd expected it to burn quickly, and had mentally prepared himself for that eventuality. He was surprised to find, that unless he held it at just the right angle, the straw had a tendency to smoulder rather than flame, so much so, he had difficulty keeping it alight. The flame had a much more orangey colour than the match flames, with a hint of green, and there was a noticeable amount of smoke too, most of which was travelling up the inside of the piece of straw which was acting like a chimney.  
   He'd never thought of smoke as being hot, probably because it was usually grey in colour, but his knowledge base was quickly updated via the pain sensors in his fingertips. The smoke, travelling up the hollow centre, had rapidly heated its walls to a level which suggested letting go of it would be a wise course of action, a suggestion his reflexes didn't bother stopping to think about. It fell from his fingers to the floor where bits of flimsy ash disintegrated into even flimsier fibrous ashy threads. The flame had gone out, but the half-burnt tip was still aglow, a fitful red. He watched it smoulder for a while until the match, which was still alight in his right hand, began to burn him, provoking him to drop that too.  
   He revised his assessment of straw several notches down from 'perfect', and set his mind to achieving his original goal of producing a lasting flame. A long thin wooden stick, like a match but much longer, would have been ideal, but he had to make use of what was to hand.  
   Although the experiment with the piece of straw had been a little unimpressive, the bale of hay still represented a good source of fuel and no one would notice if there were a few pieces missing. If he took some straw and piled it up like a teepee, maybe that would work? But he had a feeling it would need something extra to keep it alight.  
   He began to take stock of the contents of the bottom shelf in front of him. A rusting Oxo tin; contents, unknown. A bottle of Rose's Lime Juice; contents, indeterminate yellowish liquid, probably not juice. A Valspar paint tin; contents, unknown. An unmarked rectangular tin, no lid; various contents, mostly nuts and bolts. So it went on, the contents of each item noted and then discounted, due either to lack of fuel potential or inaccessibility. Then he came upon a pile of Practical Woodworking magazines.  
   The one on the top featured a picture of a smiling man. He was looking out from the front cover while apparently sawing through a piece of wood on the bench in front of him.  
    _"Keep your eyes on what you're doing you silly boy!"_ he said, trying to mimic his Auntie Betty's voice.  
   She'd said it to him once, during the first lesson she'd given him on the correct way to use woodworking tools. Auntie Betty only had to say something like that once.  
   She always wore Marks & Spencer's grey flannel trousers, the same sort his father wore, which certainly set her apart from his other aunties, but the Jeremy hadn't yet cottoned on to the significance of it. He was torn between being scared of her rather gruff approach – which she used not only towards him, but towards everyone and everything – and liking her because she took an interest in teaching him things like sawing.  
    _"Let the saw do the work,"_ she would say if he started going at it too enthusiastically.  
    _"Keep your tools sharp then you won't cut yourself,"_ was another of her pearls of wisdom, pearls which he would carry with him for the rest of his life.  
   He counted the magazines. There were over twenty of them. He removed the top half dozen and placed them carefully on the floor. Then he turned the pages of the next one until he found the centre page, the one with the staples showing. Carefully, he tore it out, closed the magazine, and then replaced the six magazines on top of it, exactly as they had been.  
   He crumpled up the sheet of paper, placed it on the floor near to where the burnt matches were, then went to the bale of hay and removed a handful of straw. He carefully placed the pieces of straw over the crumpled paper, constructing his teepee-shaped pile. When he was satisfied, he took a match from the box, struck it, and set fire to the paper.  
   He crouched down to get a good look, watching intently as the flames began to spread and the straw began to give off some smoke. Things happened slowly at first. He was enjoying watching the progress of the flames as they licked around the smoking straw. But then, some sort of critical point must have been reached because things sped up fast. The straw burst into flame, complete with crackling sound effects. From gentle, candle-like flames had sprung a raging inferno. He was mightily alarmed, reality crashing back hard into his consciousness.  
   Bits of smouldering paper and straw flew into the air, lifted by the heat of the fire. Instinctively, he began to stamp on the mini-bonfire in an attempt to stifle the flames. His action was reasonably successful, but it also had the unfortunate side-effect of sending embers in all directions. Nevertheless, he continued to stamp until he was satisfied that the fire was out, and then he stamped some more, just to be sure.  
   He was very flustered, but managed to think clearly enough to realise he should remove as much of the evidence from the garage as possible, and do it quickly. He removed the centre page from the middle of another magazine, the third one in the stack, re-folded the page along the crease, and then used it to scoop up the ash, burnt matchsticks and other remains strewn on the garage floor. Some of the ash stubbornly refused to be scooped, so he used his hand to brush it onto the paper, immediately regretting it when he saw the black marks engrained in his skin. Now he had the additional task of cleaning his hand before anyone saw it.  
   He carefully screwed the sheet of paper into a ball, making sure none of the contents fell out. Gingerly, he opened the side door a smidgen, and peered through the crack. The coast was clear. He was about to leave when he realised he'd left the box of matches lying on the floor! He went back, picked it up with his clean hand, and put it in his pocket. He checked his intended route again before exiting, and felt a deep sense of relief as he vacated the garage.

*

   It was a very big back garden, the bottom of it was a long way from the house. There was a trellis fence, with an archway built into it, which spanned the width of the garden about a third of the way down. The trellis was thick with various climbing plants, the names of which the Jeremy didn't know, but whatever they were, they hid most of the bottom part of the garden from view.  
   Between the trellis and the house was the orderly world of an avid amateur gardener, his Auntie Leslie, where the neatly trimmed lawn, colourful flowers in circular beds, shrubbery in decorative borders and the stone bird bath proclaimed the virtues of simplicity and attention to detail.  
   The far side of the trellis was a land of comparative wilderness, where an old and rusty garden roller lay forlorn and abandoned. He didn't know why, but the grass in that part of the garden wasn't cut very regularly. Even so, the various fruit trees which grew at randomly spaced intervals gave it a ragged sort of order of its own. He liked that part of the garden because he didn't have to worry about damaging anything. Well, not much anyway. It was also home to the garden shed, the chickens in their coop and the rabbits in their hutch.  
   He walked down the neat part of the garden holding the ball of paper close to his chest, shielding it from view in case anyone was watching from the house. He made a point of stopping here and there, pretending to look at the plants. If anyone was watching, he wanted them to think he was just on a casual walk, with all the time in the world. In his chest, his heart was unhelpfully beating double time. He stopped again at the bird bath, still keeping his back to the house, and washed his dirty hand in the water. Then he dried it on the ball of paper. He felt exceptionally pleased with himself for that piece of impromptu problem solving, oblivious to his pollution of the birds' bathwater.  
   Once through the trellis archway, he dodged to one side and quickly made his way to the far end of the garden. Standing next to the chicken coop, he took a quick glance behind him, then threw the paper ball as hard as he could into the orchard on the other side of the fence. He relaxed when he saw it land and disappear from sight in the long grass.

*

   The chickens were going about their usual business, clucking mostly, but with the occasional squawk for emphasis. The coop was quite large, housing half a dozen chickens with plenty of room for them to run around. They were egg-layers, and the Jeremy was sometimes allowed to collect the eggs. He wondered if there were any eggs in the nesting boxes so he undid the latch and opened one of the flaps to see. It set off a bit of a commotion because it disturbed one of the chickens inside. It made him jump. He hurriedly shut the flap, deciding he wasn't that interested to see if there were any eggs or not.  
   The chickens settled back into their routine clucking. He noticed a small patch of chicken feed which had spilled on the ground near where he stood. He bent down and picked most of it up. Then he tried poking a small piece through the wire netting to see if one of them would come and eat it from his fingers. The fact they might peck at his finger, which would undoubtedly hurt, had not crossed his mind.  
   In common with many of his species, he credited animals with having characters just like humans, and was always surprised when they didn't seem to understand his intentions. He gave up waiting for one of them to take food from his hand when his fingers began to ache. No amount of _'chick-chick-chick-chick-Chicken!'_ , no matter how friendly his tone, would ever coax a chicken to take food from his fingers when there was food freely available in the trays.  
   He continued his conversation with them, trying to convince himself they were responding, but he soon got bored. Then he took to throwing small bits of feed at them to see what they would do. It turned out the answer was, nothing much. One time he caught a chicken on its beak, but it only tilted its head and gave him a one-eyed stare for a few seconds before resuming normal behaviour.  
   His observation of the chickens was interrupted by his mother's voice calling him to the house. Perhaps there was some lemonade, or some biscuits, or maybe even cake. Sometimes, there were all three. Maybe there was ice cream! He liked staying at his grandmother's house because there were often treats. The only thing which spoilt it was having to go to school.  
   He made his way to the trellis, stopping briefly to say hello to the rabbits, but they were far more interested in eating than getting into a conversation with him. As he breeched the threshold of the trellis archway, he froze. There was smoke coming from the garage!  
   How could that be? He'd been so careful! He was sure he'd put out the fire before he left. He just couldn't believe it. Except he had to because of the evidence of his eyes. What should he do? He got that bottomless pit feeling in his stomach, and his mind was racing without getting anywhere. And then, reality smacked him right between the eyes when he remembered he still had the box of matches in his pocket.  
   He briefly considered running away, but had to discard the idea because he couldn't think of anywhere to run. Somehow, he had to get the box of matches back on the table in the hallway. The thought of the disaster which threatened to befall him paralysed both his brain and body for a few moments. But there was nothing else for it, he'd have to go into the house and try to put the matches back without being seen. And he'd also have to pretend he knew nothing about the fire.  
   As he set off towards the house, he began to feel more comfortable with the idea. After all, he really didn't know much about the fire which was burning now. True, he could postulate a cause, but that would have the unfortunate effect of incriminating him, which seemed a very good reason not to indulge in any postulating if he could possibly avoid it. His biggest problem was the box in his pocket, the outline of which seemed to be expanding with every step. He feared his mother would see it so he put his hand in his pocket in an attempt to shield the offending item from view. He wasn't convinced it would work, but he couldn't think of a better alternative.  
   His mind made up, he ran the rest of the way to the house. He stopped when he reached the kitchen door and poked his head inside, artfully keeping the lower part of his body hidden, the part which was over-burdened with incriminating matchbox.  
    _"Mum, Mum! There's smoke coming from the garage!"_  
   She gave him a penetrating look and said, _"Yes, I know dear. The fire engine is nearly here."_  
    _"Can I watch them?"_ he asked excitedly, partly because he was trying to act the way his mother would expect him to, as an innocent bystander, but mostly because he wanted to watch the firemen at work.  
    _"Is there anything you want to tell me, Jeremy?"_  
    _"Err... no,"_ he said, truthfully.  
    _"Are you sure?"_  
    _"Yes,"_ he continued, with just as much truth.  
    _"Can I watch them?"_ he repeated.  
    _"We'll see what they say,"_ said his mother, in a tone of voice which indicated she wasn't altogether convinced by his answers.  
   He grabbed his chance. He went into the hallway, and doing his utmost not to rattle the matches while retrieving the box from his pocket, he managed to covertly replace it on the table as he made his way outside to the front garden. Relieved in the extreme, he awaited the arrival of the fire engine and its crew. But his relief merely cleared a space in his head, a space which immediately filled up with a writhing mass of contradictory thoughts. He felt his head was just about ready to burst. He'd never been in a situation like this before. Nothing he'd ever done had had such potentially dire consequences.  
   He stood by the gate, looking up the road. Despite his deep interest in the workings of fire engines, he began to wish the fire would just go out. Then someone could tell the fire brigade it was all okay and they would go home before they arrived. The continued escape of smoke from the garage, and the sound of the approaching siren, confirmed that reality was not going to bend to his wishes.  
   So far, he'd managed to hold himself together. But hearing the fire engine making the final turn into the end of the road caused him to dance from one foot to the other. His mother, who was watching from the front porch, interpreted it as the outward physical expression of his growing excitement. In reality, it was a case of him fighting a strong impulse to run before he got found out.  
   The fire engine pulled up at the end of the driveway, and the crew disembarked. The Jeremy wondered why they didn't seem to be in a hurry. None of them were running to the garage, which seemed like the obvious thing to do. But the worst part about it all was that when any of them looked at him, he couldn't help wondering if they knew the dreadful truth.  
    _"It's in the garage!"_ he called to them, unable to constrain himself.  
    _"I reckon you could be right, son,"_ one of them replied, and then they all laughed.  
    _"They do know!"_ he thought. _"And that's why they're laughing at me."_  
   He also thought he could feel his cheeks going red. And having thought it, his cheeks obliged.  
   Despite the ferment in his head, he was enthralled by the proceedings unravelling before him. He watched as one man took hold of the brass nozzle attached to the red hose, the one which was on a reel housed in a recess in the side of the engine. Pulling it behind him as he went, he unwound it as he walked down the driveway towards the garage.  
   A second man opened a locker and removed a large, rolled-up, flat hose. It looked like it was made of canvas, and it had shiny brass fittings attached to both ends. He connected one end to the back of the fire engine, then rolled the hose out along the road. A third fireman had removed another canvas hose from the locker. He carried it on his shoulder, walking beside the second man until the first hose had been completely unrolled. Then they joined the two hoses together, and the second man took the second hose and continued his unrolling activity, disappearing out of sight. The third man returned to the fire engine.  
   And still none of them appeared to be in a hurry. No one had sprayed any water or even opened the garage doors. The Jeremy couldn't understand why they were taking so long. Was it because they knew what he'd been doing, and this was their way of punishing him?  
   It was a little ironic because, of course, they didn't know what he'd been doing, although they may have had their suspicions. Their apparent sluggishness was a disciplined adherence to safe working practices, designed to avoid accidents and personal injury. The only person doing any punishing, at that stage, was the Jeremy himself.  
   Finally, the fireman who seemed to be in charge called out, _"All set?"_  
   One by one, each member of his crew raised their right arm above their head.  
   There were three of them standing ready, in front of the garage doors. Each of them was wearing a mask over his face. One of them pulled the doors open while the other two crouched in anticipation, one with the hose poised and the other holding a long pole. As the doors opened, smoke in various shades of grey billowed out and raced to freedom in the blue skies, taking with it small angry flecks of black ash in its growling folds.  
   The Jeremy watched, both consumed by the spectacle and fearful of what would come next. There was more smoke, but it was becoming less angry. There were no flames that he could see. He was split between disappointment and relief.  
   The three firemen had disappeared into the smoke-filled garage, taking their equipment with them. They were gone a very long time in the Jeremy's estimation, but that was based on JSTU (Jeremy Standard Time Units) which bore little relation to normal hours, minutes and seconds. The only time they came into approximate alignment was when an activity required a countdown before it could begin. He knew it probably wouldn't work but he tried a countdown anyway, willing the firemen to reappear when he got to zero. He was out of luck.  
   He urgently wanted to know what was going on inside the garage. What had they found? Would they come out and say, _"Aha! We knew it was you. You're in trouble now!"_  
   He squirmed under the pressure, but then a kind of numbness came over him as he began to resign himself to his fate. He felt ashamed, but his shame was centred on the fact that he'd obviously failed to extinguish his fire despite being so sure that he had. He couldn't manage to feel ashamed of having conducted his experiments. How was a boy to learn anything if he didn't conduct experiments? You couldn't just accept what other people said because people told lies. He knew this was true, not just because he could point to several occasions when other people had told him lies, but because he also sometimes told lies himself.  
   He didn't like telling lies, and he always tried his very best not to, but sometimes he felt there was no alternative. And then he would feel very guilty and hope that God wasn't watching. But the fact of the matter was, the fear of burning in Hell at some indeterminate time in the future for telling a lie, was not always enough of a deterrent when compared to the practical certainty of punishment which would be very real, very unpleasant and very immediate if he told the truth.  
   In addition to that, it didn't help that his knowledge of fire was beginning to suggest that all those people who'd told him about burning in Hell had got it wrong. Things didn't burn forever, a fact he'd come to discover with some disappointment. But for all that, Hell still frightened him. And even though he wouldn't articulate it – for fear of what might happen if he did – he wasn't so sure about Heaven either.  
   The thing was that no matter how much he _wanted_ to, he didn't believe he would enjoy himself there. It didn't sound much fun just sitting around with God and all the Angels doing nothing much at all. And the thought of sitting next to God was very scary. What if he said something wrong by mistake and God got angry? Much as he hated making mistakes and tried hard not to, he was pretty sure he always would. Today was a good example. He knew he must have made a mistake, even though he didn't know exactly how the second fire had started. If he was sitting right next to God and he made a mistake, there'd be no chance that He wouldn't notice.  
   These were his most private and most troubling thoughts. It scared him just having them. And this was definitely not the time to let them surface. It was taking all his concentration to conceal his consternation that in the very near future he might well feel there was no alternative but to lie again.  
   After what seemed an impossibly long time of nothing happening, except for the gradual diminishing of the amount of smoke issuing from the garage, two things happened almost at once. Firstly, the three firemen reappeared from the garage and secondly, his two aunts and his grandmother returned from their outing in the car.  
   He was pleased to see the firemen because he thought it probably meant they'd put the fire out. As they came into view, he saw that the one with the pole was dragging a charred, oblong object, about the size of a bale of hay, still smoking slightly. His colleague was directing his jet of water over it, causing small bits of blackened straw to dislodge from the bale. It was making a bit of a mess on the driveway.  
   He wasn't so pleased to see his Auntie Betty who was out of the car and striding down the drive towards the firemen with a face that threatened imminent thunder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might find himself at the centre of the storm.  
    _"Is it out?"_ he asked the fireman he'd identified as the chief.  
    _"Well son, that's the trouble with fire. It's a very dangerous thing. It can still be smouldering away, even though you can't see it. We'll have to make sure it's properly extinguished this time, won't we?"_  
   The Jeremy wished he hadn't asked. He didn't like the way the fireman had said _'this time'_. He said nothing and looked away, trying to hide the beacons of guilt burning in his eyes.  
    _"You'd better come in now,"_ called his mother from the front porch.  
   How grateful he was for an excuse to get away. He ran down the path and stood inside the porch, just a little to one side and slightly behind his mother, where he was able to relax a degree or two. But not for long.  
   He peered out from the porch to see his two aunts and his grandmother talking with the firemen. They'd all come together in a group in the driveway. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but every so often one of them would turn their head and look in his direction. He had a nasty feeling they were discussing what his punishment should be.  
   After a while, the group dispersed. The firemen began collecting up their equipment while his aunts and grandmother headed towards the porch. Another nasty feeling suggested it was the _contents_ of the porch, in the form of a rather guilt ridden boy, which was truly their target. When they'd nearly reached him, his mother turned and guided him indoors.  
   She shepherded him into the front room, and everyone else followed. He didn't sit down, preferring to stand by the door, unconsciously aware that it was his best escape route. When everyone had come in and settled in their chairs, they glanced around at each other. The Jeremy couldn't help noticing that he'd been omitted from all the glancing. It seemed they couldn't make up their minds who was going to speak first, but it was obvious that whoever it was, it certainly wouldn't be him. Whoever was chosen would be speaking _to_ him.  
   Finally, Auntie Betty spoke, in a very serious tone.  
    _"What can you tell us about the fire, Jeremy?"_  
   Before he could answer, his mother looked at him with a worried smile and said, _"Just tell the truth."_  
   It only occurred to him later, when it was all over, to wonder if her words meant that she thought he would lie? Or perhaps she looked worried because she feared what the truth would reveal?  
    _"Well, I was looking at the chickens and Mum called me and then I saw the smoke, so I ran indoors and told her. And then the firemen came,"_ he said, sticking to the truth just like his mother had advised.  
   There was a bit of a pause and then Auntie Betty spoke again.  
    _"The firemen said they couldn't find the cause of the fire, but fires don't start by themselves. They said that someone must have started it,"_ she said, tilting her head forward and looking at him over the rim of her spectacles.  
   The implication of what she said was clear to everyone, including the Jeremy. The pressure was building in his head, but he managed to control himself and said nothing. And even though everyone was looking at him as if they expected him to say something, he still said nothing.  
   Auntie Betty looked annoyed. She held up the box of matches, which she must have picked up on the way in, and shook them back and forth while she looked him intently in the eye.  
    _"Have you been playing with matches?"_ she asked.  
    _"No,"_ he said, in as firm a tone as he could manage, while thinking what a good thing it was she hadn't said _'experimenting'_ , or anything like that.  
   Predictably, she followed up with, _"Are you sure?"_  
    _"Yes,"_ he said, managing to inject a soupçon of indignation into his tone.  
   A mixture of vexation and failure gradually wrote itself across her face, and he knew that he only had to hold himself together a little longer. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking, as the seconds passed, was all that could be heard.  
    _"Hmmm. Well it seems very strange to me. Are you sure you don't know anything about it?"_  
   Instead of responding, he looked at his mother as if to say, _"What else can I say? I told her everything I know."_  
   And his mother came to his rescue.  
    _"Run along to your room now, like a good boy,"_ she said.  
   He was gone in an instant. In his room, he stood at the window, looking out into the back garden, marvelling at the roller-coaster ride he'd been on. He could hardly believe that the coaster hadn't come off the rails. He just stared, unfocused, gazing through the glass, picking through his thoughts and emotions, looking for some stability, but finding nothing but a jumbled mess. A bit like getting scrambled eggs when you really wanted them neatly poached.  
   Downstairs his mother was defending him.  
    _"If he says he wasn't playing with matches then I believe him. Alec and I have always taught him to tell the truth. He knows how important it is."_  
    _"But if it wasn't him then who was it?"_ demanded Auntie Betty.  
    _"None of us knows the answer to that, but that's no reason to presume it was Jeremy,"_ said his mother, calmly but firmly.  
    _"Well I don't know. What are we to think?"_ muttered Auntie Betty, more to herself than anyone else.  
   At times, the Jeremy's mother showed a reasonably strong grasp of logic, and expressed it clearly. Luckily for him, this had been one of those times. Had she resorted to the questionable logic of 'God works in mysterious ways', which as far as he could tell was one of her favourite answers whenever he asked a 'difficult' question, she would no doubt have encountered a stronger response from Auntie Betty.  
   Auntie Betty attended the local place of worship run by the Church of England, mainly because she felt it was her patriotic duty. She couldn't stand all that mystic nonsense bandied about by those damn Catholics.  
   Meanwhile, the Jeremy, who'd crawled into his bed because it was too much of a drain on his dwindling resources to remain standing, was grappling with a rather large lump in his scrambled eggs brain. In that transitional state between waking and sleeping, it had materialised into the Lord Chief Justice, The Right Honourable Guilty Conscience (Q.C.), who was steadfastly enumerating the errors of his ways.  
   Sleep did not bring any respite. He dreamt. He was under a spotlight in the centre of a large room in which a mass of anonymous spectators were jeering at him, encouraged by Miss Heart who was holding a snake, its jaws open wide, fangs oozing deadly venom, just inches in front of his face.  
    _"EVIL CHILD!"_ she screamed, over the roar of the baying crowd, _"THERE'S A SPECIAL PLACE IN HELL JUST WAITING FOR YOU!"_  
   Then, abruptly, there was silence. The spotlight snapped off and there was total darkness. A pleasant breeze began to blow from beneath him, a pleasantness which evaporated in the rush of air as the breeze gained strength. Fear laughed in his face as he realised he was falling, faster and faster, into the darkness.  
   He could feel unseen walls closing in around him, tighter and tighter, threatening to crush him. Small flames began to illuminate the walls, which slowly revealed themselves to be constructed of writhing heads, their tongues the source of the flames, licking him as he fell.  
   Without any awareness of the transition, he was no longer falling, and the heads had disappeared. It was dark again. He could feel some sort of woven fabric touching his skin, and as he moved his arm to feel what it was, he began to realise he was inside a bag or sack. The more he struggled, the more it became clear that he was sealed inside it. Close to his ear, he heard Miss Heart whisper, _"You'll never get out!"_  
   He woke with a start and realised he felt very hot. He had no clear recollection of the content of the dream, but he could still feel the fear crawling all over him. He often slept with his head under the covers as a defence against the night visits of the floating heads, so he wasn't surprised to find himself in that position. He _was_ surprised when his attempt to lift the covers proved ineffective. When a second attempt suggested that the covers had been sealed to the bed, his surprise turned to alarm, and with every subsequent failure to unseal them, alarm strode inexorably down the road to panic and terror.  
   The Jeremy hated asking for help. If he thought he wouldn't be able to do something, then he tended not to do it at all rather than ask for help. He was happy to ask for information about how to do something, but he'd found that asking for _help_ usually ended up with the person he asked doing it for him, and that made him angry. In his current circumstances, he shouted, _"HELP!"_ as loud as he could, several times, pausing a few seconds between each call, desperate for someone, anyone, to release him from his claustrophobic prison. Nothing happened. No one came.  
   His terror reached the stage where it begins to wrestle with utter despair for ultimate supremacy, the stage at which many a victim is reduced to pitiful whimpering. The Jeremy was no exception. Mid-whimper, he felt hands grasping his ankles. It provoked a loud scream and an attempt to kick himself free. As he struggled, his mother's voice filtered through the covers, and he heard her saying, _"It's alright darling, I'm here. Just let me help you."_  
   For a moment, he thought it might be a trick, but gradually he believed what he was hearing, and even though he couldn't understand what was happening, he stopped struggling. He let his mother pull him towards the foot of the bed where he could feel her loosening the covers to let him out. Relief overwhelmed him, and his tears began to flow. Finally, she pulled him into her arms and held him close, rocking rhythmically from side to side, saying, _"It's alright now."_  
   When he'd recovered enough to wipe away his tears and open his eyes, he was disoriented by what he saw. He and his mother were huddled together at the head of his bed, the pillow pushed to one side.  
    _"You must have turned around in your sleep, and you ended up with your head where your feet should be,"_ his mother explained.  
    _"I thought I was stuck."_  
    _"I know darling. It must have been very frightening,"_ she said, in her best comforting tones.

*

   His grandmother's house, with its wonderful garden and the chickens and rabbits, had been a refuge from his troubled life at school, a land of adventure free from the burdens of responsibility. But the atmosphere changed after the fire. Although it was never mentioned again, it wasn't because it had been forgotten. It was simply there was nothing else to be said. And while it's true the Jeremy had learned a valuable lesson, it had come via another swing of the wrecking ball which mercilessly demolishes the innocence of childhood.  
   When his parents announced that the purchase of their new home was almost complete, and they would be moving at the end of the school term, he was not sorry to be leaving. What with the distress he'd endured at the hands of Miss Heart, and the ethical dilemmas of his own making, what at first had promised to be a paradise had become yet another paradise lost.

*

   It was not until many, many years later, that he looked back on the incident and realised that it was the bale of hay catching fire which had saved his lightly smoked bacon. There was no doubt that Auntie Betty would have noticed the smoke, produced by his experiments and trapped in the apex of the garage roof, when she opened the garage doors. And the tell-tale signs of his bonfire – the scorched concrete and the straw embers lying on the floor where they'd randomly fallen, unnoticed in the gloom during his clean-up operation – would also have come to light. A wrinkly grin appeared on an old man's face when he thought of the close shave he'd had.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 8

   The Jeremy joined the congregation at St Francis by dint of his family's arrival in their new home during the summer of 1960. It was quite a large church, serving the town's population of some 150,000 souls. Sadly, in the view of the church and the communion of the faithful, the vast majority of those souls would not be joining them in heaven, by virtue, or perhaps that should be 'lack of virtue', of their status as non-Catholics.  
   In the circumstances, one might think that the addition to his flock, in the persons of the Jeremy and his family, would have been a cause for celebration, not only by the priest but also by the congregation. If there was any such celebration, then it escaped the Jeremy's notice. He was fairly certain no mention of their presence had been made during the first mass they attended, although he would have to concede that the priest could have slipped it in during the body of the service without anyone's knowledge, with the possible exception of any Latin scholars who were listening.

*

   Not being a Latin scholar, when the priest climbed the stone steps of the pulpit, the Jeremy's attention heightened because he knew the next bit would be in English.  
    _"And when Jesus was entered into the temple, he began to cast out them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the money changers, and the chairs of them that sold doves. And he suffered not that any man should carry a vessel through the temple; And he taught, saying to them: Is it not written, My house shall be called the house of prayer to all nations? But you have made it a den of thieves,"_ read the priest.  
   He went on to laud the accumulation of credit in one's heavenly bank account rather than Barclays, although not quite in those terms, 'grace' and 'material wealth' being the preferred appellations. However, the Jeremy's mind had already taken a detour down the path which led him to picture the scene in the temple. In particular, he was interested in the doves.  
   What happened to them? Were they in cages? Did Jesus cast them out along with their sellers, or did the sellers abandon them in their hurry to leave? Didn't the dove sellers have any tables? And what about the money changers, didn't they have any chairs?  
   Picturing the scene was proving to be quite problematic. Why did the money changers have tables and not the dove sellers? Did they have piles of money stacked up on them? It seemed unlikely. Wouldn't the dove sellers have been better off using the tables to put the cages on? The money changers could have just sat on the chairs and kept their money in their pockets, or in a wallet. If the money was in piles on the tables, did the money changers have time to gather it up before they were cast out, or was it scattered on the floor when Jesus overthrew the tables?  
   The Jeremy tried to picture Jesus chucking the furniture about while he was throwing everyone out, but it didn't fit very well with the 'gentle Jesus, meek and mild' image he had of him. Wasn't it God who got angry? It didn't seem very believable that Jesus would behave that way. Wouldn't he have asked them nicely? At least given them a chance to leave before he cast them out?  
   The more he pondered these unanswered questions, the more he wondered if the priest had thought about them. And there was one more. Why did Jesus say _'Is it not written'_? What difference did it make?  
    _"The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on."_  
   The line just popped into his head. His mother often said it. There was some more on the end of it, but he could never remember how it went. He wasn't that concerned though because he didn't need to remember that bit to like the first bit. The first bit just stuck in his mind because... why _did_ it stick in his mind? Well, there was just something strange about it. It wasn't the sort of thing an ordinary person would say, and it was something to do with the rubywhatsit. He liked the sound of that too. A bit mysterious. And anyway, the words just sounded good when you said them, as if they really _meant_ something. That was it. And it sounded kind of exotic too.  
   The Jeremy was the custodian of what is commonly known as an enquiring mind. Occasionally, that same mind was referred to as an 'active imagination', usually on days when he'd asked an abundance of questions about the nature of things, people, and/or the world. On the occasions when those he questioned were unable, or unwilling, to deal with his enquiring fusillades, they sometimes used the phrase 'overactive imagination' as a 'maintain-my-self-esteem-by-disparaging-the-little-bastard' defence.  
   His current internal enquiries were brought to a halt when his sister nudged him in the ribs, making _meaningful_ faces at him to indicate that his participation in the rituals of the mass were required again. He slid his bum off the pew, and knelt down on the cushioned bit, the bit which you weren't supposed to put your feet on. He wondered if it had a special name, like 'pew'. Regardless of the answer to that question, he automatically adopted the standard 'praying-while-kneeling' pose.  
    _"Dominus vobiscum,"_ beseeched the priest.  
    _"Et cum spiritu tuo,"_ replied the congregation (with the exception of at least one smallish member who said, _"Ate-comb-spirit-tutu-oh"_ ).  
   His rote learning abilities were functioning as well as ever, but _not_ understanding the meaning of the sounds coming out of anyone's mouth, including his own, had consequences. That part of his brain which, in normal circumstances, would have been engaged in registering the words, cross referencing them with stored meanings, calculating the overall meaning of sentences and paragraphs, evaluating their truth and much more besides, had nothing to do.  
   Brains are not very good at doing nothing, and the Jeremy's was no exception. With his head bowed and his eyes closed, there was little to stimulate his thoughts. He wondered if everyone had their heads bowed and their eyes closed. Having posed the question, he began to feel the desire to know the answer steadily grow, until he couldn't resist it any longer. He furtively opened his eyes a fraction, and, trying not to move his head, took a sideways peek at his sister.  
   He felt disappointment and relief in equal measure. Disappointment because he'd given in to his desire – which he had a feeling was a bad thing – and relief that Jenny did indeed have her head bowed and her eyes closed and was, therefore, not a witness to his transgression. However, he also noted that nothing bad had happened, yet.  
   He still had his eyes open, and his attention was caught by a small spider making its way across the tiled floor beneath the pew. Where did it come from? Where was it going? He wanted to say _'hello Mr Spider'_ , but instead he said _'amen'_ , in unison with the assembled faithful. Mr Spider went on his way, oblivious to the ritual going on in his home, intent on reaching his destination.  
   The Jeremy wondered if it was a Holy spider by virtue of its residence in the church, and immediately regretted it. Animals and insects didn't have souls so they couldn't be Holy, which probably meant that the Devil was planting thoughts in his head again.  
   He closed his eyes tightly and adopted the most devout 'praying-while-kneeling' pose he could muster. It consisted of tensing his whole body, so as not to move a muscle, while thinking about God to the exclusion of everything else. It worked, for about ten or fifteen seconds, until his knees interrupted him with the news that they were beginning to feel uncomfortable. He had to shift his position, and the spell was broken. His innocent enquiries resumed where they'd left off. Where was the spider now?

*

   His enquiring mind was evidence that the church powers were correct in their assertion that at his age, or thereabouts, a child would reach the age of reason. Sensing danger, they'd devised a way to deal with it in the form of the Penny Catechism, a publication the Jeremy was soon to have intimate knowledge of. But not just yet.  
   At the end of the service, there was no indecorous rush for the door. Instead, small groups gathered here and there to exchange pleasantries while the priest mingled, blessing each group with his presence before they departed.  
   The smallest group was the one which included the Jeremy and his family. In fact they were the only ones in it. When the priest got to them, he introduced himself as Father Moore, and chatted with the Jeremy's parents, commenting on their _'lovely children'_. Jenny was flattered by his remark, blushing slightly, but Father Moore made the mistake of patting the Jeremy's head. It provoked instant dislike from the boy, who thought it condescending (although he would have struggled to describe his feelings thus, not yet having added that word to his arsenal of descriptive terms). In an exemplary display of self control, he didn't let his desire to kick the priest's ankle manifest itself into action.  
   Instead, he reached up, took hold of the cleric's hand, and viciously pulled his fingers apart, yanking at them until he fell to his knees, begging for mercy, at which point the Jeremy paused just long enough for the contemptible fellow to think his ordeal was over before zapping him right between the eyes.  
   In the parallel universe of the Jeremy's imagination, where this action had taken place, Father Moore recovered from the onslaught just enough to see the error of his ways, to apologise for his unjustified condescension, and to promise to be more careful in the future, before skulking away to cower in a darkened corner.  
   The Jeremy's imagination was a wonderful place, acting like a release valve which kicked in whenever he felt wronged but unable to do anything about it in the real world. More than that, it _stopped_ him from attempting to do something about it in the real world, a place where his actions might well be deemed unacceptable, reprehensible or worse, punishable in one way or another. His imaginary escapades healed his wounds sufficiently for him to get over his grievances, allowing him to move on, even if it sometimes took an encore or two to get there.  
   Imagination. Without it he would have been an empty shell, an automaton just going through the motions. There was so much to think about and not nearly enough time to do so. He continually attempted to answer the questions that came to him by using his imagination, a trait inherited from his ancestors. More and more of his time was spent occupying that internal space.

*

   St Francis RC Primary School turned out to be the mongrel of the pack, 'the pack' being the schools the Jeremy had attended so far. Like St Joseph's, it was a school for children of Catholic parents, but like Eastfield, which was non-denominational, the teachers were ordinary people who wore ordinary clothes.  
   'Ordinary' is, of course, a relative term. Teachers noted for the oddity of their attire, at various times during the Jeremy's school career, included Mr Yarrow for his bow ties, Mr Boxwood for his cravats, Mrs Newman for her butterfly spectacles – those ones with a 'wing' above each lens, liberally encrusted with fake jewels – and Mr Elmleigh for his worn out but no doubt comfortable cardigan.  
   At St Francis, there were often nuns about the place, and it was not uncommon to find the odd priest or two, including Father Moore, wandering around. But their presence there was due to the fact that the school occupied part of the church grounds. They didn't take on the roles of regular teachers.  
   Of course, there were services scheduled into the timetable, which took place in the church, and there were also the weekly confessional sessions, not to mention the catechism lessons and daily prayers, but, for the most part, the regular lessons were delivered without reference to any gods, just as they had been at Eastfield.  
   You could be forgiven for thinking, based on this brief description, that it was an exceedingly well balanced institution. If you knew Mrs Newman, the Jeremy's form teacher when he joined the school, then no forgiveness would be due. She was the most evil bitch he'd ever come across. Forgiveness was not part of her character in even a minuscule amount.  
   Mrs Newman: 'vindictive', 'spiteful', 'cruel', 'hateful', 'vicious' and 'wicked' were all highly appropriate descriptors of the character of this tweed-skirted tormentor of children, but _evil bitch_ summed her up quite neatly. The Jeremy instinctively knew she was an evil bitch, even though he didn't yet have those two words in juxtaposition in his vocabulary. Horrid? That was barely adequate for Miss Heart. Mrs Newman was way beyond horrid. She'd been at the pinnacle of _horrid_ before entering into her teens. She'd soared to much greater heights since then, cruising at altitudes from which horrid was no more than a tiny speck far below.  
   In practical terms, it became abundantly clear that to get on the wrong side of her was a mistake that would result in a good deal of pain. This was graphically illustrated when Peter, one of the Jeremy's classmates, was accused of whispering to his neighbour. As punishment for his alleged indiscretion, he received several whacks across his knuckles with the thin edge of a ruler.  
   The Jeremy was shocked. He'd never witnessed such precisely administered physical violence before, and certainly not by a woman. He thought the bones in Peter's hand might be broken. Not a chance. Not even any broken skin. Mrs Newman had perfected her art over many years, and knew precisely how hard to hit.  
   The first whack was delivered 'free-style'. While Peter was quick enough to see it coming, he wasn't quick enough to snatch his hand away in time to completely evade the blow. Before delivering another two whacks, Mrs Newman grabbed his hand by the fingers and firmly held them down on the desktop. Her accuracy would not be impaired again by such impudence.  
   Strangely, nearly as shocking to the Jeremy as the actual whacking, was the fact that she used Peter's own ruler to do the deed. She just picked it up from his desk. It seemed to add contempt to the injury. He made a mental note never to leave his ruler on his desk, just in case.  
   Leaving morality and ethics to one side, something which Mrs Newman apparently had no trouble doing, her actions certainly kept order in her classroom. Fear ruled. Of course, every so often, she had to pick on someone to reinforce it, but that was no problem. There was always some foolish boy who would let his guard down for a moment, and on one occasion, no doubt in pursuance of fairness, she picked on a girl with no less venom than she'd shown her male victims.  
   The Jeremy had hoped that his new school would be different. A place devoid of the likes of Sister Mary Margaret and Miss Heart. He was sorely disappointed. He'd jumped out of the frying pan into the fire, and now he was in the witch's cauldron. The only redeeming factor was that he had not, as yet, been singled out for any personal attention.

*

   His mother was getting fat again. He didn't have much of a feeling one way or another about it. Neil had turned out to be okay. He wasn't nearly as annoying as Jenny, and he often did funny things which made the Jeremy laugh out loud. He wondered about it for a bit. Would it be a boy or a girl? But then he decided it was a waste of time. He'd just wait and see.  
   The first time he saw his new sibling, wrapped up in a blanket, just a scrunched up little face showing, it occurred to him that he'd have been none the wiser if he'd been told it was a girl. Babies all looked pretty much alike to him.  
    _"Oooh look. He's got his father's nose,"_ someone would say.  
   But as far as the Jeremy could see, apart from the fact that it had two holes in the end of it, the alleged striking similarity was a figment of their imagination.  
   His parents had decided to call his new brother Daniel. That was okay too. He could live with that. And experience with Neil had shown that he wouldn't be noisy and smelly for too long either, so it was just a matter of waiting to see what he turned out like. In the meantime, he concentrated on avoiding Mrs Newman's attention at school, and managed to survive, untouched, until the end of the school year.  
   The summer holidays washed away all the fear and trepidation in a matter of a few sunny days spent playing with his new friend Julian. It was one of the best summers ever. He and Julian became the closest of friends, spending every day in each other's company. His mother liked Julian, and was happy to let the pair of them commute the quarter mile between their houses without too many injunctions regarding best behaviour and the like.  
   They spent most of their time outside, sometimes kicking a football around in Julian's back garden, sometimes playing _Explorers_ or _Cowboys & Indians_, and sometimes exploring the local geography for real. They had competitions to see who could run the fastest, throw the furthest, climb the highest. They were fairly evenly matched, which helped cement their friendship. It seemed like the summer would last forever.  
   It didn't. September came and it was back to school. But there was no Mrs Newman to worry about, their new form teacher introducing himself as Mr Petrie. The Jeremy had never had a male teacher before, and at first he was a bit nervous of him. He needn't have worried, he turned out to be the best teacher he'd ever had – with the exception of Miss Robinson of course. Mr Petrie had a friendly way about him which seemed to encourage the children to behave, removing the need to resort to threats and violence. For the first time since Miss Robinson had won his heart, the Jeremy began to enjoy going to school.

*

   The Penny Catechism, on the whole, was a stabilising influence in the fertile ground of the Jeremy's imagination. But rather than lubricate the engine of the vessel which cruised that burgeoning sea of enquiry, to stop it overheating, it poured oil onto the waves, slowly bringing about an enforced calm.  
   It operated in his comfort zone of rote learning, providing definitive answers to questions in a form he could repeat, either out loud, or to himself.  
   The very first question bit the bullet.

> **"1. Who made you?"** it asked.

   The answer pulled no punches either.

> "God made me."

   Plain and simple. Next?  
   Well next came three hundred and sixty nine other questions in a similar vein, some of which the Jeremy might even have asked himself. All were answered in the same matter of fact style.  
   Some confirmed things he'd already been taught.

> _"22. Does God know and see all things?"_  
>  "God knows and sees all things, even our most secret thoughts."

   Some, if you were to listen carefully, could be heard to make a whooshing sound as they whistled over his head.

> **"56. Why is Jesus Christ called our Redeemer?"**  
>  "Jesus Christ is called our Redeemer because his precious blood is the price by which we were ransomed."

Ordinarily, hearing the word 'ransomed' would have propelled him into a landscape inhabited by pirates and ne'er-do-wells, perpetrators of dastardly deeds, brazenly blackmailing their victims, bleeding them dry, divesting them of all they possessed. Into this scenario, the Jeremy would arrive to right wrongs and generally do heroic deeds, while keeping his identity hidden behind a mask.  
   In the structured environment of his Catechism lessons, there was no time for such activities. The importance of memorising the questions and answers had been made very clear. Anyone who failed to do so would not be allowed the gift of God's grace. God would be displeased, which was automatically interpreted to mean _very angry_. It was enough to focus even the Jeremy's mind.  
   Over the coming weeks and months, he memorised them, one by one, and prided himself on having a quick response time when asked to provide the answer to a randomly selected question. Some were harder than others, but one in particular had an odd and potentially disastrous affect on him whenever he recited it.

> _"70. What do you mean by the words, 'is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty?'"_  
>  _"By the words, 'is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty', I do not mean that God the Father has hands, for he is a spirit; but I mean that Christ, as God, is equal to the Father and, as man, is in the highest place in heaven."_

For some reason, whenever he said the bit about not meaning that God the Father had hands, he found it seriously difficult not to laugh. No matter what he did, a picture would pop into his head of God sitting on his throne waving his handless arms about. He had to practice saying it over and over again in order to gain control of himself.  
   It may have made him want to laugh, but that didn't mean it made him happy. He was more than a little uneasy about it. He was sure it was a bad thought to picture God like that, and the fact that it always popped into his head had worrying implications. Sister Mary Margaret no longer featured in person in his daily life, but her barbed presence was deeply hooked into his mind, constantly reminding him of the Devil and his evil ways.  
   Despite these difficulties, he was spurred on by the knowledge that all his sins would be forgiven in the confession box. All he had to do was to show he'd reached the age of reason by perfectly reciting from memory the answers in the Catechism to the satisfaction of Father Moore. The Jeremy reasoned that if that was what it took, then he was definitely up to the job, and he and his fellow catechumens steadfastly put their shoulders to the doors of reason for all they were worth. After much hard work, and not a little sweat, particularly on the days they were tested, they were rewarded with the final question and answer.

> _"370. After your night prayers what should you do?"_  
>  _"After my night prayers I should observe due modesty in going to bed; occupy myself with the thoughts of death; and endeavour to compose myself to rest at the foot of the Cross, and give my last thoughts to my crucified Saviour."_

    _"Sweet dreams and God bless,"_ his mother always said as she bade him goodnight, an outward display of the love she felt for him. The Jeremy continued to accept her gift in the spirit in which it was given. He never asked her if she knew about question 370.

*

   The day of his First Confession was filled with excitement, some apprehension and a hint of pride. Excitement because it was a new experience, apprehension in case he fluffed it, and pride because he knew unequivocally that he could correctly recite all the answers in the Penny Catechism.  
   When his turn came, he stepped inside the dimly lit confessional, knelt down, and sneaked a quick peak in the direction of the gauze-like grill. He was pretty sure it was Father Moore who was sitting behind it – he didn't know for sure, but he'd seen him heading in that direction earlier on. He thought he detected a little movement on the priestward side of the mesh, but quickly shut his eyes, clasped his hands together and bowed his head.  
    _"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,"_ came the words through the grill.  
    _"Amen,"_ said the Jeremy, recognising the voice.  
   All was silent until Father Moore gave a polite cough in an effort to move things on. After all, he had another seven to go and he'd already missed his tea and biscuits, something he was, of course, more than happy to do in the service of the Lord.  
    _"Bless-me-father-for-I-have-sinned-this-is-my-first-confession-I-told-lies-and-had-bad-thoughts,"_ blurted out the Jeremy, with such total disregard for punctuation, it necessitated a deep inhalation immediately after he got the last word out.  
   The fact that his words were an exact copy of those that Father Moore had used – when he'd coached them on confessional etiquette – as an _example_ of what they should say, belied how much thought he'd put into what he should confess. He had, after some serious contemplation, come to the conclusion that he couldn't do better than to use the Ten Commandments as the basis for deciding what sins he'd committed.  
   He'd been very thorough, using the explanations from his Penny Catechism to be sure of their meaning. He'd been quite astonished how much more they meant than you would have guessed just by reading the Commandments as they'd been carved in the stone.  
   For example, according to the Catechism, the carved version of number four just said _'Honour your father and your mother'_. Who would have guessed it really meant _'We are commanded to obey, not only our parents, but also our bishops and pastors, the civil authorities, and our lawful superiors'_.  
   At first glance, the fifth had also appeared very straightforward, until the Catechism revealed that it meant _'forbids all wilful murder, fighting, quarrelling, and injurious words; and also scandal and bad example'_. That had given him pause for thought. Did he quarrel with his sister? His mother sometimes used that word. She'd said on more than one occasion, _'I don't like to hear you quarrelling'_ , but he'd come to the conclusion that it was Jenny who was doing the quarrelling while he was attempting to engage in reasoned argument.  
   The ninth had been a source of mystery in its carved version and the Catechism hadn't done as much as it might to explain it: _'The ninth Commandment forbids all wilful consent to impure thoughts and desires, and all wilful pleasure in the irregular motions of the flesh'_. Tony Harboard had been brave enough to ask what _'irregular motions of the flesh'_ meant, and had discovered that, _"it is fortunate for you that you do not know and therefore cannot disobey the ninth Commandment."_  
   The answer made it clear that further vocal enquiry would be unwise, but of course, that didn't prevent a good deal of private speculation, most of which centred on the bowels and diarrhoea, although no one could work out how there was any sin involved.  
   Be that as it may, the upshot of all this was that he concluded that lies and bad thoughts were his only sins. Setting fire to his grandmother's garage didn't count because it hadn't been a _wilful_ act. He'd only borrowed the matches and he hadn't even told any lies about it. But regarding lies, although he'd successfully expunged the memories of them so he could feel good about himself, he knew he'd told some, and, ergo, owned up to the fact. And the bad thoughts? Well, the ghost of Sister Mary Margaret, who could spot a bad thought before you'd even had it, had flagged up so many he'd lost count.  
   It probably wouldn't be very Christian to suggest that tea and biscuits had any part to play in it, so despite the apparent plagiarism, it's clear that Father Moore was genuinely satisfied that it was a genuine confession because he didn't hesitate to absolve him.  
    _"Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,"_ said Father Moore, ignoring the fact that he could have uttered any Latin sounding gibberish without undermining, even by a scintilla, the Jeremy's faith that his sins had been forgiven.  
    _"Amen,"_ said the Jeremy.  
    _"For your penance, say three Hail Marys."_  
    _"Thank you Father,"_ said the Jeremy as he stood up, not daring to look at the mesh again in case he caught a glimpse of Father Moore, thereby shattering the already semi-transparent illusion of anonymity.  
   Very solemnly, he exited the box and made his way, head bowed, back to his pew, where he knelt again and silently recited his three Hail Marys. Waiting for the other first timers to finish, boredom soon set in, so he said another Hail Mary just for good measure. It was a solemn occasion and he didn't want to risk getting distracted and inadvertently end up doing something out of place.  
   When it was all over and he felt safe enough to relax, the exaltation at the thought of God forgiving his sins gave way to his normal introspective thinking. He began to wonder exactly how much grace he'd got. The Catechism said that going to confession _'increases the grace of God in the soul, besides forgiving sin; we should, therefore, often go to confession'_. Unfortunately, it didn't say how much the increase was or, for that matter, define the unit of measure.  
   Leaving that aside, the Jeremy knew that having completed his first confession, he now had the opportunity to go to confession once a week. He resolved to do just that, partly because he wanted the practise, and partly because he thought it sounded like a good idea to get as much grace as possible. He'd also been told that he would soon be making his First Communion, and that would add still more grace to his soul. He wondered, momentarily, what would happen to the surplus if his soul got full to the brim, but it was too much even for his imagination to come up with a satisfactory answer.

*

   Like so many things, confession would never be as good as it was the first time. But then, the first time, he'd had months and months worth of bad thoughts and lies to confess. The next time things were different. There are only so many bad thoughts a boy can have in a week, and he was fairly certain he hadn't told any lies at all. Nevertheless, out came the words _'bless me father for I have sinned... I told lies and had bad thoughts'_. And again, week after week, he said the same thing, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.  
   The grace thing was becoming a little bothersome too. Even though he knew he must have got some, because he'd been to confession, he couldn't actually detect anything. He just tried to _look_ as though he had some because it would be a bad thing if people thought that God hadn't given him any. He'd also begun to wonder why it was called _saying grace_ when you said the prayer before dinner. Was there a connection between that sort of grace and the sort that God put in your soul? It was another mystery which his better judgement told him it was probably best not to enquire about.  
   After a couple of months, he began to get bored with confession. The priest never said anything different. It was always _'say three Hail Marys'_. It had become so predictable that, in an effort to revive the thrill he'd felt at his first confession, he racked his brains for another sin he could add on the end of his normal list of two.  
   At his next visit to the confessional he was heard to say, _"... for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. I told lies and had bad thoughts and..."_ – here he paused, because this was new territory and he had to take an extra gulp of oxygen – _"... I didn't say my prayers."_  
   Having got it out without stuttering or otherwise stumbling over his words, his pride was at an all time high, and the suspense of waiting to see if it was an acceptable additional sin was close to unbearable.  
   The Latin absolution took forever, then...  
    _"For your penance, say three Hail Marys."_  
    _"No!!!"_ he wanted to yell, _"I did an extra sin!! Shouldn't I have to say an extra Hail Mary!? Or maybe even an Our Father!"_  
   It seemed grossly unfair after all the effort he'd put in, not to mention the careful and precise execution of his delivery. He was bitterly disappointed.  
   At that point in his still relatively innocent childhood, the wrecking ball still having work to do, he hadn't fully come to terms with the idea that you weren't supposed to commit sins purely for the purpose of later confessing them to the priest. After all, the Catechism's recommendation that he go to confession as often as possible had appeared to suggest it was a reasonable course of action. Conversely, he hadn't fully comprehended that you were also supposed to have _actually committed_ the sins that you confessed. This simple misunderstanding could have been brought to light, quite easily, if the priest taking his confession had asked the Jeremy what lies he'd told. God knows, according to item twenty two of the Penny Catechism, why he did not.

*

   The Jeremy's First Communion was not at all like his first confession. His confession, while offering plenty of opportunities to make a mistake, had been a relatively private affair. His First Communion was very public, taking place during a special Sunday mass for which much preparation was needed.  
   He had to show, one more time, that he knew the Catechism by heart, and arrangements were also put in place for him, and the others who would be participating, to go to confession on the Friday afternoon. The importance of being in a 'state of grace' before receiving Holy Communion was inculcated into them with dire warnings of the condemnation they risked if they weren't in such a state, presumably designed to deter them from sinning on Saturday.  
   His mother bought him a new white shirt, a blue tie and a pair of regulation dark grey school shorts. It was clear from this that it was a very important event. That assessment was confirmed to be one hundred percent accurate on the Sunday morning when his mother insisted on deep cleaning his ears with a cotton bud.  
   For all the preparation, the procedure in the church was pretty straightforward. The children waited until they were called, then simply lined up in the aisle, ready to approach the altar. On signal, they went to the altar, spread out sideways, and knelt at the altar rail. As the priest passed along the row of kneeling children, each one stuck out his or her tongue, ready to receive the Eucharist. The sticking out of tongues was not a difficult manoeuvre for children of their age, most of whom had had plenty of practice in their daily lives. The Jeremy's only concern was getting the timing right.  
   It was a strange feeling when the priest laid the wafer on his protruding tongue. He carefully retracted it into his mouth where he held it very still. When the priest had finished with him, he made the sign of the cross, stood up, and made his way back to his pew, concentrating hard to avoid chewing or swallowing.  
   The vital importance of doing neither of those things had been drummed into him over the preceding weeks, and he was not about to ruin his performance by losing his concentration. Not chewing was quite easy, there not being much substance to the wafer, but not swallowing was proving rather challenging. As it dissolved in his saliva, his natural oral reflexes were fighting to be set free to cast the soggy morsel down his gullet. It didn't taste of anything much, a bit like the rice-paper backing on macaroons, or the shell of a sherbet-filled Flying Saucer. He held out for as long as he could, then down it went in a rather noisy gulp.  
   There was a part of him which thought _'is that what all the fuss was about?'_ , but it was overridden by the larger part which shrank in fear at the thought of the retributions that would be due for thinking such a thing.

*

   Shortly after his First Communion, having been back for more on several occasions and therefore feeling particularly holy, the Jeremy began to wonder what he should do if he wanted to go to confession to top up on grace, but he hadn't sinned since his last visit. He knew he usually had at least a few bad thoughts but what if he went a whole week without any? The problem of confession and _not_ having sinned since the previous time grew so large in his mind that he could no longer ignore it. It was then that he found the courage to ask Father Moore, when their paths crossed in the school corridor, what he should do if he wanted to go to confession but he hadn't any sins to confess.  
   Father Moore smiled that supercilious smile which clergymen sometimes lend to bank managers who are about to inform you that your credit rating falls just ever so slightly below the level required to secure that all important loan, and said, _"Is there ever a time when any of us can truly say that we have not sinned? I know that I cannot and I am sure that if you search your soul you will find that the same holds true for you."_  
    _"Thank you Father,"_ he said, more out of politeness than any genuine gratitude. He'd rather hoped to get a simple answer, not the conundrum he'd been given. All the same, he gave the priest's answer some serious brain time because he didn't want to admit that he didn't have much of a clue what he'd meant by it.  
   Serious brain time or no, he tried hard to think in whispers, so that God would know that he was a good Catholic boy. He hadn't yet thought through why thinking in whispers would be an indicator of that attribute, but he had to whisper in church, so it seemed logical that he should do the same in his head when thinking about anything to do with God.  
   Despite his best efforts, he found Father Moore's answer more confusing than enlightening. In his answer, the priest had asked a question that the Jeremy couldn't possibly answer, but he'd also seemed to imply that the Jeremy had sinned even if he didn't _know_ he'd sinned. But how did that make sense? He supposed that perhaps he just wasn't clever enough to understand, so the best policy was to continue in his usual fashion, say the three Hail Marys and be done with it.  
   Nevertheless, it troubled him still. On top of that, he was secretly struggling with understanding exactly what his soul was. He knew it existed because it got stained if he sinned, and it was the place that all the grace went as well. He also knew the stains were removed if he went to confession, but he wasn't sure if it was the grace which was the cleaning agent or if God just removed the stains directly, and then dished out the grace afterwards.  
   His biggest problem was that souls were invisible, and he found it impossible to imagine an invisible thing. He could only imagine things via a mental picture of something which had shape and size. It was the staining bit that made things extra abstruse. Stains were definitely things you could see, so how did something invisible get a stain on it?  
   Despite knowing it was invisible, his mental picture of his soul consisted of something which could have been an internal organ. A bit like a heart, but definitely not a heart, because a heart was a physical thing, a thing you could touch and feel, or at least you could feel it thumping when you held your hand against your chest. His imagination couldn't function without a mental picture, so he'd managed to more or less persuade himself that his mental picture of his soul was what it _would_ look like if you could see it.  
   Even more of a secret were his worries about whether the stains were truly removed after he went to confession. His experience so far, particularly the lack of acknowledgement of his extra sin, had left him less than fully convinced. And Father Moore's response to his question had done nothing but add another dimension to his confusion.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

## PART TWO

### Snapshot No. 9

   She emerged unsullied from the murky depths of the Jeremy's imagination, utensils in hand, her mission to clean and tidy his thoughts to respectable, recognised standards. In his younger days, she'd been nothing more than a disembodied voice floating around in his head, a voice which he'd imagined saying things like _'Ew, disgusting!'_ when he thought about pooh, or didn't bother to wash his hands after he'd been for a wee. Over time, she took on a much more solid personality, an amalgamation of the women who had featured most prominently in his life. His mother, Sister Mary Margaret, Mrs Hartley, Miss Heart and Mrs Newman, with a touch of Auntie Betty and the Virgin Mary thrown in for good measure. Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By also had an influence on her character. Even his sister featured to some degree.  
   As far as appearance goes, she was similar to Andy Capp's wife Florrie, the sort of woman who wears a headscarf tied in a bow on top of her head, and folds her arms in such a way that her unusually ample breasts have a suitable resting place. She didn't have a proper name, but she would be thought of as Mrs Bulging Bosoms, 'bosoms' being the word always used in the Jeremy's household to refer to human mammary glands.  
   She didn't have an awful lot to do at first, a situation which remained unchanged for quite some while. A _'tut, tut!'_ here and a _'really!'_ there was all that was necessary. But things were beginning to change, and Mrs Bulging Bosoms feared it was not for the better. The fact is, she was not alone in the virgin territory of the Jeremy's awakening mind. There were other voices in his head who were emerging as distinct personalities too. So many in fact that it was threatening to become quite crowded. And disharmony among the cranial crew was becoming more and more apparent.  
   From the very start, Mrs Bulging Bosoms had done her utmost to keep the Jeremy on the straight and narrow, but she was beginning to have problems. The amount of clout she had at her disposal to correct his wayward notions was diminishing at an alarming rate. Her once unchallenged influence was being undermined by a steady influx of characters who seemed determined to usurp her power at every opportunity.  
   Some did so by what she considered to be flashy, brash behaviour, designed to attract and encourage the side of the Jeremy's character she'd worked so hard to keep in check. Take Succinctly Sid. Oh how she secretly hated him (it had to be a secret because the act of hating was one of the things she denounced). He was so difficult to counteract. He never said very much, but what he did say was usually foul-mouthed and often restricted to two or three words. He rarely said anything more than a single sentence.  
    _"Fat old cow,"_ said Succinctly Sid, helpfully providing a relatively mild example of what she meant.  
    _"How can you live with yourself!?"_ demanded Mrs Bulging Bosoms, her posture emphasising her displeasure.  
   Succinctly Sid remained silent. His silences were a major headache for Mrs Bulging Bosoms too. He would never justify what he said, never apologise, never ever enter into any discussion about the rights and wrongs of his utterances or comment on his comments.  
   He was a sniper, emerging from the background to fire his weapons without any warning and with daunting accuracy. A sort of Dirty Harry character who lived by his own rules and had scant regard for what Mrs Bulging Bosoms referred to as 'common decency'. He was the strong, virtually silent type. Fearless and bold. He said the things the Jeremy wished he _could_ say, and sometimes the things he wished he _had_ said. Sid didn't subscribe to the notion that certain words were 'dirty'. Words were just sounds, some of which were more effective than others. He was quietly amused that Mrs Bulging Bosoms used the word 'flashy' in her description of him.  
   Like every other inhabitant of the Jeremy's imagination, Succinctly Sid had not appeared fully formed in a single creation event. He'd coalesced over a period of time, morphing from one version of himself to another. New ideas, wishes, events, and people – both imaginary and real – constantly influenced the Jeremy's perceptions of the world and his understanding of his own identity in it. They also shaped the identity he hoped and strived for, not to mention the identity he desired but believed he would never possess. Neither Sid nor any of his cohabitants were immune to the consequences of this process during their formative stages.  
   None of the characters in his head had names to start with, and there were never any naming ceremonies. Their names came about either because of their imagined appearance, as in the case of Mrs Bulging Bosoms, or because of a character trait, such as that displayed by Succinctly Sid.  
   He was named 'Sid' because nobody would name anybody 'Said', would they? The Jeremy's knowledge of names was restricted, at the time, to those of a more traditional English type and those from nearby Europe. Later on, when he found out that 'Said' was a real name, in lands further afield, he wished he'd known because that would have made Succinctly Sid even cooler.  
   In the case of the Colonel, his name came about because of his stereotypical behaviour. He was a blend of all the authoritarian types who crossed the Jeremy's path, a striking example being Mr 'Spokeshaves Away!' Boxwood – of cravat fame – whose British military background dictated the inflexible style of teaching he would employ in the Jeremy's woodwork classes. There was also a large dollop of Colonel Blimp, a twist of Winston Churchill and a smattering of all the _'-ello, -ello, -ello. What 'ave we got 'ere then?'_ policemen he'd ever seen or heard in BBC dramas. Auntie Betty, she of the grey flannel trousers and bale of hay, was also tucked into the mix despite her nominal gender. The Jeremy's father was notable by his almost complete absence.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms had a soft spot for the Colonel, notwithstanding his averred opinion that a woman's place was in the home, _"providing for a man's needs. That's what God made women for and who am I to argue with the Supreme Commander. What!?"_  
   The fact of the matter was, the Colonel was the first character to fully materialise in the Jeremy's brain after Mrs Bulging Bosoms' début, and he'd provided an illusion of companionship for a while. At first she'd perceived his comments as support for her own conservative views, a perception which would change in concert with the Colonel's descent into the role of arrogant buffoon.  
   For all that, he would always be much easier to deal with than the likes of Succinctly Sid. All huff and puff with no real substance, he was full of bluster and pompous nonsense. Mrs Bulging Bosoms quietly thought he came across as a bit of a nincompoop and ninnyhammer. But not quietly enough.  
    _"Nincompoop!? Ninnyhammer!? I'll give you nincompoop my lass! Then you'll see the real meaning of... of...,"_ the Colonel trailed off, not sure where he was going with it, but emphasised the point anyway with a bold, _"You mark my words, my gal!"_  
    _"Oh be quiet, you silly old fool!"_ chided Mrs Bulging Bosoms.  
   The Colonel was silent. Though not because he'd demurred to Mrs Bulging Bosoms' request. Rather, he'd wandered off again, dreaming of magnificent victories over deadly foes.  
   Before what they both considered to be the 'intrusion' of Succinctly Sid, Mrs Bulging Bosoms and the Colonel found their cohabitation of the Jeremy's cranial interior a reasonably pleasant experience. Their broadly similar objectives, although expressed in their own individual styles, enabled them to get along quite comfortably. It was the Colonel who had robustly encouraged the Jeremy during his rote learning of the Catechism.  
    _"Concentrate boy! You'll never get anywhere if you don't concentrate. You mark my words!"_ he would constantly berate him.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms was grateful for his contributions because it took some of the heat off her. She was able to busy herself with the seemingly endless task of tidying away what she categorised as the Jeremy's less than salubrious thoughts. 'Tidying away' took the form of finding places she could hide them, or disguise them, where they would not be readily found.  
   All her hard work, combined with the Colonel's input, appeared to be paying off. For a while, the constant firing of the Jeremy's analytical brain cells had lessened to such a degree that she'd even managed to hear herself think – an activity which added very little to the overall volume.  
   Her satisfaction and pride reached their zenith when the Jeremy announced to his mother, shortly before his Confirmation, that he'd decided to enter the priesthood. His mother was quietly euphoric. The Jeremy a priest! It was a dream come true, more than she'd dared hope for. What's more, he appeared to be absolutely serious about his intentions.  
   And indeed he was. But if she hadn't allowed her excitement to overwhelm her quite as much as it did, she might have noticed a distinct lack of excitement or passion both in his declaration of intent and his general demeanour. Had she noticed that lack, it would have been for the simple reason that they were indeed lacking, to a degree that could reasonably be described as completely.

*

   The inactivity of his analytical brain cells, which Mrs Bulging Bosoms had found so welcome, was in large part due to the demands placed upon his cerebral capacities which the compulsory learning of the Catechism had imposed. No small task. After it was completed, it had taken a while before he found the energy to re-engage the mental powers he'd been forced to abandon. As a means to ease himself back into the hunch and crunch of it, he'd taken a more critical eye to what he'd learnt, mainly because it was a relatively easy thing for him to do. He simply had to recall the questions and answers, something he could do at the drop of a Bishop's mitre.  
   After a good deal of thought, he'd condensed it all down into what he considered were the salient points.

  * Going to Hell was a real possibility if he was not very careful.

  * Going to Heaven was not as important as not going to Hell.

  * The best way to avoid Hell was to demonstrate to God, beyond all doubt, that he was as good a Catholic as it was possible for him to be.

  * To be as good a Catholic as it was possible for him to be, he had (as a first step) to become a priest.

   It was abundantly clear that the age of reason had indeed been reached. The Jeremy had noted the large number of things that were forbidden, not to mention the numerous things that were explicitly specified as sins or sinful. Lots of those things were things that came easily, like stuffing your face with chocolate ice cream then nipping back to the kitchen, when no one was looking, to wolf down the last of the digestive biscuits, a peanut butter sandwich, a piece of sponge cake and a portion of lemon meringue pie (the Jeremy's understanding of gluttony being very concrete). It was hard not to do them. Other things, like calling Mrs Newman 'bloody old fart face', even if it wasn't to her face, were difficult not to do when all your friends were doing it and they would think you were a cissy if you didn't do it too. What with the Devil being so full of tricks as well, it seemed the odds of avoiding Hell were not stacked in his favour.  
   The thing about Hell was that although the word only appeared fifteen times in the Catechism (as opposed to thirty-nine for 'Heaven' – he'd counted twice to be sure), he knew a lot more about Hell than he did about Heaven. Heaven was a mystery, no clear description appearing anywhere, whereas Hell was defined in graphically explicit terms which could not be misunderstood. Hell was a place full of fire in which you burnt for all eternity. Notwithstanding his doubts about how you could possibly burn for that length of time, the crux of it was that burning for _any_ length of time was more than enough to define it as a place to be avoided at all costs. The answers to questions 133 and 134 about summed it up.

> _"133. What does the Scripture say of the happiness of heaven?"_  
>  "The Scripture says of the happiness of heaven: 'No eye has seen and no ear has heard, things beyond the mind of man, all that God has prepared for those who love him.' (1 Cor. 2:9)"

> _"134. Shall not the wicked also live for ever?"_  
>  "The wicked also shall live and be punished for ever in the fire of hell."

   To be in with a chance of avoiding Hell, you had to please God by doing none of the things the Catechism said you _mustn't_ do, and all of the things it said you _must_ do – and probably all the things it said you _should_ do as well – and then, if He was pleased enough, He wouldn't send you to Hell. If you could manage to get to that stage then he might just let you into Heaven. The way the Jeremy read it, the default state was that you went to Hell, and it was only good Catholics who stood any chance of changing that.  
   Being a good Catholic was not easy for a bloke if he also wanted to retain some street credibility among his peers, many of whom viewed acts of a rebellious nature as a basic requirement. 'Bloody old fart face' was mandatory language, and they were merciless in their ridicule of anyone who fell shy, or worse, refused to play the game. So the Jeremy went along with it, even though he genuinely didn't want to do a lot of the things of a rebellious nature which membership of his peer group often required him to do. It wasn't so much that he was a goody-goody, more that his intellect told him that many of those things were just acts of plain stupidity. But the desire to avoid public ridicule was as strong in him as it was in anyone else.  
   The threat of public ridicule applied to everybody. The only exceptions were boys whose declared intention was to become a priest. They then became entirely 'off limits' as far as ridicule was concerned, and, argal, had to be treated with at least a silent respect and their words given free, unchallenged reign.  
   His declaration of priestly intentions was a classic example of the killing-of-two-birds-with-one-stone manoeuvre. Not only was it a get-out-of-ridicule-free card at school, but also a get-out-of-Hell card too, even if the latter was far from free.  
   His Confirmation day came and went under the umbrella of 'off limits' protection. It wasn't that much different from his First Communion, except it was a good deal more flashy, the more so because of the presence of the Bishop looking very peachy in full regalia. His mother prepared him via another deep earwax excavation mission and a vigorous shoe polishing session, but apparently it didn't warrant the purchase of any new clothes. However, demonstrating his skills in the rote learning department once again, he was able to reconcile this seeming anomaly by recalling question seven of the Catechism.

> _"7. Of which must you take more care, of your body or of your soul?"_  
>  "I must take more care of my soul; for Christ has said, 'What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and suffers the loss of his own soul?' (Matt. 16:26)"

*

   Towards the end of his final year at St Francis, two events, one external and one internal, sent the compass by which the Jeremy was charting his course completely haywire. The first was quite dramatic.  
   At the rear of his house, in the area between his and the other houses in the block, was a piece of land around the perimeter of which stood some twenty ramshackle, lock-up garages. Vehicular access to it was up a dirt road which ran between two houses further down the Jeremy's street, but there was also pedestrian access via the collection of alleys that ran along the backs of the houses.  
   Although it was private property, the owner didn't object to the children who lived in those houses playing in the irregularly shaped open space in the middle. It was big enough for a kick-about game of football, a game of 'it' and more besides.  
   It was the owners of the cars, housed in the garages, who exercised most control over the area, but often they were either in their own houses, their cars locked safely away, or out and about, driving their bubbles of joy. Most of the time, they were out working their arses off to pay for them.  
   One of the rites of passage, required of any pre-pubescent boy who wished to play in the area, was to climb onto the corrugated iron roof of the tallest garage, the one which was big enough to house a small truck. It was the one thing the owner would get angry about, which made it the only choice when it came to selecting a daring deed of sufficient stature. The Jeremy was proud to have passed the test.  
   But all was not rosy in this garden. There were two brothers who sometimes invaded the space. They didn't live in any of the houses in the block so their presence was always considered a hostile intrusion. The Jeremy, who at this time was emulating 'gentle Jesus, meek and mild' for all he was worth, tended to ignore their presence or, more often than not, found a good reason to return indoors whenever they appeared.  
   It was the raiders' custom to scale the drainpipe of the 'sacred' garage and then to sit upon its roof, as a demonstration of their fearlessness. It was also a challenge to the 'resident' boys, but so far, no one had taken them up on it, which appeared to satisfy the two interlopers, their sneering contempt showing on their faces as they played this game of power.  
   Apart from their regular raids into his territory, the Jeremy didn't like the brothers for a number of other reasons. For one thing, they would openly pick their noses and flick little balls of snot at each other, and found it so funny they would roll about laughing as they did it. Then there was their appearance. They each had a 'short back and sides' haircut so severe that it made a normal short back and sides look positively shaggy.  
   The Jeremy had been well acquainted with the aforementioned style of haircut in previous years, but when given the opportunity, he'd opted for the more modern 'square Boston', a favourite among boys of his age because it was a fashion statement which said they were old enough to choose for themselves. The brothers were scary because they exuded aggressive self confidence which, coupled with their apparent choice of haircut, said, _"You wanna make something of it?"_  
   As if that wasn't _enough_ reason to dislike them, there was one other thing. He'd painstakingly avoided any exchange of words with them, but he had noticed their Irish accents. It fired an automatic link in his mind to Sister Mary Margaret and that, justified or not, had been the subliminal clincher.  
   On the day in question, he took a shortcut via the garages on his way home from school. It wasn't really a shortcut, more of a detour, but it meant he would reach the house, by way of the back garden, and enter directly into the kitchen where his mother would be preparing some jam sandwiches, or something similar, for his tea.  
   The brothers were sitting atop the sacred garage and they were definitely not minding their own business. As far as he could tell, the brothers' business appeared to be entirely focused on watching him as he approached. Just before he reached the spot where his path would take him closest to their vantage point, they launched their verbal assault.  
    _"Pay pissed scum!"_  
   It was the most peculiar thing that had ever been yelled at him, and it left him distinctly perplexed but, nevertheless, teed up, ready for the next insult which would surely follow.  
    _"Bloody Catholic bastard!"_  
   Whoah! _That_ he had not expected.  
   The Jeremy was so stunned by the raw hatred in the words, the verbal equivalent of being gobbed at, that his step faltered momentarily.  
   It wasn't the _'bloody bastard!'_ which unsettled him. After all, it wasn't as if he and his friends never used such language towards each other. Of course they did. It was used to convey unmenacing displeasure at someone's clever tactic or as a response to having the mickey taken out of them. But they never used such expressions directly towards anyone outside of their group, where it would take on that menacing aspect and likely provoke an aggressive response. Although the Jeremy had made a determined effort to stop swearing himself, in view of his recent religious vocation, he'd become used to hearing such words, and more besides. What was really unsettling was the way they said _'Catholic'_ as if it was by far the dirtiest word in the sentence.  
   He was about to retort with _'what do you mean!!!?'_ when he realised, just in time, that to acknowledge them in any way would be construed as engagement in battle. Not sure what to do, he continued in the direction of home, trying his best to ignore the vitriolic tirade which cascaded down upon him.  
   He was still visibly shaken when he greeted his mother in the kitchen. He told her what had happened.  
    _"Don't take any notice of them. They are just being nasty. You see, they are Protestants, so they don't like you because you are a Catholic,"_ she said.  
   He didn't see at all.  
    _"But why? Why don't they like Catholics?"_ enquired the Jeremy, utterly mystified.  
   His mother must have been as unprepared for the situation as the Jeremy, because the explanation she expounded, at some length, left him with the impression that King Henry the Eighth was the villain of the piece because he set up the Church of England – the church the Protestants went to – and that he'd done this 'out of thin air' in the sixteenth century, all because he wanted to have lots of wives. So _obviously_ the Protestants were wrong because they belonged to a false church instead of the Catholic church – the original one – and they didn't like Catholics because the Catholics said they were wrong and they knew the Catholics were right. Poor old Martin Luther never even got a mention.  
   Up until that point, he hadn't given it a lot of thought. He'd half assumed that the people who weren't Catholics were just unfortunate because they didn't know they _should_ be, and that was why everyone prayed for them – the lost souls. It hadn't seemed that important because they had free will, so they could become a Catholic before they died and everything would be alright. It had never occurred to him that they didn't _want_ to be Catholics. Discovering that there were some who not only didn't _want_ to be Catholics but also _hated_ Catholics with a vengeance was quite a shock.  
   His immediate reaction was to defend himself and his fellow Catholics. And as someone famous (but not so famous their name comes readily to mind) once said, the best form of defence is attack. If those Protestant bastards wanted a fight then so be it!  
   It will probably come as no surprise to learn that this battle took place in the safety of the Jeremy's imagination, rather than in the hostile arena of the garages. The good old relief valve kicked in thus ensuring a victory of satisfying proportions, the evil Protestants lying mercilessly dismembered on the bloody battlefield.  
   It was at times like these that Malevolent Morris, a rather shady character who had weaselled his way into the Jeremy's internal world, proved to be a great asset.  
    _"Protestants. What can be said of them? Evil, treacherous, lying creatures. Let the sword do the work!"_ he said, luridly paraphrasing Auntie Betty's good advice.  
   Most of the time, the Jeremy tried to pretend that Malevolent Morris didn't exist, and would attempt to shut his ears to his sinister suggestions. But when he was riled up about something, Morris was an adviser extraordinaire.  
   In the days that followed, with Morris's help, he replayed the battle scene again and again. Eventually his rage and indignation subsided enough that he was able to keep calm even when the brothers were in view. As an unexpected dividend, his inadvertent wisdom in not responding to their taunts had paid off too. They never bothered to try it again, restricting their activities to menacing stares.

*

   Melchior Da Maven graduated and gained tenure as resident Professor in the Jeremy's head at about this time. He'd been around for a while, firstly as a student of logic. Then, during his 'undergraduate' days, he'd expanded his area of study to include the nature of human communication and cognition, a subject which had caused him to be a little expansive in his explanations on occasion. To give you a flavour, this is how he describes his emergence into the Jeremy's consciousness.  
    _"Melchior Da Maven, a relatively late arrival on the scene, crystallised out of the fog of obfuscation which had threatened to shroud the Jeremy's imagination with a blanket of impenetrable mystery. Basically he just popped into existence, without a by your leave. Poof! And there he was._  
    _"Took him a little while to get to grips with how the place was organised – that Bulging Bosoms woman has a one track mind with no passing places and, I might add, is a little too bossy for my liking – but a bit of patient analysis (yes, yes, dreadful pun acknowledged) and he soon had the measure of things._  
    _"And not a moment to soon, even if I do say so myself. All that business with getting to the heart and – dare I say it – soul of the Catechism could have gone horribly wrong if the Colonel had been given free reign – 'What!?'"_  
   He had a tendency to go on a bit at times but at least he had a sense of humour.  
   It was Melchior who precipitated the second of the two events mentioned earlier, this being the internal one, of course. Although his encouragement and assistance with the analysis of the Catechism had been all but indispensable, that was not the event in question. However, it was a question which constituted the event.  
   The Jeremy had been mulling over the whole Protestant thing, and he'd been asking himself a lot of questions, most of which, he couldn't answer to any level of satisfaction. Not surprising really, considering he was still saddled with the belief that Protestants belonged to a church which came into being simply because a man wanted to have six wives. So what if he was a king? That didn't excuse his behaviour. In fact, he should have set a good example. None of it made any sense. Why would anyone decide to be a Protestant?  
    _"And what, pray tell, made you decide to become a Catholic?"_ enquired Melchior Da Maven, with only a hint of mischievousness in the _'pray tell'_.  
   It was a simple question and the Jeremy responded with a simple answer.  
    _"I didn't decide to become a Catholic, I..."_  
   He didn't finish the sentence, realising in that proto-epiphanic moment, the magnitude of what he'd just said.  
   Melchior Da Maven paused to let it sink in.  
    _"Quite so,"_ he continued, _"any more than the Brothers Grim decided to become Protestants, I suspect."_  
   There was no doubting who he meant by _'the Brothers Grim'_ , and the Jeremy had to admit he was probably right about them too. His knee-jerk reaction was to take up that well known, if not classic, posture adopted by ostriches and dogmatists everywhere. To his credit, he resisted the temptation.  
   A little later in his life, he likened the moment to the one when the hero notices a trickle of water running down the face of the damn, and either attempts an emergency repair – which seems doomed to failure but might _just_ work – or falls to his knees in prayer to his preferred supernatural entity, begging for a miraculous solution, while everyone in the audience secretly knows, that if it was them 'up there' on the silver screen, they'd be getting the _fuck_ out as quickly as possible.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms very nearly feinted and needed the assistance of the Colonel, who, imagining himself to be dashing to the aid of a damsel in distress on a magnificent white stallion, said, _"If they used that sort of damned language in my brigade I'd line 'em up against a wall and shoot the lot of 'em! That'd soon put an end to that kind of nonsense! What!?"_  
   Not _exactly_ the words of comfort she'd been hoping for, but she knew the Colonel meant well, and was grateful to him for that.  
   But that was later. Back in real time, with the ostrich firmly dispatched, the Jeremy was not concerned with the plight of fake heroes facing fake, cracked damns at the cinema. His attention was fixed exclusively on the newly visible metaphorical damn in his mind which was holding back everything of an un-Catholic nature. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before, and now it was so big he couldn't even fit it into his field of virtual vision. It was a damn which he feared was in danger of imminent collapse, a catastrophic failure that would unleash a rushing torrent in which he feared he might drown.  
    _"That's a self-repairing damn you've got there. You're wasting your time worrying about it collapsing. You'll have enough trouble just trying to dismantle it before it rebuilds itself,"_ said Melchior, handing the Jeremy a metaphorical life jacket.  
    _"I suggest you take a while to calm yourself before we embark on such a mission of demolition,"_ he added, noting the caught-in-the-headlights-unable-to-move state the Jeremy was in.  
   The Jeremy's mind was awash with thoughts and questions, each one overrun, before it was finished, by the next. He wasn't even managing to get nowhere, not even slowly. It was his handling of this whole affair that earned Melchior the moniker of 'Professor'.

*

   At times like these, Sniffling Erik, one of the Jeremy's least favourite mental companions, would surface from the pool of tears in which he was constantly drowning.  
    _"It's no good. We'll never be able to sort this mess out. We might as well give up now,"_ he wailed.  
   The Jeremy wished him gone, not only because he represented an aspect of his character which threatened to drag the rest of him into the salty pool, but also because his jaundiced outbursts often brought the Reverend Yethbutt out from his reverential pursuits.  
   The Reverend was a composite character constructed from a multitude of clergymen. The Jeremy's grandfather was in there, along with droves of other dog-collared clerics, both real ones and those portrayed by actors. Perhaps it was an indicator of the Jeremy's true feelings, that he'd encumbered his incumbent with a lisp.  
    _"Yeth but we mutht conthider ourthelveth blethed to have the benefit of the Lord'th divine prethenth. Let uth pray that He will altho bleth uth with Hith benefithient merthy."_  
   The Jeremy could rarely think of anything suitable to say in response to the Reverend's pious offerings, and usually just waited patiently until he'd finished. Succinctly Sid, noting a change in circumstances, found it extremely easy to think of something to say.  
    _"Give it a rest, Vic,"_ he said scornfully.  
    _"Yeth but I mutht protetht that..."_  
    _"Shut it!"_  
    _"Yeth but..."_  
    _"SHUT it!"_  
    _"Yeth b—"_  
    _"SHUT IT!"_  
   The Reverend was no match for Sid, and retreated to his private prayer room. Not as austere as one might think. Mrs Bulging Bosoms had brightened it up with a nice lace tablecloth, a set of matching doilies and a pair of floral curtains. She also provided tea and biscuits on demand. Next on her list was a set of antimacassars. The Reverend felt quite at home. But his encounter with Sid had left him distinctly ruffled. Even so, he still managed to feel inwardly smug in the knowledge that he _knew_ that Sid knew that _he_ knew, that Sid _knew_ that he knew that Sid _knew_ that he was destined for the jolly old lake of fire.

*

   Outwardly, there wasn't much sign of the frenzied activity going on inside the Jeremy's head. It was fortunate that he'd been alone, with no one to witness his sharp intake of breath, when he had answered the Professor's apparently simple question. Since then, he'd heeded the Professor's advice, taken a few deep breaths, and was thinking in whole sentences again.  
   There was a lot to think about. There he was, not long Confirmed, and now he was questioning whether he could really be counted as a Catholic at all. On top of that, he'd told everyone that he wanted to become a priest! Gum trees and paddleless creeks came briskly to mind. What on earth was he going to do?  
    _"Nothing,"_ said the Professor.  
    _"Nothing!?"_ echoed the Jeremy, _"How can I do nothing!?"_  
    _"Exactly the same way you were doing nothing before you thought you should be doing something. What were you planning to do before all of this? Not very much, if I may be so bold."_  
   The Jeremy still didn't get it, so the Professor continued.  
    _"Your declaration of priestly intentions was, even if I do say so myself, based upon a rather lucid evaluation of the teachings of the Catholic church, as presented in their carefully crafted document. I submit that your declaration had very little to do with any desire to minister to the communion of the faithful, but rather, was an act of self preservation which, I might add, appears to indicate a pleasing level of sanity. I further submit, that you have done absolutely nothing to advance towards your stated goal since making the announcement, but you are, of course, at liberty to correct me if I'm wrong."_  
   The Jeremy, conscious that he was perilously close to sounding like the Reverend but seeing no alternative, said, _"Yes, but what am I going to tell Mum?"_  
    _"The truth,"_ said the Professor, and before the Jeremy could complain, continued, _"but not necessarily the whole truth, and in any case, only if she asks."_  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms went on full alert and could be heard clucking loudly in the background. The Professor, wishing to avoid an incident, added that of course the Jeremy shouldn't tell his mother any lies, but in any case, such a course of action wouldn't be necessary, and furthermore, was to be avoided at all costs. Placated, Mrs Bulging Bosoms resumed her normal level of eavesdropping while attending to her cleaning routine.  
   The Professor went on to say, _"You've done it before, very successfully too, so I see no reason why you won't be able to do it again. Why play with fire now?"_ and raised an imaginary eyebrow to emphasize his point.  
   The Jeremy was huffily confirming to himself that he hadn't been 'playing' with fire when he caught on to the Professor's sense of humour, and remembered how he'd got out of that one by sticking like a limpet to the truth, even under the gimlet gaze of Auntie Betty.  
   The Professor had a knack for taking the tension out of situations. It seemed everything was straightforward and simple to him. Well not _simple_. Sometimes his explanations were quite complicated. More _obvious_ than simple. Whatever, the crisis had subsided, and the Jeremy was able to relax enough to think he might be hungry. Testing this hypothesis with a trip to the kitchen for a peanut butter sandwich proved it to be true. Or perhaps it was just another self-fulfilling prophecy.

*

   As for the Professor's name, you may be wondering how it came about. As all good Christians know – and possibly the bad ones too – Melchior was the name of one of the three wise men, who, it was said, came from the East, bringing gifts for the infant Jesus. The other two, for those who have forgotten or just don't know, were called Caspar and Balthasar.  
   At first, the Professor was bedecked with the name Balthasar, simply because the Jeremy liked the sound of it. Caspar never got a look in. It didn't sound wise or even mysterious. It sounded far too much like paint or oil.  
   Looking up the spelling of the word 'mauve' was the reason for the switch to Melchior. Having confirmed the spelling – the question of which arose out of nothing more than curiosity, sparked by his indecision regarding his feelings about the colour – his eye was caught by the word 'maven', a little further down the page.  
    _"An expert; one who understands,"_ read the definition.  
   It was a perfect fit. And, despite the bad press it gets, the Jeremy liked a little alliteration, so Melchior Maven was an obvious choice. Quite how the 'Da' got in there even the Jeremy wasn't sure, but Mr Da Vinci may have had something to do with it. Regardless of all that, the Professor displayed a noticeable lack of interest in the intricacies of his name.

*

   With the Professor's help, the Jeremy went from being convinced he was for the high jump, to viewing the road ahead as one that looked more like a steeplechase. Sure, there were some tough hurdles and maybe a water jump or two, but nothing so insurmountable that it threatened inevitable and crushing defeat. The Professor's pragmatic approach had found a way to negotiate what the Jeremy had perceived as a densely packed minefield, sweeping away many of the mines as he went, and had turned the field into a running track.  
   One of the hurdles, moving from St Francis to the Grammar School, turned out to be not much more than an uneven surface over which he was able to skip quite easily. What's more, there was an unexpected bonus or two.

*

   Shortly before his Confirmation, his mother had proudly informed Father Moore of the wonderful news of the Jeremy's priestly inclination and enquired what steps the Jeremy should take next. Father Moore had explained that when someone feels called by God to become a priest, it is important that they have plenty of time to think and pray about it, so that they, and others, can discern whether it is in fact their true vocation. In the Jeremy's case, he was still very young, and there was plenty of time before he would reach an age where 'next steps', in any concrete sense, might be appropriate. In the meantime, he might consider becoming more involved with church life, perhaps becoming an altar boy, but the most important thing was that he should pray for guidance from God. But whatever he ultimately ended up doing, his Confirmation would, of course, be his next step.  
   When his mother relayed this information to him, the Jeremy had paused to wonder if the reasoning process he'd used to come to his decision counted as a calling from God. But then he'd got distracted thinking about people who did get a call, but it turned out the priesthood was not their true vocation. Did that mean that somehow they'd mistaken what God was saying, and that really He'd said they should be a plumber, or a policeman? How could you make a mistake like that? It had taken but a moment more for him to realise that, of course, it was the Devil at work again, and in so doing, had relieved Mrs Bulging Bosoms of her growing conviction that an intervention was required.  
   Ever since Father Moore's head-patting tendencies had revealed themselves at their very first meeting, the Jeremy had avoided getting within head-patting range. After his mother shared the good news, the Jeremy had noticed the priest begin to take a little more interest in him, smiling that smile which the Jeremy thought indicated an increased chance, if he was not very careful, of another head-patting incident. Consequently, he had been as careful as a boy could be from then on.  
   This was the first bonus resulting from his move to the Grammar School; the frequency of finding himself in head-patting peril was greatly reduced.  
   The second bonus came about because the authorities at his new school allowed, at his mother's request, his non-attendance at daily Assembly on the grounds of his alleged Catholicism. It was as a result of this that he noticed that people can be susceptible to mistaking a smile for affirmation.  
    _"I understand you're a Catholic?"_ ventured Mr Elmleigh, his new form master on his first day.  
   The Jeremy smiled his best friendly smile.  
    _"Well that's okay lad. You just go along with the other Catholic boys during Assembly, and you can rejoin the class afterwards. Okay?"_  
    _"Yes sir,"_ said the Jeremy, displaying his serious smile.  
   He and the other boys who apparently claimed to be Catholics, gathered in an empty classroom, while those who appeared happy to be labelled Protestants trooped off and did whatever it was they did which would be offensive to 'Catholic ears'.  
   There was no Catholic agenda in the empty classroom, the boys just used the time to finish off their homework, or in one or two cases, to do the whole of their homework. One of the Catholic sixth formers took charge, relaying official announcements that the Assembly-goers would hear, but neither he, nor anyone else, ever mentioned anything to do with religion. The Jeremy quickly decided that it would be tantamount to shooting himself in both feet if he brought up his doubts about the authenticity of his religious status, so he kept it to himself.

*

   Grammar school was very different to all three of his previous ones. No longer did he have one teacher who taught him everything – Maths, English, the whole shebang – in whatever style their character predisposed them to choose, good, bad or indifferent. Here, each teacher specialised in one subject, two at the most, and the boys went from one teacher's classroom to another as they followed the timetable.  
   Mr Elmleigh's subject was History. The apprentice wiseacres among the Jeremy's classmates soon rumbled the fact that Mr Elmleigh was a pushover when it came to falling for a red herring, crafting their questions to get him to talk about the interesting things, rather than the boring stuff. What they failed to realise was that they'd been taken in by Mr Elmleigh's worn out cardigan, and his unusual habit of appearing to chew something, even though everyone knew there was nothing in his mouth. Having hoodwinked them into thinking him stupid, how it must have amused him to engineer his lessons to spawn, and then hook, those 'red herrings'!  
   The Jeremy's year as a turd – the term universally used to refer to first year boys – passed by without incident. He did quite well. Not top of the class, but consistently in the top quarter.

*

   His move to grammar school improved his social life too. Paul Jackhurst, David Brocklebank, Rich Walters and the Jeremy became friends, and they spent most evenings and practically every weekend together, usually at Paul's house because he had a snooker table and a large garden big enough for a decent game of football. The snooker table also had a snap-on table-tennis top which added to the array of attractions on offer. He was a nice bloke as well.  
   For the first time since his days at Eastfield, the Jeremy had friends who weren't Catholics. At Eastfield, he hadn't even noticed, but with his new friends he was consciously aware of it. Not that this fact emerged as a result of conversation or was ever a topic of one. It was simply that neither Paul, David nor Rich ever put in an appearance in the empty classroom at Assembly time or at church on Sundays. They never asked him about it, and the Jeremy didn't feel inclined to ask them what they were. It's true he assumed they were Protestants, but only because he was unaware of the many other varieties of Christianity in which their parents might have immersed them, not to mention the numerous other faiths and options. The point was that none of it was of any consequence in their friendship. No one ever brought the subject up so it didn't matter.  
   The things that mattered were:– being up for another game of football even though you were still dripping with sweat from the last one; knowing all the words of Thank You Girl (the B side of From Me To You – a number one hit single for a popular band of the day who went by the name of 'The Beatles'); knowing which balls went where on a snooker table and their point value; being able to apply vicious amounts of top spin in order to smash a table tennis ball into your opponents half of the table while standing several feet away from the table at your end; having seen a naked woman in Health & Efficiency; and the ability to swear fluently and inventively. Not an exclusive list, and perhaps not on a par with the things that matter according to the sermon on the mount, but the whole point was that these things built mutual trust and respect based on the real experiences, feelings and desires they all had in common, rather than any high-falutin ideals.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 10

   Puberty. It had given the Jeremy powerful pause for thought. One of those thoughts was how odd it was that no one appeared to think that that was part of it. Thinking, that is. Or at least, if they did, they seemed much more interested in the size and location of his testicles, the pitch of his voice, how much body and facial hair he had and, of course, the size of his penis.  
   'They', in this instance, were the Jeremy's peers of the male variety. Maybe his female peers were also fascinated by the changes in his body, but he suspected they were more interested in the changes in their own. But then, he conceded, it was _just_ possible they were interested in what was happening to him because he was most definitely interested in the changes happening to them. And all that being 'interested in' was new and part of it too.  
   He had a vague idea that the real issue was that, whatever was happening to peoples' bodies, it was what was happening to their brains which was the really significant thing.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms shuddered in silent agreement.  
   Everyone was always banging on about the physical changes, and it seemed to him that quite a few of them – his elders mostly, including his sister, although he didn't usually categorise her as an 'elder' because the term seemed to imply wisdom, a quality he felt she was sorely lacking – quite a few of them, were more interested in stressing the importance of keeping it all hidden, practically to the point of pretending it wasn't happening at all. It was most confusing.  
   Indeed, many of his elders appeared to be confused about it too. On the one hand, they tried to give the impression they thought it was all perfectly natural and nothing to make a fuss about, but on the other, it was pretty obvious that many of them really _did_ wish it didn't happen at all, because they found it so difficult and _awfully_ embarrassing to deal with.  
   He'd begun to think that the way lots of people dealt with it was as if they felt that focusing on the physical changes, rather than the mental ones, was the lesser of two evils. Whether that was a true assessment of their attitude or not, he certainly sensed the whole thing was viewed as an extremely hazardous process wherein there was an inordinately high probability of a fall from grace.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms sighed a sigh which said she couldn't agree more.  
   For the Jeremy, there was no doubt that the most challenging thing about the whole business was not the changes to his body but the changes going on in his head. Things were definitely happening in there and had been for some time. He couldn't nail down when it had started, but it had a lot to do with asking questions. Not so much to do with asking questions of other people, much more to do with asking questions of himself.  
   But there was more to it even than that. He'd been asking himself questions for as long as he could remember. The difference was in the sort of questions he was asking. Before this all started, his questions usually began with _'what happens if I...?'_ or _'I wonder if I can...?'_ , both of which were invariably precursors to some sort of action which would give him an answer. Not always the answer he hoped for but always a definite, indisputable answer.  
   The scar under his lower lip – where his teeth had sliced clean through the flesh when his face crunched into the concrete slab several feet below the horizontal tubular bar (a sturdy three inch diameter iron pipe which his father had erected on two solid posts in the back garden for both him and his sister to play on) – served as a reminder that answers did not always match up to expectations. His easily formulated question, _"I wonder if I can do a complete 360 degree spin over, under and back up again?"_ had been emphatically answered in the negative.  
   There were numerous other examples he could think of where his enquiring nature had got him into trouble, often the sort of trouble that was extremely painful. Like the time when he was four, or maybe five, when he'd asked himself if he could manage to scale, then walk along the top of the brick wall which separated his back garden from the overgrown one next door. Not Mrs Hartley's garden. Hers was kempt in the extreme. This was the wall on the other side, behind which lay a land of mystery, like all back gardens of houses that have been unoccupied for any length of time.  
   He'd successfully scaled the wall – a significant feat in itself because it was at least twice his height – but his memory of how he'd managed it, and his subsequent few wobbly steps atop its dizzying height, had been completely overwhelmed by the much more vivid one of his fall into the large clump of stingy nettles on the other side.  
   He paused for a moment. Why didn't those sorts of experiences seem to stop people from continuing their quest to find out what they were capable of? And that was it. That was exactly the sort of question he was asking himself more and more often. Why? Why did people behave the way they behaved? Why were people the way they were? Why did things happen the way they did?  
   Small children, they were always asking _'why'_ about all sorts of things too. He couldn't remember doing it himself, but he was sure he must have because every little child of a certain age did it. He wasn't sure what that certain age was, but he thought it must be three or maybe four. On second thoughts, he plumped for three because he had memories of when he was four and, while they were certainly centred on his curiosity about things, they didn't include lots of asking _'why'_.  
   Of course, the difference was that small children asked their parents, rather than themselves, and they would pretty much believe whatever they got in response, even if it did lead to a further _'why'_. Asking _yourself_ was a very different proposition because your answer had to at least make some sort of sense before you'd accept it! A three year old's _'why'_ was a very distinct thing. Sometimes, they didn't even seem to be very interested in the answer, it was just the game of communication they wanted to practise.  
   He could feel the discontent rumbling like an approaching thunderstorm. Dark thought-clouds swirled around his brow. He was thinking of occasions when he'd witnessed parents responding to their children's _'why'_ questions with _'because it is!'_ , _'because I say so!'_ , or just simply ignoring them. He hated that. He could understand the incessant _'why, why, why'_ could be grindingly tedious, but somehow it didn't justify a brush off like that. It wasn't as if they were misbehaving!  
   That was another thing. He was noticing that he sometimes felt angry about the way people behaved towards others, and also that his anger translated into a desire to do something about it, even if that desire was rarely translated into further action. Something always held him back, something which he thought was probably lack of confidence, a thought he quickly massaged by rationalising that what other people did was really none of his business. He also rudely shoved the idea that it might be cowardice into a dark corner at the back of the cupboard under the stairs in his mind.  
   The whole thing was a symptom of the way the focus of his questions had changed. He was still asking himself the _'can I... ?'_ sort of questions, but he'd also started to seriously ask _'do I want to... ?'_ and then _'should I... ?'_ , but, most importantly, he was asking _'what if... ?'_ as a precursor to a thought experiment rather than a physical test.  
    _"Do I want to go over and give 'em a piece of my mind? I wonder if I should? What will happen if I do? What if I become famous for standing up to that boy's bullying parents and I get my picture in the newspapers? What would that be like? What if the boy's dad punches me on the nose?"_  
   That kind of _'what if'_ was almost magical. Being able to use _'what if'_ in that way was like finding the keys to the locked gate in the high walls of the garden of make believe. Through the gate lay the vast virgin territory of the Jeremy's adult imagination, both inviting and daunting.  
   Previously, his imagination had played in the safety of the garden where he could pretend to be anyone who took his fancy. The Lone Ranger, Tonto, Danny Blanchflower, Dan Dare and even The Mekon had all been the victims of the Jeremy's very own version of The Invasion Of The Body Snatchers where, for example, simply uttering the words _'I'll be Danny Blanchflower'_ was enough for the magical transformation to occur. What happened to the real Danny Blanchflower at those times was uncertain – although history shows that he did indeed have 'off days' – but whatever, the Jeremy believed he could feel his new persona flowing through his body, enhancing his football manipulating skills to unprecedented levels.  
   Unfortunately, Julian also had these magical powers and was able to match any increase in performance, move for move, after his incantation of _'I'll be Pelé!'_  
   Julian was always bloody Pelé, but the Jeremy secretly took the moral high ground on the basis that Danny was English and, therefore, probably played a more sportsmanlike game. That had been the Jeremy's private but nevertheless chest-swelling assertion until he discovered the dreadful truth. Mr Blanchflower was an Irishman, a chest-deflating fact which had caused him to abruptly switch his allegiance, and associated harnessing of superpowers, to Jimmy Greaves.  
   It seems highly unlikely that Danny had ever even heard of Sister Mary Margaret, let alone made her acquaintance, but the Jeremy's subconscious prejudice didn't give a damn about such minor details.

*

   Ah. Julian. Remember him? They were such good friends. It was a friendship based on equality; their ages, attendance at St Francis, proximity of their parents' homes, roughly equal physical proportions and an approximately equal level of daring when it came to performing the ritual tasks required of young boys on their journey to manhood.  
   There were two things which precipitated the end of their friendship. That's not to say they became enemies, it was merely that the events upset the balance in their friendship, the second irrevocably so. The first occurred on a Friday afternoon as they made their way home after school.  
   It had become their habit to walk home via the 'high level' bridge, so called because it spanned the river at the height of the two massive embankments that approached from either side. It was a metal-truss railway bridge which had a pedestrian walkway attached to the side of it. The route avoided the town centre, but that had nothing, or very little, to do with why it had become their route of choice. As far as the pair were concerned, it was just _better_ and that was that. They'd never discussed it.  
   On this particular late September afternoon, not long after they'd begun the trudge up the hill on the homeward side of the bridge, Julian became noticeably agitated. His conversation skills tailed off to a dismal low, and his facial expression took on a mildly tortured look.  
    _"What's up with you?"_ asked the Jeremy.  
    _"Need a toilet,"_ came the reply.  
   The Jeremy paused for a moment while he weighed up the likely meaning of Julian's words and, having deduced that it probably meant 'number twos', enquired further.  
    _"Are you serious?"_  
    _"Yeah,"_ he nodded.  
    _"There aren't any bogs round here mate. We'll have to find one up the road,"_ said the Jeremy as he ran through the route in his mind, searching for the location of such a utility while trying to disguise his lack of confidence in finding one.  
    _"Come on,"_ he said.  
   Their progress was not as fast as the pained expression on Julian's face intimated would be wise, but his rather stiff gait, which he'd begun to employ out of necessity, was not particularly conducive to speed walking. Without any conversation to pass the time, other topics of usual interest having been ousted by the delicate nature of the circumstances, the knowledge that every step was more fraught with danger than the last loomed large in both their minds. For Julian, it was not just in his mind that things were looming large.  
    _"The White Horse. I think they've got an outside bog round the back,"_ said the Jeremy, both proud and relieved that he'd found what could be the key to their troubles, while privately thinking, _"I hope they don't lock it!"_  
   Feeling there was nothing much else he could do to help, other than remain at his friend's side and make an occasional supportive comment, the Jeremy found himself musing upon the odd words people use to refer to the lavatory, its associated tasks and substances. Lavatory, lav, or loo. That was what it was usually called in his house, but bog, or bogs, was definitely favourite at school. Amongst the boys at any rate. He'd just begun to think how daft Water Closet was, and how he wasn't surprised it was usually abbreviated to WC, when he _was_ surprised by Julian who let out a cross between a whimper and a curse, accompanied by the unique sound of a liquid fart.  
   The chocolate coloured streaks running down the backs of Julian's legs were clearly visible below his shorts, threatening the tops of his calf-length, grey school socks. Worse, there was no room for the slightest doubt that even if it had been chocolate earlier in the day, it most certainly wasn't now.  
   The Jeremy had an urge to run far, far away as quickly as possible. He wanted to disassociate himself from this distressing event and the victim of it, without delay. To his credit, he firmly ignored the urge and, swallowing his embarrassment, said, _"It's okay."_  
   It's 'okay'? It plainly wasn't 'okay'! Least of all for Julian. But it was the only thing he could think of saying, so he said it anyway. Julian was silently distraught, and the Jeremy needed some way to keep the situation from disintegrating into one which would need external help. He would do his very best to make it okay! But the odds were against him because Julian's self control was rapidly moving towards 'out of control' status. The results were all too plain to see and, despite the open air location, all too plain to smell. He grabbed him by the arm and dragged him on.  
   They were so close! The sight of the prancing beast on the sign outside The White Horse, with its inferred promise that relief was at hand, was what had proved too much for Julian to handle. Subsequent events had promoted the promise from a convenience for the needy to a refuge for the desperate. The Jeremy hardly dared to look, but was mightily relieved to find it was open.  
   He couldn't help thinking, as Julian disappeared into the gloomy interior of the outhouse, that the tributary streaks which had run down the backs of his legs – and merged to become flows of Amazonian proportions, swamping the tops of his socks – were better described as having the appearance of a melted Caramac bar rather than real chocolate. He'd never been very fond of it – which simply meant that he'd only eat it if someone offered him a piece – and having made the association with the sticky coating on Julian's legs, his fondness for it diminished still further.  
   While he waited, he eyed Julian's satchel suspiciously, holding it by the strap, not quite at arms length but far enough away to eliminate any chance of an unexpected gust of wind bringing any part of it into contact with any part of him. He'd been extremely reluctant to hold it at all, which was evident by the way he was minimising the area of contact by holding the strap between the thumb and index finger of his left hand.  
   The Jeremy wondered how Julian was getting on in the dim interior of the Gents, while simultaneously doing his best to avoid the generation of any accompanying mental pictures. He seemed to be taking a very long time, but it was one of those situations where a few seconds feels like a whole minute. What would he say if someone from the pub came out and asked him what he was doing? There would be no point saying _'nothing'_ because everyone knows that to really be doing 'nothing' you have to be dead, and he plainly wasn't dead, so he'd have to come up with something better than that.  
    _"I'm the victim of an alien abduction. They let me go for some reason, but I don't know what's happened to my friend. This is his satchel, but I think it might be contaminated with alien slime. Can you help me, mister? I think he may be in great danger. He literally poohed himself when it happened!"_  
   With a _'tut'_ , Mrs Bulging Bosoms indicated her displeasure at hearing his invention of a lie, and its distasteful nature. The Jeremy apologised, but went on to think that it did cover all the angles, just as long as Julian didn't come out and give the game away by saying something contradictory. He'd have to have his wits about him to control that situation. He'd have to grab Julian and hug him, or something, before he could say anything. On second thoughts, that didn't seem such a good idea, considering the state Julian was in the last time he'd seen him. He needed a Plan B.  
    _"We were attacked by a gang of rampaging maniacs who force fed Julian quick acting senapods."_  
   Those were the things that gave you the runs weren't they? Or got rid of constipation at least. Why couldn't Julian have had an attack of constipation instead? That would have been so much easier to deal with.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms sighed yet again, but the Jeremy's thoughts were interrupted by the reappearance of Julian, who, he perceived with not a little dismay, didn't look noticeably better than when he'd gone in. True, the leg traversing rivers of liquid pooh were gone, but they'd been replaced with a general, orangey-brown, smeared streakiness which, he thought, even a casual observer would correctly identify as the residue of an accident which had leap-frogged the 'waiting to happen' stage.  
    _"Are you alright?"_ enquired the Jeremy, taking some consolation that he was able to return the satchel.  
    _"Yeah. S'pose so. C'm on. Let's go,"_ he said, without much enthusiasm.  
   The Jeremy shared his lack of enthusiasm. If he'd been honest in a truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth sort of way, he would have said, _"Are you out of your mind? Do you really think I want to spend the next fifteen minutes walking in public with someone who smells like they've got shit all over them, because they have got shit all over them? You've got to be joking!"_  
   But he didn't say that because some kind of moral thermostat kicked in. It told him that Julian was his friend and friends stick together, even when the going gets tough. In the circumstances, he didn't much like the idea of being stuck together, but nevertheless, he said, _"Okay."_  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms reset the thermostat and was proud of him.  
   On a normal day, he would have said goodbye and parted company with Julian as soon as they reached the Jeremy's house. But on this day, the moral thermostat overrode his normal behaviour and he found himself saying, _"It's okay. I'll go to your place with you."_  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms beamed.

*

   During the onward journey, conversation was kept to a minimum, restricted to nothing more than the occasional _'okay?'_ and respondent _'yeah'_ from one or the other of them. Fixing their gaze on the pavement some six feet in front of them, the walk to Julian's house was no more eventful than the one from The White Horse to the Jeremy's had been, which suited them both just fine.  
   They instinctively knew their fixed gaze, and total disregard for their surroundings, was as close to hiding in plain sight as they were likely to get, and breathed inaudible sighs of relief when they reached Julian's gate unmolested. That such sighs should be inaudible formed part of the unwritten code they shared, the code which governed the bonds of friendship between boys of their age. It also demanded they behave as if they feared nothing, even if one of them had shat in his pants!  
    _"Yeah. See yah,"_ said the Jeremy as he turned from the gate, departing as hastily as he could without, he hoped, making it seem like he was running away. Yet, as soon as he was out of sight, he increased his pace still further until there was no doubt that he _was_ running. But he wasn't running _away_ , although he was certainly pleased the ordeal was over. No, he was running _towards_ home. He feared his lateness might require an explanation, but if he could make it back there quickly enough there was a chance no questions would be asked. Then he wouldn't have to deal with the moral dilemma which was growing more threatening with every bound.  
   Although it hadn't been explicitly said, the Jeremy knew that the rules of friendship decreed he must never mention the gruesome events of the day ever, either to Julian or anyone else. To do so would be morally wrong. But to obey that rule meant he might have to lie to his mother about the reason for his lateness, which would be at least as morally wrong if not more so. He prayed his mother wouldn't ask. He prayed to know what he should do if she did.  
    _"Hello Mum. Sorry if I'm a bit late. Julian and I decided to come home over the high-level bridge and we saw some boats on the river."_  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms clattered about noisily indicating her displeasure at what she saw as a blatant and disgraceful attempt at subterfuge.  
    _"Well, I was beginning to wonder if I should worry,"_ his mother said, in a forgiving but serious tone. _"How is Julian?"_  
   The Jeremy's brain froze, not able to select an answer which would meet all the moral criteria battling for supremacy in his head.  
    _"I haven't seen him for a while. Perhaps he'd like to come for tea one day?"_ his mother continued, having paused only to take a breath.  
    _"I'll ask him,"_ replied the Jeremy over his shoulder as he hurried off in the direction of the bathroom, much relieved that he hadn't had to answer the awkward question of Julian's state of being. He washed his hands three times. Then he washed them again.  
    _"Tea's ready!"_ his mother called after him.  
    _"Okay,"_ he called back, in as even a tone as he could muster, while inwardly he rejoiced that the moral dilemma appeared to have been so easily side-stepped.

*

   He watched Blue Peter after tea, to take his mind off it all. Actually, it would be more precise to say he watched Valerie Singleton; her facial expressions, the style of her hair, the way her clothes half-disguised, half-revealed the shape of her body. But he would not have accepted that it was he who was engaged in these activities, and would have displayed a genuine indignation if anyone had suggested it was so.  
   No. It was clearly the Devil who was doing the looking, but he was using the Jeremy's eyes to do it. The Jeremy had said countless prayers and tried everything he could think of to prevent him from doing it, but it seemed nothing would work. So he explained it to himself with the thought that everyone, well everyone who knew about these things, said how powerful the Devil was so it was silly to expect to be able to defeat him. If the prayers didn't work, what else could he do?  
   Not wishing to risk upsetting this rather delicate equilibrium, he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself, which is to say he tried to avoid thinking about it at all. He'd intuited early on, from his dealings with the outside world, that to satisfy the people who went on about casting the Devil _out_ , the only thing he could _really_ do was to incarcerate the Devil _within_ , in a locked cell somewhere deep inside him, and never ever let him out. As long as he stayed strong, and didn't let the Devil make him DO or SAY anything bad to anybody, then there didn't seem anything to be gained from changing that approach. And, if anything, he could almost be proud of himself for the defence he put up.  
   He couldn't remember the event, but he was extremely familiar with the story. It must have been one of the first occasions when he'd innocently allowed the Devil access to his vocal chords, in an enclosed public place. His mother never seemed to tire of telling the story. Apparently, when a toddler and seated next to her on the pew in church on Christmas day, he'd said, quite loudly, during the priest's sermon, _'you are a long time!'_ in a rather imploring tone.  
   According to his mother, his 'outburst' caused nothing more than a smile from the priest, and a few hushed expressions of mirth from members of the congregation. But although his mother always told it as a funny story, he'd realised fairly quickly that the humour derived from the fact that he'd done something 'wrong', and it was only his 'small child' status and the love of Jesus which had saved him. It was a 'wolf-in-sheep's-clothing' story with a moral in its tail.  
   The end of Blue Peter and the start of the BBC News brought the Devil's voyeurism to a temporary close – not even he could find anything remotely exciting about the deadpan mug of a male BBC Television Newsreader. That being the case, recent pooh-stained events promptly swam back into the Jeremy's pool of thoughts, stirring up turbulent waters of implication in their wake.  
   And the implications weren't good. They teamed up in a display of synchronized swimming, a grotesque pirouette around a malignant maelstrom, which threatened to drag him down into the dungeon depths of his mind, the home and dominion of his demons. Guilt lunged a tentacle from the swirling morass, ensnaring his faculties in a vice-like grip.  
    _"You should have done more to help Julian – He's your friend and you let him down! – You know that after this he will never want to come for tea, and you will not ask him, but still you lied to your mother saying you will! – You are an evil boy and you will pay!"_  
   The Jeremy was doing his best to keep himself from being sucked under when he was abruptly startled.  
    _"Shhhumee!"_  
   He jumped, on full alert, his head jerking to one side and back. Who said that? Was that someone calling his name? The sound had crept up on him and then whistled past at great speed, so fast that the trailing syllable was barely audible. At least, that would have been a reasonably accurate description except for the fact that the source of the sound seemed to have been entirely inside his head.  
    _"You okay?"_ asked his father, who'd come to watch the news.  
    _"Yeah,"_ he lied, _"just thought I heard something."_  
    _"Somebody must've walked on your grave, I expect,"_ said his father non-committally, having already resumed looking at the television.  
   Why did he have to go and say something like that? The Jeremy didn't like thinking about graves and dead people and... well... it was just too easy to get scared. He could have said _'it's just your imagination,'_ which would have been much more comforting. The Jeremy was virtually certain it _wasn't_ just his imagination, but that was not the point.  
   What really startled him was that he had _heard_ the sound. He hadn't imagined it. Not like you might imagine the sound of a trumpet going _'da!-dada-da!-da!-darrr'_. He'd heard it in exactly the same way that he heard real sounds. But how had it got inside his head? He wished he hadn't asked himself that question. Just asking it made a tingle sprint up his spine and attack the hairs at the back of his neck.  
   Homework! It was rare for homework to be an inviting prospect, but at that moment it took on the properties of an enjoyable, cosy, fireside chat. He grabbed his bag and headed for the kitchen table. More often than not, he put off doing homework until Sunday afternoon, and his unusual behaviour this Friday evening drew complimentary remarks from his mother.  
    _"Oh. I just thought I'd get it done,"_ he said, hoping he wouldn't be drawn into a conversation with her.  
   She had a knack of getting him to tell her things which often prompted her to explain that _'God works in mysterious ways'_ , while giving him her knowing look, a look which positively demanded a nod of agreement from him. It always put him in a difficult position because he was never sure he understood what she meant, but he felt obliged to nod as if he agreed. Fortunately, she was busy at the sink, and let him get on with it.  
   Draw a map of England.  
   That was the task he and the rest of his class had been set. It seemed simple enough, until he began to think about it. Did it mean just England? Was he supposed to leave out Scotland and Wales? That would look very strange, and it made it more difficult too. Where exactly were the borders? And what about Ireland?  
   He became engrossed. The monsters swimming in his pool of thoughts disappeared down the plug-hole that led to the holding tank for all unresolved, scary things. The tank was capacious, robust, and well camouflaged. Nevertheless, it was a finite size. One day it would need emptying.

*

   Saturday found the Jeremy heading to Julian's. It was a common enough occurrence on a Saturday, but this time it was different. His stride was less confident and slightly awkward. The ghost of Friday's events kept waving a flag in front of his mind's eye, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.  
    _"Shit!"_ he thought, rather appropriately, and immediately apologised to Mrs Bulging Bosoms.  
   Julian's mum seemed to be more welcoming than usual. She asked him how he was, and how he was getting on at school, and how were his Mum and Dad, and did he want some orange squash and a piece of cake? She was usually a nice lady, but in a more offhand, disinterested sort of way.  
   This unusual behaviour made him feel uncomfortable. She obviously knew about Friday – there was no possibility that Julian could have hidden it from her. Julian squirmed while she chatted. It seemed clear he'd received her assurance that she wouldn't mention it, and now he felt she'd betrayed his trust by behaving in such a bizarre way. Julian was embarrassed, and the Jeremy was embarrassed by Julian's embarrassment. They went out into the garden at the first chance they got, without the Jeremy appearing to be rude. It entailed him politely answering all the questions and declining the offer of refreshment.  
   They played football. But it wasn't the enthusiastic, throw-yourself-into-it sort of play which they usually engaged in. Jimmy Greaves and Pelé were noticeable by their absence. There were no shouts, no arguments about infringements of the rules, no disputes over whether the ball had passed inside or outside the imaginary goal posts – the ones which automagically grow out of any two markers placed on grass, the correct distance apart, by boys of a certain age. There was no laughter.  
   Neither of them knew how to deal with the changed circumstances of their friendship. The balance of power had shifted significantly towards the Jeremy. Not that he wanted any power over Julian. Nor, for that matter, did Julian want any power over the Jeremy. The idea of one having power over the other had never featured in their relationship before. But now the Jeremy knew a terrible secret, a secret which Julian feared the Jeremy could let slip, at best, or use against him at worst.  
   Their code of silence, which was supposed to bond them together, drove a wedge between them. Every time they _didn't_ mention Julian's Friday of Shame, the wedge was driven deeper. But neither of them had the capacity to do anything about it.

*

   It was a difference in academic achievement, as defined by the results of the Eleven Plus – an oddly named examination – which split them asunder. It came upon the Jeremy, and his fellow pupils, during his final term at St Francis. Each student's assessed level of achievement would determine in which stream of secondary education he, or she, would swim. There was a mock exam first, followed by the real thing a week later.  
   To the Jeremy and his contemporaries, the outcome was straightforward. 'Brainboxes' would go to grammar school; the ones who weren't clever enough to go to grammar school but were clever enough to learn a trade would go to technical school; the rest would go to ordinary secondary school, considered, by those who had any sort of academic aspirations, to be the equivalent of the rubbish heap.  
   The Jeremy didn't want to go to ordinary secondary school because the consensus of opinion was that the chances of being beaten up, by the young thugs who attended such establishments, were fairly high. He didn't want to go to technical school either, because he had the suspicion there would be too many _intelligent_ young thugs among the pupils, an even more frightening prospect. That left grammar school. The problem with grammar school was partly that he thought there would be too many arrogant snobs there, and he'd be tarnished by association, but mostly because he didn't think he was clever enough. So he wasn't very keen on that eventuality either.  
   Not having any real desire to find himself in any of the streams on offer, he decided to do his best in the examination and just see what happened. He even enjoyed some of the tests, particularly the ones where he had to select the odd one out from a set of shapes.  
   Of course, we are already aware of the outcome, from Snapshot No. 9, but his mother was pleased as punch when the results showed he'd gained a place at grammar school. Her prayers had been answered, again. The Jeremy was kind of pleased too, because it was flattering to be thought brainy enough to swim in the top stream. He was just a little worried that he might sink like a cannonball. Confidence was still not his strong suit.  
   Julian was going to technical school. There wasn't much to say about it. In the remaining days at St Francis, the self-imposed segregation between members of different streams, complete with rivalry and some hostility, quickly developed into fully fledged apartheid. The Jeremy didn't enjoy those days. He didn't like being called a 'brainbox' in such uncomplimentary tones, and he especially didn't like being accused of thinking he was better than other people. Nevertheless, he was brainy enough to know there was nothing he could say to stop it.  
   He remained philosophical. What other choice did he have? He and Julian had swum happily in the river together, but they had come to a fork where the currents had taken them on different courses. It didn't seem fair. It seemed at least one person's prayers hadn't been answered. He was beginning to think that perhaps prayers had nothing to do with it.

*

   The trouble with puberty is that it appears out of nowhere, takes over your life for a while and then, before you know it, you're in a place you didn't expect to be. A bit like this Snapshot.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 11

   Ever since he'd reached his teens, the Jeremy had taken to riding his bike to church instead of travelling in the car with the rest of the family. There was nothing strange about it, he rode his bike _everywhere_. Sometimes he would ride his bike just for the fun of it, going nowhere in particular until he decided to return home. He liked the freedom, the feeling that he could go anywhere he chose, to feel in control of his own destiny even if it was only a temporary phenomenon.  
   Usually, he would leave home just before his father started the car, while the family was still loading itself aboard, priding himself on his ability to arrive at the church, on the other side of town, before them. Managing a similar feat in the reverse direction was an even greater achievement, in view of the hill which had to be climbed on the way home.  
   To be more accurate, there were three hills he could choose from, depending on the route he took, each of which had different characteristics. The through-the-town route took him up a hill which gradually got steeper, the high-level-bridge route featured a hill which was steep at first but eased off towards the top, and the hill on the riverside route was short but so steep he had to ride zigzag fashion to get up it.  
   As Sundays passed, the more he knew that he was only going to church out of habit, and to a large extent, because he didn't want to upset his mother by not going. Somehow he doubted that his father would be particularly upset, other than via concern for his wife's hurt feelings, but that was not the same thing as actively supporting such a move.  
   What could be considered his first step towards apostasy came not by any bold move of his own but as an unexpected gift. Thinking about it later, he doubted it was from God.  
    _"More likely Old Beelzebub,"_ he said to himself, using a name he'd heard read from some Bible passage during mass, which he felt was much less frightening than 'the Devil'.  
   Beelzebub.  
   Anyone with a name like that just couldn't be taken seriously. He was trying to use it in place of 'the Devil' as much as he could, but it was hard work because he had to constantly remind himself to do it, finding 'the Devil' would slip into his mind very easily.  
   The unexpected gift came in the form of a potentially disastrous but ultimately fortuitous event. Riding home from church, he decided to take the through-the-town route which, as it happens, was the only one available to his father driving the car. As he crested the brow of the hill, with only the gentle downward slope left between him and home, his father passed him on the road, and, as you would expect, he was careful to leave plenty of room for the Jeremy as he did so.  
   The Jeremy's competitive side kicked in, and with strenuous effort, he managed to catch the car as it was slowing to park outside the house. Just as it was coming to rest, he flew past and turned sharply in front of it, executing a magnificent sideways skid, speedway racing style, skilfully using both front and rear brakes to achieve it before coming to a halt just a few feet in front of the now stationary car. Proud of his performance, he looked up expecting some applause, only to see the grim visage of his father whose expression showed he was less than amused. A lot less.  
   It soon became clear that not only his father, but his mother and sister too, thought it was a very stupid and dangerous thing to do. The only one who showed any appreciation of his cycle wrangling ability was his brother Neil, but unfortunately, his opinion didn't count. The discussion which followed didn't require any input from the Jeremy, despite his mother asking _'what were you thinking of?'_ and _'couldn't you see it was dangerous?'_  
   He'd wanted to point out that it _had_ been dangerous the first time he tried to skid like that, the bruise he'd collected on his hip at the time being all the evidence needed to confirm it. But he'd done it _hundreds_ of times since then, and he didn't think it had been dangerous after his first ten or fifteen attempts at most. But he could also spot a rhetorical question when he heard one, even if he didn't know that's what they were called, so he kept it to himself.  
   The upshot was that his mother didn't like him riding his bike to church while they were riding in the car, the implication being that he should resume travelling with them. He didn't let on that he thought it was a appalling idea. Instead, he stayed silent, and thought about how he could avoid that outcome.  
   The following Sunday, he got up early, and then, on his way out to the shed to get his bike, he told his mother that he was going to the early mass so as to avoid any danger between him and the car. It was a calculated risk, but it worked, just as he thought it would.  
   Something his mother often said was _'I trust you not to do anything foolish'_ , which he knew was just a cack-handed way of warning him not to. So when he told her his plan, he said, _"Don't worry, I'll be careful,"_ and was ready to point out that she always said she trusted him, but he was glad he didn't have to.  
   Soon it became routine. He would ride his bike to the early mass and the rest of the family attended the later one. In these new circumstances, it wasn't long before he migrated from sitting in a pew to standing at the back of the church, an area which was the exclusive domain of several male members of the congregation. Without exception, they all slipped in at the very last moment, just before the service began, and were gone again the instant it was over. Although they never engaged one another in conversation, they appeared to belong to some sort of clandestine club, giving silent acknowledgement to each other with almost imperceptible nods. After a while, they included the Jeremy in their circumspect communications, apparently confirming his admission to the club.  
   The Jeremy assumed the club members were, like him, having doubts about the church and their relationship with it. While this may well have been true, a feature common to all these other Doubting Thomases was their habit of drawing in a lungful of nicotine-laden smoke before reluctantly discarding their cigarette immediately prior to entering the church. Their hurried exit at the end of the mass to light another, the preparation for which involved a stealthy edging towards the door during the last throws of the service, was another clue to their real motives. Fortunately, the Jeremy didn't perceive things that way, or himself as the odd one out, even though it was a role in which he'd become quite used to finding himself cast.

*

   How things had changed in such a short time. Not so long ago, he'd convinced himself he was destined for the priesthood, and now he had serious doubts about his status even as an ordinary Catholic. The problem was that he didn't feel strong enough to declare his feelings to the world. And that was making him angry. Angry with himself. His membership of the 'club' assuaged it a little but nothing more.  
   He felt angry about other things too. He was angry because he felt his free will had been subverted. He hadn't been offered a choice. He hadn't even known there _was_ a choice. He was angry because he couldn't stop himself feeling it was wrong to be angry, even though he thought he had every right to be. He was angry because he was realising that all those times he'd repressed his doubts as the work of the Devil, it had been based on his unquestioning acceptance of it all as fact.  
   It was one of those things that you don't like thinking about, but even so, you can't stop thinking about it for very long. He kept coming back to it. Over and over again. It hurt to think about it and it wasn't getting any easier. What's more, he didn't seem to be getting anywhere either. The Professor had been right about it being a self-repairing damn. Every time he dislodged an element, through careful reasoning, as soon as he switched his focus, it snapped right back into place as tightly as ever.  
   Although his intellect was wrestling with what was _really_ true and what was _really_ false, he had no doubt about the way he felt. He felt the way you'd feel if you found out, after staking all your money on it, that you'd been suckered by a street conman into believing there really was a good chance that you would _Find The Lady_ , if only you could keep your eyes on the cards, and a part of you still wanted it to be true.  
   Whether what he'd been taught about God and Jesus and the Devil and the rest of it was the truth or a falsehood was not the point. He'd been taught it in the same way that he'd been taught that three twos are six. It was just an ordinary fact. Three twos ARE six. That's just the way it is. Everyone knows that three twos are six. No question. And similarly, there had been no question that he was a Catholic.  
   The most painful part of it was that he was angry with his mother. He was angry with his father too, but it was a secondary anger. His mother was the one who was talkative, the one who spoke about it in that three-twos-are-six sort of way. His father hardly ever mentioned it. And that was why he was angry with him. He'd kept quiet while his mother spoke about God and Jesus and the Devil in that three-twos-are-six way, and carried on as if he had no more choice about being Catholic than he did about being British.  
   It was painful because he didn't want to feel anger towards his mother. He knew she loved him because it was obvious by the way she cared and wanted the best for him, and did everything she thought she should. But notwithstanding her obvious love for him, he couldn't help being angry with her for what he felt was a betrayal of trust.  
   What made it worse, was that in every other sphere she was so open-minded. She enjoyed discussing possibilities, the likelihood of things being true, other ways of looking at things. Doctor Who was a case in point. Was time travel possible? Could there be such a thing as a Dalek? What would happen if you went back in time? There was nothing which was taboo when discussing Doctor Who, but anything to do with God, Jesus, the Devil or Catholicism was dealt with via a three-twos-are-six response.  
    _"What if God isn't real?"_ he'd once asked.  
    _"Oh my darling. Of course He's real. Whatever possessed you to think such a thing?"_ she'd said, as if he'd made a joke.  
    _"Oh nothing really, I was just wondering,"_ he'd said, unsure if he'd actually been asked a question. It seemed the wisest thing to say, anything else looking likely to open doors to places he didn't want to go.  
    _"What would you like for tea?"_ she'd continued, as if his question had never been asked.

*

   Few of the Jeremy's thoughts existed with any clarity in his mind. He was in a no-man's-land of indecision. Everything was in a jumble. He haphazardly jumped from one thought to another.  
    _"Pull yourself together boy! Can't have this sort of nonsense floating around in your head. Better get shot of it while you've still got the chance, that's what I say! What!?"_ said the Colonel.  
    _"What will the neighbours think!?"_ began Mrs Bulging Bosoms. _"And after all we've done for you too. Worked our fingers to the bone and what thanks do we get for it? That's what I'd like to know. I don't know what the world is coming to. Day and night we've laboured, put our hearts and souls into it, never a thought for ourselves, always—"_  
    _"Put a sock in it,"_ interjected Succinctly Sid.  
    _"'Put a sock in it'!? I'll give you 'Put a sock in it' my lad. You just wait 'til I get my hands on you. Then you'll know the true meaning of... of... socks! You mark my words! What!?"_ countered the Colonel, his chest inflated and his eyes ablaze.  
    _"—looking out for you, putting you first. We only want the best for you. And how do you repay us? Well we all know the answer to that don't we!"_ continued Mrs Bulging Bosoms, ending with an incongruously triumphant tone.  
    _"It's all going horribly wrong. We don't stand a chance. What's the point of even trying?"_ sniffled Erik.  
    _"Damn whining Nancy boys. Can't stand 'em! Line 'em up against the wall and shoot the blackguards, that's what I say. That'd soon stop 'em whining! What!?"_ huffed and puffed the Colonel.  
    _"Yeth but we mutht make allowantheth for the tribulathionth of youth. It'th not alwayth eathy to thee the wood for the treeth. Blethed ith the Lord for He thowth uth the way if we will but athk,"_ preached the Reverend.  
    _"Parents. What can be said of them? Manipulating, deceitful liars and finaglers_[ 1](../Text/Section0017.xhtml#C11Note1) _  all. Hell is too good a place for them,"_ opined Malevolent Morris.  
   On and on it went. A typical case of everyone talking and nobody listening. The one exception was the Professor. So far he'd heard nothing he considered worth a jot, and saw no possible gain from any contribution he might make, convinced it would be lost in the cauldron of confused thoughts bubbling away in the Jeremy's head. Until, that is, the day came when the Jeremy was cycling to church and, as he neared that ecclesiastical edifice, having managed to screen out the bickering in his head, his thoughts were beginning to polarise.  
    _"The existence of Free Will is not confirmed until you do something other than that which you've been told to do."_  
   The Professor's words were enough to keep him pushing the pedals. He rode on past the church, despite having no alternative destination. In what he felt was a ridiculous move, but one which he felt compelled to make, he lowered his head over the handlebars and turned to look away while praying he hadn't been noticed. Rounding the corner, he rode on into the unknown.  
   Feeling he'd put a safe distance between himself and the church, he stopped at the side of the road to contemplate this new territory. Of course, he knew his physical location, he was intimately familiar with most of the roads in and around the town. This unfamiliar territory was in an altogether different realm.  
   Although he didn't make the connection at the time, he felt much the same way as he had immediately after he pocketed the box of matches, the one he'd found on the table in the hall of his grandmother's house some years before. The immediate consequences of his action had produced no startling ill effects, nothing untoward had happened, the world had not rocked. If there was a difference between then and now, it was that he was much more conscious of having made a decision this time. He was also a lot more conscious of the likelihood of undesirable consequences.  
   'Undesirable consequences'. Now there was a grand-mother's nightshirt of a phrase, if ever there was one. But despite their ill defined nature, the consequences lurking as possible future realities in his mind were all made of very earthly stuff, most of them featuring his mother in various states of distress. And that was something he wanted to avoid, not only because he didn't want her to feel distressed, but also because he didn't want to feel the pain of being the cause of her distress.  
   Pushing it out of his mind, he focused on the problem of what he was going to do for the next forty-five minutes or so. He was becoming restless, so he set off to nowhere in particular, peddling at an easy pace, observing the local environment as he passed by. However, his notion of 'nowhere in particular' was not without constraints. Anywhere within the vicinity of home, the church or the route between them was out of the question. Then it dawned on him that no matter where he went, someone might recognise him. He peddled on, calculating the risk of exposure was small enough to be enjoyed as a thrill. Fear cussed at this new found boldness, knowing it was the start of a new chapter.

*

   The Jeremy's inner moth, which had been gnawing at the heavy cloak of Catholicism for a long time, had finally made a hole big enough to stick its head through, and was breathing in the fresh air of freedom.  
   The Jeremy didn't much like the smell of moth balls but he wondered if it smelled like incense to a moth. He thought moths were much maligned creatures. He'd take a moth over a mosquito any day. So what if they made holes in your clothes. Maybe it just meant people didn't need so many, all tucked away in drawers. At least moths didn't bite _people_.  
   But despite all that, he could feel the heat of the Roman Catholic candle drawing him back to its flame.

 ~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 12

    _"Little Hitler!"_ fumed the Jeremy quietly to himself, and began plotting hideous revenge, which he knew he would never actually carry out.  
   He despised himself for allowing recent events to have come to pass. His meek submission reviled him. Why hadn't he refused such an unjustly applied punishment? Why hadn't he mounted any resistance? Not even said anything?  
   He churned these questions over and over in his mind, unable to find any satisfactory answers, which only served to increase his feelings of anger, outrage, and injustice with every turn of the cerebral handle. He began to replay the events which had triggered this sorry state of affairs one more time, in case there was something he'd missed which would explain it all, or at least give him something on which to hang his crumpled self respect.  
   He'd been walking across the school quadrangle on his way from Geography with Mr Yarrow to English Literature with Mr Brindley, minding his own business, as was his custom, when someone had loudly made a rude comment behind the headmaster's back as he passed by.  
    _"You boy! And you there! And there! Who said that!?"_  
   There were six in the identified group of suspects, which included the Jeremy. Not one of the six said anything. A general shuffling of feet, accompanied by unfocused gazing at nothing in particular with occasional surreptitious glances at the others in the group, was the response of the majority. All except for Bartholomew who appeared, by the grin on his face, to see a funny side to the situation. Five separate instances of thought, along the lines of _'Bartholomew, you bastard!!'_ , took place simultaneously in the heads of five innocent schoolboys1 who found themselves unexpectedly in, what even the least intelligent of them could see was likely to be, deep shit. But even in the face of this discomforting fact, each of them felt an odd mixture of loathing and admiration for him. There he was, grinning from ear to ear, seemingly without a care for the likely consequences of his action.  
   Headmaster Mouldy spun on his heel as he caught sight of that smile out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment five boys held their breath, in a strangely guilty fashion, as they yearned for the possibility that Mouldy was about to make a cognitive leap and correctly identify the culprit. He glared at Bartholomew over his half-frame, gold-rimmed spectacles, but even before he'd completed his first sentence, their climbing spirits stalled and took a nose dive.  
    _"You can wipe that smile off your face, boy! And take your hands out of your pockets!"_ he growled.  
    _"Oh yeah!? Come and make me you pumped-up pompous puffy-faced piggy-eyed pathetic penis-head of an excuse for a man!"_ were the words the five others longed to hear.  
   But Bartholomew was no suicide bomber. His was the art of the guerilla fighter, taking risks to further the cause but sheltering among the innocent, not out of cowardice but rather to improve his chances of survival, thus earning further opportunities for attack.  
    _"I will see you all in my office in fifteen minutes,"_ declared Mouldy, turning with a flourish and crunching his way across the gravel, past the sign prohibiting such an action, towards the main building, his cloak flapping aggressively behind him.  
   The six boys stood motionless for a moment until Robertson fired the opening shot in a barrage of abuse.  
    _"You dick head, Bartholomew! Now we're all in the shit!"_  
   None of the comments which followed added anything worthwhile, being nothing more than variations on Robertson's theme.  
   Bartholomew just laughed and said, _"The man's a wanker and you know it! Fuck 'im!"_  
   It wasn't exactly how the Jeremy would have expressed it, but it summed up his well considered opinion quite neatly. There was just one small thing. He would never have let Mouldy know his opinion in such a foolhardy way, and now, he had to agree with Robertson, they were most definitely in the shit.  
   He hadn't bothered with participation in the verbal drubbing of Bartholomew because he saw there was nothing to be gained by it. What was done was done, and no amount of anger-venting was going to change it. Besides, Bartholomew might have expressed it in rather base terms, but everyone in that group knew exactly what he meant, and every one of them knew he was right. Headmaster Mouldy deserved no respect because he'd done nothing whatsoever to earn any.  
   The Grammar School for Boys was a school with some considerable history, going back to the 16th century, with an excellent academic record, and a reputation to match. That is, until the arrival of the arrogant Marius Oswald Mouldy. Not that anyone other than the students, and a few of the staff, seemed to have twigged it yet. Unfortunately, he was able to ride the mighty stallion bred by his predecessors for several years before his obnoxious cowboy character was perceived by those in a position to do something about it. The Jeremy was not displeased when, in later life, he heard the news of Mouldy's demise.  
   The declared fifteen minutes had already reduced to thirteen, and the clock, as they say, was ticking. The young men had forgotten about giving Bartholomew a hard time, and were busy applying their frothing intellects to the task of devising possible courses of evasive action, in an effort to circumvent the impending threat of physical pain or at least lessen its effects. Imaginations were running wild, but with little in the way of practical results.  
   The Jeremy undertook some of these synaptic gymnastics too, but refrained from joining in with the discussion of any tactics which were obviously foredoomed from the start. Somehow, he didn't think that a torturer of Mouldy's experience, would allow the old notebook-down-the-back-of-your-underpants ruse to pass by unnoticed. He was reasonably sure that having an epileptic fit in the head-master's study would probably work, if it was done convincingly enough, but he didn't have that much confidence in his acting abilities. He decided it would be wise to discard the idea. Not a difficult conclusion to reach, especially when he took into account the longer term implications if he was able to pull it off.  
   Having entered the realm of his imagination, he sought solace and courage there. He began to construct a historical framework to explain the cruel and intimidating obnoxiousness constantly displayed by the headmaster, and his apparent penchant for inflicting pain on other beings, preferably smaller than himself.  
   In that imaginary world, Mouldy's addiction to cruelty had begun at an early age...

<=0=>

> His collection of insects and other small creatures, which he'd personally skewered with a pin while they were still alive, necessitated a move to a bigger house before he reached school age. His doting parents set aside one whole room in which to store them, delightfully displayed in glass-fronted cabinets, each with its very own label and a note of Marius's age at the time of skewering. The panelled door to the room was replete with an exquisitely engraved sign bearing the words "Marius' Study" beneath an emblem representing a pair of crossed scalpels.  
>     Oswald and Dorothy Mouldy had high hopes for their son, and had made several sizeable donations to Magister's Mortuary College in a coldly calculated move – only marginally above cryogenic levels – designed to ease his slithering into those hallowed vaults of learning at a later date. Their ultimate goal for Marius was to see him appointed to the position of Lord Advocate at The Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal Service in Edinburgh, which they viewed as their spiritual home (Edinburgh, not The Crown Office – they were crackpots but not THAT far gone), despite the fact that both their genealogies indicated their roots lay squarely in Clacton-on-Sea.  
>     They hadn't let such trifles deter them. Whenever some poor unsuspecting visitor showed the slightest interest, they not only hauled out voluminous family photograph albums wherein each and every picture had a witty caption such as 'Marius showing Mummy and Daddy who is really the boss!!!', but also treated them to a long and inventively embroidered account of their family history, conjured up after a chance encounter with a local anthropologist had revealed, quite truthfully, that the Catuvellauni, a Celtic tribe, had set up a village on the site of Great Clacton around 2,900 years earlier.  
>     It had been a severe disappointment, particularly to Oswald, when they discovered that Celtic Football Club (whose fortunes, in a purely spiritual sense, had taken on a rather alarming significance in Oswald's life, at least in the view of his colleagues at the Clacton-On-Sea Novelty Joke Shop) was not in fact based in Edinburgh.  
>     So much so, that Oswald had penned a letter stridently petitioning the Club, in the strongest terms, to up sticks and move to Edinburgh which, he was sure they agreed, was without doubt where the Club inescapably belonged. He was well and truly scunnered when he opened their reply and read the salutation. 'Dear Sassenach'. The document was mysteriously lost.

<=0=>

The Jeremy had no recollection of the journey from the quadrangle to the administration building, having spent the time venting his anger by internally ridiculing not only Mouldy but his family too, using various tidbits of information he had learnt in History and Geography. But now, outside the headmaster's office, the enormity of his situation reasserted itself in his mind. The opening of the door prompted five boys, including the Jeremy, to consider turning informer. The idea was in their heads for no longer than it takes to have the thought and dismiss it. They could make you sing the school song, they could make you sing God Save Our Queen, and they could make you recite inspiring verses, but all of it meant not a jot alongside the unwritten rule of the Universal Schoolboy Club: _Never ever snitch_.  
   It was rule number one, and it took precedence over any other rule. Break _that_ rule and the transgressor would automatically become an outcast. A pariah. There could be no mitigating circumstances, no appeal that it had served the greater good. Such a person had marked themselves for life, and would be subjected to as many indignities as the remaining club members could rustle up. And there were some truly creative minds in the Universal Schoolboy Club, who felt it their duty to apply their talents, in ever more ingenious ways, in response to those rare occasions when the rule was broken.  
   Membership of the club was automatic too. It wasn't that you were forced or coerced into joining; there was neither a hierarchical structure of authority, nor any officials to do the forcing or coercing. No schoolboy ever talked about the club, or its rules, but it wasn't a secret. There were no funny handshakes or other such appurtenances. There was no need for such measures because every schoolboy knew that every other schoolboy was a member. You just seemed to know you belonged. Even the boy with no friends because of an unfortunate problem with personal hygiene – partially redeemed by his admirable ability to fart on demand – was a member.

*

_    Never ever snitch!_ That was it! The Jeremy hugged the thought like a long lost friend, and began pumping the pedals of his bike with a little more vigour. The journey home began to take on the characteristics of a joyride while his ousted self esteem began pouring back through the breach in the wall of dismay he'd steadily been building.  
    _"I didn't snitch! I didn't snitch!"_ he repeated to himself.  
   That was the essence, the very reason for its existence. Call it La Société Général De L'Ecolier if it pleases you to imagine the French version, but whatever the translation of _'never ever snitch'_ may be, without that rule the Club was a trivial, worthless affair. It was _The Rule_. The only rule. There were other candidates for inclusion as rules, but none attained, nor were ever likely to, more than the status of laudable tenets.  
    _'Take the rap, particularly if guilty'_ was one such tenet, adherence to which could gain the respect of peers. But failure to adhere to it would not result in expulsion from the Club, a fact which Bartholomew knew and employed to his, or rather the cause's, advantage.  
   With his spirits lifted and on their way back up to cruising height, the Jeremy felt a little less urgency in his quest to come to terms with the events of the day. He spared a moment to wonder what his mother would prepare for his tea. Big mistake! For it instantly catapulted him into a new dilemma. What was he going to say to her? He'd never been caned before and she was bound to get upset or angry.  
   His first thought, which possessed enormously attractive qualities, was that he just wouldn't mention it. That way he'd avoid all that motherly stuff which he could really do without. Not that he didn't appreciate it. He understood that it would be a demonstration of her love for him, and an expression of her desire to help him deal with the actions of _'that evil man'_ , but there in those words, words he knew she would use, lay the problem.  
   She would see it as another example of the eternal fight between good and evil. In this case, it would be between her eldest son on the one side, who she endowed with a cloak of saintliness – a cloak the Jeremy had done his best to demonstrate didn't fit, but given the nature of a cloak that's not so easy to do – and on the other, the embodiment of all that was evil in the form of the pernicious Mr Mouldy.  
   He'd tried, on many occasions, to explain that he didn't see things in quite those terms, without directly challenging her beliefs, but so far he hadn't been able to find the right words to get his message across. At any rate, that's how it appeared because all the attempts he'd made, regardless of his mother's assurances that she understood, hadn't made the slightest bit of difference to her behaviour.  
   He still hadn't made up his mind how he was going to tackle it when he reluctantly entered the house. He'd decided that he _would_ tell her. If he didn't tell her and then she found out later, the drama, or more likely melodrama, which would undoubtedly ensue, would be far worse then than it could possibly be now. She would say _'I just don't understand why you didn't tell us'_ , and then he would be faced with having to invent some plausible story to avoid hurting her more by telling the truth.  
   It wasn't an easy job being a son, especially if your mother happened to be afflicted with a predilection for totally irrational beliefs. He wondered if he was alone in having to deal with that kind of thing. None of his friends appeared to be in the same situation, but how was he to know for sure? It wasn't something that _men_ discussed at a serious level, any quirky mother behaviour being dismissed with a _'that's mothers for yah!'_ sort of jokiness.

*

    _"Got the cane today."_  
   It seemed best just to say it right out and go from there.  
    _"Oh my darling. Are you alright? Whatever for!?"_  
   The Jeremy responded in the same matter of fact tone in which he'd started, and proceeded to relate the sorry tale to his mother. The difficult bit was concealing that he was still very, very angry and upset. Goodness knows what sort of Armageddon it would have sparked if he'd revealed his true feelings. As it was, the retribution which _'that evil man'_ was apparently going to have to face, was merely apocalyptic.  
   He had to feign comfort from her fervent denouncement of _'that evil man'_ , and her further assertion that this latest wickedness was, _"proof positive that he is..."_  
    _"... a REALLY evil man?"_ interjected Succinctly Sid, the first of the Jeremy's cerebellar buddies to risk a comment since Bartholomew's allegedly calumnious remark. The Jeremy had to turn his head and pretend to cough. It was the only thing he could think of to hide his smile.  
   His mother finished with, _"... the Devil incarnate!"_  
    _"My mistake – a REALLY, REALLY evil man,"_ said Sid, with a really, really deadpan delivery which provoked a further tickle in the Jeremy's throat.  
   His mother's desire to savour the thought of Mouldy's coming encounter with 'the Saviour', betrayed her glee at the prospect of his suffering, which, he couldn't help thinking, was not so dissimilar to one of the characteristics she condemned as evil in Mouldy. Regardless of her absolute conviction that Mouldy was well on his way to eternal damnation, it just didn't 'do it' for the Jeremy. He had in mind something much more, what was the word for it?  
    _"Three dimensional,"_ said Malevolent Morris.  
   The words positively dripped with raw malevolence, but unusual as it was for him to miss an opportunity to be more specific, he simply left it at that. And then, after a second or two, an almost imperceptible _'mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha'_ could be heard reverberating around the Jeremy's neural pathways. It was Morris's idea of a joke.  
   It hadn't been as bad as he'd thought it would be. Perhaps he was getting better at feigning consolation. His father's response, on hearing about it, was to recount a tale of similar injustice of which he'd been the victim, and the grisly fate of the perpetrator, not long afterwards. He told the story calmly, and without any suggestion that he thought it likely that a similar fate lay in store for Mouldy. It was his father's way of saying that sometimes, bad people do get what they deserve.  
    _"Thanks Dad,"_ said the Jeremy, quite genuinely.  
   He knew there would be nothing further said about it by his father, but he did wonder if he'd write one of his famously rude letters which he penned in such polite terms that he could never be accused of being rude! He never did find out.

*

   Having successfully negotiated the home front, he found himself returning to the analysis of the events which had stirred up all this angst. Actually it was not so much the events themselves, more his responses to them. While a decent amount of self respect had been replenished by his realisation that he'd upheld The Rule, there was still much which demanded acceptable explanation.  
   Why hadn't he been able to do, albeit in more polite terms, what they'd all hoped Bartholomew would do when he was caught grinning? Why hadn't he made a stand against Mouldy? Why hadn't any of them done so?  
   He gave it some more thought and came to the conclusion that the school was like a mini dictatorship, at least it was since Mouldy's arrival. Maybe it had been before, but it hadn't felt like it. Perhaps old Coulsden secretly ran the school with a steel fist, but if it was so, he did a very good job of appearing to be a rather kind, grandfatherly sort of man.  
   Mouldy certainly ruled by fear. Not long after his tenure began, he 'made an example' of several boys who had previously built up reputations as troublemakers. Easy pickings, for a man like Mouldy, because what 'troublemaker' really meant was that they were fond of a prank and occasionally overstepped the mark. Mouldy pounced at the first opportunity, making certain that his use of the cane was well publicised by means of announcements at school assemblies; the 'unforgivable actions' of certain boys had left him no choice, regrettable as it was, but to punish them severely.  
    _"Let this serve as a warning that I will not tolerate such behaviour in my school!"_  
   He followed it up with the expulsion of two boys, who he was careful to describe as ringleaders.  
    _"I say! Damn fine show! What? Excellent start!"_ said the Colonel. _"Show 'em what you're made of. Show 'em you mean business. If they don't understand that then line 'em up against a wall and shoot 'em! That usually does the trick."_  
   That about sums it up thought the Jeremy. But surely there must be more to it than that!?  
    _"Perhaps I can be of service, dear boy?"_ asked the Professor.  
    _"And how right you are. There is indeed more to it than that!"_ he continued, negating the need for a formal answer.  
    _"An erudite observation, that which you made. It is key to the establishment of oneself as a dictator that one scares the bejesus out of one's subordinates, a category, I might add, which, in the mind of many a dictator, is entirely synonymous with 'everyone'. In what are sometimes quaintly referred to as 'olden tymes', a big sword and the ability to hack off the heads of the nearest innocents without a hint of remorse, was all that was needed. Perhaps an over simplification, but my point is that these days, a little more subtlety is called for._  
    _"Let us take a closer look at Mouldy's strategy. 'Easy pickings' was your phrase, and he did indeed identify and target the paper tigers in his new domain. Merely suitable ingredients for his recipe, he sliced and diced 'em, served 'em up as The Dish of the Day, and fed 'em to the wolves._  
    _"The wolves? The analogy is an insult to wolves, but I refer to the ravenous pack of whingers and whiners whose battle cry, if they were actually brave enough to go into battle, would be_ 'it's about bloody time somebody sorted out these damn miscreant undesirables' _while ruthlessly beating a hasty retreat. Oh dear. How remiss of me. It seems I have betrayed my contempt for those spineless creatures, and, damn it, I've just inadvertently insulted invertebrates too._  
    _"Now where was I? Oh yes, wolves, ravenous pack. Those on the Board of Governors who hanker after a bit of old time Victorian discipline_ 'to whip these young thugs into shape' _, noisily supported by a number of Jack-Russell-yapping friends of the school – who mistakenly believe they are its future governors – and also assorted parents with a desire to establish their credentials as 'upright citizens', for their own, probably nefarious, purposes._  
    _"Ah yes. I know what you're thinking (not a difficult feat for someone in my position). What of the others? The middle-of-the-road, reasonable, let's-talk-it-through, fair-minded, there-must-be-a-better-way, violence-never-solved-anything Board members? Taken in by his sincere assurances that it was a necessary one-off measure, just a small but much needed adjustment to the rudder to get the majestic ship back on course, a course so discerningly calculated by his esteemed predecessors, 'to steer us clear of the rocks', rocks which are always lurking beneath the waters in the form of subversive elements._  
    _"It had all the appearances of a classic nip-it-in-the-bud strategy, but, of course, it was actually camouflage for another classic; the salesman's foot in the door. Easy to see it now, with the benefit of hindsight and,"_ he continued without pause, _"your opinions, my dear Colonel, on the subject of hindsight, are not required at this juncture, if you would be so kind, thank you very much."_  
   The Colonel remained silent, mainly because he wasn't used to being pre-empted like that.  
    _"For Mouldy, it was a matter of the utmost simplicity to hide his duplicity. Poetic, and I do believe I just was, but certainly not justice,"_ the Professor continued.  
    _"Thus, having corralled the necessary support, the next step was the implementation of a policy of zero tolerance. Not, I hasten to make clear, the sort of policy that is advertised or included in a mission statement. Mouldy does seem to fit quite snugly into the 'evil bastard' category, but that doesn't mean he's stupid! Oh no._  
    _"He executed a zero tolerance policy, still does, but puts on a good show of indignation if it is ever suggested that such a policy exists. Insists he takes the merits of each and every individual case into consideration. But he's also scrupulously careful to suggest he'd be failing in his duty if he didn't uphold the standards of the school, 'so meticulously built up and maintained over hundreds of years'. And then baits the hook on the end of his line with 'wouldn't you agree?'_  
    _"_ 'Yes, headmaster.' _You can hear it being said by nervous subordinates eager to avoid becoming the recipients of a bit of good old zero tolerance themselves. This step is make or break for your would-be dictator. Absolute power is indeed the goal of such men – interesting, can't think of a woman, but I'm sure there must have been one, have to look into that some other time – but they certainly don't want to be the hand that directly brandishes the whip in every piddling little case of insubordination. That would severely limit their plans for world domination. So_ 'yes, (head)master' _are the words the dictator delights to hear._  
    _"And so it is that the 'yes men' have, unwittingly in many cases, enrolled as members of the orchestra of fear conducted by the man himself, whose collection of interesting 'batons' turns out to be the subject of much discussion and, depending on your likely position relative to the arc of their swing, objects of desire or detestation._  
    _"Look at poor old Watson. You can see the turmoil he's in. He thought he'd merely agreed that it was the headmaster's duty to do whatever was necessary to deal with 'difficult' boys. But now he finds himself expected to avoid_ 'wasting the headmaster's time' _by dealing with those 'difficult' boys himself,_ 'in a suitable manner' _. Ah – the world of euphemisms and fear, where correctly reading between the lines becomes a matter of survival._  
    _"Then there's Shilder and his ilk. They must have wet themselves with excitement when Mouldy arrived on the scene. They're an altogether different brand of 'yes men'. You can hear the words oozing from their lips._ 'It would be my pleasure to assist you, headmaster' _, and you know they're being absolutely truthful. These are the men who are Mouldy's greatest asset, but also his greatest threat. I seem to recall you referred to Mouldy as 'Little Hitler', but I suggest it is in fact Shilder and his mates who are the 'Little Hitlers', while Mouldy himself is undoubtedly Der Fuehrer._  
    _"The Little Hitlers can be relied upon to do whatever is deemed necessary, without question, and even compete with each other for the much coveted award for Most Ingenious Application of Zero Tolerance, which, of course, does not actually exist in the form of a plaque, but nevertheless is a prized possession. Not only that, they encourage similar behaviour among the prefects, effectively recruiting them as junior officers. The danger for Mouldy comes from every Little Hitler's desire to become Der Fuehrer, and the more of a free hand he gives them, the greater the risk._  
    _"Ever wondered why Mouldy sometimes taps the shoulder of one of his Little Hitlers, when they are engaged in a disciplinary dance, cutting in to take over the actual meting out of the punishment, invariably when said punishment involves the use of the cane? You'd be right in thinking it's because he gets pleasure from inflicting pain, particularly on submissive victims, but there is another aspect which adds to his pleasure and, at the same time, reinforces his position as head honcho. He openly steals the pleasure from one of his Little Hitlers, as a reminder that absolute power rests with him._  
    _"Other times, he'll give one of his underlings, usually the current holder of the Despot-of-the-Month award, the pleasure of performing some gratuitous act of child abuse when all the indicators suggest it would be appropriate for Mouldy himself to 'take the helm on this one'. Nothing new here. Training animals has a long, respected and proven track record, and Mouldy is not about to waste effort reinventing the wheel. Smack a dog sharply on its nose when it shows defiance then reward it with some delicacy when it behaves well, and you will be its master. Woof-woof. Job done!_  
    _"Lo and behold, before you know it, should've seen it coming, how did that happen? You've got yourself a dictator!"_ said the Professor, in mock triumph.  
   The Jeremy could see that what the Professor was saying was a pretty good representation of the situation at the school, but it still left the sixty-four thousand dollar question unanswered. Why hadn't he stood up to Mouldy and refused to accept the punishment? He was innocent!  
    _"Because you're a snivelling little coward just like me,"_ said Sniffling Erik.  
    _"Balderdash!"_ said the Colonel, apparently believing he'd made a worthwhile contribution to the debate.  
    _"It's never too late for revenge,"_ said Malevolent Morris. _"I could give you some pointers,"_ he added hollowly.  
    _"Dreadful man!"_ said Mrs Bulging Bosoms.  
   A very quiet, unidentified voice, which the Jeremy was not even sure he'd heard, said, _"Hey man... let's just chill out?"_ and was gone.  
   A moment or two passed, during which time the only sound was white noise, inadvertently produced by the Jeremy's blue-collar brain cells while they went about their mundane, day to day tasks. The rest appeared to have gone into stasis.

...........................

...........................

...........................

...........................

    _"Da Maven to the rescue, it seems!"_ said the Professor brightly.  
    _"64,000 dollars – yes – that'd be a smidgen over 23,174 pounds, 8 shillings, and thruppence ha'penny at today's rates. Doesn't have quite the same ring-a-ding-ding as $64,000, does it? Put those pounds, shillings and pence in your hand, and even if it was rounded up to say £23,174-8s-4d, or better still, £23,175, it still wouldn't feel as good as $64,000 in dollar bills nestling in your palm. Wouldn't say 'no' if someone offered it to you as a prize, but anything less than £24,000 in crisp notes, and you'd feel just a little cheated._  
    _"Yes, yes, I know. What has that got to do with standing up for your rights against Mouldy? Well it's to do with the difference between the perceived value of something and its actual value, which, as the $64,000 question illustrates, can be quite substantial._  
    _"Heroes. We're taught to admire them and to emulate them. To be considered a hero is praise indeed. But doing something merely because you want to be a hero will never succeed. There has to be a substantial element of selflessness to your actions. Only those who conceal their true identity can attain the status of super hero._ 'Who was that masked man? The Lone Ranger!' _But selflessness is only part of the deal. A hero must win! Setbacks, some small, some tiresome, but, most importantly, at least one of next to impossible proportions, must be overcome and soundly beaten before our hero can ride into the sunset._  
    _"Losing is not an option for a hero. Losing is for martyrs. Sure, we hold martyrs in some sort of high regard because it takes a special kind of person to be willing to lose everything in the service of the cause, whatever it might be, which in extreme cases equates to their life. But ignoring the actual consequences, what's the difference between that and the actions of a hero? I suggest there is in fact none, but we perceive the hero to be worth $64,000 against the martyr's £23,174-8s-3½d. Indeed, we may be taught to admire them, but few of us are taught to aspire to martyrdom._  
    _"But what of real life heroes? The young man who rushes into the burning building to rescue the woman and child trapped within, hauling them out seconds before the ceiling collapses?_ 'I'm not a hero – I only did what anybody would have done,' _he says when praised for his heroic actions after the event, and, in all likelihood, that is genuinely how he feels. Why does he feel that way? Because he didn't stop to think. There was no time for thinking, he had to make a snap decision, it was now or never, and he chose now. It could be said he was just extremely fortunate not to have found himself in that position a few moments later when the same decision would have proved utter folly._  
    _"What would he have done if he'd had fifteen minutes in which to think about it? Fifteen minutes before he could act upon his decision. Of course, we can only guess, because he didn't have fifteen minutes. Fifteen long minutes in which to weigh up the pros and cons, the likelihood of success or failure, of continued life or agonising death, and to think about alternative courses of action."_  
    _"What the deuce are you blithering about man!?"_ enquired the Colonel. A bit rich coming from such an inveterate blatherskite, but the Professor just brushed him aside.  
    _"Unlike the Colonel, you will no doubt have realised that I could have chosen ten or twenty minutes thinking time for our hero-cum-martyr, with equal effect, but I chose fifteen as a means to link his hypothetical thinking time to your real thinking time. Cheesy maybe, but my point is that you were in a situation akin to our hero's hypothetical one, not anything like the situation which actually produced the hero in him._  
    _"Imagine for a moment, another hypothetical situation. You are walking across the quadrangle, exactly as you were today, except your youngest brother is with you. Yes, yes, not likely, I know. Why would your six year old brother be walking with you? But please, just use your imagination! Mouldy comes storming across the gravel, cane in hand, declaring his intention to beat Daniel_ 'to within an inch of his life' _, which is, I believe, the sort of phrase with which such maniacs declare their intentions. What will you do? I suggest that Mouldy, in this situation, is in mortal danger, having provoked a formidable opponent who will do anything, absolutely anything, to protect his brother."_  
   The Professor paused while the Jeremy absorbed the point. He knew he was right. He _would_ do absolutely anything to protect his brothers, either of them, and the thought brought a lump to his throat and a hint of moisture to his eye, which, of course, he quickly suppressed in the name of manliness.  
   He wasn't entirely sure whether the path on which the Professor had led him was one solidly paved in concrete or one hastily hacked through a jungle, but nevertheless, he felt a good deal better about himself now. There was still a nagging doubt though. He could have stood up to him right there and then in the quadrangle. He could have said, _"No, Mr Mouldy. I haven't done anything wrong. I will not come to your office."_  
   Inside his head, more white noise, remarkably similar to the hissing, crackling silence between the tracks of a favourite LP record, was all that could be heard. The Jeremy had expected the Professor to provide an answer to that too, but the longer the silence continued, the more it seemed he'd assumed too much. Melchior Da Maven was like that sometimes, you could never be sure what you'd get. The Jeremy thought it was probably one of those times when the Professor had decided to leave him alone to figure it out for himself.  
   But his brain hurt. The effects of the surfeit of adrenaline, which had been coursing through his system, had worn off. His capacity for rational thought was rapidly diminishing as his system began the shut-down process in preparation for sleep.  
   The truth was that Mel – the Professor thought of himself as an ordinary sort of fellow – knew he'd be wasting his time by continuing. He was privy to the Jeremy's thoughts and had seen the tell tale signs of approaching slumber.  
    _"Mouldy ... cane ... sugar ... hello darlin' ... sorry ... get him! ... injustice .... in just ice .... barely freezing .... erect nipples .... sorry! .... cold hearted son of a bitch .... doggy in the window ..... must have ...... you seen the muffin man? ....... hello darlin' .......... sorry!! ................ mmmmmm ........................."_

*

   Mrs Bulging Bosoms said nothing while she busied herself checking that all the doors and windows were shut, turned out the lights, and got down to the serious business of dusting. Of all the inhabitants of the Jeremy's brain, she was the one who knew not only where all the nooks and crannies were – and could find them in the dark without causing any disturbance – but also their contents, which in some cases, she wished she did not. This knowledge was the reason for her propensity to _'cluck'_ and _'tut'_ , particularly in her idle moments when there was nothing much else to do but ponder the deplorable state of young minds today.  
   Most of the time she did nothing more than _'cluck'_ and _'tut'_ , but every now and then, when it seemed the Jeremy was about to venture into what she called 'unsavoury territory', she would find it impossible to contain her alarm, at which point she would utter what was becoming something of a catch phrase: _"What will the neighbours think!?"_

*

   When he awoke, he found that the events of the previous day seemed as though they'd taken place farther in the past than the few hours that had actually elapsed. He felt quite settled, practically normal in fact, and had a sense of equanimity which he put down to the Professor's take on it all. He was also a mite surprised to find there was a good feeling lurking 'neath the waters which was on the verge of bubbling up to the surface.  
   Whatever it was though, he thought it best to keep it submerged, at least until he'd left the house. He needed to present an appropriate visage to his mother while he endured the emotional torment which would spill from her as she bid him farewell, unable to hide her fear for his safety now that he was about to venture back into the clutches of the beast.  
    _"Don't worry darling. I will say a prayer for you,"_ she said, in the mistaken belief that her son would find it a source of comfort, or courage or – to phrase it in what he thought was an apposite manner – God knows what.  
   In truth, he found it deeply depressing that she apparently didn't have any confidence in his ability to look after himself.  
    _"Thanks Mum,"_ he said, with none of the sarcasm he felt like imparting. He knew that if she even caught a glimpse of his thoughts she'd be horrified and very likely convinced he'd been possessed by demons too.  
   She was his mother, and he had no desire to hurt her even if the results of her beliefs did piss him off. Unfortunately, nothing could stop the surge of guilt that tried to engulf him whenever he felt that way, and this time was no exception. Using the same strategy as the young child who keeps loudly repeating _'I can't hear you!'_ while holding their hands over their ears, a long _'Aaaaargh!'_ occupied his thoughts in an effort to stop the guilt from getting a hold.  
   He energetically pumped the pedals of his bike and let the wind blow the cobwebs from his mind. Downhill, he stood up on the pedals and thrust his head forward over the handlebars to better feel the rushing air blast into his face. He felt free. Free, not just in the sense of not imprisoned, but free to choose, to choose whatever he chose to choose. He wasn't sure if that notion _really_ made sense, but it didn't matter because it made sense to him.  
   As he approached the school gates, he felt himself begin to tense, his fear of contact with Mouldy announcing its presence. But it wasn't a fear of what Mouldy might do to him. It was a fear of what he, the Jeremy, might do to Mouldy. The Professor's hypothetical example featuring Daniel, his youngest brother, had taken on a kind of reality in his mind, and Mouldy had just better steer clear of him. It was as simple as that.  
   He knew his days were numbered at the school. He no longer had enough respect for the place to accept further education from it. He wouldn't rebel, or be an overt troublemaker, but he knew that his continued attendance would be mostly a matter of going through the motions while he figured out what to do next.  
   As he passed through the archway at the entrance to the school, he glanced up at the Coat of Arms and the School Motto emblazoned upon it.

OLIM MEMINISSE JUVABIT.

    _"What the hell does that mean?"_ thought the Jeremy, who was not in the very top flight of students, the only ones who studied Latin. While he wasn't part of that group, he had been considered brighter than some, and consequently studied German in addition to French. His pride in being a cut above the average dimwit, who was considered fit enough to study only French, seemed more than a little risible as he stood looking up at a School Motto which he didn't understand. He laughed, and was immediately the focus of several boys' attention who obviously thought he was slightly deranged, and, he thought, they were probably right.  
   Before assembly, he found Dawkinson, one of the real egghead Latin scholars but a genuinely nice chap, and asked him what the motto meant.  
    _"One day we will be glad to remember,"_ he replied with a quizzical smile.  
   The Jeremy thanked him and spent the rest of the day realising that he was now something of a celebrity, with a touch of notoriety thrown in for good measure. He and his five co-conspirators – the myth had already taken root – had joined another club, this one much more exclusive than the USC. Only those who'd been given 'six of the best' and taken it like a man could belong to this club. Whether the punishment was justified or not was totally irrelevant.  
   He had, as unbelievable as he would have thought it had it been proposed to him the previous day, taken on the aura of a hero. As the growing myth would have it, he and the others had defiantly presented their arses to Mouldy, challenging him to do his worst without flinch or whimper, walking un-cowed from his office as a categorical demonstration of the ineffectiveness of his lamentably pathetic performance.  
   The feeling lurking 'neath the waters turned out to be a certain sort of pride, and now it popped up and bobbed about on the surface of his emotions. While the myth presented the story in, well, mythological terms, there was, in its kernel, an element of truth. His fear of what he might do to Mouldy evaporated, and was replaced with a contempt for the man which required no flag waving or ostentatious rhetoric. It was enough to know that Mouldy would know, when he next set eyes upon him, that he no longer had any power over his mind.  
   Later in the day, he spent his break in the school library, sifting through English/Latin dictionaries and text books. He wrote three words down on a small piece of card, and attached it to the underside of his jacket lapel. Immediately after school, a time when schoolboys traditionally milled about in the school yard before departing for home, he found Dawkinson again, and flashed the card at him.  
    _"EGO NUTO IS,"_ he read out loud, and began to laugh. It was one of those laughs that made you laugh just to hear it, because it was so weird. He and the Jeremy ended up laughing, in that uncontrollable way that endangers the dryness of your pants, until Dawkinson managed to snort, _"I doubt it too!"_  
   And in that instant, an unlikely friendship was born.

 ~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 13

   The Jeremy made it as clear as he could, without being belligerent, that it was his intention to continue sitting on the park bench for quite some time. A little earlier, he'd positioned himself so that he was leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, his chin supported by the heel of his right hand, and his left hand resting in the crook of his right elbow.  
   He'd adopted this position for a number of reasons, one of which was that he hoped it was perceived as nonchalant, with perhaps a hint of semi-disinterest-cum-boredom regarding the events going on around him, the sort of pose he imagined might be taken up by those who _are_ superior to their peers, but _don't think they are_. Cool, man.  
   Another reason for the pose was one which the Jeremy hoped was not so easily perceived. In fact he hoped it wasn't perceived at all, not even a teeny weeny bit. Furthermore, the term 'teeny weeny' was completely inappropriate because it stood in consummate contrast to the enormous stiffy which, he was convinced, was threatening the integrity of the seams of his jeans.  
   His belief that it was enormous had nothing to do with an exaggerated idea of the size of his penis, erect or otherwise, but much more to do with his understanding of how enormously difficult it would be to hide its current state if he stood up. In fact, he was convinced that a move in any direction might cause his carefully constructed façade to crumble, exposing the true nature of its structure.

*

   This potentially embarrassing state of affairs, had come about as a result of Lewd Rude Dude's inability to do anything other than manipulate as many of the Jeremy's thoughts as possible into sources of sexual stimulation. He'd joined the throng in the Jeremy's head as soon as a physical interest in girls had begun to emerge. Lewd Rude Dude was an accomplished agent provocateur, and was, at that very moment, engaged in a battle of wits with the Jeremy. And not wishing to miss an opportunity, even in the form of a bit of truly awful innuendo, he was quick to point out that, as things stood, he was currently ahead by say, a couple of strokes.  
   Lewd Rude Dude had long since convinced the Jeremy of the absolute futility of trying to divert his sexually charged thoughts to anything which had even a remote connection to the sober subject of industry, either the heavy or light varieties. He couldn't recall the exact circumstances, but the Jeremy would always remember trying, on an occasion of a similar but probably not so public nature, to turn his thoughts to the internal combustion engine. It had seemed a good candidate for distracting his thoughts because it was solidly constructed of metal, and was just a piece of machinery.  
   Naive in the extreme!  
    _"Fuel injection, uhh, fuel injection, uhh, fuel injection,"_ laughed Lewd Rude Dude, fondling the memory and taking the opportunity to remind the Jeremy of the, _"pistons and pushrods sliding back and forth, bathed in all that warm oil,"_ and then going on to suggest how good it would be to, _"rub warm oil all over Brigitte Bardot's naked body."_  
    _"Enough!"_ the Jeremy had begged.  
   He'd tried the cosmos too, but Lewd Rude Dude had found that simplicity itself, turning the Jeremy's most serious and equation-laden thoughts about gravity – via the pull of the moon on the waters of the oceans – to the waves breaking on the sandy shore, on which Brigitte Bardot was— _"running naked, her pert but full breasts rising and falling with every step, golden skin glistening with the spray from the crashing waves, pouting lips, nipples erect with anticipation,"_ said Lewd Rude Dude, hijacking the memory once again.  
    _"Stop! Stop! Bloody Brigitte Bardot! She's got a lot to answer for!"_ thought the Jeremy.  
   He looked around, desperately searching for something on which he could focus that would prove impervious to Lewd Rude Dude's lust-filled perspectives. It was going to be a tall order.  
   As had become customary on sunny Sunday afternoons in the summer of 1968, he'd gone to the park with David, Paul and Rich with the vague idea that they might kick a football around, or something. As the summer progressed, 'or something' had become more and more likely to topple the idea of playing football from its previously unassailable position at the top of the things to do tree.  
   It was also a fact that 'or something' invariably turned out to be 'admiring the scenery', a euphemism, in common use by young males at the time, for 'looking at girls'. The emphasis for the Jeremy, at this point in his life, was firmly on 'looking at' rather than, for example, 'engaging in intelligent conversation with'. That was an activity he considered to be fraught with danger, a veritable minefield of embarrassment, the hidden detonators lurking in the answer to every question.  
   In truth, 'looking at girls' was itself a kind of euphemism in which an apostrophe and the word 'breasts' had been omitted. They were everywhere. Especially on sunny Sunday afternoons in the park, a place where girls also liked to spend some idle moments. Some of them, it seemed to the Jeremy, liked nothing better than to pose provocatively in a bikini – thereby making it radically difficult for a young man such as himself to think of anything but girls' breasts – while simultaneously pretending they were doing no such thing. He added that last bit because he was a little confused about girls' attitudes in general, but particularly about sex.  
   He found the whole subject of sex an extraordinarily complex one because of a conflict not only between what his opinion _actually_ was and what he thought it _should_ be, but also between what he _actually_ felt and what he thought he _should_ feel. Add to that his general befuddlement regarding the opposite sex, which amounted to an almost complete lack of understanding of girls' wants and desires – including whether they actually had them – and you had the makings of a catechism for cataclysm.  
   Lewd Rude Dude had no such problems. What girls want? Moral dilemmas?  
    _"Not in the Job Description. It clearly states 'Take every opportunity to sexually arouse your host'. Nothing more, nothing less,"_ he said, in a rare moment when his words lacked any sexual connotation.  
    _"Look at the way the bottom of that girl's bikini top is beginning to ride up over her young, succulent breasts,"_ he added, indicating the supine body of an attractive young lady nearby, following his Job Description to the letter.  
   The Jeremy silently groaned. He was in considerable pain, and it wasn't just mental anguish about his predicament. The natural growth pattern of his erection had been severely restricted by his Y-fronts, and that was the third reason for his current park-bench pose. It had helped to relieve the tension a little, but he deeply wished he could unhook his manly appendage from the taut, barbed folds of cloth in which he felt it was caught. That no hint of this was displayed on his face, was a testament to his control of his facial muscles even in these most difficult of circumstances. He dearly wished he had the same level of control over all parts of his body.

*

   It was still at a germinal stage, but the Jeremy had been envisaging a new anti Lewd Rude Dude tactic. He knew that attempting to distract his own attention, by thinking of un-sexy physical things, was a non-starter. All physical things, without exception, had a physical relationship with all other physical things, no matter what their shape. And 'other physical things' was a category which indisputably contained Brigitte Bardot, a fact which made it child's play for Lewd Rude Dude to turn thoughts of those un-sexy things to his advantage.  
   Ball bearings?  
    _"Use 'em to massage Brigitte Bardot all over her naked body."_  
   Crown of Thorns?  
    _"Pluck one thorn and use it to gently tickle Brigitte..."_  
   No contest. It didn't matter that the Jeremy had never seen any pictures of Brigitte Bardot naked. He'd seen her face. If you were a male of his age, and quite probably of any age, you only needed to see her face. And she was French!  
   As illustrated earlier, what he initially thought was a master stroke of subtle attack which would soon have Lewd Rude Dude on the ropes, thinking of abstract things, like the law of gravity, had fared no better. The laws that govern the universe also govern Brigitte Bardot and any environment in which you care to place her. It was a rout. A whitewash. It seemed there was nothing he could do.  
   Out of this messy defeat, his new anti Lewd Rude Dude idea had been rising like the Phoenix, although he hoped his idea would lack the mythical property of the bird. He found it almost impossible to put into words exactly what his idea was, but it was something like _'using thoughts themselves to control the thoughts he was trying to avoid thinking by actively choosing to think them for himself'_. It sounded exactly the sort of thing that Father Moore would have said, the only difference being that this made sense. At least it did to the Jeremy.  
   He decided that, in practical terms, this meant taking what might seem a rash decision in view of his bench-bound circumstances; he would systematically recall the events in his life which held any sort of sexual content. The premise of the idea was that if he could understand how Lewd Rude Dude had gained his currently dominant position, he'd be in a much better position to overcome it. The logic was sound enough, but what it lacked was a practical analysis of his chances of getting from point A to point B without mishap, in view of his current position. He was, after all, hardly starting from a position of strength but, nevertheless, he decided to rigidly thrust toward his goal. Desperation can do strange things to a young man's ability to think straight, let alone notice achingly awful puns.  
   As a first step, he identified a couple of sexual milestones, ruefully thinking that 'millstone' was a better term for the most recent. Indeed, it had unmistakably been a moment of inverse epiphany.

*

   Lewd Rude Dude put his feet up on the table, leant back in his chair until its two front legs were airborne, clasped his hands loosely behind his neck, and used his outstretched elbows to make the small adjustments necessary to maintain his balance. Rocking rhythmically back and forth, he began to whistle.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms was horrified to see him treat the chair that way, and, notwithstanding the detestation she felt for Lewd Rude Dude, she also feared for his safety if it were to topple over. She bit her lip. She had no desire to give him the opportunity to say, _'Cor! Look at those gigantic knockers!'_ ever again.

*

   The Jeremy didn't need to cast his line far to reel in the memory of that recent sexual debacle, the one with the millstone attached. 'Debacle' was the only way to describe it. Indeed, he'd been doing his best to put it behind him but, bathed in this new Phoenician light, it seemed it might serve as good target practice in the development of his strategy.  
   Tessa and Wendy.  
   Well, Tessa really.  
   David, who appeared to have a lot more confidence with girls, chose Wendy. And Tessa seemed happy to have the Jeremy by default.  
    _"At least,"_ he thought, _"that's the way I think it was."_  
   What if he was mistaken? Maybe Tessa had said to Wendy, _"I want 'Jeremini', you can have David."_  
   And perhaps she didn't realise that her 'Jeremini' nickname for him had unwelcome implications for a young man. The thing was, she liked to tease him. He remembered how talkative she was, and how she liked making jokes, some of which were genuinely funny and some of which were not. He attempted to make an annotated mental note, for later analysis, that he'd tended to laugh at all of her jokes regardless, but having started to think about her, he couldn't help picturing her. It was making the business of mental note taking and annotation very nearly impossible.  
    _"Attaboy!"_ said Lewd Rude Dude.  
   The Jeremy realised that he was probably going about this exercise in the wrong way. He was just avoiding the main issue. He needed to get to the heart of the matter rather than getting hung up on the peripheral stuff. He could have done with some help from the Professor, but Melchior Da Maven had made his position very clear on more than one occasion: _"Sorry, dear boy. Not really my field."_  
   With no one else to turn to, he faced up to the fact that he was on his own on this one. He tried a little deep, measured breathing – while doing his best to disguise it for the benefit of those sharing the park bench – as a means to gain a little self control, in preparation for what had serious possibilities of turning into an even more delicate situation. He took an extra deep breath and let the core memory out of the secure vault in which he'd locked it.  
   David's room was in the attic. There was a single bed at each end of the room, on one of which he'd found himself lying with Tessa, while David and Wendy were presumably doing something similar on the other. He could only _presume_ because David had rigged up a makeshift curtain.  
   Tessa had removed all her clothes, except for her bra and panties, and was giggling quite a lot more than usual as she snuggled up to him. He still had on all his clothes, except he was minus his shoes, and Tessa had untucked his shirt from his jeans. She was running her hand over his chest and remarking on the hirsute condition of his body.  
   The Jeremy was always quite quiet, but for some time he'd been trying to use that aspect of his character to cultivate a reputation as 'cool', any movement in that direction being more cool than 'quite quiet'. He'd achieved a reasonable degree of success, and was attempting to build on it further, although he was experiencing some stubborn resistance from Mrs Bulging Bosoms. She viewed anything which was thought by his peers to be the slightest bit cool as likely to become, very rapidly, too hot to handle.  
   Pushing aside the near hysterical clucking coming from Mrs Bulging Bosoms, he'd taken up what he hoped Tessa would view as a laid back repose, his head resting on the pillow, loosely supported by his clasped hands. (The Jeremy paused his review for a moment, and reflected that there were similarities between that pose and the reclining figure of Lewd Rude Dude, and enjoyed a ripple of satisfaction that at least he'd been cool enough to know that whistling would have been uncool in the extreme.)  
   Tessa had rested her head on his right arm, just below his shoulder, and had continued her exploration of his chest, including playful tugs on the abundance of hair she found there. At least he'd sincerely hoped they were intended to be playful. He'd never felt any sexual stimulation, in fact quite the opposite, from even the thought of serious pain, so he'd been pleased to note that the giggling verbiage coming from her indicated that she wasn't really trying to hurt him.  
   He'd done his utmost to display a casual confidence which, in reality, he was severely lacking. It was the first time in his life that he'd laid next to an almost naked girl, and the touch of her skin against his – where his shirt had parted from his jeans – had held his attention so strongly that Tessa could probably have yanked a whole tuft of chest hair from its roots, without him noticing all that much.  
   He'd also been able to feel her breasts, rubbing against him, through her bra and his shirt, as her arm moved about his chest. But, more and more, his attention had focused on what Mrs Bulging Bosoms referred to as 'down there'.  
   He'd been very relieved that he'd earlier 'adjusted his dress', in what he'd hoped was a discreet rather than surreptitious way, because Tessa had swung her leg over his hip and he could feel — _"her young mound of Venus, delicately pressing through her gossamer-thin panties, hinting at hidden desire."_  
   Lewd Rude Dude, who was bored with whistling, had automatically massaged the thought.  
   Tessa had then adjusted her position so that it was uncomfortable for him to keep his hands behind his head, and, consequently, he'd ended up with his right arm around her shoulders with his hand resting on her skin just above her still bra-enclosed breast. It had been unintentional on his part, more a case of it being the only place he could put his hand, without it being in some ludicrously awkward position. But the fact that he'd been reluctant to place it there was troubling.  
   It hadn't taken long for it to become abundantly clear that Tessa had deliberately engineered it. Finding her move had produced zero response, she deftly used her heels to shunt her entire body towards the head of the bed, and, in the process, managed to cause the Jeremy's hand to slide under her bra and come to rest on her— _"small but firm, tantalisingly well-formed breast,"_ interjected Lewd Rude Dude, unable to resist.  
   In the reality of the park, the Jeremy gritted his teeth behind unmoving lips, while resolutely trying to ignore Lewd Rude Dude's contribution.  
   It was at this stage that things started to get a bit weird. Trying to remember what happened next produced a feeling that his brain had been enveloped in a numbing fog, which was more than a little unpleasant and quite unnerving. He skipped forward to find an unfettered view in his memory, but what he came to was after the 'main event'. The numbing fog was gone but the scene did not fill him with joy. Tessa was making some very pointed remarks as the four of them descended the stairs, once again fully clothed.  
   With great effort, he focused his memory on the point where his hand had come to rest on Tessa's breast. It was torture! He now vividly remembered the next bit, and fervently wished he could edit his memory to match the 'reality' of his dreams. But reality is not so conveniently discarded, and he now had to admit that... he'd done nothing. He hadn't responded to her move in any way at all!  
   The Jeremy felt wretched. He began to do what he often did when faced with some unpleasant truth about himself, and that was to try to put a positive spin on it. Unfortunately, one of the unpleasant truths he recognised about himself was his tendency to deny reality by putting a positive spin on unpleasant truths. Consequently, even though it was almost involuntary, every attempt at positive spin had precisely the reverse effect, quickening his descent as his spirits spiralled down towards rock bottom.  
   Sinking in this ocean of sorrows, the Jeremy found himself bottom-feeding on dark morsels of raw truth, each mouthful a bitter-tasting slice of his life he wished had never happened, or failing that, had happened in a different way.  
   In one of those occurrences which provoke people to trot out some tired and worn old maxim such as 'every cloud has a silver lining' – or in his mother's case, 'God works in mysterious ways' – he became aware that this particular cloud's silver lining was that his park-bench predicament had diminished, in concert with his self esteem, to manageable proportions.  
   Seizing the opportunity, before Lewd Rude Dude had a chance to stoke the furnace again, he called _'see yah'_ to his friends – who'd succumbed to the lure of a bit of football kicking – stuck his hands in his pockets as he got up from the bench, in case he needed to make any minor adjustments, and headed for home.  
   It was an extremely uncomfortable walk because his testicles ached like billy-oh, but he'd learnt, from previous experience, it came with the territory, particularly if you had Lewd Rude Dude in residence. Fortunately, he also knew that it wouldn't be permanent, and was already guiltily planning on aiding its departure. Brigitte, ably assisted by Lewd Rude Dude, could be a truly wonderful imaginary friend at times. He just wished that Lewd Rude Dude had a better sense of timing. In fact _any_ sense of timing!  
   On the way home, Lewd Rude Dude was conspicuous by his silence, but then he wasn't one to waste energy on a lost cause.

*

   The Jeremy sat in the reassuring comfort of his room, listening to Rubber Soul. It was still one of his favourite records, because not all of the songs were normal love songs, but they weren't 'protest' songs either. There had been, of course, the much newer release of Sgt. Pepper the previous year, but it didn't suit his mood or present state of mind.  
   Norwegian Wood had received some extra play this evening. He knew the words by heart and sang along. Quietly, because he didn't think he was a good singer, but full of anticipation for the last line, which he often found almost impossible to get out. He didn't fully understand why, but it would be the cue for the razor blades of emotion to slash at the sounds as they formed in his throat.  
    _"John Lennon,"_ thought the Jeremy, _"I wish I was like him. He just comes right out and says stuff."_  
   He was full of admiration. Not so much for what he said, although he thought that his words were usually right on, but much more for his fearlessness in saying what he thought should be said.

> ♫... she once had me...♫

   How many times had he heard someone emphatically put forward some theory, encapsulated in a one-liner, which he knew was either complete nonsense or at least seriously flawed, but he hadn't been able to articulate a response. He could _feel_ the logic of his argument, but it was buzzing around his head in the language of his brain cells. It was frustrating. There seemed to be some kind of force field, guarding the gateways of his brain, which always managed to prevent him from converting the logic into English.  
   It was on just such an occasion, that Succinctly Sid had first made his presence felt _outside_ the confines of the Jeremy's head.  
    _"Load of bollocks!"_ he'd said, after a particularly turgid piece of obfuscation by some politician on the TV.  
   The Jeremy had involuntarily repeated it out loud, which caused much mirth among his group of friends, who were only watching the news because Top Of The Pops followed it. It had turned out to be, quite by accident, one of the first notches on the barrel of his Cool-gun.

> ♫... talked until two and then she said...♫

   His thoughts returned, more lazily this time, to what he'd begun thinking about in the park. He'd bounced back enough from the dejection he'd felt earlier, and was able to think about it in more rational terms.  
    _"Rational terms, I like that,"_ said a newcomer to his mental mezzanine space.  
   They were the first words from a character whose presence he'd felt, in an intangible way, for some while. The first utterance of a new character was always interesting, but he liked to reserve judgement until they'd had some time to settle in, to find a niche in which they felt comfortable, but, most importantly, until they'd had time to make enough comments to reveal what they were about.  
    _"I like that too,"_ came the voice again.  
   He hadn't noticed at first, but this voice belonged to a female. A girl, or a woman. He wasn't sure which. But whichever it turned out to be, it was quite a curiosity because the only other female occupant of his head was Mrs Bulging Bosoms, who – he tried hard to think in a whisper for fear of hurting her feelings – he didn't think of as being very female at all, even taking into account her most obvious features. He felt a bit uncomfortable after he'd had that thought, but he wasn't sure why.  
   The newcomer said nothing.

> ♫... isn't it good? Norwegian Wood!...♫

   With the end of the track, he decided to defer his investigation of the disaster area which had been his close encounter with Tessa, until a later time. Instead, he thought an examination of previous entanglements might shed some light on why he'd just shut down at such a critical time. Besides, he'd had enough of guilt, doom and despair for one day.  
   His thoughts were quickly drawn to the memory of a much happier experience, also relatively recent, but pre-dating Tessa by some months. In the safe zone of his room, he felt he could risk the retrieval of those memories, withdrawing the module with the utmost care to avoid any possibility of damage to such a treasured object.

*

   David's older sister, Rosemary, had very nice breasts. The Jeremy felt entitled to hold that opinion, principally because he had, on more than one occasion, felt and held them. She was David's older sister by a couple of years, and, incidentally, attended the same convent school as Jenny. But due to the fact that Jenny was a year older, Rosemary was not even close to being amongst her group of friends.  
   One Saturday, when he was round at David's – and crucially, David's parents had gone shopping – for some reason which he was quick to see was best accepted at face value, Rosemary said, _"You can feel me if you like."_  
    _"Feel your what, Rosemary?"_ was definitely not among the candidates for a suitable response. It didn't even feature in the eliminating rounds. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind what 'feel me' meant, and he had no intention of scuppering his chances with a facetious remark like that.  
   It wasn't exactly inspired, but _'okay'_ did the trick, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting behind her, one step up, on the stairs. The details of how they got into that position didn't even make it into the Jeremy's short term memory, but the action from then on was indelibly imprinted in an area of his memory labelled 'Protected Storage'.  
   It was one of the notable features of their relationship that there was no room for chat up lines or anything of that nature. No pretence of being in love, wanting to marry, or to do anything other than feel and be felt. None of this was the subject of conversation, but it was certainly pretty well understood.  
   The Jeremy slid his hands inside the back of Rosemary's blouse, and successfully undid his first brassiere. He managed it without too much trouble, no doubt aided by the fact that he was able to use both hands. There was no pressure on him to show how experienced he was, either. It was just a practical requirement.  
   The rules of the game were quickly established. The Jeremy could touch, caress, squeeze and generally play, in any way he wanted, providing he used his fingers and hands with care and sensitivity. Rosemary soon made it clear, by firmly adjusting the position of his hands, that he had to have at least part of his exploring hands on an area of her body which came under the category of 'breast'. It also had to be the focus of his attentions. It was strictly touch only, with no removal of any clothing and certainly no looking. And no reciprocal touching. He was more than happy to abide by these rules.  
   This was no quick grope. This was a measured probing of every square inch – metrication being a few years in the future – of Rosemary's breasts. During these explorations, he learnt not only how to stimulate a girl's nipples, but also more than a modicum of self control, a feat which was worthy of some praise, bearing in mind that he didn't have the benefit of any anti Lewd Rude Dude tactics at the time.  
   Not much conversation took place during these stair sessions, which – if the Jeremy's recollection is to be believed, even though it seems doubtful – went on for several hours on each occasion. He didn't give it that much thought at the time, hardly able to believe it was really happening, but Rosemary gave every indication that she was enjoying it as much as him. Not in a groaning, moaning, panting sort of way, there was none of that kind of flummery. More by the fact that she would take up position on the stairs without any prompting. She just seemed to enjoy feeling the Jeremy feeling her.  
   It all came to a rather abrupt end the day when they were nearly caught by her father, who returned home unexpectedly. The Jeremy got the feeling that he suspected something, but nothing was ever said. Nevertheless, he and Rosemary knew it was over, and, without any animosity or bad feeling, never did it again.  
   With all that experience behind him, the Jeremy couldn't understand why, when Tessa had so expertly manoeuvred her body to get his hand onto her breast, he hadn't put any of it to use. The more he thought about it, the more amazing her movements seemed. Her bra was fastened, but she'd still managed to get his unhelpful hand under the edge of her bra-cup without the use of her own hand. Not an easy feat! Surely there could be no question she'd wanted him to respond to her.  
   So why on earth had he just laid there staring at the ceiling, not responding at all? Not even an involuntary twitch of a finger! What was he thinking of!? Not a lot, he recalled. Something had happened which had paralysed his brain, very nearly completely. It had been as if his ability to think had somehow been disabled to such an extent that he couldn't make a decision to move any part of his body. Scary. Sounded like he'd been possessed or something!  
   It was nowhere near as paralysing, but a similar thing appeared to be happening again, now that he was trying to think about it. He had no trouble thinking about the events leading up to it, or the embarrassing aftermath – which, unsurprisingly, was the beginning of the end for him and Tessa. But whenever he tried to focus on what had been going on in his head at the moment of truth, it was as if someone was pushing the Pause button and manually winding the tape on before he could press Play.  
    _"Skip it for now?"_ suggested the female voice.  
   It seemed a remarkably good idea. She was becoming more of a welcome visitor with every contribution she made.

*

   He began to browse through the index of his memories, looking for more items that he'd labelled 'Sex!'. He was miffed to find, even after he did an in-depth search, there were none besides Rosemary and Tessa. For a subject which, at times, appeared to be his sole preoccupation, it was somewhat of a rude awakening to be confronted by this dismal set of results. Surely there must be something else!  
   He decided to broaden his search criteria, justifying his action under the pretext that he might have inadvertently mislabelled or misspelled an item. 'Sexy!' returned hit upon hit in an avalanche of results. This was more like it!  
   His elation was short-lived. On closer inspection, the details of this apparent treasure trove revealed themselves to be, almost exclusively, stored images. Mostly of an imaginary nature and many of them featuring Brigitte in varying states of undress, they'd all been explicitly saved for use at 'special times'. Tempting as it was, he decided that now was not such a time. He cleared his results table ready to start again.  
   It was critical to the success of a memory search, to find the right term, or combination of terms. He tried to think how to phrase it in such a way that he'd get what he wanted. It took longer than it technically should have, but technical benchmarks can rarely be applied under real operational loads, where processes are also prone to interference and crosstalk – aka Lewd Rude Dude.  
   He tried 'contains body?', which immediately returned images of Brigitte naked in a coffin. That was the trouble with using the advanced search option, sometimes it was just too clever for its own good. After several more failed attempts, he decided to give 'associative search' a go.  
   'Penis'. In the split second before the progressive results feature kicked in, the Jeremy faced the dreadful possibility that nothing in his memory was associated with the term. It was with some relief, as the table steadily filled, that he noted he was going to have to do a fair amount of manual sifting of the results. He set about the task without delay.  
   'Mouldy' was one of the first to be discarded, which brought a smile to his face. 'Ball' caught his attention next, because it was linked to a separate item labelled 'Park'. It turned out that 'Ball' referred to Steven Ball. He was the boy who, at the age of six, sat next to the Jeremy in the small class at St Joseph's.  
   Under the cover of his school desk, Steven Ball had unbuttoned the fly of his grey woollen shorts and removed his penis from within. The Jeremy remembered feeling a mixture of surprise, curiosity and alarm at this unexpected behaviour. Surprise and alarm? No problem there. But curiosity? He was relieved when he realised that it had been largely curiosity about the reasons for the boy's behaviour, rather than about his newly exposed John Thomas.  
   John Thomas! The memory of calling a penis a 'John Thomas' made him laugh. What was that all about?  
    _"Go on. Touch it,"_ Steven had said, which was truly unexpected.  
   The Jeremy's logic at six years old went like this: _"I don't want to touch it. I don't want to because it looks... greasy. And it's not mine. What will he do if I say no? Will he get angry and then Sister will see and she'll tell everyone in the class? Then everyone will know that I was sitting next to him and he had his John Thomas out. And they will all think I touched it. If I just touch it quickly then perhaps he'll put it away and no one will know."_  
    _"Go ON. Touch it!"_  
   A six year old finger reached over and prodded it in the manner one might prod a toad to see if it was dead or alive. Ugh! It _was_ greasy. The Jeremy rubbed his finger on his own grey woollen shorts, trying not to be too obvious about it, and said, _"OKAY?"_ quite forcefully, indicating that it was over and done with. Steven Ball got the message and restored his penis to its rightful place.  
   A later general search revealed that this item was the only memory he had of Steven Ball, but before he moved on to 'Park', he noticed a secondary link entitled 'Bad Habits'. It was just too intriguing to skip. He rather regretted that decision when the 'Bad Habits' link revealed a sub-title of 'Biting Fingernails'. He abruptly swapped out 'Ball' for 'Park' without looking to see who was doing the fingernail biting, but he had a suspicion that it was a habit that might well have been cured for a while, on that particular day at least.  
   He paused for a moment to ask himself why he was doing this. Then he remembered it was all part of his cunning plan to deal with Lewd Rude Dude who, he noted, had been absolutely silent while he'd been revisiting this rather sordid saga. But even if it was the only way to shut him up, he knew he wasn't going to think about Steven Ball, or his greasy penis ever again, if he could possibly help it.  
   Investigation of 'Park' revealed another episode which he'd discreetly tucked away. The contents of his memory regarding the events in Brentley Park were far from alluring. As it is with many memories, the bits leading up to the main event had been trimmed to avoid unnecessary storage demands. So it was, that into his mental picture frame came an image not so very different to that which he'd remembered a second or two before, during the Steven Ball Greasy Penis Show. This penis however, was considerably larger and belonged to a full grown man, but, probably influenced by his earlier encounter, it did look equally greasy.  
   The soundtrack was gruesomely similar: _"Would you like to touch it?"_  
   The Jeremy was pleased to observe that he'd learned something in the intervening five or six years since the Ball business.  
    _"Not today thanks,"_ he'd said in a matter of fact manner. And, just to emphasise his indifference, he'd remained seated on the bench for a couple of minutes before absent mindedly walking away with an air of been-there-done-that-got-the-t-shirt.  
    _"Brilliant!"_ thought the Jeremy proudly.  
   He couldn't say he felt the same about the image which followed. He was speaking to the policeman who his mother had called after he'd mentioned what had happened. She'd advised him to say that the man _'exposed himself'_ , but for some reason it came out as _'he exposed of himself'_. It had caused the policeman to smile. He'd done his best to hide it, but it wasn't enough to prevent its detection by the Jeremy. That smile had done nothing for his self esteem.  
   The Jeremy tried to understand why his mother hadn't advised him to say _'he got his penis out and asked me if I wanted to touch it'_ , which seemed a very straightforward, accurate and perfectly respectable thing to say. He didn't spend much time on it though, adding it to the rather large pile of things he didn't understand about his mother.

> _♫... know that you'll understand, ma Michelle ♫_............ tsuk... tsuk... tsuk...

   End of side one. Decision time. Norwegian Wood again or side two? He chose side two, even though it meant manually fiddling around with the arm of the record player to place the needle on the thin gap after the first track. He thought that track was really disappointing, a track which just seemed so banal compared with the rest of the album.

>... Tsching!—Tshanyb!—Tshisk!— _♫ there anybody going to listen to my story...♫_

   The task done, he lay on his back, on his bed, and resumed his investigations.  
    _"So what other penis memories do I have?"_ he wondered, returning to the index. 'Curry' and 'Howitzer' sounded interesting.  
    _"Oh yes. Mrs Curry!"_ he remembered, as the sub-indexed item came up.  
   He hadn't thought about it before, but was that _really_ her name, or had his parents just made it up? She was Indian! Surely it couldn't be true. She'd been their next door neighbour for a while when he was younger, and he was sure he'd said _'hello, Mrs Curry'_ on numerous occasions. It must have been her real name or surely she would have taken offence? Maybe it was some sort of contraction of Chowdhury, but that seemed highly unlikely. Or was she _West_ Indian? As interesting as it was, he reminded himself that the purpose of his visit to the memory had nothing to do with that.  
   It referred to an occasion when he was about eight. He'd taken a bath and was drying himself in the kitchen. Not as peculiar as it might seem, the bathroom in their house was on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. It was also the accepted custom, that visiting friends and neighbours would enter the house via the back door, knocking as they did so, and saying hello as they came inside.  
   He'd been standing bare-arsed, shivering a little while he completed the task of drying himself with a large towel, when his mother had said, _"Quick! You'd better put your pants on. Mrs Curry is coming down the path and you don't want her to see your John Thomas."_  
   He'd nearly tripped himself up in his the rush to accomplish the task, a perfect example of more haste, less speed.  
   It seemed a little strange but that was it. That little snippet comprised the memory in its entirety, with no other connected links. It begged the question why was it there at all? It was clear from his reaction that it had been a matter of great importance to him to avoid the possibility of Mrs Curry's gaze falling anywhere near his penis, but it was not so obvious why that was so.  
   Was it because he was still at an age when he unquestioningly accepted what his mother said – _'you don't want her to see your John Thomas'_ – or some other reason of his own? The Jeremy couldn't think of any inherent reason why an eight year old boy would be quite so desperate to hide his penis from view. Time to move on.  
   A real-time update of his memory index slotted a solitary cross link into the 'Mrs Curry' entry with the label 'Mosquito Net'. An odd title, but then the content of the memory to which it referred was odd too. Quite recent as well.  
   It consisted of his father mentioning that when he was in Africa, he was often woken in the morning by his batman. Or was it his orderly? Whatever, it couldn't have been important because that detail was not part of the memory. It was during the war, and the batman chap was Indian – hence the real-time linking to 'Mrs Curry' – but the point of the memory was contained in the snippet of sentence which formed its bulk. It consisted of the words _'awoke to see his enormous John dangling in front of my eyes, on the other side of the mosquito net!'_ , followed by his father's laughter.  
   Despite the suspect sounding nature of his father's words, he knew, with as much certainty as he could know anything, that nothing sinister was prowling behind their factual accuracy. Apart from the memory's novelty value, its only other remarkable feature was his father's use of the word 'John' to refer to the man's penis, a euphemism the Jeremy purposefully avoided using.  
   In his world, men did not refer to their own penis, or anyone else's, using the term 'John', or worse, 'John Thomas'. Those were words the use of which marked you out as a boy, for one thing, and as seriously lacking in cool for another. 'Cool' was a much sought after commodity which was hard to come by but extremely easily lost, the more easily if you were foolish enough to use the wrong term of reference for your penis.  
   He could forgive his father for his gaffe because, well, he was his father, and he was old. He couldn't be expected to be up to date on these things. Very few fathers, certainly none that he knew personally, were cool, and there was no real expectation for them to be so. In fact, the very idea of fathers being cool seemed to be pushing the boundaries of normality further than they should be pushed. True, someone might say that someone else's father was cool, but it was really a way of saying that they weren't actually un-cool.  
   He rummaged through his cache of penis-substitute words looking for examples which were acceptably cool. 'Hampton', 'Derek' (or was it 'derrick'?), 'equipment', 'knob', 'tool', 'todger', 'cock', 'corey', 'dick', 'manhood', 'middle leg', 'prick' and 'wanger' all passed muster in his judgement, depending on the context of their use. For example, _his_ middle leg was okay, _my_ middle leg was not.  
   His cache also contained a section marked 'DO NOT USE'. Besides 'John' and 'John Thomas', it contained 'soldier', 'bird', 'sausage', 'pecker', 'willy', and 'thing'. Their classification thus was largely because of their use by mothers, and other admiring female onlookers, who appeared to find them acceptable – particularly if prefixed by the word 'little' – when commenting on the genitalia of male babies.  
    _"Oh – look at his little soldier!"_  
   The Jeremy paused to wonder why it was that women would unashamedly admire an erection if it belonged to a baby, but most of them, he was sure, would display completely different reactions if it was an older male in the baby's place.  
    _"Stupid question!"_ he told himself, realising it was the older erector's _intentions_ which were the cause for alarm rather than the erection itself.  
    _"Very sharp."_  
   The newcomer had spoken again, and the Jeremy was pleased to note there wasn't even a hint of sarcasm in her tone.  
   He currently favoured the term 'Hampton', mainly because it had a kind of roughshod subtlety about it. It was a contraction of 'Hampton Wick', which in turn was rhyming slang for 'prick' or 'dick', which themselves were euphemisms for 'penis'. And that wasn't all. It was also practically obligatory to pronounce it with a silent leading 'H', as in _"got 'is 'ampton caught in 'is zip!"_  
   Whoa! That reminded him of the time when he was what, nine or ten, and he got his own 'ampton caught. _'Ouch!'_ got nowhere near describing the excruciating pain. In fact, it had been so painful that it had left him almost unable to make any sound at all. He must have managed it though, because he remembered, with a mixture of gratitude and chagrin, that his mother had rescued him from the jaws of the beast, its teeth tightly clenched on his helmet – the word his mother chose to use for what he always thought of as the tip.

> ♫... I know I'll often stop and think about them...♫

   He'd almost forgotten about 'Howitzer'.  
    _"Like a Howitzer poking out of the Black Forest!"_  
   That was it. It had been in his first year at grammar school, in the showers after PE or rugby. He couldn't remember who said it, but whoever it was, he'd been among a group of his peers who were living up to their collective title by examining, from a respectable distance, what they obviously thought was his genital superiority.  
   His mother liked to say he was an early developer. Somewhat bizarrely, she would say it in a manner which appeared to imply he had some choice about it. One could have replaced 'developer' with the word 'adopter', without her tone or inflection seeming incongruous. But the worst of it was that she mentioned it all too frequently, and the strangeness of her delivery didn't lessen his mortification, by even one iota, every time she did.  
   It was one thing to have a bunch of boys at school enthusiastically comment on the desirability of having such attributes, but hearing his mother tell his aunt, or the next door neighbour or – _what was she thinking_ – the girl he liked, and had finally gathered up enough courage to invite round for tea, that he was an early developer was just... his vocabulary failed him.  
   Was it a test to see if he had latent murderous tendencies? Had he done something so despicable that she relished the thought of seeing him cringe in embarrassment, believing it to be nothing less than he deserved? But if it was so, she gave no indication of it whatsoever, appearing to be completely unaware of the damage she was inflicting on his credibility.  
   Mothers in general he thought, and his in particular, had a deplorable habit of making their sons wish for that famous hole in the earth to open.

> ♫... my life I love you more...♫

   Earlier, while he'd been thinking about Rosemary's breasts, he'd bookmarked a related memory and now seemed a good time to take a look at it.  
   While he'd spent many happy moments imagining what her breasts looked like, he'd never attempted to break the touch only rule. But he had seen live breasts, ones that didn't belong to his mother or sister, uncovered, in full view, and exhibiting various degrees of bounciness. The vaguely sad part of it all, he thought, was that he'd been four, or five, at the time, and although he'd been mesmerised by the spectacle, he hadn't fully appreciated the wonder of the scene before him.  
   How he'd ended up performing in some sort of variety show, in a theatre which was a coach ride away from his home, in some big town, he had only a vague idea. However, his mother found it a source of pride and happily trotted out the tale, thankfully minus the naked breasts bit – of which she appeared unaware – to all and sundry. It didn't feature quite so high on his list of things he might brag about. But disregarding its value in terms of bragging rights, he'd performed a tap dance with another boy the same age as him.  
    _"Who the hell was he?"_  
   The Jeremy couldn't recall. But whoever he was, they'd been at the centre of a big finale – each replete with one eye blackened with make-up – in which they sang 'Two Lovely Black Eyes' and did their little dance. Tappity-tap-tap.  
   Heady stuff, he thought with a wry smile. Particularly wry because his memory of the naked breasts in the dressing room was far more vivid than his moment of fame on the stage. The breasts, multiple pairs he recalled, belonged to the girls who did the dancing, in high heeled shoes, the ones that dress up in brightly coloured outfits with lots of frilly bits and sequins. What was it they were called? Chorus girls? Whatever, they were walking about half naked in the dressing room without any apparent awareness of the goggle-eyed boy in the corner. Why they were behaving that way was probably nothing to do with being promiscuous or 'that sort of girl' he thought. It seemed much more likely it was something similar to baby's erections and perceived levels of threat.  
   Why he was there, in the ladies' dressing room, was a mystery, but he thought it was probably where the make-up had been applied, although he had no memory of that at all. What he _could_ remember, was being utterly transfixed by the unexpected sights before him, but also feeling that perhaps he shouldn't be looking, or at least not as intently as he was.  
   Nobody appeared to notice though, and consequently nobody advised him one way or the other. So he'd continued with his interesting preoccupation, completely forgetting that, of course, God was watching and worse, making notes. That painful realisation hadn't come until later. Nevertheless, he could clearly remember his disappointment when he was called to do whatever it was that he was called to do, probably that boring dance... again.

> ♫... know that you will wait for me...♫

   'Pauline Hamilton'. Her name just popped into his head. In the Jeremy's final year at primary school, she'd been the girl of his dreams. Not the wet variety, that particular sauce of guilt was still in the future. He'd just liked to look at her at school, because she had, in his eyes, a beauty that no other girl possessed. It was mostly to do with her face, but the way her hair fell and the way she moved were part of it too.  
   He'd wanted to tell her how he felt, but he'd held back. It was partly because he couldn't even begin to put his feelings into words, more because he feared that, even if he could, he would probably stumble over them as they became a jumble in his mouth, but mostly because he thought she might laugh at him.  
   He was besotted but could find no way to express it. Until, that is, he wrote _'I Love Pauline Hamilton'_ , in large, careful letters, on the wall above the mantelpiece in the front room at home. Surprisingly, he didn't get into as much trouble over it as the crime might seem to warrant. It was exceedingly fortunate that he chose a stick of artist's charcoal, as the medium in which to declare his love, because it offered at least some chance of a successful clean-up.  
   From the giddy heights of this, his first experience of love for a girl, his fall to the rocky ground of ignominy was swift, and the collision painful. How ever much of an angel he believed her to be, it hadn't stopped her from loudly expressing her disgust when – perhaps tempted to flirt in response to his obvious enchantment with her – she'd come up behind him during PE, pulled the elastic waistband at the back of his white shorts, and espied the skid mark in his underpants.  
   The swiftness of the Jeremy's fall then, was nothing to the speed with which he re-buried the memory now, having foolishly allowed it to surface, and, even more foolishly, peeked at it because her name still made his heart flutter.

> ♫... carve your number on my wall and maybe you will...♫

   'Evelyn'. He couldn't see why thinking about Pauline would cause Evelyn's name to float to the forefront of his brain. He asked himself did he really want to remember?  
   Perhaps a year or so prior to his infatuation with Pauline, his sister had become friends with Evelyn, a girl of a similar age who lived across the street. She was a pretty girl, but at that time it was of little interest to the Jeremy. He was much more taken by the glutinous goo of slugs and snails, skid marks – of the black rubber variety which you could make on the surface of a concrete road by locking the back wheel of your bike when travelling at top speed – and, of course, fire.  
   The day that Jenny called him to go with her and her new friend had been a strange one, simply because she _never_ did that. Nevertheless, the three of them had gone to the shed at the bottom of Evelyn's garden, and once they were safely ensconced within, Jenny had explained to him that Evelyn would show him her wee-wee-bot if he would show her his John Thomas. The Jeremy hadn't responded immediately, preferring to give the proposition some thought. There was a lot to think about.

  * Did Evelyn _really_ want to show him her wee-wee-bot or was she just going to do it because she wanted to see his John Thomas?

  * Did he want to see her wee-wee-bot if she didn't _really_ want to show him?

  * Would it be a sin to look at her wee-wee-bot, even if she _really did_ want to show him?

  * Would it be a sin if he showed her his John Thomas?

  * More importantly, would it be a sin if he showed her his John Thomas and Jenny saw it and saw him showing it to Evelyn too?

  * Was it a sin to even think about these things?

He'd just got to the point of concluding there was probably at least one sin involved, and was about to consider whether the prospect of seeing Evelyn's wee-wee-bot was enough of a temptation to risk it, when she made the decision for him. She hitched her skirt up to her waist, dropped her knickers to her ankles, then squatted down opposite him.  
   The Jeremy hadn't been altogether happy with this development, mainly because he didn't like other people making decisions for him, but nevertheless, he couldn't help looking at Evelyn's wee-wee-bot, which she'd put squarely on display. It wasn't the first wee-wee-bot he'd seen. He'd seen Jenny's, but that had been a long time ago, when they had baths together. That was completely different. She hadn't been _showing_ him her wee-wee-bot, it was just that she was naked and part of being naked was that people could see your privates.  
   It had quite surprised him when he realised he wanted to touch it. There wasn't really very much to see but in a strange way that had made it more interesting. Despite the peculiarly compelling nature of the subject matter, he'd also felt extremely uncomfortable because Jenny was watching him, and that just hadn't seemed right. He'd begun to get agitated and decided it was time to leave, but he was immediately accused of not keeping his part of the bargain.  
   The Jeremy had never been, and never would be, much good at face-to-face arguments, whether of the shouting match or reasoned kind, and usually ended up demonstrating his frustration about it with a display of emotion, which could take any of a number of forms including tears, laughter or anger.  
   What bargain!!? He hadn't agreed to anything! Just because he'd looked at Evelyn's wee-wee-bot didn't mean... well it didn't mean anything! She was blackmailing him and he didn't like that and wouldn't give in to it, no matter what. Sadly, he'd been unable to articulate any of this, and worse, as he was escaping the captivity of the shed into the relative freedom of Evelyn's back garden, she'd delivered the killer punch.  
    _"You're just a coward!"_ she'd taunted.  
   It's one of the oldest tricks in the book, used by schemers of both sexes to provoke the male of the species. An old trick for sure, but still likely to backfire if not used with considerable cunning. Women who use this tactic tend to fare better than men, not because they are intrinsically more cunning but because they have a perfect escape route. What was it which saved Evelyn from being bodily lifted up with the Jeremy's hands tightly clasped about her neck until she wet her freshly pulled up panties? It was that such an act would have confirmed her accusation. Everybody knows that only cowards attack women.  
    _"No I'm not!"_ was the best he'd been able to do, quickly vacating the scene to avoid a silly _'oh yes you are! – oh no I'm not!'_ pantomime exchange.  
   Safely out of range, he'd gone over the events in his mind. On the plus side he'd been given an unobscured view of a wee-wee-bot at fairly close range, but he was pretty sure it was a sin for one thing, and for another, the owner of the wee-wee-bot was not happy about it after the event. All in all, it probably wasn't on the plus side at all.  
   Definitely on the down side was that his sin was going to stay on his soul forever because he'd known he wouldn't ever confess it. He wasn't silly enough to think that the priest didn't know who it was on the other side of the mesh. If _he_ could see enough through the mesh to recognise the priest, even when he was pretending not to look, then he was sure the priest could see him from the other side. And anyway, he'd know it was the Jeremy's voice!  
   Back in the present, he concluded that his first sexual encounter with a girl, had not gone swimmingly well. He'd come away from the whole Evelyn affair with the foundations solidly laid for the suspicion that girls were not to be trusted.

> ♫... rather see you dead little girl than to be with another man...♫

   Thinking about those days, and going to confession, brought to mind Father Moore's words.  
    _"Is there ever a time when any of us can truly say that we have not sinned? I know that I cannot and I am sure that if you search your soul you will find that the same holds true for you."_  
   It had perplexed him no end. Succinctly Sid had yet to take up full residence at the time, and therefore hadn't been on hand to provide any perspicacious insight into Father Moore's ignoble utterance. He provided it now.  
    _"The man was a wanker."_  
   Despite the intervening years, during which he'd become more and more convinced that the things he'd been told as a child were just too unlikely to be true (so much so that he no longer hid his non-attendance at church), his laughter at the realisation that Succinctly Sid's remark was probably entirely accurate was still tinged with guilt. And, of course, guilt immediately called upon fear for support. His laughter turned to anger, which guilt and fear duly used as grounds for their legitimacy.  
   In an unconscious throwback to his infancy, he let out an exasperated _'Wahraarrrghhhh!'_ , but kept it half under his breath because he had no desire to explain such a cry to his parents, or more specifically, his mother.

> ♫... know that I'm a wicked guy and I was born with a jealous...♫

   The Jeremy was tired. Not only sleepy but tired of having to deal with all the conflicting thoughts in his head. In the space between consciousness and sleep, his thoughts began to drift back to Tessa. He wished he could go back and make it right.  
   Sleep was not long in coming.

*

   He was climbing the stairs of some sort of helter skelter, the top of which was in the form of a lighthouse, complete with revolving beam of light. When he reached the top, there was no question of turning back. He sat on his coconut mat and let himself go.  
   As he began the descent and picked up speed, he felt a rush of exhilaration. It didn't last long. He'd barely completed a full turn before looming into sight came his mother, apparently floating in mid air, holding an illuminated placard on which was written:-

   He could clearly see the hurt look on her face as he slid past, and felt a dagger of guilt plunge into his heart. He wanted to protest that he hadn't actually been _in_ bed, but the words were imprisoned in his throat. Almost before she'd disappeared from sight, there she was again, looking more hurt than before, with tears evident on her cheeks. She held a new placard carrying the words:-

   The dagger plunged deeper still, and this time there was no protest he could make. He slid on by, the dagger buried to its hilt. He continued his spiralling descent, feeling he had no means to control it, and then, yet once more, he saw his mother coming in to view. This time there was someone standing behind her, but he couldn't quite make out who it was. He had no trouble making out the writing on the placard:-

   It must be his father he thought. He had to strain to see and, sure enough, there was his father. But as he looked back at his mother, whose tears had transmogrified into dark, bloody red droplets, he got the feeling that it wasn't his father after all. A disturbing feature, but not enough of a distraction to avoid feeling another jagged twist of the guilt dagger.  
   Just when he was thinking that things couldn't get any worse – which even in his dream he knew was about the dumbest thing he could possibly think – a crowd of people came towards him, the action having gone into slow motion.  
   At first, all he could see was a heaving mass of nuns and priests. They were all there in a large group, behind his mother. All of them he'd ever met, or merely seen, each one holding a crucifix aloft, and each of them, despite the physical impossibility of so many people managing such a feat all at the same time, resting their other hand on his mother's shoulder. Meanwhile, she had transformed from her rather ghoulish appearance the last time around, into a younger version of herself, from whence a bright light radiated, illuminating the faces of all those around her, and the placard she held out in front:-

   As if that wasn't bad enough, he then noticed that the faces of all his friends, and everyone he'd ever known, were there in the crowd too, behaving in exactly the same way. Did they all know about him and Tessa? And what happened!? Did they all pray!? And did they all possess crucifixes too!!?  
   That spectacle had severely shocked him, but he had next to no time to think about it before it was gone, and the disdainful face of David appeared, scowling over yet another placard:-

   The guilt he felt now was a different kind of guilt, but it still ended up as part of the growing heap that he was nearly buried under. And right behind David was Wendy, laughing at him, wiggling her body in a mocking dance, and gleefully waving her placard above her head which read:-

    _"Oh well,"_ he thought, _"what's a spot of humiliating icing on top of such a rich guilt gateaux? What next!"_  
   Right on cue, Evelyn's face appeared with screwed up nose and tongue poking out. In childish writing, complete with grammatical error, her placard declared:-

   He was absolutely thoughtless, in the way that people are sometimes said to be speechless.  
   The bottom of the slide was approaching fast, and just as he was preparing for what looked likely to be a rough landing, he caught a glimpse of another placard, but the person holding it was obscured from view. He was pretty certain it said:-

   He had to do a double take.  
    _"What!!? I didn't do anything!"_ he exclaimed.

*

   He woke with a start. It had been such a forceful reaction that for a moment he thought he might have said it out loud.

> ♫... that's the end-a! Little girl, na, na, na...♫

   He lay on his back listening to the _'... tsuk .... tsuk .... tsuk... tsuk ....'_ of the needle, stuck in the end groove of the LP as it went round and round on the turntable. He had every intention of getting up, lifting the arm off the vinyl and replacing it on its rest, but sleep crept in and stole his good intentions before the action came about.

~:~:~

### Snapshot No. 13a

    _"... tsuk .... tsuk .... tsuk..."_  
   The Jeremy awoke to hear the same sound which had lulled him to sleep. Daylight was consolidating its earlier assault on the blinds of his window, indicating that at least one night had passed. After a moment's pandiculation, he rolled off his bed, lifted the arm off the record and placed it on its rest. He looked at the LP but could see no ill effects. He wondered how long it would take for the needle to wear right through, if you just left it going round and round.  
    _"Stylus,"_ said Dan Tick, calling out the error from his vantage point in the department of Corrections and General Nitpicking (CGN) in the Jeremy's brain.  
   He had a love-hate relationship with Dan. At times he was proud of his fastidious attention to detail, but at others he just found him annoying, particularly when Dan's insistence on correcting the erroneous grammatical construct of a thought-in-progress caused him to forget what the point of the thought had been in the first place.  
   On this occasion, the correction _was_ annoying, but only because it was becoming all too familiar. He deeply wished he could stop calling it a 'needle', but it was firmly embedded in his brain.  
    _"Fortunately, it doesn't hurt,"_ he thought and half-, no quarter-, no barely eighth-chuckled at his lame joke.  
   The problem came about because he'd become accustomed to calling the sharp, pointy bit that makes contact with a gramophone record the 'needle' when he was perhaps six or seven, a time when that term of reference had been entirely correct. It had been correct because the record player they had then was only capable of playing the old 'seventy-eights', those all too easily breakable marvels made of shellac. The needles were made of metal and came in little paper packets of six or twelve. There were different qualities too. At least that's what the manufacturers claimed, charging more for the 'better' ones.  
   For a while, back then, his favourite seventy-eight had been 'Blaze Away', although he always remembered it by its first line, which he misheard when he was learning to sing along. It caused a good deal of laughter when his parents heard him sing, with gusto, _"We'll make a bonfire of our trousers, and we'll watch them blaze away!"_ 2  
   At the time, the Jeremy's interpretation made perfect sense to him. 'Trousers' was the only word he could think of which not only sounded more or less right, but also described something which he could picture being thrown onto a bonfire. What else could it be? Quite why anyone would want to burn their trousers he didn't think was terribly important. They sounded like they were having fun so what else mattered?  
   It was just another example of how difficult it is to change your mind. Once an idea has taken root, even though you subsequently become aware that it's wrong, it's next to impossible to uproot it. Whoever designed _that_ had a lot to answer for, thought the Jeremy. It seemed the 'needle' and the 'trousers' won, the status quo could not be overcome.  
   He replaced the album in its inner, paper sleeve then put _that_ in the outer, cardboard sleeve, first rotating it by ninety degrees to ensure the LP couldn't accidentally slip out. He wondered what time it was but there wasn't any point looking at his clock; he hadn't bothered to wind it since his last day at grammar school, which, although only seven weeks before, seemed half a lifetime ago. There were quite a few things he hadn't bothered to do since that wonderful day. One was shaving and another was having his hair cut.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms was not enamoured of the Jeremy's emerging world view, and found herself continually asking what the neighbours would think but, to her great disappointment, without it having any affect whatsoever. However, she wasn't the sort of woman who gave up in the face of adversity, no matter how certain defeat appeared to be. In fact, it just strengthened her resolve to soldier on regardless, ignoring the fact that she was often a figure of fun in the Jeremy's eyes.  
   It wasn't a 'world view' in the Jeremy's estimation. World views were things that other people had. Important people. People who were leaders. People who had power. People whose views were respected. He wasn't any of those things. No, his was a local view at best, and besides, there were so many things he hadn't reached a conclusion about. He was simply trying to put things in perspective, to sort out what was important from what was inconsequential, but it wasn't as simple as he thought it ought to be.  
   What was important, right at that moment, was a trip to the kitchen to make a mug of coffee. It would be the first of many. He regularly consumed large quantities of said beverage, an activity which was considered by some, including Mrs Bulging Bosoms, to fall into the category of 'over indulgence'. Of course, it wasn't real coffee. It was 'instant'. Maxwell House granulated to be precise, which was said to be more like the real thing than the powdered sort. The Jeremy didn't know about that. Coffee to him was the instant sort. He'd only tried real coffee a few times and he hadn't much liked it. But he did prefer granules to powder.

*

   The house was quiet. It was a Monday morning which meant his father had been up at dawn, or some such unearthly hour, consumed several cups of tea, and departed for work long before the Jeremy had even stirred. His mother was at work too, and had taken Neil and Daniel with her. She worked in the local hospital. During school holidays, his brothers were allowed to amuse themselves in the Day room, while she attended to her patients.  
   Occasionally, he felt a little guilty because he thought his brothers would probably be much happier staying at home with him, but his new freedom was too precious to risk suggesting it to his mother. A day here and there would be okay, but then he might be expected to 'babysit' every day, and, much as he loved his brothers, that was more of a sacrifice than he was prepared to make. He massaged his guilt with the thought that his mother probably wouldn't agree to it anyway. She would worry too much that something dreadful would happen.  
   That left Jenny. She was in France, on holiday with one of her friends. She'd been there several times before. The Jeremy remembered the previous year when her school had arranged one of those student exchange visits, except it wasn't really an exchange. A shame, he thought. He'd quite fancied Monique. She was no Brigitte Bardot but she'd spoken English with an accent that would have made a rabid dog seem sexy.  
   Be that as it may, Jenny spent a week in France with Monique and her family, then Monique spent a week with Jenny in England. In reality, Monique had paid little attention to – and shown zero sexual interest in – the Jeremy. But he'd convinced himself that had it been a 'proper' exchange, wherein Jenny and Monique had actually _swapped_ locations for a week, then it would have been a different story. As it was, Jenny was always around so he'd avoided too much contact, telling himself he didn't want to find himself caught in the middle of another Evelynesque episode.  
   Having migrated back to thoughts of a sexual nature, the remainder of the results of his associative 'penis' search, from the previous evening, drifted to the forefront of his mind while he waited for the kettle to boil. There were a couple of things left in the table.  
   For the first of these, the memory index label read 'Bath time?' The question mark indicated he wasn't sure whether he _really_ remembered it, or if he'd been told it had happened enough times that he just _thought_ he did. Either way, he had no reason to doubt that his mother had – when he was four and naked in the bath – told him in strictly clinical, mechanical terms, as opposed to gooey and graphic, the workings of the human reproductive process. He couldn't recall if the information was imparted to him as a result of his own enquiry, or for some other reason. He thought he recalled thinking it sounded rather... unexpected.  
   The remaining item referred to a time when Jenny – at some point after she'd ceased to be the mildly annoying Small Face, but before she'd become his truly annoying older sister – received as a gift, an illustrated booklet on the human body and its various systems, complete with cutaway drawings of vaginas and penises.  
    _"Vaginae & penes,"_ offered up Dan Tick as a more refined alternative.  
   The reason for the gift had fallen victim to the Jeremy's memory monster, but, whatever it was, he remembered being the recipient of a similar gift – in the form of an illustrated booklet on the internal combustion engine – probably at the very same time.  
   The Jeremy rolled his eyes, and symbolically poked himself in one of them for having failed to recall these facts before his first attempts at taking on Lewd Rude Dude, back in the seminal days of his adolescence. Lewd Rude Dude just smiled.

*

   The whistling of the kettle restored his attention to the here and now. The Jeremy had no plans for the day. Over the course of the summer, Mondays had come to be like that. Just another day in another week. He expected someone would come round later on, they usually did. Then they'd decide what to do. For now, sitting in his room listening to music seemed the most attractive option. He took his mug of coffee upstairs, deciding as he went that he would play the Traffic album he'd borrowed from Dawkinson.  
   Settling back on his bed, he took up his normal position, sitting across it with his back against the wall, supported by his pillow, coffee mug in hand. He let the music fill his mind while listening to the lyrics. He'd played the album a few times already, and it was growing on him. He already knew a line here and there and was able to sing along.

> ♫... and heaven is in your mind...♫

   If heaven was in his mind, the Jeremy didn't think he'd found it yet.

*

   The memory of the last few frames of his dream was still bouncing around inside his head, like a three dimensional screensaver. The bulk of it hadn't managed to make the leap from dream to consciousness, but the part at the end where he'd seen the sign which said 'You disrespected Tessa', had successfully jumped the gap and was looking for attention, the words rudely bruising around, demanding an explanation.  
   The department of Automatic Restoration of Self Esteem (ARSE) had been busy working on defences against the besmirching of the Jeremy's character. _'Chivalrous defence of her reputation'_ had done nothing to dislodge the bouncing words, and _'refusing to lead her astray'_ had fared no better. _'Refusing to take advantage of her innocence'_ was currently duking it out, but had already suffered a bloody nose.  
    _"Perhaps that apology which you want to give her could be evidence of some truth in the allegation,"_ suggested the female newcomer in his head.  
    _"Abracadabra!"_ thought the Jeremy, _"Straight to the heart of the matter."_  
   It was true. He did want to say sorry to Tessa. Not that he ever would. His idea of her idea of masculinity, left him no option but to think she'd think even less of him if he did such a thing. How complicated it all got. How nice it would be if things could be kept simple.  
    _"So keep them simple, whenever you can."_  
    _"Oh yes. It's easy for you to say. It's not so easy peasy in practice is it. Doomed. Doomed before we even begin. That's what we are."_  
   The Jeremy ignored Sniffling Erik's contribution, preferring to listen to the newcomer's words. It wasn't an earth shatteringly original piece of advice, but he thought she had a certain magic about her which seemed to make her words more meaningful. So much so, he was already wishing she was a real person, not just a disembodied entity in his head.  
   Miss Abra Cadabra. She was beginning to reveal characteristics which could fairly be described as those belonging to the Jeremy's ideal woman. Gentle but not timid. Bold but not brazen. Understanding but not condescending. Straightforward but not dull. The list was growing. Would she be able to shine a light into the shadowy caverns which held hostage his understanding of the Tessa fiasco?  
   The internal silence which followed implied that Abra had another characteristic of the Jeremy's ideal woman. She was elusive when he tried to find her.

> ♫... I'm looking for a girl who has no face, she has no name, or number...♫

   His ideal woman was a complicated creature. In addition to the characteristics already mentioned, she had many others. Intelligent but not arrogant. Kind but not (s)mothering. Funny but not rude. Passionate but slow to anger. Uninhibited but not promiscuous. Sexy but not lascivious. Beautiful but not narcissistic. He began to imagine what she looked like, and then thought better of it.  
    _"Idiot!"_ he scolded himself.  
    _"One man's vision of beauty is another man's painted tart, and a matter of indifference to the man who sees the true beauty of a woman simply in her willingness to say 'yes' at appropriate moments."_  
   The Jeremy felt quite pleased with himself, if not a little surprised, that it had been _him_ , rather than the Professor, who had come up with that. He thought his exposition probably represented what was an incisive insight into the nature of men. However, the Barrack Room Boys – the unruly mob who roamed around in his head casting rude aspersions on anything they perceived as bearing even a passing resemblance to an intellectual thought – had latched onto the idea of women who said 'yes', and were quick to promote the idea with a raucous chorus of, _"Show us yer tits! Show us yer tits!"_  
    _"Oh shut the fuck up!"_ countered the Jeremy, emulating Succinctly Sid and using terms he knew the Boys would understand[4](../Text/Section0017.xhtml#C13aNote4). Effective as it was, the relative silence that followed merely ushered in the usual doubts, not just about the validity but also the worth of his insight, and, moreover, if it could even be classed an insight at all. It was, he knew, only something he would say to himself. He couldn't see himself expressing it to anyone else.  
   He wondered if everyone had the same sort of thing going on in their heads. Not exactly a battle, more of a mêlée. But whatever, he knew that the 'Jeremy' he presented to the outside world, was just a small pick-and-mix portion of the 'Jeremy' within, just the tip of the iceberg. Except an iceberg was a pretty poor metaphor for what lay below the surface. It was more like a volcano, with a red hot molten interior. A deep sea volcano, whose cone poked just above the waves, apparently dormant but capable of erupting at any moment.  
    _"Fuck, shit and arseholes!"_ rumbled the volcano, spitting out a volley of scoriaceous sluggettes. They were words he used on a regular basis in conversation with his friends, a context in which they'd pretty much lost the flag-waving rebelliousness they'd represented at first[5](../Text/Section0017.xhtml#C13aNote5). In the current context, the use of these expletives was an expression of his continuing exasperation at having to constantly deal with all the conflicting ideas in his head. Take swear words. How nonsensical was that? Why would people invent words and then say they were 'bad'?  
    _"Fuck."_  
   He said it in an unemotional way, as if he was reading from a dictionary.  
    _"Verb, meaning to have sexual intercourse."_  
   But why was 'fuck' worse than 'shag'? For a moment, he wondered if that was true. Was 'fuck' worse than 'shag'? Of course it was. Not that it made any sense that it _should_ be, but he was sure that the consensus of opinion would be that it was. He wondered who invented it? He imagined the conversation.  
    _"Hey, Jeremiah. I made up a new word. It's 'fuck' and it means 'to have sexual intercourse', but I've decided it's a bad word so no one should say it."_  
    _"I worry about you Joseph. I reckon you're a few arrows short of a full quiver!"_  
    _"No really Jeremiah. You've got to say it to people but tell 'em it's a bad word and that no one should say it."_  
    _"But you just told me that no one should say it and 'no one' includes me. So doesn't that mean that I shouldn't say it!?"_  
    _"I know I said you shouldn't, but I didn't mean you really shouldn't! How will people know it's a bad word if they don't even know it exists? I thought that was obvious!"_  
    _"Joseph. You're a fucking idiot!"_  
    _"Well there's no need for that kind of language. You should be ashamed of yourself!"_  
   The Jeremy conceded that it obviously didn't happen like that, but it must have happened somehow. What if, some way or other, a decision was universally made that 'fuck' wasn't a bad word any more? Would people still use it? Probably not, he thought. What would be the point if it wasn't 'bad'?  
   Of course! That was it! People _need_ 'bad' words. Some people need them so they can say them to prove to everyone that they're 'bad', not-to-be-messed-with people, the sort of people who use 'bad' words. Other people need them so they can deliberately _not_ say them to prove to everyone that they're 'good' people, not like the people who _do_ say them who are 'bad' people, the sort of people who use 'bad' words. Yet others need them so they _can_ say them, just to prove to anyone who wants to listen that they're not really 'bad' words at all, and the people who think they are, are stupid.  
   The Jeremy stopped to consider which of those categories best described him. Probably the last one, because he did think the whole thing seemed pretty senseless. But then, once in a while, he'd been known to swear to prove that he wasn't as 'saintly' as his mother obviously thought he was. Not that it made any difference. There didn't seem to be anything he could do to change her rose-coloured-glasses view of him.  
   Swearing had seemed a good candidate. Not _at_ her, but casually dropped into conversation as adjectives. She hadn't even appeared to notice. It was the classic 'three Hail Marys' response all over again. There were some things he had no intention of trying though. Murder was one and grievous bodily harm was another, although he had to admit there were times when the urge to commit them implied there was a possibility, however slight, that he could change his mind.  
    _"Phuck!"_  
   Was that okay? Did it make any difference if you pronounced it with a 'ph' instead of an 'f'? Could you claim you weren't swearing because the word you were saying was spelt with 'ph' not 'f'? The Jeremy thought about it and decided that only a complete arsehole would play those sorts of silly games. If you're going to fucking swear then fucking say the fucking word and be fucking done with it.  
    _"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking arsehole! Fucking wanker! Fucking cunt!"_  
   Oooops! He'd said the one word which _must never be spoken_. The one word in the entire world, and possibly the entire universe, which was worse than 'fuck'. You could use the word 'fanny' in a joke, and people would laugh quite happily. Well, some people would anyway. At least they might if they were English. Americans might be confused by it because 'fanny' didn't mean the same thing to them, if Rich Walters was to be believed. And he had been to New York so he was probably right. But forgetting about the Americans, say the same joke and use the word 'cunt' instead of 'fanny' and many of the people who would laugh at 'fanny' would be highly offended.  
   'Fannying about', that was merely classed as 'mild'. Who decides these things? What if 'fanny' was the really bad word and 'cunt' was the more acceptable one? What made 'cunt' so bad? It couldn't be the sound. 'Punt' didn't generate shivers of distaste when people heard it. Punting along the river conjured up scenes of sunny, summer, salad days, dressed with a little romance. But put a cunt in the punt, to manipulate the pole, and any hint of romance went overboard, so to speak.  
   The Jeremy giggled about his 'cunt in the punt', a giggling which relieved the guilt that was nagging at him for having said the unspeakable word in such a frivolous manner. Not much, but enough to fend off the guilt for a while. He wondered if there would ever be a time when someone would be able to use the phrase without upsetting someone else. It seemed unlikely. Why was it such an offensive word? Thinking about it caused him to remember Old Arthur. Now there was a man who would be a 'nobody' if there weren't any swear words.  
   For a few weeks during the previous summer holidays, he'd had the dubious pleasure of working at the canning factory in Hermit's Lane. There, he'd had the even more dubious pleasure of working with Old Arthur. Every workplace had an Old Arthur, even if he went by another name. This particular Old Arthur took great delight in 'showing young lads the ropes', which invariably meant demonstrating his ability in the swearing department and offering multiple opportunities to learn the art. Old Arthur hadn't had any qualms about 'cunt'.  
    _"You'll be out after some cunt tonight then, eh?"_ he'd say with a wink on Fridays.  
    _"I remember when I was on the river. We used to call in at the Pheasant Plucker, a Free House, if you know what I mean. You should'a seen the cunt in there. O' course, it ain't the same these days. In them days you knew where to find a nice bit o' cunt. You like a nice bit o' cunt don't you lad?"_ he'd say, daring his unfortunate 'apprentice' to say 'yes' or 'no'.  
    _"Get any cunt last night?"_ was his equivalent of everyone else's, _"Mornin' mate."_  
    _"Call a cunt a cunt or be a cunt. You only got two choices. What do you call a cunt lad?"_ he'd said, tickled pink there was only one answer a boy could make if he wanted to avoid being told, very loudly, not to be a cunt by Old Arthur.  
   It was the first time the Jeremy had said the word in the company of people he didn't know very well.  
    _"A cunt, Arthur,"_ he replied, not very successfully laughing off his embarrassment.  
    _"What's that you said? I couldn't cuntin' 'ear you!"_ goaded Old Arthur, demanding a repeat performance.  
    _"A cunt,"_ said the Jeremy for the second time, more clearly and boldly than the first.  
    _"Account? On account o' what?"_ asked Old Arthur, looking puzzled.  
    _"Not 'account', 'cunt'!"_ corrected the Jeremy, falling head first into Old Arthur's tried and tested trap.  
    _"Got a mean little fucker 'ere boys. You'd better watch your step. Just called me a cunt!"_ announced Old Arthur, loudly enough that the Jeremy was sure the whole factory could hear.  
   He'd been about to protest that it wasn't true, that he was only correcting Old Arthur, when he realised that he'd just passed some sort of test, an initiation rite of some kind, and even though, or perhaps _because_ he was still embarrassed, he laughed with everyone else.  
   The most embarrassing part of it was that there were women working there, who'd heard it all. But the strange thing was that they didn't seem to be upset by it. In fact, even though he couldn't bring himself to look any of them in the eye, he could see they were laughing too.  
   Where exactly did women stand on the issue? Why was it that their genitalia was the subject of the worst word in the world? Why not men's? There were a million 'bad' words for 'penis', but when it came to downright offensiveness, none of them could hold a candle to 'cunt'.  
   The only woman he'd ever heard use the word, was his rather posh Auntie. He'd been severely shocked when she'd said to his uncle, who was being pedantic about the best route to take from Florence to Pisa, _"Oh don't be such a cunt Anthony! Just drive!"_  
   He hadn't known where to look. But his cousins didn't bat an eyelid, which implied it was not an uncommon occurrence. The Jeremy put it down to the fact that she'd been an actress, a real one, and they lived by a different set of rules to everyone else.  
   That had been a couple of years back. They'd invited him to go on holiday with them, touring through France, Switzerland and Italy in their Mark III Ford Zodiac. That holiday had delivered several 'firsts' in addition to his aunt's shocking use of 'cunt'. Indeed, she was not averse to the odd 'fuck' here and there too. In the breakfast room of the delightful little family-run Bed and Breakfast, somewhere in France, where they'd stopped overnight on their way south, she angrily declared, _"I want to drink my fucking coffee!"_ responding to the impatience of his uncle who, on this occasion, did want to 'Just drive!'  
   She took a bit of getting used to, but despite his shock at her extrovert nature, he had a kind of admiration for her. She was nothing like her sister, his mother. In fact, she was nothing like any woman he'd ever met.  
   The girls in his current group of friends would ignore the use of 'cunt', as long as it wasn't directed at them, or used in any way that could be interpreted as inclusive of them. But most of all, as long as it wasn't used to actually refer to female genitalia. _'You cunt!'_ , directed at one of your mates when he did something stupid would be tolerated, but _'her cunt'_ , included in a discussion of a girl's 'charms', would invoke a wrath so powerful it didn't bear thinking about. But you didn't need to be an astute observer to see that even the _'you cunt!'_ variant was disliked. Their disapproval was written all over their faces. It was just the price they had to pay to be part of the group, and the ban on _'her cunt'_ was the boys' part of the bargain.  
   Was it just a woman thing? Did they need to have something which they could get offended about? Something universal? Something they all agreed was totally unacceptable? Or was it the other way round? Perhaps it was the men who needed something totally unacceptable, just so they could demonstrate their masculinity by ignoring the taboo?  
    _"Hmmmm,"_ thought the Jeremy, _"maybe it's got nothing to do with gender at all. Auntie Daryl's outburst puts a spanner in the works of that hypothesis. Maybe it's just that there has to be something that's really bad as a contrast to something that's really good."_  
   It sounded quite a rational explanation, until he tried to think of what the 'something really good' might be that was the contrast to the word 'cunt'. It was simply that you either said 'cunt' or you didn't. There weren't any words he could think of which were the _opposite_ of 'cunt', words which marked you as a 'good' person just for saying them, in the same way that saying 'cunt' marked you as a 'bad' person.  
   He paused to wonder if he was the only person in the world who thought about these things, about the peculiar power of words. He couldn't be. There must have been hundreds of people, thousands, who'd all had the same thoughts about 'cunt'.  
    _"Maybe there's someone, somewhere, who's thinking about 'cunt' right now. Duh! Of course there is! Old Arthur will be for sure. But I don't mean it like that. That's the trouble with the world. You can't have a conversation about the word 'cunt' without people getting all emotional and upset. The word is so demonised that there isn't a living soul who could let it pass their lips and not have other people immediately class them as a 'bad' person, no matter what the context in which they say it._  
    _"Not even the Pope would be able to say it. Not that he would. But he must know the word. In his head. He must have said it in his head otherwise he wouldn't know it's a 'bad' word. He has to, otherwise he wouldn't be able to agree it's a 'bad' word and say that other people shouldn't say it. Maybe the Pope really is just like other blokes and he says to himself, 'you cunt!' after he fluffs his lines or forgets to do something important. No. Don't be stupid! The Pope's not like ordinary blokes. Ordinary blokes don't go round wearing fancy robes and a funny hat."_  
   As it happens, realising that the Pope was just like other blokes, had been one of the many keys the Jeremy had needed to unlock the gates of the prison which the church had steadily built around him from the moment he was Christened. He couldn't remember exactly how long ago it had happened, but he did remember realising that if you took away all the paraphernalia that surrounded the Pope, stripped him of his fancy robes and left him standing naked, then you could line him up with a dozen similarly naked, ordinary blokes, and it would be next to impossible to identify him, especially if they all had paper bags over their heads.  
   Thinking of him naked like that had prompted a further thought; he had to go to the toilet, just like everyone else, didn't he? That being the case, it seemed reasonable to suppose that he sometimes got constipated, just like everyone else. And if he got constipated, then he had to face the same dilemma that everyone else had to face, when contemplating the ejection of a turd that's grossly oversized and highly compressed.  
   Everyone had to deal with that sort of turd at some time, the sort that made you indecisive about whether to push hard and fast to get the pain over with as quickly as possible, which carried with it the risk of splitting one's arse – and then having to endure the subsequent pain of the wound over an extended period of time – or to ease it out as slowly as possible, willingly suffering the extended duration of immediate pain in the hope that one's arse would not split because you were being as gentle as possible. If that wasn't a situation that begged a prayer then he didn't know what was.  
   That vision of the pontiff, contemplating a difficult defecation, as opposed to his public image of infallible pontification, had been enough to tip the scales of doubt in favour of rejection of the church. It may not have had the intellectual merit of an intricately detailed theological argument, or the kudos of that girl's vision of the Virgin Mary in Lourdes, but it did rather neatly mesh with Succinctly Sid's opinion that the whole religion thing was 'a load of shit'. It also contained an element of poetry; it had all begun with a fully loaded nappy and had ended with a constipated cleric.

*

   Despite his escape from the tender clutches of Mother Church, he was far from home free. He was an escaped prisoner and on the run. His situation was on a par with an escapee from Alcatraz – a feat supposedly impossible in itself – who finds himself adrift in the surrounding waters on a makeshift raft, barely buoyant enough to keep him afloat, with no rudder and neither sail nor oars for propulsion. It had only been grim determination that had kept him from being taken back by the tide and dashed upon the jagged rocks.  
   Much of that determination manifested itself in ugly thoughts about the hierarchy of the church, and what he'd like to do to them, individually, one by one, very slowly. His venomous thoughts prompted Malevolent Morris to comment, for the benefit of any members of the hierarchy who might be lurking with the Reverend Yethbutt, that, _"You reap just what you sew – mwah-ha-ha-ha!"_  
   His anger wasn't just sour grapes over what he felt had been done to his own mind. The greater part of his anger was due to seeing the same thing being done to his younger brothers, something he felt he should be able to prevent, that he should be able to protect them from. That anger would eventually erupt in a confrontation with his mother.  
   In the meantime, at random intervals the volcano continued to spit fiery globules, sometimes splashing an innocent who was left wondering what they'd done to deserve such a scorching attack. The Jeremy always regretted it after such incidents, but he could never explain to the victims, or anyone else, why it happened or what it was about. He just had to treat it as more lava down the hillside. Fortunately, it was a rare occurrence and was invariably directed at people on the very periphery of his social circle. Not that that excused the behaviour, it just meant the damage to his reputation was not nearly as great as it would have been if his eruptions had fallen on those nearer the centre.  
   In the solitude of his room, the Jeremy was still ruminating on the issue of 'cunt'. It wasn't, as it might appear, that he was obsessed with the word. It was that his neophytic emancipation had come about in large part by letting his thoughts run free. He'd decided that as long as he was careful not to let those thoughts influence his behaviour, until he'd exhausted all possible avenues, and only then if he could satisfactorily justify such a change, then it could not be classified as 'bad'.

> ♫... dear Mister Fantasy play us a tune, something to make us all happy...♫

   There had, of course, been opposition to letting his thoughts run free. Mrs Bulging Bosoms, the Colonel and Reverend Yethbutt had all had something to say about it.  
    _"There's no telling where it will lead! Goodness knows what you'll find yourself thinking, and we all know what happens when thoughts go astray. What will the neighbours think!?"_ complained Mrs Bulging Bosoms.  
    _"Pull yourself together lad! What you need is a good cold shower and a strong dose of self discipline. A good cold shower never hurt anyone, you mark my words. What!?"_ blustered the Colonel.  
    _"It'th alwayth withe to remember that Thatan ith conthtantly thearching for wayth to thteal your thoul, to twitht your thoughtth to hith thinful purpotheth. Theek forgiveneth in the Thaviour and thhun Luthifer who theekth to blind you with thience,"_ intoned the Reverend.  
   Their protestations had become as effective as dried up old corks. Popped from the bottles of bubbly enthusiasm which they'd previously sought to restrain, they were now just bouncing and bobbing along, caught up in his stream of consciousness. No longer able to mount a serious challenge, the output from the three protagonists was nothing more than background noise. A bit like living next to a railway line – after a while you don't notice the disturbance when the trains go by.  
   Mr Brindley, his English teacher at grammar school, had mentioned 'stream of consciousness' when he was talking about that author – what was her name? Virginia Woolf. That was it. With two 'o's. The Jeremy had never read anything she'd written, but he liked the idea of just letting things flow. He wasn't sure if he'd understood the concept correctly, but that applied to most things, so he hadn't let it bother him. The fact that a respected author had apparently employed the technique, lent it a certain legitimacy that might come in handy if he got into hot water over something he said. He could always claim it was just the result of an experiment in 'stream of consciousness' thinking, and then further claim that he could now see that it obviously led to evil. He doubted anyone would believe him, but it would have the same effect as bowling a googly.  
   Maybe Mr Brindley had meant well, but it was largely his fault that the Jeremy had not read any of the authors whose works were promoted in educational circles as having literary merit. More precisely, he hadn't read any of their works other than those he was forced to read.  
   Brindley's passion for literature got the better of him every time a 'new' author was introduced. Oh how he'd extol their virtues, waxing whimsically over the delicious depth of their characterisations, their incomparable contribution to the art of writing, their literary prowess. He'd heaped praise upon them. They were his gods. The problem for the Jeremy was that it triggered his long-standing objection to other people making decisions for him. How much better it would have been if Brindley had just said of, let's say, Dickens's Great Expectations: _"This is one of several stories this bloke wrote about everyday people around him. Give it a read and see what you think."_  
   Perhaps he was scared that if he did that, then all the boys would read it and say it was a load of crap? What blasphemy!  
   The Jeremy drifted happily on in his stream of consciousness, content to go wherever the current took him. Instead of fighting it, like he'd done previously, he used his energy to take in as much of the surrounding landscape – and the flotsam in the stream – as possible, making mental notes of the interesting sights and sounds.  
   The three corks, Mrs Bulging Bosoms, the Colonel and the Reverend Yethbutt, danced along beside him, as much at the mercy of the current as 'cunt', which was still in the stream too. For the triumvirate, the situation was intolerable. They were convinced that 'cunt' was behaving like a submarine, probably captained by the Evil One himself, surfacing every so often to fire a volley of insults in addition to torpedoing them with vile language from below.  
   Observing this spectacle, it struck him that the battle would rage forever, it would never be won or lost. It was like a sideshow being played over and over again, distracting people's attention from the main event. A sideshow with delusions of grandeur. The Jeremy wasn't sure what the main event was, but his buoyancy improved with the realisation that the battle over the rights and wrongs of saying 'cunt', was not a battle in which he needed to fight.  
   With his new perspective, the likelihood of him using the word in the future was fast diminishing towards vanishing point. How blind he'd been! Rather than jolting people into thinking about how silly it was, saying 'cunt' just activated an automatic switch in people's heads. It simply turned you into a 'bad' person, which, depending on who heard you say it and whether they were 'good' or 'bad' themselves, was interpreted as a 'good' or a 'bad' thing.

> ♫... feels like coloured rain, tastes like coloured rain, bring on coloured rain...♫

    _"Coloured rain? Yeah! Far out! Psychedelic man!"_ thought the Jeremy.  
   And that, of course, was just a way to avoid admitting he didn't have a clue what the song was about, but his words carried with them the implication that he did, implied he was a member of the cognoscenti, part of the wave of peace and love that was sweeping the earth. Of course, believing _that_ was considerably easier if you could manage to ignore what was happening in Vietnam, the east bank of the Suez Canal, Biafra, Czechoslovakia, Mexico City and Northern Ireland, to mention but a few of the sites of conflict in the world at the time.  
   But then, wishful thinking has been a source of encouragement to people for millennia. The problem has always been that reality has a nasty habit of trampling all over one's wishes, but for a short while, the Jeremy succeeded in keeping reality at bay, basking in the warm glow of a shared delusion.

*

   Tim's arrival was heralded by the sound of the front door opening, followed by the sound of conversation with someone whose voice the Jeremy didn't recognise. It was one the things that hadn't changed since his childhood. The front door was never locked unless everyone was out, or everyone had gone to bed. It was regarded as very cool by his friends, who could come and go as they pleased.  
   The door of his room opened, and in walked Tim, followed closely behind by a tall, heavy set guy with a mop of black hair and a dark complexion. Tim introduced him as Jamil. The Jeremy nodded his welcome, the form of greeting he favoured most because it meant any newcomer had to speak first. That way he avoided having to decide what verbal greeting to use, his choice having possibly undesirable repercussions if he selected the 'wrong' one. He also felt that his silent nod kept him in control, but more importantly, added to his cool.  
    _"What do you know?"_ enquired Jamil, wresting control from the Jeremy in those four short words.  
   It wasn't a _'whaddyaknow?'_ kind of greeting, the sort that doesn't really mean anything, to which one might casually reply _'not-a-lot'_ , in the knowledge that that didn't really mean anything either. It was a genuine question. The emphasis had been on the _'you'_.  
   The Jeremy studied his face for a moment, looking for clues. It was a strange question to ask straight off the bat like that. What was he after? Was he playing some weird game? The Jeremy felt a little unsettled by it, but also intrigued. The result of his internal querying was that he was taking longer to respond than he would have liked. He hoped it didn't show on his face.  
    _"Where are you from?"_ he asked, deciding to ignore the question mainly because a suitable answer hadn't come to mind, but also in an attempt to regain control.  
    _"I'm here to drink the choice wine,"_ came the reply, Jamil also deciding to ignore the question he'd been asked.  
   Although they'd not been friends for long, Tim had already introduced the Jeremy to several oddballs who he'd come across while walking through the town. There had been Brian who was, when it came right down to it, a tramp. Nice bloke, but a tramp nevertheless. The Jeremy had been glad that Brian was just passing through. Then there was Guy. He'd been unstable at best and probably a good candidate for the nearest mental hospital. He said _'yeah man, cool!'_ to everything.  
    _"Wanna coffee, Guy?"_  
    _"Yeah man, cool!"_  
    _"Wanna fuck off, Guy?"_  
    _"Yeah man, cool!"_  
   He hadn't lasted long. People got bored with taking the piss out of him and very quickly began to ignore him. After a while, he just didn't come around any more.  
    _'I'm here to drink the choice wine.'_  
   Had he got another nutter on his hands? In its context, it definitely ranked in the top ten weirdest things anyone had ever said to him. There was no obvious response he could think of, so he did the only thing he could do. He burst out laughing. It was a great relief to see Jamil laugh too.  
   Over the course of the following weeks, the Jeremy learnt that Jamil was a Bahá'í. He'd never heard of them before and his curiosity was piqued by Jamil's unconventional approach. It was a kind of religion, but it was very different from anything the Jeremy knew about. Jamil said he was originally from Iran, but that his family lived in the USA, and they all belonged to the Bahá'í faith. He said he was a 'pioneer', and he'd come to Europe to learn, and to talk with anyone who showed an interest in his faith.  
   Jamil and the Jeremy talked quite a lot, an indication that the Jeremy _was_ interested. One of the things the Jeremy liked, was that there was no clergy. Jamil said it was the responsibility of every Bahá'í to explore the teachings for themselves, to find the truth for themselves, to see the oneness of everything and the oneness of God. He said truthfulness was really important, and he was honest enough to say that he was having trouble with the teaching on marriage, or more specifically, that sexual relationships were permitted only between a man and woman who were married.  
   That had been a bit of a downer for the Jeremy too. But he liked that women in the Bahá'í faith were considered equal to men. He particularly admired the belief that if resources permitted for only one child to be educated, then a daughter must be chosen over a son, because she is the first educator of her future children. All in all it seemed pretty good.  
   Then he found out that although there were no churches as such – a plus point in his view – there was the Universal House of Justice, a kind of ruling body, which consisted of nine elected members. That was okay in itself except for the fact that all nine _had to be men_. So much for the equality of the sexes. Talk about 'falling at the last'!  
   Jamil couldn't find a satisfactory justification, and the Jeremy could see that it troubled him too. But he said that every Bahá'í had a duty to teach the Faith, and some things had to be accepted as part of that Faith, even if you didn't agree with them. The Jeremy didn't agree with that. It meant you had to have faith in men, not God. And it was always _men_ , wasn't it?  
   For a while, he'd thought that Bahá'í was different because of the equality of the sexes thing. He might even have accepted it if the ruling body was made up of an equal number of men and women. But ultimately, it was a disappointment because it seemed it was just another case of a bunch of men telling everyone else what was what.  
   The 'choice wine'? Jamil eventually explained that Bahá'í laws were not seen as a constricting code or ritual, but were described in the literature as the 'choice wine', a means to happiness. The Jeremy pondered it for a while and came to the conclusion it probably would make a lot more sense after a couple of bottles. But he liked Jamil, even if he couldn't agree with his faith. He was a genuinely good guy, one of the few the Jeremy knew, and someone he'd never forget. He was sorry to see him go when his pioneering path took him to pastures new.  
   The Jeremy spent a lot of time thinking about religions after Jamil left. He came to the tentative conclusion that all religions were just a set of man-made rules designed to suit the purposes of the men who made them, whatever they might be. It didn't necessarily mean that those purposes were bad, but either way, they all seemed to find it necessary to claim their rules were backed up, if not actually handed down, by God. Then they turned God into the policeman in the sky and said you had to abide by their rules because, _"My dad's a policeman!"_  
   Well perhaps it wasn't quite as simple as that, but nevertheless, he thought it was close enough. In some ways he thought it was just like crowd control. The Jeremy didn't like crowds, they all too effortlessly degenerated into howling mobs, calling for someone's blood, either metaphorically or for real. And that was why crowd control was necessary, especially if you cared about people's safety.  
   His imagination took centre stage.

<=0=>

> A big crowd up on a clifftop who were there simply because it was an amazing view out over the ocean. Everybody wanted to get near the edge to get the best view. You might think it was a good idea to erect a strong fence to stop people being pushed over the edge by the people at the back of the crowd, who were jostling to get a better view. Probably no one in the crowd would truly want anyone to fall to their death, but because it was a big crowd, the people at the back wouldn't know what effect their efforts to get a better view were having on the people at the front.  
>     You might think, as an extra safety measure, it would be a good idea to move the fence further back from the edge, but then the more unruly elements would scale the fence and run around in the gap between the fence and the edge of the cliff, stirring up the crowd. The rear of the crowd would be even further away from the amazing view so they'd struggle a little harder, and then people at the front would get crushed against the fence.  
>     So then you might think it would be a good idea to prevent anyone from going up on the clifftop at all, and that way no one would get hurt. But it would be difficult and expensive to enforce it so you might think up some ingenious ways to deter people. You might spread a rumour that there was a wild animal or a murderer on the loose up there. Fear always works well, so you might suggest there was something supernatural going on.  
>     It wouldn't be too taxing to come to the conclusion that you should go up there yourself, just to keep an eye on things, and in so doing, find your eyes under employed and just end up enjoying the view. Of course you'd have to tell the people you were up there searching out the varmint in a valiant attempt to vanquish it forever.

<=0=>

   Was that just being cynical or was that how things really happened? Maybe it was just that having observed a problem, people started out with good intentions, but then got caught up in the chain of events when things didn't work out as planned, and tried to make the original idea work by bolting on extra features, instead of having a proper rethink. Maybe instead of erecting a fence, it would have been better to build tiered seating so everyone could get a good view.  
   The Jeremy filed his thoughts away, convinced he was probably right, but not convinced enough to put his ideas to the test by telling anyone else about them. Sad as it may seem, Sister Mary Margaret and Miss Heart _still_ had their claws in him.

*

   Over the course of the summer, his decision to leave the grammar school, which had culminated in his unlikely acceptance at the local college of art, had had an unexpected effect on his social life.  
   His acceptance at the college was 'unlikely' because, in the Jeremy's opinion, he wasn't that good at art. He considered himself fortunate that the college ran a course in Typographic Design, a discipline he hadn't even heard of prior to the suggestion by Mr Weaver, his Art teacher, that it might be a suitable outlet for his creative abilities. But he was still surprised, after his hasty assembly and subsequent presentation of what he was embarrassed to call his portfolio, that the college assessors indicated their agreement with Mr Weaver and confirmed it shortly before his final day at school.  
   He knew it would come, but his mother's declaration that God had obviously had a hand in things still filled him with dismay. Would she never be able to congratulate him on his achievements without assuming he'd needed supernatural help? Perhaps she was right. He hadn't had much confidence in the designs he'd done, so maybe God had nudged the assessors' judgement in his favour, in answer to her prayers.  
   She was obviously so much more delighted with God than she was with him that he was fighting feelings of rejection, but nevertheless, he didn't want to spoil her happiness, even if not doing so was costing him dear.

*

   The aforementioned unexpected effects on his social life, had helped him get over his dismay. Unlike his acceptance into grammar school, which had been so divisive for him and Julian, his acceptance at art college elevated his status among his friends.  
   Paul, Dave and Rich would all continue their studies at grammar school, and they all agreed that, even though they would enjoy the status of being sixth formers, it was nowhere near as cool as going to art college. The consensus was that the Jeremy's chances of overdosing on shagging were many orders of magnitude greater than theirs. After all, everyone knew what girls at art college were like. They couldn't get enough of it, could they? The Jeremy was guaranteed to score. Privately, he was quite nervous about the prospect of rampant, sex-hungry college girls.  
   His budding friendship with Tim had been unexpected too. The Jeremy tended not to actively expand his social circle, always finding himself a little wary of newcomers. Tim was the exact opposite, a go-getter. And for some reason, he'd decided that the Jeremy's friendship was something he was going to get. The Jeremy had barely been aware of Tim's existence at school. They'd never spoken even two words together. Tim just turned up at Paul's place on the Friday after school broke up. He brought 'Wheels Of Fire' with him, Cream's latest album, which was enough to ignite the Jeremy's interest.

*

   His taste in music had greatly expanded since the days of the 'seventy-eight' record player, although he recoiled from the idea of calling it 'catholic', even if it was with a small 'c'. His first steps on the journey from 'Blaze Away' to 'Wheels Of Fire' were chaperoned by Uncle Mac, the kindly old gentleman presenter of Children's Favourites, a radio show broadcast on Saturday mornings by the BBC Light Programme. Under his guidance, the Jeremy came to know and love such classics as 'Nellie The Elephant', 'The Laughing Policeman' and later, 'The Bubble Car Song'.  
   The Beeb had almost complete control over his tastes in music until very nearly his twelfth birthday, when his listening pleasure was mightily augmented by the gift of a Hi Delity Six Transistor portable radio, complete with cheap leather case and personal earphone. The lack of any 'Fi' in the 'Delity' demonstrated a remarkable and almost certainly unintentional honesty – or was it scrutability – on the part of the manufacturers.  
   The gift was, in part, inspired by his father's desire to regain control of the old mains-powered valve radio which occupied a permanent position on a high shelf in the dining area of the kitchenette. The Jeremy's discovery of Radio Luxembourg's evening broadcasts had caused some tension between him and his father, whose station of choice was the Home Service. He liked to listen to the early morning news during his tea drinking ritual before he left for work. For many years, prior to the Jeremy's discovery of the pop output on 208 metres, all that had been necessary was to switch the radio on and let it warm up while he settled into his chair with his first cup of tea. Having to get out of his chair to fiddle with the tuning knob, because the Jeremy had failed to return it to its _rightful place_ the previous evening, was a right royal pain in the arse.  
   The Jeremy's new little tranny restored equilibrium to the household once again. To his great delight, it not only gave him unfettered access to Radio Luxembourg's evening broadcasts, but barely three weeks after his birthday, access to Radio Caroline's daytime output, when it began broadcasting from the MV Fredericia, anchored somewhere off the coast in the international waters of the North Sea.  
   Caroline's 'pirate' status gave him his first opportunity to do something of a rebellious nature that he felt righteous about. Listening to an illegal station that played the music he _wanted to hear_ , all day long, was a delicious experience to be savoured. No one was going to stop him.  
   The list of artists whose music the Jeremy liked, which later included Cream, is far too long and boring to reproduce here. But it was fairly typical of teenage boys of the time. What was most typical about it was that as the list grew, so did his musical snobbery and band bias. The politics of pop always influenced its content. For example, quite early on, the Jeremy categorised The Shadows' twanging guitars as cool, but their association with Mr Richard as 'regrettable'. More recently, he'd concluded that The Monkees were to The Beatles, what painting by numbers was to Rembrandt.  
   With the possible exception of Mr Richard, these were not arbitrary decisions based on shallow likes and dislikes of such things as the artist's appearance. If challenged, the Jeremy could present a well-reasoned argument for his position. However, he soon learnt that even though he _could_ , it was wiser not to do so, because most people didn't want to have a serious discussion about such things.  
    _"I can't stand Lonnie Donegan. Only a pillock would like Lonnie Donegan!"_ for instance, was not an opening gambit which appeared to invite a reasoned rebuttal.  
   Not that he would have been willing to mount a defence of 'My Old Man's A Dustman' or 'Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour', but the point was that the gambit was, if anything, a closing one, and was typical of how lots of people expressed themselves.  
   The Jeremy thought that, in a way, it was how people defined themselves. Most of the time people had little regard for things like truth, honesty and integrity. Those things only became an issue when you were caught not having any, or not enough. People rarely said things to communicate rational thoughts. Most of the time what they said was for effect. At least it was for effect most of the time when they were communicating with more than one other person. When people were in a crowd, they behaved differently to when they were in a one to one situation. Even the people who communicated for effect in one to one situations did it differently when they were in a crowd.  
   The Jeremy was no more fond of crowds than he ever had been. It seemed to him that the bigger the crowd the greater the likelihood of them doing something stupid, harmful or both. To keep them in check, a crowd needed a leader. Or someone to drive them. Was there a difference? He thought there probably was but he'd have to give it some more thought to decide exactly what. Were there only two types of people – leaders and followers? The aliens always said _'take me to your leader'_ when they turned up unexpectedly, which implied that leaders were more important than followers. But then, without any followers, the leaders wouldn't _be_ leaders. He didn't see himself as either, which made him wonder if he was more like the aliens than the indigenous population. Followers and leaders were like chalk and cheese, but went together like a horse and carriage.  
   Caught on the horns of a thorny dilemma, he thought he'd change tack.  
    _"Should I mix metaphors?"_ he pondered with a sardonic grin.  
   It was a question of style. And style was _everything_. For most people, it seemed that style was mainly to do with how you looked. It was a visual thing. For most of his peers, building their visual image appeared to be the most important thing in their lives. As far as the Jeremy could tell, your image allowed other people to think they understood who you were, without even having to talk to you. You just picked your stereotype and moulded your appearance to fit. Learn a few distinct behavioural mannerisms, a catchphrase or two and Bob's your uncle, you could be a 'mod', a 'rocker', a 'hippie' or a 'skinhead'.  
   The inescapable problem was that he had to choose. If he was going to physically interact with the world, then he had to choose an image for himself. The Mods and Rockers had come and gone while he was still too young to join up, although, as with all youth subcultures, there were some who would remain faithful adherents for the rest of their lives, bemoaning the passing of the good old days. The choices open to him, in the main, were between 'hippie' and 'skinhead', which meant there was only one choice he could make. Skinhead it was.  
   No. Just kidding. Love and peace and skinheads didn't mesh well together. But the Jeremy didn't like the term 'hippie' very much either. The newspapers called anyone with long hair a hippie, but not everyone with long hair called themselves a hippie. At the time he thought it was another example of the press's penchant for non secateurs. Later, he would be embarrassed to discover that gardening tools had very little to offer when it came to defining logical errors. He would also find he preferred the term 'heads' to describe the group with whom he associated himself, the implication being that what was going on _inside_ one's head was where it was at, man.  
   As previously indicated, the Jeremy was not a Shakespeare aficionado, but he did like the thing about the world being a stage and everyone being an actor. It just wasn't that important to know which play it came from. And as for which scene! Well, it really didn't matter. Why did Brindley have to spoil everything by turning it into something sacred? He _knew_ he was right so everyone _had_ to have the same opinion. Anyone who didn't was a dunderhead. Maybe he'd been part of an alien conspiracy to distract everyone so they could land and say _'take me to your leader'_ before anyone had a chance to do anything.  
    _"Aliens,"_ thought the Jeremy.  
   Why did we always assume that aliens would be more advanced creatures than us? What if we are the most advanced life-forms in the whole universe? Forget about the apparent arrogance. He wasn't thinking that we _are_ the most advanced, only the possibility that we _might_ be. It didn't take much to see that humans being the most advanced creatures in the universe was a pretty depressing thought. Just suppose aliens did land and said _'take me to your leader'_. They'd never get to meet anybody because the humans would be squabbling amongst themselves over who the leader was, if they hadn't already tried to blow the visitors to Hell.  
   The Jeremy thought it was simply because we can only _imagine_ interstellar travel that we think aliens must be more advanced than us. The only way we can imagine meeting them is if they come to us, and that would mean they _had_ to be more advanced. But really, there was no good reason to think they exist other than for the same reasons that we exist. So why would they be more advanced than us? He pondered it for a while. Maybe they didn't give a shit about image and style and used their brains to figure out how things worked!  
   Would they view us like we view ants? Perhaps we are like ants but we pretend we're not. There are plenty of people who just want to be told what to do. Are they lazy? Or stupid? The Jeremy didn't like that conclusion so he decided it was probably that people's brains were just made that way.

*

   His brain was very similar to the internet in that his thoughts would flit from one interesting subject to another, triggered by associations which he sometimes hadn't even noticed before. It was a bit like clicking on hyperlinks, but without a real web to surf – it hadn't been invented yet – he happily surfed in his head, ignorant of the wonders yet to come. His 'clicks' took him down numerous paths without any knowledge of the destination in advance. Some of the paths were so new the concrete was still wet.  
   A few paths were well worn though. Some were so well established that they had street furniture on them. Religion Drive was one such path, along which the Jeremy often visited familiar kiosks. They sold various propositions and he visited them just to see if anything had changed. He doubted that what was on offer _would ever change_ , but he felt the need to regularly check his feelings about them, just in case.  
   The Bible, in all its fearful glory, occupied one of the kiosks and was always up for a scrap. Most of the time he could wriggle free, but there was always the feeling that it might get him in a Full Nelson, or a Boston Crab, which would force his submission. He'd lost count of the number of rounds he'd fought, but even when he did manage to get a count of three, the damn thing always got up and claimed it had only been two and a half.  
   He'd attempted to read it from cover to cover, thinking he'd have a better chance if he knew everything it said, but he hadn't got very far because he quickly became incredibly bored. The writing style left a lot to be desired for one thing, and the language reminded him of the Reverend Yethbutt. Hath this and hath that, and someone who 'crieth', was that really necessary? And as for the ever recurring 'begatting', well that was just mind numbing. So he'd given up on the cover to cover idea and decided to dive in at random intervals. He couldn't say that had been exactly enlightening either, but he felt he was certainly getting a feel for the gist of it.  
   What he noticed most of all was that it didn't seem to have much subtlety. Lots of it was about death and what is supposed to happen afterwards. He paraphrased what it seemed to be saying in what he felt was a way that encapsulated the spirit of the thing: Go out and murder fifteen children with a blunt machete in broad daylight? Burn in hell for all eternity. Seemed reasonable. Quick wank in the privacy of your bedroom? Burn in hell for all eternity. Oh come on!  
    _"Say three Hail Marys. Again!"_ he thought.  
   He couldn't help thinking that if God really wanted people to know about him, then it was about time he updated the brochure. It wasn't that he didn't believe in God, although he certainly had doubts. He just didn't believe the men who said they knew what He wanted, what He was thinking and what He was going to do. He didn't believe the women either, but they didn't seem to wield as much power as the men. At least not on a global scale. Of course, his mother was in a category all her own.  
   Even though he'd never heard God speak to him, he just had the feeling that He was there. And He wasn't stupid. How could He be stupid if He was God? But he was still troubled by his decision to leave the church, so he was working at convincing himself that if God was truly loving and wise, then He'd see the bad things that were being done in His name. The hard part was that it appeared to be down to him to convince himself, because he couldn't detect any help or encouragement coming from anywhere else. But then perhaps it had to be hard, otherwise it wouldn't mean very much.  
   He'd had to deal with the Devil too. Not _make_ a deal with the Devil. He'd had to decide what was the best tactic to thwart the Devil. It had taken a lot of thought and he'd come to the conclusion that he should just ignore him, have nothing to do with him, just concentrate on love and peace. He was sure God would approve of that.  
   His observations had also led him to the conclusion that there was a lot of evil in the world, but not all of it was obvious. And with that, his emotions shot to the surface and emerged in the form of a rant.  
    _"Of course, those evil Nazis, taking innocent young children and filling their heads full of their vile ideas, they were about as evil as evil could be. Not at all the same as us taking innocent young children and filling their heads full of our ideas,"_ he railed.  
    _"Oh no. That's entirely different. Any fool can see that. Our ideas are wonderful and of course they are true. Oooops! That would be 'True' with a capital 'T', the sort of True which means you're likely to get seriously punished if you question it. If you did, then the Nazis just lined you up against a wall and shot you. End of story, plain and simple. Obviously much worse than condemning you to all eternity in a lake of fire, the fear of which crippled you for life before the punishment had even started!"_  
    _"Damn Nazis!"_ he let the Colonel interrupt. _"Line 'em up against the wall and shoot the lot of 'em. That's what I say. That'd soon show 'em what Truth is! What!?"_

   There had been a time when the Jeremy had felt some sympathy for some of the Colonel's views, for instance when he expressed them regarding some person or group who the Jeremy was angry with.  
    _"With whom, with whom!"_ corrected Dan Tick, irritated that he had to point it out yet again. The Jeremy ignored him.  
   In recent times he'd isolated the Colonel, in as humane a way as he could, in a cordoned off area of his brain, a 'sandbox', where he could play to his heart's content, but without the ability to influence the Jeremy's thinking in any way other than as an example of how not to think. He'd come to view the Colonel's strident interventions as simply a bit of light relief. And as a token of his benevolent nature, he'd ushered Mrs Bulging Bosoms and the Reverend into the sandbox too, ostensibly to give the Colonel some company.

*

   It was already getting a bit crinkly around the edges, and in a few days it would be over. But it had been a summer to remember, a summer during which he'd learnt a lot about himself, not least that there was a lot more to learn. He didn't yet feel he could call himself a man, but at the same time, he knew he'd left his childhood behind. Fundamentally, he felt more in control of his own destiny, even if he was still riding in the same old roller-coaster car. But the most important thing, was that he'd taken the decision to remove the safety belt and rely on his own wits and strength to keep from falling out. True, there were times when he felt he was hanging on for dear life, but he was beginning to get a taste for the thrill of that danger.  
   It hadn't all been a wanton bout of recklessness though. He'd spent a lot of time thinking through the things he didn't understand, and had managed to marshal some of them into some sort of order. With the help of Abra Cadabra, he'd even come to understand what had paralysed him so dramatically with Tessa, and why it hadn't surfaced with Rosemary.  
   With Rosemary, the limits were well defined and the risks were minimal. There was no danger of anything happening which would surprise or harm them, or anyone else. The only risk was being caught doing what they were doing and being told off for it. It had been easy to convince himself that a bit of breast fondling fell within acceptable bounds, because no one had ever said anything specific about it being a sin or intrinsically wrong, and Rosemary had suggested it in the first place. It probably was a sin, most things were if you weren't actually praying, but breast fondling was to sex before marriage what caffeine was to heroin.  
   With Tessa, the limits were unknown. Nothing had been defined up front. Neither of them had been the prime driver which led them to David's attic room. They were there doing what they were doing because David and Wendy were there, doing whatever it was they were doing. There had been a large part of the Jeremy which felt he was doing what he was doing because circumstances had pushed him into it.  
   Throughout his life, since his introduction to the subject during his bath at the age of four, he'd got the impression that anything to do with sex, especially intercourse, was a bad and probably evil thing, such that even thinking about it was likely to send you to hell. The act itself was just about tolerable between a married man and his wife as long as neither of them derived any pleasure from it other than to view it as a sort of prayer to God to bestow the gift of a child upon them. Nice girls didn't want to have sex. They were forced by our pitiful human condition into submitting to the dreadful deed because it was God's command that they should do so, but only when they and their husbands agreed that it had to be endured to give God's gift of life to his future children. His mother's reference to her menstrual cycle as 'the curse' had added another distasteful ingredient to the turbid stew.  
   The Jeremy liked Tessa. He thought she was a nice girl. She was warm and friendly, fun to be with and hadn't shown any wish to harm anyone. He couldn't detect any evil in her. And yet she had removed her clothes. Certainly that was confusing but it was the fear that things could easily get out of hand, that they might end up doing something that would condemn them both to hell, that was the cause of his paralysis. Resolutely doing nothing, before he'd done anything, had seemed the only choice, even if it was painful.  
   He hadn't come anywhere near understanding it at a fully conscious level, but he had come to understand that he should have been honest and open with Tessa. He should have talked to her about what they were doing. Told her what he felt about it. Asked her how she felt and what she wanted. That would have been to show her real respect. The fact that he didn't know what he felt about it didn't help, but he should have overcome his fears and _engaged her in conversation_. But fear of ridicule had diluted his courage to a homoeopathic degree and, unsurprisingly, all that was left was fear of ridicule.  
   Knowing this hadn't made him feel much better because it meant that all that stuff about being laid back and cool was a load of bullshit, just a cover story to hide behind. And that was tough to handle because he didn't feel any more confident about talking to girls than he ever had, but now he had nowhere to hide. And the rampant, sex-hungry college girls were just around the corner.  
   At least his beard was a proper beard and his hair was long enough that, had he turned up at school looking like he did, he'd have been unceremoniously thrown out. What's more, he'd go to college in jeans and a t-shirt, and, although he didn't realise it, he'd just found a new place to hide.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

## PART THREE

### Snapshot No. 14

   The unmistakable smell of fish assailed the Jeremy's nostrils, engulfing his olfactory organs and prompting his thoughts, in the absence of any competing stimuli, to migrate to the general subject of those scaly creatures. He couldn't help thinking that the fishes must be extremely pissed off with humans.  
   He was, of course, well aware that the chances of fish actually thinking in the way that humans do is unlikely in the extreme, but he didn't see why he should let a trifle like that spoil his imagination.  
   And so imagine he did. He imagined they must often think, particularly when at a low ebb, and therefore at risk of the headiness which comes from a lack of oxygen, _"What have we done to deserve such out and out discrimination? How come there isn't a must-not-eat-fish day? Or one of our number marked as special, and therefore protected from human predators at least? Land animals and birds are laughing at us every Friday, and one or two of them have got their noses in the air the whole time. Oh yeah, almost forgot. We feature as the shape of a symbol that some humans use to make themselves feel special. Big deal. They still go home and eat us for supper."_  
   The Jeremy had to admit that he rather agreed with their point of view. He couldn't think of even one traditional story in which the fish were favourably included in the grand equation, though they often seemed to feature as food. There was that tale about Jonah and the whale, but that could hardly be called favourable and besides, a whale is not a fish.  
    _"It was a whale, wasn't it?"_ he questioned himself, but didn't bother with the answer.  
   Instead, he began to think about the story he'd been told, when he was small, about a great flood and how all the animals went into an ark, two by two ( _tarah!... tarah!..._ ), and, to cut a rather tedious story short, were saved from drowning. Not a mention of anything remotely fishlike that he could remember. On further reflection, he concluded it wasn't that surprising, because, he suspected, the audience at the time it was written, were likely to have given short shrift to – and would probably have expressed it by throwing a lot of stones at – anyone who suggested fishes would drown in a flood.  
   He silently chuckled to himself when he mused that maybe the fishes ended up with such a raw deal because they were all rolling around on the sea floor laughing, and didn't take it seriously when they heard the dire warnings about the coming flood.  
    _"Oo–oo–wo–oo–oo. W–ee ar–e so–oo–oo fr–igh–ten–ed. W–ee ar–e al–l go–in–g t–o dr–ow–n!"_  
   His imagination had imbued the fish with the ability to think, a capacity for ROTSFL and even the power of speech, but the Jeremy's kind gesture had not extended to making them bright enough to consider the probable consequences of all that fresh water mixing with their salt-laden environment, in terms of fishy life expectancy.  
    _"Hah! Laugh would you, you fishy fiends? It's sushi-time for you!"_ said Malevolent Morris, getting into the spirit of the yarn.  
   The Jeremy's thoughts drifted away from the fish as he began to imagine the scene a few weeks into the flood, when all the land was covered by water. Things were getting a bit smelly on board and tempers were fraying. The birds, that's the ones who hadn't been invited to join the party, were circling overhead, probably a million or more in number, and, presumably because of their evil nature, were doing their best to turn the ark into a crock of shit or maybe just a ship of stools.  
    _"Oooh Jeremy!"_ shrieked Mrs Bulging Bosoms from the sandbox, _"You can't say that! What will the neighbours think?"_  
   The Jeremy inwardly laughed at Mrs Bulging Bosoms' predictable outburst, but just the same, he was relieved that she was restricted to the confines of his head. She would be a severe embarrassment not to mention a sizeable dent in his credibility if she ever escaped.  
   He was not surprised to hear, as soon as Mrs Bulging Bosoms had said her piece, Sniffling Erik add, _"What difference does it make? We're all gonna die anyway."_  
   At times, he wished Erik would simply relinquish his claim to residence in his synaptic pathways, or better still, just up and die, to prove his own point.  
   The Jeremy waited a second or two before continuing with his musing, just in case anyone else had anything to say.  
   Silence. Obviously the Reverend was busy building a sandcastle heaven.  
    _"I won—"_ but the Jeremy's thought was cut short, even before he entirely knew what it was going to be, by Malevolent Morris.  
    _"Fish! What can be said of them? Oily, smelly creatures. If I had a hook for every fish – problem solved."_  
   Despite Morris's refusal to take advantage of the pauses in his thoughts when provided, the Jeremy had developed a somewhat reluctant fondness for him. He knew Morris would wait, no matter how long a pause he provided, until he had just resumed his thought process, and would choose that moment to interject. More than that, Morris's comment would sometimes refer to a recent train of thought rather than the current one.  
   There were similarities in his behaviour to that of practitioners of that silly game in which said practitioners exactly repeat everything you say, immediately after you say it. _Immediately after you say it_. Get it? _Get it?_ The best, or rather the most 'successful' exponents, are those who will happily repeat anything you say, regardless of how crass, obscene or stupid it may be, and by so doing, stymie your attempts to dissuade them from continuing. Silence, separation, or a twelve bore shotgun blast to the right temple, preferably theirs, seem to be the only effective means of bringing an end to that game.  
   In view of the fact that a salvo of lead shot aimed directly at Malevolent Morris would result in an unacceptable level of collateral damage to himself, the Jeremy had come to accept Morris's interruptions as inevitable. Strangely, that acceptance had, to a large extent, removed the annoyance he'd sometimes previously felt. He thought this fact was probably something of profound significance, which would have meditative mystics nodding sagaciously – and everyone else nodding off to sleep, as is often the case when the subject matter veers away from tangible things like food or sex.  
   Mrs Bulging Bosoms clucked a tut or two.  
   The Jeremy resumed thinking about life aboard the ark. He recalled hearing that the instructions included the mandate that males and females must be segregated and were forbidden to – in deference to the delicate sensitivities of Mrs Bulging Bosoms, who he suspected was still loitering near the fence around the sandbox, he chose the next word carefully – propagate. He wasn't sure if this applied to the human contingent as well as the animals – quite possibly it did, it was a Bible story – but as far as the animals were concerned, he could see how this might work with the larger species, but he was struggling with mosquitoes and tsetse flies. His struggle was, of course, a wholly metaphorical one in connection with their presence on the ark, rather than a swishing, fly swat in hand, physically tiring sort of battle.  
   For the life of him, he couldn't remember the name of the bloke in charge of the boat, but he was rather pleased with himself when he came up with the term 'arkmaster'. He thought it rather elevated the holder of the title to a suitable level of importance.  
   But whatever his name was, he couldn't figure out how the arkmaster could tell the difference between a male and female mosquito, and, even if he was able to do so, how he kept them apart. But wasn't that a kind of paradox? If he did keep them apart as per instructions, then surely he would have failed the 'saving' part of his remit, because the life expectancy of a mosquito falls some way short of even the shortest reported duration of the flood.  
   Inspiration struck and the Jeremy could see it all more clearly. He knew exactly what he would have done in the event he'd found himself in the arkmaster's situation.  
   Malevolent Morris smiled a dark smile and said, _"Insects. What can be said of them? Creeping, crawling, flying, jumping abominations. The soles of my shoes would be under employed without them."_  
   On this occasion the Jeremy smiled too, but it was short-lived. He felt a tinge of disappointment when he remembered that, to the best of his recollection, the story hadn't mentioned flying insects. There was something about things creeping or crawling but the only flying things mentioned, he was fairly certain, were birds.  
   But wait! The Jeremy's spirits lifted again. Hadn't it included something about 'every thing that breathes'?  
    _"Mosquitoes do breathe don't they?"_ he asked himself. He was sure they did.  
    _"Indeed they do,"_ confirmed the Professor.  
   The Jeremy thought the idea of getting rid of mosquitoes sounded, on the face of it, like an excellent idea. He couldn't think of one good thing to say about mosquitoes, or tsetse flies for that matter. But he also knew that therein lay a danger. Just because _he_ couldn't think of anything good in connection with mosquitoes, it didn't necessarily mean there wasn't. Could getting rid of mosquitoes turn out to have undesirable consequences? He just didn't know.  
   He decided to adopt a better-safe-than-sorry, leave-things-as-they-are position and made a note to get in an extra stock of cool compresses, antihistamines, anti-itching compounds and anti-inflammatory medicines, just in case a fury of mosquitoes turned up.  
   He wasn't absolutely certain that the evil little creatures he was thinking of, the ones that are practically invisible and dematerialise the instant before you crush them between your palms, and then re-materialise an instant later on your ankle, were even mosquitoes. Gnats. That was what a lot of people called them. But was 'gnat' an alternative name for a 'mosquito', which was just another example of British eccentricity, or was it the name of a different species?  
   Either way, it was still difficult to see how, given the opportunity, anyone could resist the temptation of gnat-ish genocide or mosquito mass murder. The better-safe-than-sorry paradigm was rapidly losing ground. But then again, he'd often heard it said that hindsight is a wonderful thing, and perhaps, taken in the context of learning from one's mistakes, he thought he could concur.  
    _"Hindsight? Complete bunkum! Give me a good dose of foresight any day, my lad,"_ piped up the Colonel. _"Get it right first time. Saves a whole lot of messing about later. If they can't see that then line 'em up against a wall and shoot 'em. That's what I say. Job done! What!?"_  
   He knew there wasn't any point entering into discussion with the Colonel. From the Colonel's point of view, everything, absolutely everything, had a simple answer which, in his definitely-not-so-humble opinion, was indisputably self evident and just plain common sense. It usually involved walls and shooting. The Jeremy left him to play in the sandbox.  
   Ah yes, common sense. The Jeremy found the notion intriguing. On many occasions he'd heard 'common sense', along the lines of _'common sense tells us...'_ enlisted in support of various arguments, propositions, opinions and beliefs. He'd also noted that on many of those occasions, the speaker really based their line of argument on nothing more than common _nonsense_ , and sook – that's 'sought' but he took delight in playing with the English language – to hide it by making reference to common _sense_.  
   He'd concluded that true common sense, the sort which can survive the test of another commonly abused phrase – _'it stands to reason'_ – was not at all common. Common _nonsense_ however, he saw was everywhere.  
   Take these stories of a gigantic flood for example. He'd heard that in fact there were several versions of the tale, each of which originated from a different place and time, but all of which had the same gist, merely differing in the details.  
   Aha! The details. A place, according to some more modern storytellers, which had been positively identified by rigorous double-blind testing as one of the Devil's many residences. He allowed himself the sarcasm on the grounds that it harmed no one, and then smiled when he realised that those very same storytellers would claim that very conjecture as further proof of their theory, because it only needed common sense to see, that by his sarcasm, he had in fact harmed himself.  
   Common sense of that sort, he thought, could quickly become uncommonly complicated and be used to support anything up with which you cared to dream. He took a moment to feel the pleasure at his phrasing of that thought, a phrasing of which he was sure that not only Dan Tick, but also Winston Churchill himself, would be proud.  
   The Jeremy thought that real common sense, the sort which requires no special ability, super intelligence or skilful manipulation of questionable logic to support it, suggested that any story which included a six hundred year old man was just that. A story. A work of fiction.  
   From the point of view of common sense, he thought it really didn't matter that the story preposterously claimed the bloke had built a colossal wooden boat, collected together animals of all types from all around the world – apparently including the places which hadn't even been 'discovered' at the time of the story – bunged 'em all together on the boat while the planet was flooded to a depth of something over 29,000 feet – on the assumption that mount Everest was as tall then as it is now – for at least 40 days and, by his actions, saved the world. It was a story about a _six hundred year old man!_ If insistence that the story was true wasn't a case of blatantly upholding literal lies supposedly holding intrinsic Truth, then he might just as well believe any old bullshit.  
   Yet there were a surprising number of people who enlisted common sense in _support_ of their insistence that these stories were true, or when it came down to it, just one of them, the one they happened to believe in.  
   The Jeremy had heard the line of argument, _"Common sense tells us that if so many different stories all say the same thing then it must be true."_  
   Another held that, _"Common sense tells us that if this story was not true then it would have been forgotten long ago."_  
   There were times when the reasoning of apparently intelligent people was so absurd that he was lost for a suitable thought. Fortunately, it was at these times that Succinctly Sid would come to his rescue.  
    _"More bollocks!"_ he said.  
   The Jeremy wondered if there would be a market for a synthesized version of Succinctly Sid, designed specifically for detecting common nonsense. He imagined a marketing strategy, along the lines of the Keep Britain Tidy campaign, which would promote the benefits of clearing away the large amounts of common nonsense which litter the environment.  
   The SSBS Detectors would alert their serene owners to sure signs of impending common nonsense. These would include anyone holding a book or pamphlet while knocking on their door, and people speaking in public places to anybody who would listen, or in the absence of such an audience, to the poor bastards who were passing by and didn't want to listen.  
   The owners of SSBS Detectors would be justifiably described as serene, because each unit would have a setting which could be adjusted to suit the owner's style, ranging from a discreet beep to a full blown audio response in the form of _'sounds like bullshit to me mate!'_ with an option for continuous repeat while the danger persisted.  
   Advanced versions would have an international 'feature set' which would include the replacement of the word 'mate' with local choices such as 'Mac' or 'Joe' for the USA, 'Cobber' for Australia and perhaps even 'Jimmy' for Scotland. But the real advantage of these deluxe versions would be their ability to detect even the hint of a condescending smile. Now that would be something!  
   But enough of daydreaming he thought. His attention returned to the fish. What happened to them? Did they all die in this flood? He just couldn't recall if the story made it clear. He began to ponder questions to which the answers must be known, even if he wasn't privy to them at that moment. Is it really curtains for salt water fish if the salt content drops below a certain level? What about fresh water fish?  
   Later, he would do some research and discover that apparently, many salt water fish would die due to the dilution with fresh water, but some, it seems, would not. He would find that examples of such fish allegedly included striped bass, salmon and Atlantic sturgeon, who apparently can survive in both environments. All of which, he would conclude, proves absolutely nothing of real importance, but does lend weight to the idea that the tale of the flood was indeed just a story.

*

    _"What'll it be then?"_  
   The words acted like a crowbar on the door to his consciousness.  
    _"Oh yeah, right. Errrm... large cod and chips... and a pickled egg please,"_ said the Jeremy.  
    _"Salt and vinegar?"_  
    _"Just salt."_  
    _"Wrapped or open?"_  
    _"Open,"_ he said, knowing full well that his decision probably meant that his fish 'n' chips meal would become a fish 'n' pickled egg meal by the time he got home.  
   But he was hungry and anyway, chips just seemed to taste better out of the paper, rather than off a china plate. Heating the plate helped, but could he be bothered with that when he could just enjoy eating the chips now?  
   It was one of those strange things. The chips were a fresh batch straight from the pan, and therefore very hot. But that didn't deter the Jeremy from attempting to eat them as he walked home. His fingers may not have been as tough or heat resistant as say, a desert lizard's feet, but they were definitely more so than his tongue and the roof of his mouth, the cavalier disregard of those facts leading him to a rash but all too common decision.  
    _"Hoh, hah, hoh, hoh... hah!"_ indicated that he had indeed erroneously surmised, via digital assessment, that the chip his fingers had held but a brief moment before was cool enough to eat.  
   The final _'hah!'_ was solid confirmation that the swallowing of hot chips, even as a means of averting further damage to tongue and roof of mouth, is not a course of action to be recommended either.  
   But what was the alternative? He might be considered uncouth by some, because of his general appearance, but he would never consider spitting out the contents of his mouth, except perhaps if he detected lethal poison. Couthness was something he valued in himself, so much so that he would endure a burnt throat rather than put it in jeopardy.  
   He'd had a go at the spitting game when he tried on the obnoxious pre-teen, one-size-fits-all coat which most young boys wear for at least a short while. But he'd soon come to realise, that the fame attached to spitting prowess was of a very local nature, solely restricted to your fellow gang members. And its distasteful nature was graphically demonstrated to him the day he was waiting at the bus stop, and a 'yoof' leant out of the window of a passing car and gobbed at him. The bulk of the slimy pellet landed on his paisley shirt, but a few wayward globs caught him in the face. He never spat again, without good cause, and if he absolutely had to, always with as much decorum as the circumstances would allow. He also heeded his mother's advice to always carry a handkerchief.  
   The Jeremy knew that, if asked, the Professor would point out that waiting until the chips had cooled sufficiently was another alternative which had a lot going for it, especially from the point of view of retaining the top layer of skin on the roof of one's mouth. And of course the Professor was right. But sometimes, for apparently inexplicable reasons, we don't always do what we know is the sensible thing to do.  
   His journey home took him past a house which was undergoing extensive renovations. Practically the whole interior had been ripped out and dumped, over the course of a couple of weeks, into a procession of skips which had come and gone at irregular intervals.  
   He'd noted that none of the skips – including the current one – which had all occupied the same spot at the side of the road, had ever had a working warning light attached at night. He was slightly surprised that he hadn't seen any jobsworth official laying down the law to the builders, quoting section blah-de-blah sub-section blah of the local bye-laws. Perhaps it was because it was summer, and it didn't get dark until late and was light again early in the morning. But then the evenings were closing in again so that didn't completely explain it.  
   It was noticeable how people became more relaxed in the summer months, even some jobsworth officials. He particularly liked summer evenings. They were such a contrast to the brash, muscle-flexing hours of the business day. Even though the summer was coming to a close, there was a balmy breeze this particular evening, and as he approached the forlorn looking house, his eye was caught by the flappety-flap of the pages of a book or pamphlet. It had been left, or discarded, on top of some old soot begrimed bricks which the builders had hefted into the skip after dismantling the chimney stacks.  
   He smiled, remembering his early experiences of reading. He'd had no difficulty, no more than the average child, in learning to read, but his mother had become concerned because he showed no interest in books of a fictional nature. The Jeremy thought it was probably something to do with the contents of the first books he'd read, which he hadn't found particularly inspiring. For example, he hadn't been even remotely stimulated by the knowledge that _'the cat sat on the mat'_ or that _'Janet and John are walking to the shop'_.  
   He'd viewed reading as a practical tool, for which the best uses were, probably by far, learning how to construct models by reading their instruction leaflets and reading the labels on fireworks in search of information regarding their explosive capacity. Story books were just stories.  
   His mother had been very canny (or was it guileful?), when in late September or early October when he was seven, no, probably eight, she'd told him that if he could read the whole of The Enchanted Garden before Guy Fawkes night, she and his father would let him choose four big fireworks, in addition to the normal selection box. He was pretty certain he'd correctly remembered the name of the book, but he had much clearer memories of the Mine of Serpents, Jack In The Box, Mount Vesuvius and Giant Hornets Nest which he chose after some very serious deliberation.  
   He remembered that to gain his prize, he had to prove he'd read each chapter by giving a précis of its contents to his mother. With each chapter his excitement had grown. Nothing to do with the story – which he dutifully said was really enjoyable – everything to do with the knowledge that each chapter brought him closer to his reward. To be fair, the story wasn't at all bad. But if he'd been asked to forego the reading of the rest of it it in order to capture his prize, he would have done so without hesitation or regret.  
   It had turned out to be a glorious night that year. Bonfire Night, as it was known in his family, was always a special night for him, but that year he was nearly a casualty before the event. He got so excited, in his quiet sort of way, at the prospect of the magnificent display of which he was chief designer, that on the day, he was almost struck down with mental exhaustion. The many hours spent poring over the contents of the box of Standard Fireworks, to produce the perfect lighting sequence, took its toll on his energy. And how annoying his sister had been. Only a complete idiot would think it didn't matter in which order they were lit, so there had been no escaping the simple and potentially embarrassing fact that he had a complete idiot for a sister. And the display he'd put on had proved the point, at least in his opinion.  
   The Jeremy stopped alongside the skip to see if the book looked interesting. He wasn't in the habit of rummaging through skips, but he had, on occasion, helped himself to items which were placed within easy reach, like ripe fruit on a branch overhanging an orchard fence.  
    _"Deary, deary me! What will the neighbours think!?"_ said Mrs Bulging Bosoms, rather predictably, as the Jeremy laid the back of his hand on the flapping pages to get a better look.  
   To call it a book was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but 'pamphlet' didn't do it justice either. Perhaps 'booklet' was a more apt description. The cover was gone. What was left of the booklet consisted of maybe fifty pages at most, probably not that many. It had been bound together with staples, under both of which could be seen the remnants of the cover where it had been torn off.  
    _"Ahem,"_ the Professor 'coughed' gently.  
   The Jeremy adjusted his bald assumption to include the possibility that the cover had come adrift through over use, or had been the victim of a reader who insists on folding back the covers of books. Now that was uncouth.  
   He bent his head to take a closer look, and he could see that the bits of cover still trapped beneath the staples were blue, a midnight blue, but the torn edges showed it had been printed on white card. He straightened up and took a look around to see if anyone was about. There were a couple of people walking down the street, but they were going away from him, and, apart from a cat crossing the road with the air of someone who is the master of their domain, the street was otherwise empty.  
   The topmost page had a heading which said 'Through the Eye of the Beholder'. It wasn't clear if it was the title of the book or just a chapter heading, but either way, his interest was aroused. He sucked the chip grease from his fingers and wiped them dry on the arse of his jeans, ignoring Mrs Bulging Bosoms' clucking disapproval. His motive was more to avoid getting his fingers mucky with sooty brick dust – which would form an unpalatable paste with the grease on his fingers – than it was to keep the book clean, although he always treated books with respect.  
   He contrived to hold both the booklet _and_ his packet of fish 'n' chips in his left hand, so he could not only read the first page of the booklet, but also stubbornly continue to _'hoh, hah, hoh'_ his still hot chips at the same time. This multi-tasking effort was also planned to be inclusive of maintaining his motor functions to complete the rest of the walk home, a perilous undertaking highlighted in quite shrill terms by Mrs Bulging Bosoms.  
   And she was right. He was unable to give any of the tasks the proper attention they deserved, an undeniable truth which presented itself – a few blind paces after he began his inquisitive scan of his newly acquired literary tome – in an 'in yer face' encounter with a lamp post.  
   Undeterred, but noting with some amusement that he'd nearly given the Eye of the Beholder – his own eye in this instance – a bashing, he sidestepped the offending post. While guiding another chip to his chops via his rather ineffective _'phwuh, phwuh'_ cooling system, and after checking there were no other nearby obstacles on his proposed path, he resumed his threefold activity.  
   But first he carefully adjusted the position of his left hand, raising it quite high, so that he could read the booklet, continue to eat his chips, and, at the same time, give his peripheral vision a better chance to detect any further objects which might hinder his progress.  
   Satisfied he had taken sufficient precautions, he moved slowly forward and began to read.

> Through the Eye of the Beholder
> 
> How should I address you, dear reader? I cannot know your name. I cannot even know the colour of your eyes. And yet it is your eyes which provide me with a path to your mind. I cannot know how much longer you will allow me such direct access and yet I am writing this book for you.
> 
> For you? But of course. What good is a book without a reader?
> 
> Am I writing it exclusively for you? I hold you in high regard, in part because you are still reading, but you would flatter yourself too much to think it so. But if you are the only one to read it, then, by default, it is exclusively for you.
> 
> This is a book wherein our minds may meet, but in this you have me at a distinct advantage, for it is likely I will never know we met.
> 
> Welcome to my mind.
> 
> Samuel Izabran
> 
> "In the beginning, the beauty of the previous day was undiminished"

   The Jeremy looked up and realised that he'd stopped walking, and was still holding, in mid air, the chip he'd intended to put in his mouth. There being no reason to delay it further, he dispensed with the _'phwuh, phwuh'_ altogether and gifted the chip directly to his tongue and molars. He took the packet of fish 'n' chips from his left hand and turned the booklet over to look at the back, in search of anything which might give him a clue about it or its author. The back page was smudged and dirty but otherwise blank.  
   He wondered if there had originally been more pages which had also gone the way of the cover, the sort of pages you get at the front of a book, before the story itself, which tell you who printed it. Sometimes, there's also a bit by someone you've never heard of saying how good the author is, and perhaps another bit which informs you that the book is dedicated to Auntie Phyllis. Usually, he skipped over them to get to the beginning of the story, but he would have checked them in this case because they might have told him something about this Samuel Izabran.  
   The name seemed oddly familiar. Perhaps he'd read something else by him but, if he had, try as he might he couldn't remember what it was. A kind of shiver ran across his shoulders. More a series of small jerks than a shiver. He was experiencing an uncomfortable feeling that was close to déjà vu, but not quite it. It was more a feeling that he was just a figment of someone else's imagination. Somehow not quite real. He felt it in the way you say something you are trying to think of is on the tip of your tongue. He shook it off and returned his attention to the pages in his hand.  
   He tried to see if there was any evidence of missing pages under the tattered scraps of cover, but it was difficult to tell. It was an odd booklet, judging by the page he'd just read, but it looked like it had been professionally printed so he inferred that there probably were some pages missing. He added a trip to the library to his list of things he might get around to doing, with a view to investigating the author. But his interest was firmly gravitating towards the contents of the next page, and that had the advantage of being something he could do now.  
   But not until he got home. The fact that he'd stopped walking implied his unconscious mind had taken heed of Mrs Bulging Bosoms' warnings, and now his conscious mind was in agreement too. Besides, if his progress so far was anything to go by, he would never reach home at the rate he was going. He tucked the booklet under his arm, thought _'bugger!'_ when he remembered the dusting of soot which had coated it, shrugged because it was too late to do anything about it, and concentrated on getting home safely. He was pleased with his literary find, and decided with equal pleasure that getting home safely didn't proscribe the eating of chips.  
   It was the last day of the summer holidays and he would be starting college the following day. He'd told his friends not to come round that evening because he wanted to prepare himself, to get himself in a relaxed frame of mind so he would sleep well. That wasn't the reason he'd given his friends. He'd said he had lots to do, that he would be very busy. If he'd thought it through properly, he would have realised that without his friends to keep him occupied, the chances were he'd just sit around fretting about all the things that could go wrong. But it didn't matter any more because he'd got the booklet to occupy his mind.  
   For the remainder of his journey, he cogitated on what he'd read so far. What was that about 'the beginning', and 'the previous day' and 'beauty'? It sounded like one of those things people claimed that Confucius or someone said.  
    _"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."_  
   That was one he always remembered. He liked it because it combined some humour with some sort of wisdom. At least _he_ thought it was funny, even if it wasn't meant to be. But he wasn't at all sure if the line he'd just read was either funny or wise, or just one of those mean-whatever-you-want-it-to phrases like that one about one hand clapping in the forest, or whatever it was or just—  
    _"A load of bollocks,"_ said Succinctly Sid, neatly finishing the sentence.  
   He quickened his pace, keen to read the contents of the booklet in the comfort of his room. It always seemed to add to its value when something 'came into his possession', a value that even a very expensive bought item lacked. He had plenty of examples of such fortuitously-come-by artefacts, most of which had ended up in cardboard boxes under his bed, cardboard boxes which could well be described as having real dust jackets, a very good reason in his opinion, for never looking under his bed unless it was absolutely necessary.  
   A few of those artefacts were on display in his room as objets d'art, in the casual sort of way which mothers refer to as _'lying about'_ or _'littering the place'_. There was the almost new but incomplete hydraulic door closer, the sort that holds the door open for far too long when an icy wind is blowing through the gap. Half its hinged arm was missing, making it useless for its designed purpose, but if you held the body and pulled the remaining part of the arm very hard, you could get it to move. And if you also managed to get your ear near it at the same time, you could hear the hydraulic fluid squeezing through the valves. Maybe not quite as romantic as holding a seashell to your ear, but seashells were too easy. This you had to work for.  
   He pushed open the front door with his elbow and, after using his heel to close it, headed for the kitchen – where he grabbed a plate and a fork, and said a quick _'hello'_ – and then vanished in the direction of his room, taking his collection of goodies and accoutrements with him. Once there, he dumped the remainder of his chips (a desolatory five in total) and the piece of battered cod onto the plate, added the pickled egg to complete the sumptuous feast, screwed the wrapping paper into a ball with the greasy 'grease-proof' paper neatly encased within, tossed it with pleasing accuracy into the bin by the door, and skewered a chip with his fork.  
   With remarkable ambidexterity, he adjusted his position on his bed to a more comfortable one, continued to manipulate his fork to ensure a more or less constant supply of nourishment to his mandibular orifice, and, at the same time, erected a makeshift platform out of a couple of cushions – to the left of his thighs – on which he placed the booklet.  
   He read the line at the bottom of the page again.

> "In the beginning, the beauty of the previous day was undiminished"

   What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was one of those endless loop things wasn't it? If it was the beginning, how could there have been a previous day? Or was it supposed to mean there couldn't be a beginning because there has always been a previous day? He laughed the sort of lame laugh that indicates you don't think something is particularly amusing but concede that it has made you think.  
   He turned the page and there, at the top, he read:-

> "In the beginning, the beauty of the previous day was undiminished"

> What does that mean? Did you pause to wonder before turning the page? If you did not, then perhaps now is the time to wonder?

    _"Well, that's not what I expected,"_ thought the Jeremy.

> Did you figure it out? Are you still wondering? Or did you dismiss it as rubbish?
> 
> What we can say is that it is an assertion, an apparent statement of fact which, ignoring its somewhat paradoxical nature, purports to hold a truth. But its meaning has much less to do with any truth in the words than it has to do with the presentation.
> 
> Its enclosure within quotation marks, not to mention the use of italics, is designed to give the reader the impression it has some extra value because it was uttered by some famous personage, and recorded for posterity. It is designed to give the impression that others thought it worthy enough to record, thereby confirming its worth.
> 
> Smoke and mirrors. Nothing more than Snake Oil. A parlour trick designed to disarm the rational mind. I know this to be true because it is simply a roll-your-own 'quote', one which I, Samuel Izabran, rolled earlier.

   The Jeremy was a little pissed off because he knew the parlour trick had worked on him, at least to some degree, but worse than that, he'd caught himself trying to pretend it hadn't!  
    _"You dumb shit!"_ he chastised himself, totally disregarding how Mrs Bulging Bosoms felt about the manner in which he did so. He continued to read:-

> So what was the point? Was it that I wanted to feed my ego by demonstrating how clever I am to be able to trick you, based on the arrogant assumption that I have? How pathetic that would make me.
> 
> No. On the assumption you will choose to continue this journey with me, the point was to alert you to the sort of trickery which I could employ. To create a fog where the ground is unsafe, to disguise the places where the path is not paved. If you travel with me, do not follow in a fog, walk at my side where you can observe equally. And remain alert.

    _"This guy is either a complete weirdo or possibly, a complete weirdo,"_ thought the Jeremy with a chuckle.  
   He decided to see what he could find out. He turned the book over and flipped open the last page. It was blank. He turned to the previous one and read:-

> The answers you seek are not here.
> 
> But you may find the questions on the preceding pages.

    _"The bastard!"_ thought the Jeremy, and followed it up with a quick, involuntary glance around the room.  
   If he'd let _that_ part of his mind get a hold of him, the part which was susceptible to the 'Twilight Zone' (aka Doo-dah-doo-dah-Doo-dah-doo-dah) school of thought, he would have sworn the author was anticipating his every move.  
    _"How easy it is to be fooled,"_ he thought, deliberately using his most rational internal voice.  
    _"While Mr Izabran obviously did anticipate the move, it demonstrates a thorough understanding of the nature of some readers at the time he wrote it, rather than anything spooky now,"_ he said, not only to himself, but also to emphasize the fact to the Twilight-Zone preacher who'd managed to get a foot in the door of his rational mind – aided and abetted, albeit unwittingly, by the Reverend Yethbutt. But it wasn't until the Jeremy saw the funny side of it that the door closed firmly on the preacher's foot, forcing him to remove it.  
   He returned to the parlour trick page while hoisting the remaining morsel of fish to his mouth, being careful not to tilt the plate and thereby cause the pickled egg, which he'd saved until last, to skid off the edge.

> But before we move on, what of the beginning? From the moment we are able to try to imagine it, we are fascinated by our origin, and the origin of everything. Numerous explanations have filled, and continue to fill, the imaginations of humans all over the globe.
> 
> This book is not concerned with beginnings or endings, their nature or even their existence. This book is about the journey between them. The journey which you and I are undertaking at this moment, a moment which is destined to become history no more than a moment later. Momentous history, perhaps?
> 
> Shall we make history?
> 
> That smacks of pretentiousness, don't you think? Let's just take a walk.

The guy was definitely a bit 'woo-woo', but in a strangely down to earth sort of way. However, the Jeremy's focus had already moved to the bottom of the page where there was what looked to be another so-called quote.

> _"Feel free to express, or even promote, whatever opinion or belief you choose to hold, but know that only a fool, or a liar, presents opinions or beliefs as fact"_ – SI
> 
> The following pages contain, amongst other things, a point of view, an opinion.

    _"SI? That's his initials,"_ thought the Jeremy.  
   And then, _"Is this another test? He's a bit weird for sure, but at least I understand this 'quote'. Well, I think I do, because it makes some sort of sense to me."_  
    _"So, Mister SI,"_ he continued, _"you've hooked me for now. I'll go a little further with you. How weird can you get?"_  
   He expertly stabbed the pickled egg with the tangs of his fork, utilising the experience of numerous previous attempts, many of which, in the early days, had ended with the egg resisting his attentions and literally taking flight. The art of it was to ensure the tangs made initial contact at as nearly a perpendicular angle to the surface of the egg as possible, and at the correct velocity. Anything different, and the chances of having to retrieve your egg from some place you would rather not, increased exponentially in proportion to the degree of inaccuracy.  
   He thought it rather a shame that his ability in this field of endeavour did not attract the same admiring comments as say, blowing smoke rings, or flipping a coin across your knuckles. The problem with stabbing pickled eggs, was that nobody noticed when you got it right but could nearly wet themselves laughing when you got it wrong, especially if the egg's trajectory, during its escape, included some near misses and its final destination was some decidedly mucky and inaccessible place.  
   His contemplation of the disappointingly small amount of received kudos in comparison to the offputtingly high amount of disciplined practise required for successful egg stabbing, was abruptly interrupted by the stinging sensation he felt when he began to chew a mouthful of vinegar soaked egg, and the sticky yoke came into contact with the still raw surface of the roof of his mouth.  
    _"Sheeee-it!"_ he hissed.  
   Fortunately, it was within the range of pain which the Jeremy could steel himself to handle, at a level he could almost enjoy. It was more painful than the pain which had accompanied the rawifying of the roof of his mouth in the first place, but it was a different kind of pain.  
   He thought about what it meant to _enjoy_ it while he finished chewing and the pain slowly subsided. 'Enjoy' was not really the right word to use. He supposed it was a similar thing to the sensation of fear you got on a roller-coaster. You only enjoyed it because you knew it would not go beyond the limits of your endurance. It was more of a thrill than enjoyment.  
   Pleased with his theory, he set about consuming the rest of the egg, noting as he did so, that the pain he felt lessened with each bite. That was similar, he thought, to the peculiarity of smells becoming less noticeable the longer you smelt them.  
   Having polished his ego to a small degree, via what he thought might well be classed another insightful observation, he put the fork on the empty plate, placed the plate out of harm's way and reached for the booklet again.  
    _"Right then Sam. I'm ready for weird, me old mate. Let's see what else you've got,"_ he said to himself as he found the next page.

> First
> 
> Which came first, the egg or the hen? Teeheehee. How clever we humans are to pose such a question. What a good question! How satisfying it would have felt if we had been the first human to come up with that question.
> 
> We like 'first'. Not just to be first in a race, but to be the first to achieve something, anything. If we cannot claim to be first in the world, then we will make do with first in our country, our school, our class. Anything less than first and we are just an 'also ran', just another nobody in an anonymous crowd of nobodies.
> 
> What about the first human thought? What was it? We can only guess. Perhaps it was an image formed in a human's brain of a physical object or a place.
> 
> A more interesting enquiry might be the question of the first abstract thought of a human. It can be argued that our capability for abstract thought is what sets us apart from the other living creatures with whom we share the planet.
> 
> But thoughts of any kind, are of limited use while they remain inside the head of the one who hosts them. Without the communication of thoughts from one human to others, how could we distinguish ourselves from the other living creatures?
> 
> Which brings us to the first human word. Perhaps some kind of grunt, the archetypal "ug!" of a caveman? I think not.
> 
> There is a word which is universally understood by humans. It's pronunciation varies, but not so much as to render it incomprehensible, no matter who utters it, nor, indeed, who the listener is. It was the first word spoken by a human and it remains the first word spoken by humans today.
> 
> It is of course the cry of a newly born human. The 'word' that says, "I'm alive! And it's scary!"
> 
> Everything follows from that first word. It always did and it always will, for as long as humans exist.
> 
> In the beginning was the word, and the word was neither good nor bad. It was merely a means of attracting attention. It is not until we respond to it that the concepts of good and bad come into play.
> 
> But we have no choice, we must respond. The conversation has begun. Even if we do nothing, then doing nothing is our chosen response.
> 
> Either way, a translation of the second word spoken by humans could reasonably be, "Oi! I'm talking to you!"
> 
> And, if we are not very careful, that is when the trouble starts.
> 
> Are we agreed?
> 
> "Oi! I'm talking to you!"

    _"The guy's a total nutter!"_ the Jeremy laughed.  
   But an intriguing nutter all the same. And, despite his unusual approach to writing, he had some interesting stuff to say. Quite where he was headed was not at all clear, but the Jeremy had nothing else to do, so he decided to stick with it. But first a mug of coffee was called for.  
   Five minutes in the kitchen sorted that out. Five minutes, in which he gave in to the temptation of a peanut butter sandwich, despite only having finished eating his fish 'n' chips a short while before. Back in his room, he once more settled himself down and continued reading.  
    _"Now where was I? Oh yeah, 'Oi! I'm talking to you!'"_  
   He smiled, raised his eyebrows, and turned the page.

> Second
> 
> "Oh! Okay, I'll second that."
> 
> "Well, I'm not so sure. I'd like a second opinion."
> 
> And so the conflict begins.
> 
> Taken to extremes, being first to express an idea sets us up for acclamation or derision. And fear of derision deters many a potential competitor from entering the race.

   That rang a large bell very close to the Jeremy's inner ear, calling forth an array of discordant klaxons, each one expertly operated by one of the villains under whose dominion he'd been the victim of some merciless or thoughtless derision.  
    _"Steady!"_ he thought. _"Don't go getting yourself all riled up about it."_  
    _"Wise decision,"_ encouraged the Professor. _"Who needs re-runs when we've got interesting live action?"_  
   Resisting Sniffling Erik's attempts to cajole him into pulling his emotional trigger, he read the paragraph again and continued on to the next.

> But what of those who overcome their fears (for I doubt there are any, other than the insane, who are truly fearless), those who dare to be first. Do they not become our leaders?
> 
> Take a moment to consider your own position.
> 
> Leader or follower?
> 
> Not sure? Neither? Oh come on. Surely you are not one of those lily livered prevaricators for whom fences were invented.
> 
> Make up your mind! Which is it to be? Will you proudly lead or meekly follow? Clearly, if you have not made up your mind by now, then the answer is 'meekly follow'. Obviously a candidate for blind faith, slavish capitulation and unthinking allegiance to who knows what!
> 
> I'm done with you!

    _"Is this a joke? Or what?"_ the Jeremy wondered with a puzzled laugh.  
    _"He's gone from weirdo to nutter to raving loony in less than half a dozen pages!"_  
   He read it again, just to check that he'd read it right. He _had_ briefly pondered whether he categorised himself as a leader or a follower the first time round, a question he'd asked himself many times in the past, but he'd been pulled into the diatribe before he'd thought it through.  
   The thing was, he still didn't think of himself as either of those things. He certainly couldn't claim to be a leader, although his friends did sometimes ask his advice. But really he was just a good listener, and that's what they wanted. Was he a follower? He didn't like the sound of that. He liked to think he was capable of thinking for himself, even if he didn't know what to think half the time.  
   What was someone called who was neither a leader or a follower? Was there a name for that? 'Prevaricator'?. That's the word old Sammy had used. But 'prevaricator' had a very negative feel about it. Was there a more positive sounding word? He knew there was but it wouldn't come to mind. All he could think of were those three words; leader, follower, prevaricator. And out of those, the only one which had any positive feel to it was 'leader'.  
   He hated it when he couldn't think of a word he knew existed. And then it came back to him.  
    _"'Independent'! Hah! Take that, Mr All-Bran!"_ sang the Jeremy, turning the page triumphantly.

> Third
> 
> And that, assuming you guessed correctly, or at least were not so sensitive as to discard this missive altogether, was the beginning of the third degree. An attempt to 'win' by bullying, combined with the exploitation of emotional chinks in a person's armour. Your armour.
> 
> Not, I suspect, a very successful attempt in this case, but then I am not an expert. I have no desire to 'win' in that way.

The Jeremy caught himself in the act of claiming that, yes, he'd seen it all along, of course he knew what the author was up to, you couldn't fool the Jeremy that easily! Having realised what he was doing, yet again, he had an impelling desire to move swiftly on. He had no desire, whatsoever, to deal with the issue of why he needed to boost his ego by lying to himself. So he lied his way out of it by telling himself he'd deal with it another day, soon, honest. _Now_ was not the time for that, there was more to read!

> But that's the way it goes. First comes the idea, secondly the difference of opinion, and then the third degree. Three steps to heaven, three steps to hell, or, more likely, three steps to war before anyone gets to either of those places.
> 
> Is there any way to avoid it? Of course there is. Just cut the heads off of all those who disagree with you. No more disagreements. Everyone's happy. Well, those that are still alive are happy. For a short while anyway. Until someone has another idea.
> 
> Ideas. That's the problem. If no one had any ideas, then we would all be able to live in peace and harmony. And there's the solution. Ban ideas. Stop people thinking. Make them adhere to the only true ideas. My ideas. On penalty of death. No argument. Therefore harmony. Therefore peace. Therefore right. Therefore righteous!
> 
> Convinced yet? Or are you so stupid you think you have a better idea? Are you sure that's wise? I can't help you if you won't help yourself!
> 
> It's your last chance. . . . .
> 
> Too late!
> 
> Off with your head!

   He laughed out loud. The guy was a nutter for sure, but his humour – he felt it must be humour – plucked a chord that vibrated in harmony with the Jeremy's. And the tension he often felt, when reading something which required him to form an opinion about it, lessened with his laughter.  
   Brindley had so much to answer for when it came to the Jeremy's disdain for reading. For example, he'd asked the Jeremy to tell the class what he thought about Hamlet's famous soliloquy.  
    _"It's about a bloke who's considering suicide because he's really fed up with his life, but he's thinking something like 'better the devil you know than the devil you don't' so he doesn't do it."_  
   Brindley had replied, after what he seemed to think was a suitably dramatic pause, _"Yes, I suppose you could put it that way."_  
   His words were accompanied by a condescending smile that would have caused even the most basic model of an SSBS Detector to start beeping very loudly.  
   He went on to draw the attention of the class to a book written by Arthur Schopenhauer, entitled _Die Welt als Wille under Vofstellung_ , in which, he said, the German philosopher had encapsulated the essence of Hamlet's words. Maintaining his condescending smile, he said he was sure that as students of German the class would find it simplicity itself to understand the original text, wherein the full nuance of the words was to be found, but nevertheless proceeded to give them the benefit of his own translation into English. After another dramatic pause and an ostentatious clearing of his throat, he embarked on what he obviously fancied amounted to a soliloquy of his own making.  
    _"The significant message of the world-famous monologue in Hamlet is, in essence, that, in our condition of miserable destitution, a state of absolute nothingness would undoubtedly be preferable. If suicide really led us to such a state, so that the alternative 'to be or not to be' was genuinely open to us in the fullest sense, it could be chosen as something to be highly prized - 'a consummation devoutly to be wish'd'. However, something inside us tells us this is not the case, that death is not the final act, that death is not an absolute destruction."_  
   Brindley looked around the room almost as if he expected some applause.  
   The class remained silent.  
   However, Succinctly Sid had been sufficiently moved, upon hearing Brindley's efforts, that he'd felt compelled to make a comment.  
    _"Pretentious prick,"_ he'd said.  
   The Jeremy had agreed, but kept it to himself. Why did they have to go and spoil it with all that deep meaning stuff? Shakespeare was hard enough to understand as it was, what with all the Olde Englishe you had to deal with. Sadly, regardless of Sid's opinion of Brindley, for many years he was unable to take much pleasure in Shakespeare, primarily because he always felt he was probably missing the deeper meaning.  
   But that was all far from his mind on this evening. Despite having just been threatened with decapitation, he didn't feel in the least bit intimidated by this writer. This writer had made him laugh out loud. He eagerly turned the page.

> One  
>  Belief
> 
> Would the world not be a better place if we all shared the same belief? Can we not find something about which we can all agree? A basic, fundamental truth, a truth that cuts across race, gender, age, location and everything else that divides us. Something so basic yet so universally applicable that no one could argue against it.
> 
> Surely someone must have come up with something in all the years of human thought. Of all the philosophers, theologians, artists and scientists who have ever lived, surely one must have hit upon some sort of golden rule?
> 
> How silly of me! Of course they have. And not just once!
> 
> The Golden Rule has been known for millennia, expressed in slightly different ways by various people at various times.
> 
> "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

    _"Yeah! Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By!"_ thought the Jeremy, cheer-leader style.

> I have heard it expressed that way, and it seems as good as any other version. If only we could get everyone to adopt it as a basic, fundamental belief, then surely the world would be a much better place?
> 
> Well of course it would. Just think how well integrated all the sado-masochists would feel.
> 
> And when you have figured that out, consider how much importance a mother who has no food to feed her starving children should place upon our Golden Rule, when presented with the opportunity to steal some.
> 
> One size fits all?

   Although he wasn't aware of it, Samuel Izabran was in deep shit. His attempt to show the futility of using the Golden Rule, or any other single rule, as a universal truth applicable to all, had given the Jeremy the needle. With all due respect to Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By, the author had taken a swipe at one of the Jeremy's sacred cows, and his fate was precariously balanced on the very tip of that needle.  
    _"You got a problem with Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By and you got a problem with me! Arsehole!"_ was in danger of bursting to the surface when the Professor intervened.  
    _"He has a point, you know. The Golden Rule assumes that everyone wants the same things. But they obviously don't, if you think about it. Like the stranger at the bus stop who starts talking to you, out of the blue, about the state of the Government or something. They'd be just as happy if you started talking to them, out of the blue, so they see nothing wrong or even strange about doing it to you, even though it's the last thing you want."_  
   Purely out of respect for the Professor, he read the 'offending' paragraphs again. Somewhat reluctantly, he had to concede that no mention of Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By had actually been made, nor any accusation levelled against her of personally giving succour to any sado-masochists. He also had to concede that his outrage at the supposed attack on her reputation, had blinded him to the contents of the paragraph about the mother with no food for her children. His first reading of it had been done in 'mechanical mode', where each word is processed and immediately discarded before it leaves the retinas.  
    _"Retinae?"_ queried Dan Tick, unable to do otherwise.  
   The Jeremy started thinking about starving children and how terrible it must be for their parents having to decide whether to eat the food themselves to stay alive in order to look after their children, or give the food to their children to keep them alive and risk leaving them with no one to look after them if they, their parents, became too weak or died.  
   He had to stop thinking about it because he knew it wasn't just an imaginary situation. It was happening for real in loads of places and no amount of imagination would ever come close to what it really felt like to be in that situation.  
   Then he thought about the times people had tried to shame him into eating the food he'd left on his plate – because he already felt full – by saying _'think of all the starving children in Africa'_ , as if that was a good reason for him to become obese.  
    _"Shitheads!"_ he thought, content that it summed them up and expressed his contempt for them too.  
   He wished there was something he could do to help those children, and he did feel guilty that he was so well off in comparison. But even if he did nothing to help them, he knew he would never use their plight as a bargaining chip like _that_.  
   He'd managed to get himself quite worked up and had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a few mouthfuls of coffee too, and attempted to think about what he'd read a little more objectively.  
   What the bloke was really saying, was that you can't make a rule which works in every situation. He'd thought about that quite a lot himself. Like the Fifth Commandment. _You shall not kill_. He could still see it written, in his mind's eye, in his Catechism. It was good as a rule of thumb but he could think of several situations where it didn't make sense.  
   Some people believed that if you killed someone in self defence then that was okay, if it was your only option. The law appeared to take that view to some degree. The Jeremy wasn't sure how he felt about it though, because it seemed much too open to abuse. But he had no doubt about killing someone to prevent them killing someone else, like a child, someone who couldn't defend themselves. Of course, he'd leave it until the last possible moment, but then, they'd be toast. No doubt about it.  
   Satisfied that he'd understood what the author was saying, and that he wasn't saying that Mrs Do-As-You-Would-Be-Done-By was a complete waste of time, he decided he was ready to continue. He wasn't quite as eager to turn the page as the time before, because it obviously wasn't going to be all laugh-a-minute kind of stuff, but his curiosity about what he would find was jumping up and down inside his head in quite an excited state.  
   He had no other choice. He flipped to the next page.

> True  
>  Belief
> 
> _"Feel free to express, or even promote, whatever opinion or belief you choose to hold but know that only a fool, or a liar, presents opinions or beliefs as fact"_ – SI
> 
> Remember that? If you guessed I was quoting myself then good for you. But I claim no exclusive possession of those words. Indeed, they may have been said by countless others whose initials would be equally deserving of inclusion. However, is it not whether the words hold any value, rather than whose words they are, that is the important factor?
> 
> Are fools and liars the only ones to indulge in such misrepresentations? Everyday conversations between ordinary people are littered with them. But don't take my word for it. Just listen.
> 
> "That Johnny is a bit of alright."
> 
> "You can't do better than get eight hours sleep a night."
> 
> "Children always play up at the worst possible moment."
> 
> Not, perhaps, exactly what you hear, but the point is they all express an opinion, if not a belief, as if it were fact. Are the speakers fools, or worse, liars? Surely the worst they can be accused of is laziness, a laziness which results in the omission of the words "I think", or some other such qualifier?
> 
> I submit that it is that very laziness that makes such speakers foolish, if not actual fools, on the premise that such behaviour puts them at risk of dishonesty through force of habit and, perhaps worse, vulnerable to the dishonesty, the lies, of others.
> 
> How so? Well it depends on what you deem to be a lie.
> 
> Consider the statement "The end of the world is nigh!"
> 
> One might deem it to be a lie because one does not believe the world is about to end. But is the world coming to an end (or not) the determining factor? I think not. Had the speaker prefixed those words with 'I believe' then an honest speaker they would be. Without that prefix, dishonesty prevails, making them deceitful, a liar. Would it not fail the courtroom test of 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth'?
> 
> But does it really matter if some fool wants to wander up and down the high street, sporting a sandwich board and haranguing passers by? Perhaps not. Does it matter if someone seeks to indoctrinate another, a child for example, by presenting opinion or belief as fact? I think it does.

   The Jeremy had to read it through several times because he kept going into 'mechanical mode'. His mind would go off at a tangent, triggered by a word here or a phrase there. Who the hell was Johnny? His father never got eight hours sleep – was that significant? What was it like in a courtroom? When he eventually managed to concentrate sufficiently, the second half of that last paragraph set him off again.  
    _"Too fucking right it does!"_ he said, almost audibly, while vividly remembering his own childhood.  
   Pain, frustration, anger, loathing and yes, hatred, sloshed around inside him, a dangerous cocktail that only a madman would shake instead of stir. In fact, you would have needed to be certifiably insane even to stir it, very, very gently.  
   There were some things, like Father Christmas, which it didn't matter were lies because, after a while, parents owned up that it wasn't true. It was just a bit of fun that made Christmas exciting, and you could enjoy the presents he brought because he wasn't there when you opened them, so you didn't have to pretend too much if you thought they were rubbish.  
   In fact there were lots of things in the make believe world of childhood which were not based on fact. That's why it was called _make believe!_ Nobody insisted they were true after you'd grown out of it. Except for one thing. And that _one thing_ , the one thing that was really important, was driving the Jeremy's anger way over the speed limit. Fortunately, the large question mark further down the page had caught his eye, and it forced his focus back to the words.

> If it should come to pass that you agree with me, then I ask this question: What, if anything, will you do about it?
> 
>   
> 
> And if it should also come to pass that you feel put upon by the question and feel tempted to throw it back at me, then of course my answer will be that, for one thing, I wrote this book. The question still remains......
> 
> What, if anything, will you do about it?

   He didn't feel put upon or have any inclination to throw it back, but that didn't mean it was an easy question to answer. It was reminiscent of a question he'd been asking himself, on and off, for a long time, and so far he hadn't come up with a satisfactory answer.  
   He'd tried to talk about it with his mother, but he invariably ended up pouring some of that recently mentioned dangerous cocktail into her glass, which he immediately regretted and then tried to dilute it with copious amounts of wishy washiness. But wishy washiness would never change anything.  
   When it came right down to it, he didn't know what he was going to do. But there was no doubt in his mind that he was going to do something. He didn't know when or what it would be, but he knew it would happen. What's more, he knew it in a calm way that guaranteed it.  
    _"Maybe I'll write a book too,"_ he thought.  
   But that would have to wait. There was more reading to do.

> Free  
>  Belief
> 
> "Roll up! Roll up!
> 
> Get your free belief here! Special introductory offer. Nothing to pay now! Enjoy it in the comfort of your own home. Instant membership! No probationary period required.
> 
> Don't settle for inferior imitations. Get the genuine article of faith here. Leave those outmoded beliefs on the shelf.
> 
> Get the all new edition. Built on a solid core of established, tried and tested belief. Continually revised and updated to meet the demands of our rapidly changing world.
> 
> Don't believe the hype surrounding other beliefs. Don't be sucked in by their sick slick claims. Don't miss this once in a lifetime opportunity. Get the one true belief here. Sign up today. You won't regret it.
> 
> Why not share it with your family and friends? Get extra copies at no cost. Get an extra one for those unexpected visitors. They will thank you for it.
> 
> Not sure what to believe? Join our support group. Let one of our experts guide you.
> 
> Already a believer? Support your belief system now. Give generously.
> 
> Roll up! Roll up!"

   It wasn't laugh-out-loud funny, but it was smile-worthy. But then, the mood he was in from the previous chapter, there probably wasn't anything that would seem laugh-out-loud funny. He was reading things he hadn't expected to read, reading things that intimated someone else had similar views to him, and that was something he'd come to think would never happen. He'd thought he was alone in thinking the things he thought, and he hardly dared think it wasn't so. He almost didn't want to turn the page in case it turned out to be a hoax. But he had to turn it anyway.

> Four!
> 
> Five beliefs.
> 
> Six beliefs.
> 
> Seven beliefs.
> 
> More!
> 
> Children believe it when they are told that 'counting potatoes' is a random method of choosing. But not for long. They see through it fairly quickly and some of the smarter ones soon work out how to use it to their advantage.
> 
> Children believe what they are told. Whatever they are told. And they continue to believe it until they can prove to themselves that it is wrong. 'Counting potatoes' is easily exposed – just do the numbers. Proving the non-existence of something, especially something invisible, is not so easy, perhaps impossible.
> 
> Have you ever experienced the feeling that someone or something is behind you? The small hairs at the back of your neck stand up, the muscles in your back twitch, you can feel the adrenaline surging through your body as you prepare to spin around to see who, or what, is there. But when you do, there is nothing.
> 
> Have you ever walked in the countryside at dusk, or in the dark, or even in broad daylight, and thought there was something moving in the bushes or trees? Your senses go on full alert, you stand stock still, ready to jump. You stare intently, looking for further signs of movement, but nothing moves.
> 
> Have you ever lain awake at night, in the half-darkness, and your eye has been caught by the shape of something in the shadows? You draw in a breath, moving your head stealthily to get a better look. But it turns out to be a trick of the light.
> 
> What should we say to our children when they experience these things and they show us, or tell us, of their fear?
> 
> Should we tell them:
> 
> "It's okay. Your body is doing what it's supposed to do. It's detecting possible threats of attack from animals or even humans. Usually the threat is not real, but it's a good thing your body detects threats even if it's usually mistaken. Attacks on humans are practically non-existent these days, but even if your body was right only once in your life, what a good thing it would be that your body's detection system gave you enough warning to get away from the danger, or to defend yourself. It's a great feeling after our body tells us there is a threat and it turns out it was mistaken, there was nothing there. Phew! What a relief! Sometimes you just have to laugh out loud!"
> 
> Or perhaps we should tell them:
> 
> "Don't worry, there are things we just don't understand. I am here now and I won't let anything hurt you..."
> 
> Or how about:
> 
> "There are ghosts and demons and devils and evil things we cannot see, but they are lurking everywhere, waiting to spring from the shadows. They can attack you but you cannot attack them. They are more powerful than you. You cannot protect yourself against them. Some of them can get inside you and make you do evil things. They exist only to capture human souls. But it's okay. There's nothing to worry about. Another invisible being has the power to protect you. And he will, if you believe in him with all your heart."
> 
> So what is it to be for our children?
> 
> Should we scare the life out of them before they have begun to live it?
> 
> Or perhaps we should emphasize their vulnerability and reinforce their fear of the unknown, simply by confirming the existence of invisible scary things via our promises to protect them?
> 
> Or should we equip them with a means to free themselves from unnecessary fear, build their self-confidence, and teach them to cherish and share laughter wherever they find it?
> 
> Who but an evil person would justify filling the minds of children with fear? Justify it by claiming 'truth' demands it. If we have the ability, then does not love demand we use it to allay their fears?

   The Jeremy took in a lungful of oxygen and let it out with a _"Phew!"_ that got caught in his throat. The salty taste of tears, which had begun to flow a minute earlier, made itself known as he licked the inside of his lips, which he still held tightly pressed together. He made no sound, other than that of his breathing, but the tears continued to wet the creases on either side of his nose.  
   He made no attempt to wipe them from his face, there was nobody there to see them, no reason to try to hide them. The words he'd read had caused the well of sadness that resided within him to overflow. Sadness that love's demands seemed so rarely heeded and so often trampled underfoot.  
   But this was not the pool of tears inhabited by Sniffling Erik. This well of sadness was the source from which began to flow the Jeremy's human spirit, a trickle at first but now the flow had started, it would grow. There would be more private tears but the Jeremy would no longer be ashamed of them. His spirit had already grown stronger than that, each teardrop nourishing the sprouting seeds of courage.  
   After his tears had ceased, he felt he knew, with a little more certainty, just who this 'Jeremy', this mystery person who he hadn't chosen to _be_ but for whom he had to make choices about what 'he' would _become_ , just who this 'Jeremy' was. How ironic that it should have been tears, those messengers of emotion held in such contempt by many a masculine meathead, which had revealed the foundations of the man.  
   Those foundations noted that there were still a few unread pages, and one unread line at the bottom of the page he'd been reading:-

> Who stands to gain by the promotion of fear in children?

    _"Well whoever you are, you fucking bastards, I'm on your case now."_  
   He said it plainly, without bravado or gungho intoxication. He was in for the long haul. More of a Lieutenant Columbo than a Lone Ranger. He'd really work alone. He'd have no sidekick. He'd piece together the clues no matter how long it took. The file had been opened and was waiting for input.  
   But first he wanted to know what else Samuel Izabran had to say. There weren't many pages left to read, but he felt sure he would find something of value in them. There might even be some pointers to what he should do. But even if they contained nothing but a load of bollocks, it would not detract from the worth of what he'd read so far. For such a small book, he felt it had a lot to say.  
   He took a gulp from his mug of coffee, adjusted his position to get more comfortable, and turned to the next page.

> Pneuma
> 
> Noun (from Greek): _breath, wind, spirit_  
>  Pronunciation: _NYOOmuh, NOOmuh_  
>  Etymology: _Ultimately, from the Indo-European root pneu- (to breathe). Also the source of apnea, pneumatic, pneumoconiosis, pneumonia, sneer, sneeze, snore and snort._
> 
> I do not know if there are any gods 'out there', but I can clearly see that we humans are more than capable of inventing them, whether they actually exist or not. Indeed, there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of gods which have come alive in the imaginations of humans over the long course of our history.
> 
> Most have fallen by the wayside. Humans just stopped discussing and arguing about them. No longer concerned about their characteristics, their appearance, their whims, demands and orders.
> 
> Take Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec god of the sun and war. Who among us now debates or argues about the details of the ritual, the divinely ordained method, for extracting the heart of a living human as a sacrifice to Him? Who now claims direct knowledge of the mind of Huitzilopochtli? A god once so powerful that absolute belief in Him caused humans to carry out such ghastly rituals in His name, a god who now lies discarded, with so many others, in an ever growing heap of forgotten gods.
> 
> As human imagination has become more sophisticated, so too have the gods; each new generation of gods moving towards an ultimate sophistication which needs fewer of them to meet the needs of humans.
> 
> There are some who are still alive and kicking; in debates, in arguments and sadly, all too frequently, in physical attacks and wars. Which of these remaining gods will be next to find themselves tossed on the heap of has-beens, toppled from an apparently unassailable position? There is no shortage of imaginative humans. Will one of them find the formula which grabs the minds of enough humans that the current gods become obsolete?
> 
> These days, imagining a brand new god is not an easy task, and is one that will almost certainly fail. A much safer bet is to claim new insight into the nature of an existing god. Many have come before us who claimed to have such insights. Insights which, although new at the time, are 'old hat' now. What could be added to the current gods which would be of any significance?
> 
> Perhaps the time has come to dispense with the idea of gods and all things 'supernatural' altogether. You can, of course, decide to do so at a personal level, at any time, just as I have. But whatever you or I might do, humans will continue to use their imaginations, to have ideas and to communicate them to others. Some of those ideas will be no more than small adaptations, designed purely to breathe new life into old ideas. Others may be the catalyst to a new understanding that radically changes our perception of ourselves and our place in this universe.
> 
> But what of Truth? Disregarding for a moment the invention of the industrial blender and its possibilities, while a camel may not easily pass through the eye of a needle, it seems there are no such limitations on 'Truths' and the eye of the beholder.
> 
> It's just [a] thought.

   It all seemed so obvious, now that he'd read it. He had an urge to share it, to give the booklet to someone else, but he also had a feeling that it might not mean as much to them as it did to him, and consequently it would get lost. There was also an idea lurking in the fringes of his mind, an idea which common sense told him was absurd. But nevertheless, he felt as if the words had been written especially for him. They had unlocked something which had been imprisoned inside him, stifled by all that 'Truth'.  
   He'd been trying to use his intellect to discard something that operated at a much deeper level. The ideas of God and the Devil, of Heaven and Hell, of ghosts and angels and all the other demons, had been planted in the virgin soil of his imagination long before his intellect emerged. They grew like weeds, suffocating the seedlings of the beautiful flowers that might grow there.  
   There was irony buried in that garden too. Those that claimed the moral superiority of humans through their status as 'special creations of God', had planted their seeds in him so the roots would feed on the parts of him which were most like the other animals. They drew their nourishment from the older parts of his brain, the parts which deal with reflexes, the fight-or-flight response to acute stress which we share with all animals.  
   His intellect – his capacity for creative thought and communication – the newest parts of his brain, the parts which hinted that his species is unique among the creatures which inhabit this Earth, would need a constant supply of weed killer to combat the insidious growth. A little fertiliser for his fledgling blooms might not go amiss either, and he found some at the bottom of the page.

> Let your spirit ride free among the breaths of wind.

   There were three more pages left to turn. He knew the last one was blank and the one before that was the one about not finding the answers there. He was reluctant to look at the remaining page, partly because he didn't want the book to end and partly because he would be disappointed if it was blank. He smiled at his silliness but nevertheless, he decided to read the whole thing through again before he found out.  
   The second time around, there were a few more tears, some laughter, some anger and a good deal of thought, not to mention more coffee. There was no rush to read it so he spent most of the time in thought, on experimental flights, trying out his new found spirit for airworthiness.

*

   Two o'clock. He looked at his clock again. For nearly two months his clock had claimed that time had stopped at two o'clock, although strangely, for such a universe-breaking event, it hadn't felt it necessary to specify whether it had been in the morning or afternoon.  
    _"Great Sheit Almighty!"_ he cursed inventively, borrowing from his knowledge of German spelling and pronunciation. Two in the morning and he was starting college in a few hours. He'd wound and set the clock earlier with the best of intentions.  
   Well, there was nothing he could do about it, he couldn't have slept, even if he'd tried. Anyway, adrenaline would see him through.  
   Settling himself down comfortably to give himself the best chance of getting to sleep, he wondered if his curse counted as blasphemy. It was the seed of an idea, perhaps just a spore, which would mushroom in the not so distant future. But that's another story.  
   Then he remembered that he still hadn't looked to see if there was anything on that unread page. He felt a bit daft but still had to take a deep breath before he turned to it. There, printed in the centre, he read:

> I can't play the guitar like George,  
>  it's my pen that weeps.

   The meeting of minds was complete. He'd long since grown out of the habit of taking on another's persona – Jimmy Greaves no more able to maintain his demi-god status than any other member of the pantheon – but if he'd been forced to choose at that moment, Jeremy would have said:

"I'll be Sam Izabran."

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

## BOOKEND

### End Notes

#### ::::: Snapshot 1 :::::

 If you prefer your reading to flow, _uninterrupted_ , click the 1 on the left and ignore all the other reference number links which you will find throughout this book.  
   As you are still reading, I'll assume you do not fall into that category and are curious to know more. The first edition of this book came out in print and was later converted to an ebook. In the print version, these End Notes were scattered throughout the book either as footnotes, or inserted into the text as 'asides'. That approach remained in the first ebook edition mainly because the conversion was done largely automatically. This edition has been manually converted from the original document to take advantage of the flexibility inherent in ebooks.  
   All the footnotes and 'asides' in the original document have been moved from the body of the book to this End Notes section, with associated numbered links in the text. Some, like this one, provide factual information, such as the meaning of an unusual word. Others are nothing more than author's comments, or clarifications, which are not required to follow the story. Some of these fall into the category of 'breaking the fourth wall', a practice considered controversial by some. _JSW 2013_

#### ::::: Snapshot 3 :::::

 This is, of course, an out and out lie. The Jeremy's intellect was nowhere near sufficiently developed to understand the nuance of such a phrase, let alone capable of constructing the sentence. The author simply claims to hold a full and current artistic license (but declines to reveal if it contains any endorsements).

#### ::::: Snapshot 4 :::::

 At this point in his life, his thoughts were still in the native language of his brain cells, chattering amongst themselves. The English translations given here are for your convenience only.

 A somewhat romantic view which ignores the fact that much of NOW bypasses the history books altogether, effectively disappearing without trace. But that's what makes romance so attractive.

 The author is banking on any 'typical' lexicographer being the sort of person who reads endnotes, and, therefore, is reading this endnote _before_ jumping up and down indignantly muttering _"what does he mean, **typical** lexicographer!"_ If you are just such a lexicographer, then you have the author's permission to begin jumping up and down indignantly... now.

#### ::::: Snapshot 5 :::::

 A monkey's 'what' you may be wondering. This was, if you recall, the 1950s. It was left to the listener to fill in the gaps. Some sources proffer 'tit' as the correct gap filler, alleging that when prefaced by "monkey's" the whole is rhyming slang for 'shit'. Others insist this is a watered down version invented to massage the ugly reality for the benefit of those with delicate dispositions. They say 'luck' is the genuine gap filler, citing more recent developments in the common use of English as corroborating evidence, vis-à-vis, 'don't give a fuck what the little shit does as long as he don't give us any motherfuckin' crap'. Research has raised the possibility that this may well be complete nonsense, perpetuated by those who maintain a school-boyish delight in managing to get 'dirty' words into print. Be that as it may, the Jeremy didn't give a monkey's about any of that. He had more pressing things to think about.

 The 'mother hens' among you may have deduced that the Jeremy was playing _outside_. Not just outside 'in the elements', but outside the boundaries of his parents' abode, by the side of a public road, in the vicinity of a building site, apparently unsupervised and left to his own devices! Cluck, cluck, cluck, squawk, cluck! This calls for some context and perspective.  
   Small rural market towns, in the southern counties of 1956 England, were still about as close to that idyllic picture of a green and pleasant land, so famously painted in song, as it was possible to get. Although it was eleven years since the end of the second world war, the spirit of pulling together, the maintenance of a stiff upper lip and doing things for King and Country (regardless of the gender of the monarch in 1956), was still strong. Indeed, it was only two years since the end of food rationing, an imposition which had begun not long after the start of the war.  
   The evil of the Nazis had been dispatched, and the world was safe again. Good had triumphed. Doors were left unlocked. People trusted their neighbours. They might not have _liked_ their neighbours but they trusted them. And loosely included in that category of trusted neighbours, due to their proximity, were the builders and labourers who were working on the site two doors away from the Jeremy's home.

 Obviously not, why would she? But equally, why should that inconvenient little fact stop the author having a pop at financial advisers in peevish retaliation for some costly bad advice?

 This is probably a gross misrepresentation of karma, but it's commonly thought to be correct, a fact which is, in itself, possibly an example of vipaka. It beats the Hell out of the author.

#### ::::: Snapshot 6 :::::

 For example: ancient, beige, caffeine, deficient, deign, deity, either, feign, feisty, glacier, heir, neighbour, neither, reign, reins, science, society, species, sufficient, veil, veins, weigh, weir and weird – just to illustrate the principle, you understand.

#### ::::: Snapshot 7 :::::

 In fact the proverbial fly is not in Proverbs at all. Ecclesiastes (10:1) is its source.

> For the more scholarly among you, the Latin Vulgate version has it thus: _muscae morientes perdunt suavitatem unguenti pretiosior est sapientia et gloria parva ad tempus stultitia_
> 
> Douay-Rheims translation: _Dying flies spoil the sweetness of the ointment. Wisdom and glory is more precious than a small and shortlived folly._
> 
> Or the more recent New Jerusalem translation: _One dead fly can spoil the scent-maker's oil: a grain of stupidity outweighs wisdom and glory._
> 
> Small things can indeed have a large impact on outcomes.
> 
> Interestingly, the following line is this: _cor sapientis in dextera eius et cor stulti in sinistra illius_
> 
> D-R reckons this means: T _he heart of a wise man is in his right hand, and the heart of a fool is in his left hand._
> 
> The NJ people realised that what the line really means is: _The sage's heart leads him aright, the fool's leads him astray._
> 
> Clever people those NJ bods.

#### ::::: Snapshot 8 :::::

 The Ten Commandments

  1. I am Yahweh your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. You shall have no gods except me. You shall not make yourself a carved image or any likeness of anything in heaven, or on the earth beneath or in the waters under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or serve them.

  2. You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

  3. Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.

  4. Honour your father and your mother.

  5. You shall not kill.

  6. You shall not commit adultery.

  7. You shall not steal.

  8. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour.

  9. You shall not covet your neighbour's wife.

  10. You shall not covet your neighbour's goods.

  _"God knows and sees all things, even our most secret thoughts."_

#### ::::: Snapshot 9 :::::

 The lady who lived next door during his time at St Joseph's, but not because of anything memorable she'd said to him. It was her physical presence. She was the most crassulent3 person the Jeremy had ever seen.

 From 'The Water-Babies' by Charles Kingsley, a book which was a far more effective guide to good behaviour than any other that was ever read to him.

3 Adjective: Very fat, overweight, grossly obese

 A magazine containing mostly black and white photographs of ladies who, despite having breasts and nipples, had no pubic hair or genitalia, the extra shininess usually found in that area providing evidence of more than just pre-production retouching. Often found in the waiting area of gents' hairdressers, no doubt as a reminder and encouragement for clients to purchase 'something for the weekend', it was a little ironic that the ladies in the pictures appeared unable to indulge in any sexual shenanigans of any real consequence.

#### ::::: Snapshot 10 :::::

  _"Language!"_ scolded Mrs Bulging Bosoms, huffing loudly because on this occasion she was ignored.

 It seems only fair to mention that they were purveyors of fine ales (at least, they were according to the plaque on the wall by the entrance door) even if it was a claim the Jeremy would dispute in years to come. But then, he was a tad biased.

 Hiding in plain sight. This endnote is an attempt to illustrate the principle of hiding in plain sight, and the author congratulates anyone who is reading it, because there is no visible reference to it in the text.

 A maelstrom, for those unfamiliar with the term, could be visualised as an upturned whirling Dervish. A legless whirling Dervish. Or perhaps, because of its location in the Jeremy's brain, a cortex vortex.

#### ::::: Snapshot 11 :::::

 The Jeremy had heard the word 'finagle' when his father, while doing the crossword in The Telegraph, announced to his mother that it was the answer to the clue for three across, 'Northerner initially swindles airborne hunter', which, of course, could be said to have flown right over the Jeremy's head. Except that he remembered the word and associated it with 'swindle'. But regardless of what it really meant, he thought that 'finagled' _sounded_ exactly how he felt.

#### ::::: Snapshot 12 :::::

 Some readers may be having difficulty dealing with the appearance of the words 'innocent' and 'schoolboys' so close to each other within a single sentence, and may even agree with the Colonel who thinks it an affront to all we hold dear, that the two words are even allowed to inhabit the same paragraph. Such readers are advised to skip this entire chapter (or at least get a note from their doctor before continuing).

#### ::::: Snapshot 13 :::::

 'On the money'? 'Hit the nail on the head'? 'Right on!' was where it was at in 1968, man.

 It was a list of things he _might_ brag about because he rarely bragged about anything, having found there would almost inevitably be someone present who had, or rather claimed to have, done something which topped whatever it was he'd just bragged about.

#### ::::: Snapshot 13a :::::

 Noun: An instinctive stretching, as on awakening or while yawning.

 For those readers who are not acquainted with the song in question, the fuel of choice for the conflagration was 'troubles'.

 If you listen carefully, you may be able to hear the petulant tones of Dan Tick resonating grandiloquently in the background – _"about which, about which!"_

 Forewarned is forearmed – although 'foreheaded' might be a better description – and on that basis, the author gives readers the 'heads up' that on the following pages, words commonly referred to as 'four-lettered', including the one which must never be spoken, appear multiple times. If you would rather not know the Jeremy's thoughts on such things, then skip forward to the bottom of page... no ... oh bollocks to it, just skip the whole book.

 That would, of course, be the words 'fuck', 'shit' and 'arseholes', not 'scoriaceous' or 'sluggettes'.

 Adjective: novice-like. Good for you if you knew that, but the author had to check the dictionary to make sure it meant what he thought it meant.

#### ::::: Snapshot 14 :::::

 For those of you not familiar with the system of abbreviations used by participants in SMS text conversations and, to some extent, on-line chat forums – n als0 4 d0se of u hu r buT r n0t bryt enuf 2 fiGur it owt – ROTSFL stands for Rolling On The Sea Floor Laughing.

~:~:~

### Backword

   On the assumption that you are reading this paragraph after reading all the preceding paragraphs in this book, Jo S.Wun would like to thank you for issuing the temporary visas which allowed Jeremy and all the other characters to visit your imagination. Jo would also like to thank you for your hospitality, and to let you know that they hope to visit again in the future.  
   In addition, he would like to point out that the characters in this story, although fictional, are all based on real people. He says it cannot be any other way because he has never met any people who were not real. However, in the time honoured fashion, at least since Dragnet made the phrase famous, _the names have been changed to protect the guilty innocent._

~:~:~

### About the Author

   When asked to supply some information to go into this _About the Author_ piece, Jo mentioned a critic (whose name was not revealed) who described Jo to his editor thus: _A two-bit charlatan who would go to any lengths to get hideous lies into print, even to re-writing a fourth rate novel to achieve it._  
   Jo cites it as an example of the damage that can be done by the Chinese Whispers effect of a bad telephone link, and claims that what was really said was: _A true Brit, a charming man, who would go to any lengths to get his ideas into print, eventually writing a forthright novel to achieve it._  
   Jo asks if, while you are choosing what to believe, you could possibly send three and fourpence because we're going to a dance.

Find out more about Jo at his Smashwords page.

~:~:~

The print version of this book is published by

 Check availability at  
BookButler

~:~:~

### Acknowledgements

   The author has noted a tendency, at least in some writers, to treat Acknowledgements pages as if they are the equivalent of an acceptance speech at The Oscars®. While he is happy to acknowledge the important role that the genealogy of the Sun Wun family has played in bringing him into existence, he has no desire to thank each of them individually by name. Nor, for that matter, does he feel the need to publicly thank every acquaintance and passer by for their contribution to the rich tapestry of his life which made this book possible. The people who really deserve his thanks know who they are. Thank you.

   Thanks also go to the creators of the beautiful fonts used in the printed version of this book:

</\></\></\></\></\></\>

**The Greek Font Society** for GFS Artemesia (the main font)  
http://thfonts.com

**Pāli  Font Resources** for Guru (the ♫ symbol)  
www.aimwell.org

**Grant Marshall** for Architext  
www.1001fonts.com

**Denise Chan** for Aerofoil  
http://denn.deviantart.com

**Daniel Midgley** for Daniel  
<http://goodreasonblog.blogspot.com/>

<\/><\/><\/><\/><\/><\/>

   There are a number of references made in this book to real people and things. The list that follows is designed to allow further investigation. Information regarding Registered Trademarks can be found at:

www.ipo.gov.uk/types/tm/t-os/t-find.htm

~:~:~

**Great Expectations** by Charles Dickens  
www.gutenberg.org

**On the Road** by Jack Kerouac  
ISBN: 978-0140042597  
Find via BookButler

**The Enchanted Garden** by Iris Bromige  
www.fantasticfiction.co.uk

**The Water-Babies** by Charles Kingsley  
ISBN: 978-1604505870  
Find via BookButler

**Virginia Woolf**  
http://gutenberg.net.au

**William Shakespeare**  
www.gutenberg.org

Douay-Rheims Bible  
www.drbo.org

**New Jerusalem Bible**  
www.catholic.org

**The Penny Catechism**  
www.proecclesia.com

Andy Capp® & Florrie  
Cartoon characters created by Reg Smythe  
www.creators.com

**Dan Dare® and The Mekon**  
Wikipedia

**Health & Efficiency**  
http://henaturist.net

**Practical Woodworking**  
www.getwoodworking.com

**The Telegraph®**  
www.telegraph.co.uk

**Black Jacks®**  
www.aquarterof.co.uk

**Caramac®**  
www.aquarterof.co.uk

**Maxwell House®**  
Wikipedia

**Oxo®**  
www.premierfoods.co.uk

**Parma Violets**  
www.swizzels-matlow.com

**Rose's® Lime Juice**  
www.gracesguide.co.uk

Barclays®  
www.barclays.com

**Bryant and May®**  
Wikipedia

**Ford Zodiac**  
Wikipedia

**Marks & Spencer®**  
www.marksandspencer.com

**Standard Fireworks**  
www.fireworkmuseum.co.uk

**T-Cut®**  
www.carplan.co.uk

**Valspar®**  
www.valspar.com

**Y Front®**  
www.yfronts.org.uk

BBC News  
www.bbc.co.uk

**Blue Peter®**  
www.bbc.co.uk

**Children's Favourites**  
Wikipedia

**Doctor Who**  
www.bbc.co.uk

**Lieutenant Columbo**  
Wikipedia)

**Radio Caroline®**  
www.radiocaroline.co.uk

**Radio Luxembourg**  
www.radioluxembourg.co.uk

**The Invasion Of The Body Snatchers**  
Internet Movie Database

**The Lone Ranger & Tonto**  
Wikipedia

**The Twilight Zone**  
timstvshowcase.com

**Top Of The Pops®**  
www.bbc.co.uk

Blaze Away  
Lyrics at www.joseflocke.co.uk

**Cream**  
Wikipedia)

**The Beatles**  
www.thebeatles.com

**The Monkees®**  
www.monkees.net

**The Shadows**  
Wikipedia

**Traffic**  
Wikipedia)

**Two Lovely Black Eyes**  
www.youtube.com

**Brigitte Bardot**  
Wikipedia

**Danny Blanchflower**  
Wikipedia

**Dr Benjamin Spock**  
www.drspock.com

**Jimmy Greaves**  
Wikipedia

**Lonnie Donegan®**  
Wikipedia

**Pelé**  
Wikipedia

**Rembrandt**  
Wikipedia

**Valerie Singleton**  
www.bbc.co.uk

Alcatraz  
Wikipedia

**Eleven Plus Exam**  
Wikipedia

**Keep Britain Tidy®**  
Wikipedia

**The Bahá'í Faith**  
www.bahai.org

**The Oscars®**  
www.oscar.com

   And finally, if you find any of the internet addresses above are no longer valid, you could always use a search engine to find the information. Google came up with the items in the above list but no doubt the same information could be found via other search engines too. I rather like DuckDuckGo.

~:~:~

### One Last Thing

   A few people have asked why I always refer to the main character in this book as _the_ Jeremy rather than just Jeremy. Indeed, one or two have said that they found it rather annoying. As a result, I decided to add this explanation, which also means I am compelled to acknowledge that my use of that _literary device_ , if I may be so bold as to describe it thus, has not been as effective as I'd hoped.  
   When we are born, we are given many things by our parents, one of which is a name. Like many other things which our parents give us, or in some instances, force upon us, we have no choice in the matter. Given names carry with them built-in pointers about the person it is given to, or perhaps more accurately, pointers about the characteristics parents hope to see in the person it is given to. The name we are given shapes, to some degree, the person we become.  
   When an author thinks up an imaginary person as a character for a book, her choice of name for that imaginary person will be a reflection of the character traits she proposes to give him. An _Alex_ will likely be different from an _Alexander_ , and different again from a _Jake_. Similarly, in real life we tend to characterise a person upon hearing their name, before we've even met them. Both global and personal history no doubt plays a large part in that. If we think of names as having a weight, then some names are heavier than others. For example, _Adolf_ , in post world war two Europe, carries a lot of weight, and would be a heavy burden to carry.  
   Many parents are much like authors. In most cases, the person they are naming is an imaginary person at the time they choose the name (because they are not yet born), and the chosen name represents a path. That path is the one mapped out for their children by such parents, who use whatever tools they deem fit for the purpose to keep their children on that particular _straight and narrow_.  
   Some children appear to take possession of their given name early in their lives, and find it fits them like a tailor made suit, while others struggle to get comfortable in it. Some of those latter type of children never succeed in getting comfortable, and end up adopting a nickname as their identity, or, in extreme cases, changing their name by due legal process.  
   The device of using the definite article to precede the main character's name throughout this book is meant to portray that he has not taken possession of his given name, his own identity, until the end of the final snapshot where he begins to know himself, and to become comfortable with who he is. 
