 
For Information regarding Mark England & Scrutter Publications please see:

www.englands-glory.com

'The Tales From The Warren Series'

insularfield

a mark england novel.

scrutter publications©
Mark England has asserted his right under the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be the author of this work.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Registered with the IP Rights Office Copyright Registration Service - 1079605830

First Published in 2014 by scrutter publications

Cover photography by Vitaly Krivosheev

twitter.com/alonelyincubus
For Marissa and Holly.

My love for you could never justifiably be put in to something so plain and simple as words.

Love Daddy xx

And thanks to Sarah, who I never tire of acknowledging, just as she never tires of her constant encouragement x

# CONTENTS

Insularfield :  the final friday before the clocks go forward

The Aging Hitman.

The World Renowned Novelist.

AN EVAN SENT DOCTOR

The Anonymous Boy Next Door.

The Astute Teenage Girl.

The Fox In A Field Of His Own.

Insularfield :  welcome to bosnia

Maurice.

Martin.

Introducing Evan Speed.

Billy.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Karin.

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  paying the bills

Maurice.

Martin.

Evan.

Billy.

Karin.

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  clanking of marbles

Maurice.

Martin.

Evan.

Billy.

Karin.

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  are you sleeping?

Maurice.

Martin in the sky with diamonds.

Adrian.

Billy.

Karin.

DCI Flaxman.

Insularfield :  paranoia the destroyer

The Aging Hitman.

Martin.

Adrian.

Billy.

SPEED DATING?

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  listen to your dad

Maurice.

Martin.

Evan.

Billy.

Miss Nemeth.

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  no escaping a fox's den

Maurice.

Martin.

Evan.

Billy.

Karin.

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  lucid dreams

The Avenging Angel.

Martin.

Miss Speed.

Billy.

Karin.

Flaxman.

Insularfield :  give me a story with a happy ending

The Warren Allotments.

Fulham.

The War Room.

Heathrow.

Hong Kong.

The Flat Above 50 West Gate.

# Insularfield :  
the final friday before the clocks go forward

## The Aging Hitman.

In the dimming twilight I'm inside.

Cats and dogs outside.

Stuffy hot and vanilla and pine in here.

In through the bathroom window left ajar. Mucky footprints on the windowsill. Broken figurine on the carpet floor.

Not as able as I once was.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained.

The specks of rain wiped from my glasses. The zip from my paper boiler suit being loosened. Uncomfortably warm. Bathroom window left open in the growing dimness of the twilight.

Blackening by each sniff from my cold.

Cats and dogs outside.

Stuffy hot and vanilla and pine in here; making me feel like puking.

I take the nub end from my pocket and drop it through the open window on to the concrete below. Blue nitrile gloves. Hiding the truth.

I leave this room and the heavy patter of rain from outside. Its lingering threat to slice open a gash in the clouds been ever present all day.

I move in to the corridor, deeper in to the belly of the house.

Darkness. I fumble around for my maglite. The place spotless.

Cats and dogs outside.

Stuffier and hotter and suffocating from vanilla and pine the further I tread. Droplets on my brow; soaking in to the hood from my paper boiler suit. Dirty and damp oversized 11's on the immaculate pile; swept in the same direction.

For her pleasure.

This house a shrine to house proud middle aged grandmothers. Where son's-in-laws dread to tread. Their heads screaming from vanilla and pine. Their minds elsewhere thanks to the stuffy hot that makes them want to puke.

This house in the twilight that passes over to darkness, on a sodden Friday night in March.

The weekend when the clocks go forward.

1996.

Chatsworth Drive.

Berry Hill.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

In this place it shall continue.

Where foul deeds are necessary to dust away dirty fingers and mischievous acts.

Cats and dogs and fortunate windows helping a task. Keeping bodies off the streets. Prying eyes behind eagerly drawn curtains. Window panes remaining intact and preventing unfortunate accidents for my less able body.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained.

-'Take what you want' he'd said 'Just don't be stupid. I know I can trust you'.

I'm not a needy person. They call me simple. In the nicest of terms though, you must understand.

I have no use for such nice things. Just paying the bills.

I walk past the silverware and gadgets. I pick up the lying money. Be foolish to leave questions by just letting it sit there.

The nice things are for other people to fawn. These things I have no use for in my life.

It's my life that they call simple. It's not me that they call simple. They can trust me. You must understand that.

Cats and dogs outside, knocking at the windows.

Wishing they were inside with me and the stuffy hot and the vanilla and pine.

Aggravating my sinuses and my cold.

Making me want to puke.

Making me prefer being out there. In the dark on Chatsworth Drive.

Berry Hill.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

1996.

On the final Friday of March before the clocks go forward.

-'Break a few things' he said.

-'Take a few things' he said.

-'Make it look like an unfortunate interruption' he said.

-'I know I can trust you'.

Foul deeds are necessary to dust away dirty fingers and mischievous acts.

In a bedroom I turn out some draws. I sniff some knickers, in my shame. They smell of vanilla and pine.

I pull a mattress from the bed.

I strip a wardrobe of its wares.

The same in the following bedroom.

The same in the small study that is full of papers and locked filing cabinets that bust with the knock of a lump hammer.

I pay no attention to what's inside. I'm not a needy person. Just a simple man with simple needs who's not as able as he once was.

Lights sweep the walls of the dining room, like a flash from the heavens on this black and stormy night.

A night when the cats and dogs would sooner be inside amongst the stuffy hot and the vanilla and pine, the purposely swept carpets and the ransacked rooms. Filled with nice materialistic things that don't interest a man of simple needs; and the unpleasantness that is about to unfold.

Just paying the bills.

A key in the door.

A dropping of carrier bags.

A sharp wafting of a soaked umbrella.

The mutterings of a needy bladder.

The positioning of a middle aged man, who is less able than he once was.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained.

Balanced in the darkness of a hallway corridor doorway, dressed in a paper boiler suit and blue nitrite gloves. For her pleasure.

Spectacles poised on the bridge of a prominent nose. Face circled by drawn paper hood. That zip pulled back tight. Uncomfortable from the stuffy hot and the vanilla and pine. Uncomfortable from the cold that had lingered for days.

The flashing of a blade from my side as she approached, turning on a hallway light. An energy saving bulb excusing itself as it begs its pardon to shine its initial dim beam.

A dim beam that glints in the steel briefly as it leaves my side and greets her neck; burying itself through the flesh under her flabby chin.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained; but still possessing an unnerving swiftness.

I shush in to her ear. My arm wrapped around her as I ease her to the purposely swept carpet.

Big saucer bloodshot eyes staring back at me.

Bubbles of red flecked saliva from the corner of her lipsticked mouth.

A horrible acceptance across her ailing features.

She smells of vanilla and pine.

And as I ease her to the purposely swept carpet I hold her in an embrace that allows her a comfortable plummet.

She of nice material things.

Me a simple man unrequiring of needy wares.

Lowering her to the ground in an embrace where we might as well be lovers.

Shushing in to her ear.

A blade inside her neck.

Those saucer-like bloodshot eyes and the last ebbs of her life that are focused solely on me and my thick rimmed spectacles.

Us embracing where we might as well be lovers, down here on the purposely swept carpet, amongst the vanilla and pine.

A commotion by the front door.

An unexpected visitor.

Cats and dogs following them inside.

A breathy call out.

A question unheard.

A disbelieving silence.

An unspeakable and unexpected horror.

A middle aged man losing his agility and gaining a waistline swiftly across the hallway corridor.

A blood covered blade in his hand.

An apologetic energy saving light bulb welcomed on.

Through the vanilla and pine and over by the gaping door, where the stuffy hot loses its effects and the cats and dogs are scrapping for attention.

A blue nitrine gloved hand to a mouth of a younger woman.

A blade plunged in to a belly.

Further saucered eyes; only fuller and brighter and not searching for an embrace.

Not needing a lover, only an explanation.

Where foul deeds are necessary to dust away dirty fingers and mischievous acts.

A body pinned to a wall by a large man of simple needs and brute strength.

An energy saving light bulb coming on. Another life going out.

An unexpected visitor.

Slipping to the doorway floor amongst the cats and dogs.

A knife in her midriff as another soul departs. Without an explanation. Not needing a lover.

Just paying the bills.

I stand and peer outside in to the black evening.

A car on the driveway.

Headlights off. Internal lights on.

A boot open.

Nobody else in sight.

A blood-soaked middle aged man of diminishing agility but a gaining waistline is away on to the soaking tarmac. Feet splashing amongst the deepening puddles.

Orange glow from the humming street lights, flickering blue glows of TV sets and the pattering feet from cats and dogs are the only signs of life.

I rip off the paper boiler suit at the corner of Chatsworth Drive and Southgreen Hill.

Berry Hill.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

1996.

The last Friday in March before the clocks go forward.

I take off my thick rimmed spectacles and wipe the blood from them with the paper boiler suit.

Black Scotch Lane, just past Berry Hill Park. A Lambretta beneath an oak tree on the yellow No Parking zigzag lines outside of the school.

It has a baby blue powder paint finish and cut polished chrome.

Original Italian built.

Innocenti of Milan.

1965.

A much loved project for a man of simple needs.

I lift the seat and wrap the boiler suit inside.

I add the blue nitrite gloves. Ribbed for their pleasures.

I put on my faceless helmet and wipe the cats and dogs from my thick rimmed spectacles.

Kick up the machine.

Look over my shoulder.

Signal.

Manoeuvre.

Away.

Foul deeds used to dust away dirty fingers and mischievous acts

## The World Renowned Novelist.

Downing Martini in my dressing gown staring out on to the heavy grey Solent skies and the thick cobalt waters from the balcony of my Old Portsmouth town house. Downing Martini in the uneasy evening. The Friday before the clocks go forward. A mist developing out at sea, hiding the Isle of Wight. Downing Martini, Portsmouth Harbour quiet. Me in my dressing gown and my running red nose. Pondering miserably. Exhausted from the lack of sleep. Of worry. Of the desire for new flesh. Of the desire for new direction. For a sign, or a clue. An escape from the loneliness. Aid for a wary and muddled mind, desperate for a new hope and assistance for a beleaguered brain. Downing Martini in my dressing gown, exhausted and on my fourtieth cigarette of the day. Needing to get out of this place. Needing a friend. An ally. Needing new flesh and fresh beginnings. A muddled brain and forty cigarettes a day. My mind not my own and Martini not helping.

I take the yellow Jag and drive in to town. Cruising in the evening last light. Looking out and wanting to be seen. She is my signature and I crave to be seen in her. She is my one hundred gun flagship. She gives me my esprit de corps.

Once was a time, when I first moved south to Hampshire, that people used to nod, point and wave.

-'There goes Martin Carruthers' they'd say.

-'A man of fine standing' they'd say.

-'A fellow of the most marvellous maritime fiction' they'd agree.

-'His novels each as glorious as the last' they'd nod.

-'As glorious as the hero of his maritime fiction himself, Captain Edgar Benedict' they'd tell.

-'Like Benedict himself, a self-made man from the North who found success and glory on the banks of Old Portsmouth town' they'd cry.

Only as my own success and glory waned, so did dear old Benedict's. And I needed Benedict as much as he needed me. Without him I am useless. Without me he is useless. Two lost souls despairingly searching in the dark and fog for new flesh and fresh ideas. Martini not helping.

Now nobody nods, points, or waves. A busted flush with falling sales and no inspiration. No head wind. Not Holding Fast. Aching for a sign and a cure for the loneliness. A life where even my greatest ever friend, Captain Edgar Benedict, the lad from rural Nottinghamshire, born in my own mind, who stole an identity and became the greatest naval sea captain to sail the seven seas in his trusty steer HMS Urgency; scourge of the French, dashing and bold and with the trust of his men. Twenty-nine volumes of high octane, high seas adventures, selling in their millions, winning countless industry awards and admiration in exhausted supply: 'Benedict's Salvation', 'Benedict's Bounty', 'Benedict's Dilemma', 'Benedict's Valour', 'Benedict's Conquest' all one million worldwide unit selling novels. Even dear old Edgar Benedict, the farmers lad whose extraordinary good fortune rode him from the nineteenth century fields of Nottinghamshire to the master of British sea power has deserted me. Lost in the void empty spaces in my mind. Rattling around lost in the fog of my head that longs for new flesh and fresh ideas. Capsized on a voyage to the Cape of No Hope.

I decide to turn the yellow Jag towards Southsea. To drown my sorrows with my old friends Roy and Michael at The Old Vic on St Pauls Road. Hoping that they'll be a friend to a rudderless old fool.

I park off the main road and slip in through the back doors. One not wishing for grand entrances. The place has a smattering of patrons. Mainly middle aged gentlemen in pairs or groups. Michael is stationed behind his bar, a wry smile across his achingly youthful fifty-seven year old face. I order a Martini and ask him to be a dear boy and put it on my slate. He informs me that the slate has been thrown out and trampled underfoot. The shame of that being that I have to search in to my pocket for thirsty shrapnel.

Unfortunately these days Michael, and Roy when he appears looking older and wistfully apprehensive, have little time for stories of Benedict and my own ailing misfortunes. Even these once great allies have hardened from me.

Hold Fast.

Even Benedict had to prove himself in the face of growing adversity during sour times.

I am drawn by the gaze of a young chap sat in the corner on his lonesome, perhaps looking for a friend. Maybe searching for heroic tales and fresh hope. Maybe searching for new flesh. I nod in his direction, wander over and make my acquaintance. He is no older than a boy. Tall and wiry, with a wisp of facial hair, an odour of cheap yuletide aftershave and a discoordinated collection of 'street clothes'. Before I have even properly introduced myself he has invited me off elsewhere with the promise of a sucked cock. In my unexpected upturn in fortunes I hurry down my Martini and whisk him away through the back doors to the yellow Jag. One not wishing for grand departures. My manhood rediscovering its second wind in the turning tide.

The drizzle has turned heavier on the final Friday before the clocks go forward and I know somewhere inside Captain Edgar Benedict is with me, wishing me brave fortune with this potential bounty. This new flesh. Perhaps a distant horn slicing itself through the fog, coaxing us both towards safety.

He wants us to go somewhere quieter. Somewhere away from here. In to the shadows. Away from prying eyes and loose tongues. I just want to kiss him and taste his new flesh, but he refuses until we are properly alone. Safely in to dock.

Holding Fast.

We find a dark alley beside some fields and an adventure playground and I manoeuvre the car in to a space over the sunken potholes which makes the yellow Jag feel more like HMS Urgency herself. Urgency being the operative word for me. I can barely control myself. The Martini rushing through my thoughts.

I kill the engine and turn off the lights.

He has a crude splintered dagger to my throat.

-'Turn out your pockets you pervy old bastard' he aggressively orders.

Taken by complete surprise I am aghast. Lost for words.

-'You heard me, you dirty old queen' he barks.

-'My dear boy' I plead. My red nose running. My manhood deflating.

Hold Fast.

-'You've got ten seconds before I cut you'.

-'Now hear me out. I have nothing on me.' I plead.

'Don't piss me around. I know who you are. You're that filthy bent writer. Always leering and poring over young blokes. You're loaded. Fancy house down by the docks.'

-'You're mistaken I'm afraid'.

-'Five fucking seconds'.

We sit there in the half light of a distant street light. I have my hands up to suit the 'stick up' situation, but I have no words. Finally he orders me out of the vehicle.

-'Get out. And no funny business' he growls.

-'Please don't take my yellow Jag. It means more than you'll ever know' I whimper.

-'I don't want your bummer mobile. Wouldn't be seen dead in it. Hate to think what's happened in it... Folks know exactly who it is when they see that thing coming' he mocks.

I drop my wary guard, crestfallen. He smacks me around the head with a blunt object. I go meekly to the ground. He kicks me between the legs and I wince with pain. The agony shooting throughout my entire body, leaving me loose and exposed. He's rifling through my pockets. Taking my wristwatch. Emptying out my wallet. Stripping me of my bank cards. Pulling off my gold ring that Peter had bought me for my sixtieth birthday in Monaco.

He is frustrated by the lack of cash in my wallet and aims a heavy kick to my ribs.

-'Where's all your fucking cash you old bender? What's your PIN numbers? If you don't tell I'll slice you open' he rages.

I gasp, my face wet amongst the potholes that fill with sludge and water from the rain. A pain etched across my face. An agony which plays in my mind, far fiercer than any physical discomfort.

-'You stupid boy' I spit. 'I haven't any cash. Or money floating around in the bank. I'm bankrupt you silly thing. Completely broke. The cupboard is bare. Stripped of everything I once had. Wealth. Gone. Fortune. Gone. Love. Gone. A lover. Gone. A Purpose. Gone. Ideas. Gone. Stories. Gone. A reason to live. Gone.' We both pause to catch our breath.

-'So I suggest' I return 'that you damn well get on with this, get what you can greedily steal. Hold Fast and finish me bloody off. You fool.'

He raises the blunt object and brings it down on me. Turning off the lights in the increasing rain.

## AN EVAN SENT DOCTOR

THE NEW 'DOCTOR WHO' STAR EVAN SPEED SPEAKS EXCLUSIVELY TO  
TV INDULGANCE REPORTER SOPHIE MULWINNEY

Evan Speed is not your average children's TV star and can hardly be accused of being your archetypal candidate for the role of Saturday night TV favourite Doctor Who either. But for those with young children it will have been hard to have missed the smouldering good looks and the scrumptiously sculptured features of the star of the CBBC channel's hit show 'Jetpack Boy'. In April it was announced to curiously confused fans that the widely unfamiliar Speed had won the title role as the popular cult BBC timelord whilst beating off competition from his more recognised contemporaries. Producers believe that the 27 year-olds diverse skills, added to his dark and moody good looks would attract a wider audience of teenage girls as the show hopes to boost on its already incredible appeal and viewing figures. But Evan Speed's story is not one of instant success or a glorious leisurely elevation towards stardom; indeed it is one of a struggle from poverty and crime as he hauled himself from the gutter towards our grateful television sets. 'Life wasn't easy back then.' Evan frankly admitted when revealing his earlier days. 'We grew up on a tough council estate where drugs and violence was a daily factor of life. I lost friends who turned to other ways to get by in life. Some are in prison, others are drug addicts and I know many people who have turned their backs on regular life because that's what you did on The Warren Estate, you either got out and tried to make something of your life, or you stayed and toughed it out, joined a gang, drank booze all day or dossed in squats doing drugs. It's a harsh place and I got lucky - I had the talent to force myself away from a life of certain crime and addictions, maybe even death.'

The emotion in his face is raw and evident as Speed talks with passion about his struggle and of his sorrow for the friends that he left behind. It is only a few short years since he last set foot in the notorious Mansfield area and he often wonders what has happened to the friends that he left behind as he chased his dream of the stage and screen. 'There was some good guys on The Warren, some real good friends who could have made something of their lives, but when you sit back and remember them and think, you know what? That guy never stood a chance. And this guy, he was always going to struggle to pull himself from the lure of crime, and this one always had that element of madness that made you worry for his future. These were my best friends, but I had to make a conscious decision and get out before they dragged me down the plughole along with them.'

It's hard not to admire his steel and determination and in an uncanny way his persona mirrors some of the best qualities seen in his moral rich character of Jetpack Boy, a character who fights for values, common decency and to right wrongdoings. 'I do see a lot of Jetpack Boy in myself funnily enough, and it has been commented on several times. I am someone who will stick up for the underdog and am a huge fan of traditional values: politeness, good manners and old fashioned virtues and family values. Because of my background I hate to see abuse in any way, whether that's physical or through substances, and one day I would really like to find the time away from my heavy schedule to do work to help victims. I'm one of the good guys and feel as though through experience I could be a useful asset to aid youngsters in their troubles. Maybe I could even assist in some way back in The Warren in the future.'

To fans of Doctor Who unfamiliar with the work of Evan Speed and suspicious of his background in children's television, he was quick to dispel any fears. 'Fans of the show should not judge my career as a star of children's television as a sign that I can't properly act, far from it. There's some real talent involved in that area of the industry and some serious ability. I'm just glad that the producers of Doctor Who have stuck to their guns and with their initial gut feelings about me, despite the worry from hardcore fans and pressure to rethink their choice. I come from a rich acting academy in Manchester and it was always the opinion that I had the ability to rise to the very top - I've had scores of messages of congratulations and good will from people who have shared and contributed with my career along the way.' And of his enthusiasm in his new job, 'Doctor Who is something that really excites me, I love the show and always have, so I'm a fan too, but if I'm honest I see this opportunity as the first step on the ladder to even better things. I have no real goals, I just want to achieve to the best of my ability and enjoy every minute of it.'

The actor who has had roles in a cluster of children's programmes including Wibberlywoo, Pirate Pete, and Alphabetty and the Numericals to name a few is hardly lacking in confidence and is equally successful away from the screen and has been snapped with a string of celebrity beauties on his arm over the last couple of years. He dated Casualty star Natasha Sheridan for two months after meeting her in a top London nightclub, and has been linked romantically with pop star Keeley Simpson of girl band The Violets and with super hot Sky TV weather girl Lacey Clay. Though Evan finds the interest in his social life amusing. 'I don't really get the fascination' He humbly admits, 'I've been lucky enough to get together with some incredible ladies who I absolutely adore, but why would people be interested in that? I'm just a small town lad from Nottinghamshire who has been blessed in having the company of some truly beautiful girls who just so happen to be amazingly talented, like myself. I guess that has to be the link that gets the normal person in the street gossiping. What can I say? I've got a lot to be happy about and even though I've not yet met Miss Right, I'm doing my best to put the hours in to finding her.' He smiled with a roguish grin that I have no doubt will be firmly established in the brains of girls very soon, young and old, converts to the sci-fi favourite or not. Even if the genre isn't your cup of tea, it would be a fair guess to bet that Evan Speed soon will be and the shows makers will be thoroughly vindicated in plumping for the guy from the wrong side of the tracks whose march to the pinnacle of his profession is unrelenting.

## The Anonymous Boy Next Door.

Our average and anonymous lives, which mean nothing to anyone, come alive in the colours and noise of Friday night.

You lock up the shop at 3pm. You tell the old man that you stayed open til 5pm but you know he knows better. Anyone desperate enough for fruit and veg after 3 on a Friday can wait til the following morning, you reckon. You've always headed off to The Swan for an early sociable on a Friday to meet Knoxy, Leon and Matt P after work, but since your dad has been on his chemotherapy he's wanted and expected that little bit extra from you. You figure that you'd sooner put any lost earnings in to the till yourself than miss the start of the weekend for the sake of ten or twenty quid.

You take the longer way around to drop the takings off at Lloyds Bank, spinning down Queen Street and catching a glance of the stunning young dark haired girl in China Doll, who you've admired from afar dancing in The Yard on Friday nights. You take a shy glance and offer a hesitant smile. She barely notices you. As transparent as glass.

In The Swan, Leon is in his usual place at the bandit, Knoxy and Matt P in their overalls arguing over Robbie Fowler breaking up the SAS frontline for the coming Euro Championships. You order a Guinness and a double vodka shot which you tip in to your pint as a primer.

You see the best in others but never yourself

Just gone 5 and you drop in to The Gun & Glasshouse on The Warren Estate, to order food and neck a couple of lagers with Matt P and his boisterous brother Jockey, who has eyes for the new barmaid, fresh out of sixth form. They've seen the interview in a junk gossip magazine that was written about your brother and the Doctor Who role. They remind you that he's a total fucking tosser and is in line for a smack. They want you to remind them again how he got that name, Evan Speed, despite being Christened Adrian Sweeney? They want to know how he's become the new Doctor Who, yet you run a fruit and veg shop for your dad? They want to know why he's such an aloof cocky twat? They want to know when they can hook up with him down in his smart West London pad and hit the bright lights of the smoke?

Why can't you be more like your brother? He got the looks. He got the talent. He got the personality. You got anonymity. You got fruit and veg. You got zero confidence. You got the paranoia.

You're washing the crack of your arse. You're washing behind your bellend. You're plucking premature hairs from your ears and nose and shaving the hairs from around your nipples. You're taking a shit from nervousness. You're cleaning your teeth and gelling your hair. You're breathing in to your hand to smell your breath. You clean your teeth again. You put on a crisp navy denim YSL shirt that stays untucked from your jeans. You shine your Rockports and smoke a fag. You're breathing in to your hand to smell your breath. You clean your teeth again and check your hair. Five more minutes sat on the bog and hoping you see the stunning young dark haired girl from China Doll dancing away to Insomnia in The Yard. You spray on Paco Rabane. You kiss your mother. You hug your father. You reassure him again that you closed the shop at 5. It was very quiet again, as it always is at that time.

Why can't you be more like your brother?

In The Gun & Glasshouse on the dot at 7. Lasagne repeating on you. Regretting having the garlic bread. A basic schoolboy error. Might as well wear a radioactive sign round your neck. A light crowd for the cusp of British summertime. The last Friday night before the clocks go forward. Knoxy, Von, Jocky, Matt P, Matt T, Rixy, Leon and Stack; and three pretty young girls from Wakefield with ee-bah-gum accents. The two brothers Price meeting them on a Stag do in Leeds. Jockey already been with one but clearly eyeing up another. Von outraged that they'd drag along a group of birds on a Friday night; making it clear that it must never happen again. You drain your pint and slip off to the bogs to check your breath before the bus comes for town.

Our average and anonymous lives, which mean nothing to anyone, come alive in the colours and noise of Friday night.

Casually you file in to The Red. First port of call from the bus station for any self respecting Friday night aficionado. Cans of Red Stripe all round and eyes searching for familiar faces. Not long now til the summertime. Shorter skirts and tanned flesh to go with expensive hair and high heels. You keenly look around for Tina. Your heart still aches for her and although a glimpse would only make your heart sink again, and a lump develop in your throat, you'd give anything right now to lay your eyes on her. You are twenty-four years old. You are surrounded by friends. You feel as lonely as you've ever felt in your entire life.

You got the anonymity. You got the fruit and veg. You got zero confidence. You got the paranoia.

Downstairs in Cafe Imperial and its hot and cramped. All the women busy upstairs watching the half naked dancer gyrating to Baby D 'I Need Your Loving'. You're emptying a bottle of Low C and telling people that you genuinely like the taste. The Wakefield lasses already pissed on Metz and it'll be a free for all later. An event that you know you won't be taking a part in. You share a fag with Stack and wonder who's the most pathetic out of the pair of you?

On the way out you squeeze your way towards the front door, as Tina comes in with Clare, and him. Nobody goes in to town with their lass on a Friday night.

You got the paranoia.

They're telling you that it's kicked off big time in The Swan. Big gang of headbangers from Shirebrook and a mob from Kirkby. Big Clifton, Andy Lawley, Frank Brevitt and Keno Quillan in the middle of it all gleefully cracking skulls. There's two squads of cop wagons outside the front doors and it's agreed that the outdoor disco on the back of the Portland is a better bet whilst the weather holds. A quick drain before the heavens open up and you leg it to the Town Mill.

You see the best in others but never yourself

Heaving upstairs in the Town Mill, laughing and joking with the boys from The Rufford Arms. Swapping stories that get more exaggerated by their telling and lapping up talk of trips abroad. Of Amsterdam on the night bus and weekend long Friday nights. Leon winning the jackpot on the bandit. Shots all round. You have your pint spilt down your shirt by a gorgeous young goddess in a glittering top that hangs in place only by the bones of her shoulders. You apologise. She ignores you and moves on. The DJ plays a remix of 'Killing Me Softly' by The Fugees and the cool kids nod their heads along in unison.

Do others see the best in you?..... Do others even see you?

You're completely self conscious of the wet mark down your denim shirt. You're kind of glad that it's pissing down, which helps mask it slightly. Thunder rumbles overhead as you bump on up in to The Village. Dark corners and more Red Stripe. A few slipping off to the bogs for the first pills of the night. You preferring to watch Leon throw a tenner away in the bandit. Jockey with his tongue already down the wrong Wakefield girl's neck. The three Yorkshire lasses swapping harsh stares and hazardous words. You stay out of their way. They've not come anywhere near you all night and apart from being the 'veg man' you are largely anonymous to them. Some young kid throws up outside the bogs to cheers. The bouncers skid him across the car park with their sympathies, as you all move on.

Our average and anonymous lives, which mean nothing to anyone, come alive in the colours and noise of Friday night.

You're stood at the bar in O'Neills, ordering for twelve. Unexpectedly you have one of the Wakefield lasses at your shoulder. The shunned one. The outsider. The orginal chosen one, now deposed. She's being awful friendly and has a mischievous glint in her glazed eyes. She's supping a bottle of Two Dogs and laughs that it reminds her of her friends. You raise a smirk, careful to remain strictly on the fence; everyone's eyes burning in to the pair of you as she plunges her heavy lips on to yours.

When you finally come up for air everyone has pissed off and you're wondering how long you were down there for. Conscious that you'd had the whole bar as an audience. You leave together and she'd sooner go somewhere quiet than follow the crowd up Bridge Street towards The Yard. You remind her that this is Mansfield on a Friday night in 1996 and nowhere is quiet. You have the taste of her alcopop poison on your lips and tongue. She pukes her guts up under the viaduct beside The White Hart and you're left holding her feeling sorrier for yourself.

Do you always see the best in others, or is it just something you tell yourself to feel pure?

Tapping at the windows of Banque as you carefully pass, holding her upright in an embrace as if you were once lovers. Friends keeping a look out for you knowing that you'd be making your way up to West Gate. A pint of Bitter thrust in to your hand. Words of encouragement in to your ear from the grateful Jockey; winking and telling you that he'd told her that you were the brother of the new Doctor Who. Exploding any daft notion that your draw had been all of your own doing. Anonymous again. Everyone still talking about that gossip article. Everyone agreeing that your elder brother is a cock of mammoth proportions. Everyone commenting that they can't wait to give him a flea in his ear. Everyone wondering when we're all off down the smoke to party at his trendy West End flat.

You leave the Wakefield girls behind to argue and wretch and cry amongst themselves. All you can taste is alcopop poison on your lips and your tongue, making you feel like throwing up.

Why can't you be more like your brother? He got the looks. He got the talent. He got the personality. You got anonymity. You got fruit and veg. You got zero confidence. You got the paranoia.

You throw up in Littlewoods window, the taste of Two Dogs on your breath. Scrubbing the powder of whizz in to your teeth to take away the pain. It's handshakes with the doorstaff at The Yard and genuine warm smiles and back slaps that lifts your limping spirits. The first face you see as you stumble inside is Tina. Your Tina. Stood watertight to her newer fella. Spirits collapsing instantly again. Swapping pleasantries with your pals. Your pals, not her pals. She words a hello beneath the thumping beat of 'Born Slippy'. You nod your head nonchalantly and shuffle by. Jono from behind the bar excitedly buoyed at the sight of Knoxy, who is over to him embracing hands and whispering in to ears. The beat from the speakers making deals with your chest. A round of Blue Strawberry flavoured Bomas to neck in under ten seconds followed by Newcastle Brown and bouncing around to House Of Pain, free from the restrictions of dragging around lasses on a Friday night. Tina leaves with him. You wonder whether you should have found somewhere quiet with the Wakefield outsider.

You see the best in others but perhaps you need to search a little harder for yourself.

Outside of Brunels carnage ensues. The MSE have caught up with the remaining Shirebrook lot from the earlier fracas in The Swan. Bodies are bouncing off parked bonnets. Boots are flying and missing. Fists are flying and connecting. Folk exploiting the mass disturbance to avoid the usual long queues and slipping inside whilst the doormen have their hands full. Sirens approaching in the dark dampness of the late hour. Matt T skulking in to the corner to finish his kebab as those inside clamour for a view of the fracas outside. It makes for an easier life at the usually throbbing bar. Someone has slipped you a stick of gum and you chew furiously, sipping on your Red Stripe and nattering to a nearby giggling posse of underage girls. Sweat clings to your clothes. Sweat clings to the windows. Sweat clings to the walls. Your face smeared in a film of sweat. This place a hothouse. This place dividing the group. The successful Friday night charmers and the unlucky losers. You know your limitations. You know your weaknesses. You know your place. Your group already chosen for you.

You are not your brother. He got the looks. He got the talent. He got the personality. You got the fruit and veg. You got the zero confidence. You got the paranoia.

She dazzles. In a world of her own in the middle of Limo's dancefloor. Her arms in the air. Her dress hugging every curve. Her dark hair clinging to the damp of her cheek. Tuned in to the music. Completely alone in her own parallel universe. Stunningly ripe, young and beautiful. Eyes closed and swaying controlled and gentle. Her skin, olive; though this light hiding it. Dimpled cheeks when she smiles at her friend. A real skill at fending off drunken lads without ever the need for words. You're breathing in to your hand and checking your breath. All you can taste is the poison of alcopop on your lips and tongue. Wishing you had the confidence of Jockey, or Von, or Knoxy, or Matt T. Wishing you could just go over and get your lingering hopes dashed and out of the way and simply forget about her. Move on to the next crushing desire. Unable to move or talk. Devoid of strategy or nous; unlike Jockey, or Von, or Knoxy, or Matt T. The Friday night charmers.

Our average and anonymous lives, which mean nothing to anyone, come alive in the colours and noise of Friday night.................. in to the Saturday morning come down.

You leave on your own. Wanting to be on your own with your self loathing and your self doubt. Sheepishly away from your friends. Drunken and despondent thanks to the alcohol. The chemicals sloshing around inside you unable to raise you from your malaise. You briskly tromp up Leeming Street to the chippy and order the usual: vegetable spring roll and a bag of chips and gravy. You slump on to the doorstep of The Masons Arms and tuck in, staring at your Rockports and wondering of the whereabouts of the Friday night charmers. Knowing their Saturday afternoon stories before you can even hear them. You wonder about the Wakefield lasses and whether they're all friends again. Regretting that you didn't exploit your connections with the new Doctor Who to get yourself a brief shag. You then remind yourself that you would only have regretted it and developed an uncomfortable moment in the morning when you wanted to get rid of her. Automatically deciding that it would have been a default disaster.

The Saturday morning come down.

And then there she was, as if appearing from a hole in the ground. Arms wrapped around herself from the chill, as if wishing for a lover. Thankfully the downpour has subsided. Thankfully she remains as glorious as she did under the bright flashing lights and when she's on show in the window of China Doll. Exhausted dark hair baring a weathered and beaten look that must mock the feeling in her exhausted legs after a shift on the dancefloor. Her friend in the chippy, her outside in the draught. You chew your bottom lip. Poised and pondering. Without strategy or nous. You do something you have never done in your life before.You put down the remains of your food. You brush yourself down. You check for the mark on your denim shirt. You're breathing in to your hand and smelling your breath. You go over to the stunning young dark haired girl, stood on her own in the draught, arms wrapped around herself from the chill. As if wishing for a lover. Her friend in the chippy. You are a Friday night charmer, like Jockey, or Von, or Knoxy, or Matt T.

You tell her that you are not your brother. You don't have the looks. You don't have the talent. You don't have the personality. You got the anonymity. You got the fruit and veg. You got the zero confidence. You might even have got the paranoia. You think that she's the most glorious thing that you've ever seen and you'd really like her number.

## The Astute Teenage Girl.

My name is Karin Nemeth. I am 18 years old and have lived in The Warren for my entire life. My two biggest passions are for nature and for house music. I work part time in China Doll in Mansfield town centre and study Agriculture and Horticulture at West Notts College. My immediate ambition is to work for the Forestry Commission.

My father came to this country forty years ago, aged fourteen. A refugee from Budapest during the 1956 Hungarian Uprising against Soviet control. My mother is born and bred in the area. Her family tree never veering outside of Pleasley to the north, Huthwaite to the west, Blidworth to the east and Annesley to the south. It's been a long time since they last got along. They sleep in separate rooms and live separate lives. Each too stubborn to hand the other their freedom. Both of them trapping me in this awkward triangle. I have no brothers or sisters. For as long as I can remember I've pretty much had to fend for myself. Cook for myself. Wash for myself. Clean for myself. It's been this way for years. I'm just a member of a household of three people living largely separate lives.

My best friends are Joanne, who I have known since primary school, who I spend most evenings with and go drinking and clubbing with on a Friday night; and Maurice the widower from next door. It sounds a strange arrangement, but I'm not your everyday teenage girl.

The rapid buzz of my alarm breaks the silence and my sleep. 6:50am. I hit the off button with the dawn creeping through my thin bedroom curtains. The eyes from my owl clock bobbing side to side with the passing seconds that tick tock in hushed tones. My head feeling sore and my throat dry. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and become accustomed to my surroundings. I've only been in bed for just over four hours.

It is Saturday morning. The weekend that the clocks go forward and we welcome in British summertime after the long hard slog of winter. The country waiting to bloom and the promise of longer hours outdoors; away from this prison cell.

He has his arm wrapped around me and I can smell the sour odour of beer and cigarettes on his breath from over my shoulder. His cock semi-limp against my leg. His spittle in my hair, the bristles from his whiskers on my neck and his monotonous snore growling at my consciousness.

The dressing table mirror is opposite and the sight of us together is enough for me to gently shift his arm and pull myself upright. He repulses me.

I stand and adjust my pyjamas, stretching the knots from my joints and attempting to find moisture in my mouth. Him lying there, oblivious, in his white vest, grey boxer shorts and Argyle socks.

In the bathroom I seek the comfort of water and sit on the toilet for a wee; remembering that a boy had asked me for my number last night.

He'd given me this strange garbled speech in a really nervous but cute fashion. I said I'd think about it. I'd seen him before. Plain but nice with it. A few years older than me. We didn't speak much and there wasn't a chance that I was going to give him the phone number for this place. I'd considered giving him the number for Maurice next door, but that wouldn't have been fair on either of them. Awkward. I told him that if he really wanted my number then he'd come in to China Doll and ask for it. Though he ought to be prepared for an answer of all possibilities. I have the situation of this place to think about.

I always have the situation of this place to think about.

I scrub my teeth and shower; soaking off the dried sweat from last night and re-energising my pores.

I pull on my black trousers and a cerise blouse. Sorting my hair in to a pony tail and dusting myself in make-up before chasing the bus in to town. Leaving him to stew and sweat his oily frame all over my clean sheets.

I grab a cup of tea from the cafe on the bus station. The 8:30 news talking at us in the back ground:

Shocked local residents awoke this morning with the grizzly news of a rumoured double murder in the Berry Hill area of Mansfield, some time last night. Nottinghamshire Police are still to make an official statement but it is believed that two people have been found at the same location in the early hours of this morning. The news comes within just three weeks of a previous fatal stabbing in Park Hall area of Mansfield Woodhouse. Nobody from Mansfield Police was available to confirm that there is any link. BBC Radio Nottingham will bring you updates as and when we get them, with a press conference arranged for later today.

I sip at the scolding hot tea as I take twenty pounds from the ATM at the Halifax on Stockwell Gate, the relatively quiet street strewn with dampened waste from the previous evening's festivities and a small army of council workers attempting to clear it with brushes and road sweepers. As I climb Queen Street towards China Doll he is waiting for me by the shop. The guy from last night. I'd not prepared myself for such eagerness.

-'I hope you don't think it creepy to find me here waiting for you so soon?' he asks.

-'Erm, sort of' I can't help but reply, curious though sort of flattered.

-'I have a shop of my own to run, you see. Well, it's not my own, but I'm running it.' He stutters. 'Sweeneys. The fruit and veg shop. Off West Gate. My dad's place.'

-'Can't say that I know it.' Is my honest answer.

-'Drop by, I'll sort you out with something.' He sucks through his teeth. Cutely embarrassed by his offer.

-'How could I refuse an offer like that?' I giggle.

-'I really like you.' He tells me.

-'I know. You told me,...er...' I scan my watch, '...about seven hours ago.'

-'I didn't want to spend all morning in that shop wishing that I'd spoken to you sooner. You'd asked me to nip in China Doll.'

-'That I did' I admit with a sip of the tea.

-'I mean, if you've changed your mind I understand.' He nervously allows me a quick get out clause.

I like him and his awkwardness. It fits with my psyche and he's not one of those pretty boys that I can't stand.

-'Are you trying to talk me out of it now?' I smile. -'After making all the effort to get here so early too?' Raising my eyebrows ever so slightly and sipping again confidently. Putting him ill on the spot.

-'No... No... Blimey, no chance. I'd... I... I'd really like your number and take you out some place nice.'

-'I'd like that.'

-'You would?'

-'Sure. Just not something weird, like potato picking...okay?' I lamely joke.

-'Hey?'

-'Forget it' I comment, reaching inside of my handbag for a pen and paper. 'Listen, home is pretty awkward at the moment. This number is for a friend next door. His name his Maurice... He's like my uncle... He's lovely... I'll let him know that you'll be calling sometime this week and he'll give me a shout over the fence. Is that okay?' I figure that if he's as keen as he makes out then he's not in a position to negotiate.

-'That's brilliant. Thank you for that. Thanks for giving me a chance.' His awkwardness again digging him a hole. -'I'm Billy by the way... Billy Sweeney.' He holds out his hand for me to shake it.

I slip past him and open the door, ignoring his outstretched hand that's making him feel and look like a pillock.

-'I'm Karin and I'm pleased to meet you Billy.' I say before coolly letting the door go and stepping inside.

I finish my day around 2pm and head off home back to The Warren on the 77 bus, getting off by The Common and heading up the rough track to its southern most edge, through the cached gate. The weather warming and brightening up. I know that Maurice will be on his allotment; spending time in his sturdily put together shack of timbers and corrugated sheeting. Happy to put the kettle on and talk Coronation Street and put the world bang to rights. I've known him all of my life; just like a kindly uncle that has always looked out for me.

When he sees me a giant grin spills over his face; genuinely pleased to see me. Taking his foot from his garden fork and nudging his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. Stroking the hair from his sweaty forehead and hugging me in his long and strong arms; his giant hands like rower's oars.

-'Must have heard me thinking to myself about putting kettle on young Karin.' He smiles.

-'Happens that I might have.' I grin back as he turns to go inside his shack. Switching on the hiss and puff of the gas stove and rattling some pots and spoons.

A smoky furnace contently burns to itself at the edge of his plot and we perch ourselves on the bench seat. The sun burning off the cloud and a pleasant warm breeze against our faces as we look over the allotment, down the hill and across The Common. The Warren and its parade of shops in the distant foreground. The Gun & Glasshouse pub windows twinkling in the sunlight. Sweeping behind it all in the distance is the quiet hustle of the town.

A rare spot is what Maurice calls it. A retreat for me and for him. An unusual neighbourly relationship. The eighteen year old girl and the fifty-eight year old widower. Some would probably even call him a dirty old man, having a young girl forty years his junior hanging around his allotment. I know that others have thought it, but my parents have never cared. When Maurice's wife, Joan, was alive they'd bring me up here together and we'd have a picnic. They'd watch me as I crossed The Common and played on the park with other kids. I think they felt sorry for me. Knew the situation at home. Mum and dad were happy to see the back of me.

It's this place where I got my thirst for wildlife and for nature. Maurice always had an eager answer for my eager questions, and many were the times when I pleaded with him to let me stay here the night. In this little tin and wood shack rather than that house down there amongst The Warren.

Maurice promised that he'd always look out for me. Protect me like a father should. He'd never had any children and always found it unfair that people like my parents had. He never said those words, as such, but I know that they've always been his thoughts. You get a sense for this kind of thing.

When I tell him that a guy had asked me out on a date he was cautious at first but trusting in me; like a real father would be of a daughter. When I told him that I'd given him his phone number, so he could verify it, you could see the inner pride bursting through him.

A happier and gentler man you couldn't wish to meet.

When it came to close up and make our ways home at tea time it seemed a shame. Today had been a positive day.

-'You're welcome at ours for your tea.' He told me.

-'I'll be fine thanks.' I reply. -'I'm going to get changed and go out for a bite with Joanne. Up The Rushley and to the multiplex at Nottingham.'

-'You need any money.' He asks.

-'Don't be silly.' I reply -'I earn my own way, and it's not your place to give me money Maurice.'

-'I just want to see you happy lass.'

-'I know and it's appreciated.'

-'There's a spare room in our house whenever you need one. You know that.' He offers for the millionth time. It's because he cares, not because he's a pervert. I know this for certain.

I nod my head.

-'You need to get away from that dirty old bastard of a father.' He spits.

-'I will, eventually.'

-'The older you get and the more beautiful you get, the more he leers at you. I've seen it in his eyes.'

-'I can look after myself Maurice. I'm a strong person.'

-'I know you are lass, but I still worry about you under that roof. He's got a suspicious nature about him... Hands touching you... It's obscene.'

We stop and I put a hand on his chest to reassure him.

-'I promise, if that man ever goes too far I will tell the police.'

-'Fat lot of good they are.' He grumbles.

-'I have no reason to doubt that they'd do the right thing.' I plead.

-'Perhaps you don't know them as well as I do.' Maurice Braithwaite tells me from under his breath. 'Sometimes better off doing things yourself.'

I laugh, shake my head and raise my eyebrows.

-'You know what neighbour? You can be a real grumbling curmudgeonly so and so when you want to be you know.' I snigger, as he wheels his Lambretta from round the side of the shack. Ready for home.

Baby blue powder paint finish and cut polished chrome.

Original Italian built. Innocenti of Milan. 1965.

A much loved project for a man of simple needs.

## The Fox In A Field Of His Own.

-'This sort of crime shouldn't happen around here love... This is a nice area... Nice and quiet.' A nosey old biddy from who cares fucking where is dribbling off to one of our uniformed spastics as Kenton mounts the kerb in the new Mondeo and we drift through the cordon line, flashing warrant cards.

Me? I momentarily hesitate, wanting to ask the bed wetting old dear just where she'd like us to take our crime business in the future?

One of the scruffy housing estate maybe? Bull Farm? The Warren? Oak Tree? Ravensdale? Or across the way to Bellamy Road? Perhaps a quaint little pit village already on its arse with its luck? Bit of murder to take the locals minds away from their other ills? Twat.

Forensics wagon stationed on the drive.

Privacy covers placed outside of a side-on front door.

Men (and woman) in oversized boiler suits flitting in and out.

Me and Kenton covering our brogues with plastic and our hands with latex.

Nobody saying anything. Nobody daring.

A young woman lies on her side at the doorway. Herself appendaged to the hallway floor by the glue of dried blood set on her jacket and blouse to the wool of the carpet.

She is blonde, well boned and statuesque. She is 29 years old. She is 5 feet 10 inches and 139 pounds. She was well-suited to befit the occasion. Intelligent. Athletic. A husband, a lover, and a mother to one child; expecting another - 13 weeks pregnant (not yet showing.) This is a triple murder enquiry.

Nobody saying anything. Nobody daring.

She was pinned against the wall. Possibly as soon after she stepped through the front door. Her head and body slumped in front of the door, towards the exit, when the husband found the scene at 01:04am this morning.

Searching for a wife that hadn't come home.

There is a blood flecked abrasion made by a pointed instrument in the wall, which is concurrent with the low wound to the deceased's belly. The heavy and aggressive puncture wound did not pass through the foetus.

Me? I crouch to look at her. The beauty drained from her face, much like the fluids from her body to that stain on the floor.

We knew her and nobody dare say anything.

Seven metres along the corridor lay another body.

The wound as equally defined and savage.

To the jugular in the neck.

Massive bleeding.

The weapon being withdrawn spraying the deceased's blood across the walls, door and frames.

The victim dying very quickly.

The attacker undoubtedly covered with the projectile spatter.

She is grey, with a dark colour. She is 58 years old. She is 5 feet 3 inches and 148 pounds. She was also well-suited to befit the occasion. Spiteful. Flabby. A recent widow, a cat, a mother to one child and one grandchild; expecting another. She is lying on her back on the hallway carpet as if carefully placed. The blood from her neck pumped across her face and shoulders; adhering her hair to the wool of the flooring.

We knew her and nobody dare say anything.

The upstairs of the house is ransacked. All emptied draws and scattered papers. Downstairs not so. The intruder did not find what they were looking for; if they were actually looking for anything at all.

The intruder may have been caught by surprise, but you doubt it, for the intruder is careful and manipulative.

The intruder knew exactly what he was doing. A phantom.

The dirty footprints that soiled the bathroom flooring. Intentional.

The nub end dropped beside the perpetrators access point. Intentional.

The clinical brutality of the murdering. Intentional.

The two bodies, and three subsequent deaths, lying in a draughty corridor in a respectable and desirable postal code. A mistake.

Nothing was stolen from this address. The intention was murder in the veil of a robbery gone wrong. Not the disastrous consequences of an opportunist burglary.

A brutal and clinically enforced slaughter.

A slaughter at the home of Mrs Jennifer Clarke.

Widowed only eight days ago to Walter Clarke.

A rapid and premature death at the age of 61.

Throat cancer.

Six weeks from diagnosis to death.

The former Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield Police.

Station Road Police Station.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

Our gaffer.

Day of his funeral.

Them returning from the wake.

The daughter, Rebecca, dropping her mother at home.

13 weeks pregnant.

The flick of a knife.

Us? We're in The Portland for half eleven. Round of beers and roast pork and apple sauce on thick crusty bread. First lager already sunk. The Chief Constable for the Nottinghamshire Constabulary and the Acting Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield sat around the corner conducting a press briefing from the tiny media room to a hysterical forum at the back of Station Road nick.

The old place's days numbered. In its final hours before we move to a new bigger, more modern house on Great Central Road.

Tank proof.

Tank proof in the middle of Mansfield.

Our bunker.

Us? In our usual corner out of the road. DI Brian Kenton and DS Graham Ryan shitting it.

Me? I'm holding things together as usual.

-'I'm telling you to keep your discipline Graham.' I'm ordering the twat. -'Bloody pair of you. Behave yourselves and be professional. I'm embarrassed for the both of you'.

-'You seem far too relaxed George... Isn't there even a small part of you that tells you that this has gone too far and we're literally dicing with death here?' That almighty prick Kenton asks. Worry all over the mugs face.

I'm across the table.

Stool sent crashing.

Bar empty, but barman nosing over.

My nose in Detective Sergeant Brian Kenton's face.

Him startled and taken aback.

Me? I'm whispering a growl in to his gnarled up rugby prop forwards ear.

-'Get it together you overgrown fucking fanny. The only thing that'll take us down with this shit is panic, ill discipline and a lack of bottle.'

My eyes drilling a massive fuck off hole through his big wrecking ball head and halfway in to the bench seat that he's parked his fat arse on.

-'Stop acting like a villain and start acting like the law Brian. Remember which side of the fence you're on.' I follow.

A field for the villains. A field for the law. A field all of our own.

-'Sorry boss.' He shits it. -'You're right.'

-'Course I'm right.' I pick up my stool and sit back down, taking a large bite out of my pint. -'When have I ever let you lads down?'

They say nothing. Silent and still shitting it.

-'Never... That's when... I never let you down.' I pause. -'All this defeatist bollocks about winning runs always coming to an end. That's absolute shite... Not with me in charge.'

I give them both the eyes. I see the fear that's inside them both and I don't like the look of it. They need to snap the fuck out of it. Or they'll be next, mark my words.

-'Walter's in the ground now lads... Bloke was on the wane anyhow. Not himself anymore. Starting to get weak... A weak link. He might have started this but he was nearly down the road to finishing it n'all. Don't either of you forget that.'

I finish my pint and push my empty plate away. Dusting off crumbs.

Heading for the phone on the wall.

Dead eyeing the barman.

Calling the Westminster toad.

Him nervous on the other end.

Us agreeing to never use a landline.

-'It's the fox. We need a new home. Get it sorted' is my only words.

I replace the handset.

A field of our own. A fox. A toad. A great big bull. And a whole host of lemmings. One that's jumped.

When I'm back, jackets are on.

Kenton takes me by the arm as we are set to leave and head back up to the nick.

Apologising. Steel back in his eyes.

Not so sure about Ryan. Still shitting it.

-'Sorry George. You're the boss now and we trust you completely. You'll always do the right thing and we're right behind you' he goes.

I believe him.

I give it a long pause as I digest and let them know it.

-'You're good lads. That's why me and Walter handpicked you. The best of the talent on board.'

Quiet in the air.

Our own quiet in the field all of our own. Blocking out the jukebox playing on auto in the background. Some deary depressant by Portishead.

-'Be brave. We're in the middle of a storm, but it'll pass and we'll get through it by sticking together and staying disciplined... There's no other way... Be professional. Remember which side of the fence you're on.'

A field for the villains. A field for the law. A field all of our own. A fox. A toad. A great big bull. And a whole host of lemmings. One that's jumped before he had to be pushed.

Back up at Station Road. The crowds of journalists and the TV crews dispersing and filming their outdoor broadcasts. The mucky limestone rock face of Station Road nick dating the public's opinion of this place.

Murder on everybody's lips again.

The public putting down their own lives for a brief minute to worry about the possibility of a killer on their streets.

Panic of a third body in three weeks.

Saturday afternoon in the Incident Room.

Photos of Roger 'The Dodger' Campbell and his cousin Simon on the wall.

One slaughtered with a knife in his Park Hall semi; with the flick of a blade.

The other missing.

The deceased's wife gone missing too.

Mansfield police strongly linking them together. On the run.

A Forest Town bookies shop torched and gutted.

Their bookies.

Looks an open and shut case.

The old bill struggling to find the missing pair.

Pleading with the public for assistance in the whereabouts of this missing pair who can help us with our line of enquiries.

The room intense.

The atmosphere strong and determined. Wanting to catch evil bastards who've slaughtered the family of one of our own.

Our old gaffer.

Taken by cancer.

His widow and daughter by the flick of a knife.

Making it personal between them and the Police.

Villains leaving their own field and invading the laws.

War.

The Chief Constable giving it the big un. Talking like Walter was his best pal. Making out he's one of us.

You're fucking Nottingham sunshine. We're Mansfield. A whole fucking world of difference.

Welcome to the pit face.

You're unwelcome.

Him wanting to draft over his top boys from the city.

Me? I'm telling him to fuck right off. This is the best team in his county.

Check your results.

Him saying that we're struggling to catch the murderer of Roger the Dodger.

Me? I'm telling him that we're making inroads. Nodding over to DS Susan Redmond and DS Peter Thorne. Both of them young. Both of them green. Both of them without a fucking clue. Me telling the Chief Constable from fucking Nottingham, and the Acting Divisional Commander for Mansfield and Ashfield, Patrick (sounding as big a Mick name as you could possibly invent) Murphy that the pair of them are as good as any of those mongs he has over in the city and they can handle the Campbell case, whilst me, Kenton and Ryan will take the Clarke murders.

He says it's not enough.

Me? Well I say give me DCI Stokes and DI Driscoll from Sutton then. Top boys that I can trust.

Little piggy-eyed twat looks at Paddy Murphy.

Paddy Murphy shrugs his shoulders and seems quite comfortable with the situation.

Thanks a bunch you cock end. Keep that seat to my fucking job warm.

In a field all of our own anyway.

Agreed.

All leave cancelled.

Redmond and Thorne looking quite pleased with themselves to be leading up their own case.

Thorne imagining himself being stuck up her.

Me? Reckon she's probably a lezza anyhow.

Chief Constable shaking my hand. Telling me how much he respects me and likes my straight talking. Getting him results. Telling me to nail this bastards balls to the walls of the new headquarters on Great Central Road. Would make a great start for the new building. Cost the force a lot of money.

Me thinking that he's a little piggy-eyed twat.

Acting Divisional Commander Paddy 'Mick' Murphy flexing his managerial muscles. Telling us to go home.

Telling us to spend the rest of the day with our families.

Telling us to be back in at 9am in the morning.

Station Road Police Station.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

In 1996.

Telling us to be prepared for long days until this animal is caught.

Telling us he'll be straight on to Sutton for Stokes and Driscoll.

Me? I'm being a smug bastard.

I've already got his perpetrator.

I've already got his collar.

A field all of our own. A fox. A toad. A great big bull. And a host of lemmings. One that's jumped before he had to be pushed. A glorious view and a tree. Hanging from the lowest branch, a honey pot where the honey tastes sweet.

A home in leafy Ravenshead. With lots of trees with low hanging branches. The trappings of the honey pot.

A month old Mondeo on the driveway. Her Volvo not.

A home that whispers of appliances and of the popping of the cork from a wine bottle.

Me? I'm lying in a bath full of suds. Filled to the rim.

Just me and the cat.

Her off in Blackpool with him. My boy.

The boy who once dreamed of growing up and being a policeman.

-'Like my dad.' He used to say.

Her turning him. Ballroom fucking dancing. Like her.

Always wanting a girl, her. Turning our boy. Fifteen years old. In to a girl.

The Tower Ballroom.

Blackpool.

Me? Alone in Ravenshead.

A home with five unnecessary bedrooms. With trees and a driveway.

A driveway with one new car on it. Her away in Blackpool with him. In the Volvo.

Me? I'm here alone with my own thoughts for the first time today.

Thinking of her.

Thinking of her gone.

Gone forever.

Thinking of us.

Thinking of a changed future.

Changed with the flick of a knife in altered circumstances.

A fork in the road.

Reversing back up to the junction and having another look at the signpost.

Walter Clarke. My mentor. Fucking it all up for me.

Making me, the baddest, hardest cop on the Notts force cry in to the suds. In to my glass of wine.

Circumstances altered with the flick of a knife.

That crazy lithe body.

That beautiful face.

Blood all over the carpet.

That baby that was mine.

Wiped out with the flick of a knife.

Me. I'm Detective Chief Inspector George Flaxman. Forty years old. Eighteen years a copper. The prodigy of Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield Police, Walter Clarke MBE. The bentest copper of them all.

And I need to put the clocks forward an hour.

# Insularfield :  
welcome to bosnia

## Maurice.

The stew is on a low light. I shouldn't be any longer than a couple of hours, or three.

It's lovely out. Feels like the mid-summer already.

I have that downpipe to fix, I remind myself.

Soffits and facia boards could do with a lick of paint too at some point during the summer. Will be four years since they were last done.

I check the oil levels on the Lammy and dust her down with a clean damp cloth.

Her chrome glistens delightfully in the early afternoon haze.

The Nemeth man is pacing his back garden, choking on a fag. I give him a hard stare as we pass, but I say nowt, and neither does he; staring back at me.

Foul deeds crossing my mind for the thousandth time this year.

The Lammy fizzes. Like it would have in 1965.

It's the only vehicle I need. Cheap. Cheerful. Easy to maintain myself. All I need.

On a day like this, it's a joy. Warm and bright. The wind rushing headlong in to my face. Sun reflecting on my glasses.

A fifteen miles ride out to Bilsthorpe. Taking the scenic route out past Clipstone with

its famous pit headstocks. Lads in orange littering the yard. Reopened by RJB Mining now. Scrapping the very last they can get from the seam.

Bringing back the memories of my own happy days at the pit.

Sherwood Colliery at Woodhouse. Happy days. Over six years redundant now.

I had a Vespa back then. Chocolate brown with cream trim.

Me with Joan getting on the back and riding down to the Welfare, next to the baths.

Us taking long rides out in to the Peaks, or across the Lincolnshire Fens to the coast. That's what a ride out to Bilsthorpe reminds me of. Happy days. The pair of us.

Or we'd go on the bus and sometimes take along the little lass from next door. Young Karin. Lovely lass.

Foul deeds crossing my mind for the thousandth time this year.

Past the King's Hunting Lodge and on through the Dukeries to the outskirts of Edwinstowe.

Reminding me of the time that me and Joan came out this road for Derek and Lizzy's wedding.

Must have been when; 1973?

Joan was a young woman then.

Must have been what; twenty-eight?

Seven years my junior. Quite the catch.

Envious faces weren't the word.

Derek and Lizzy's wedding. Me in my Sunday best and Joan in a purple frock; as was the colours back in those days. Looking a million dollars. Like she'd rolled off a Hollywood set.

Quite the catch. Everybody said it.

We caught the bus to Edwinstowe that day. Had a great time. All lads from Sherwood. Like being in the Welfare on New Year's Eve. Her looking a million dollars. Like off a bloomin Hollywood set.

Like a young Vivien Leigh. That's what everybody said.

Gone now of course. The flu catching her. Leaving me on my own. Fending for myself.

She always said I'd struggle without her, my Joan. But I get by; give or take a moment or two.

Flu catching her in the cold winter of 1990. All that snow and ice. Powerlines down.

Candles, playing cards and old fashioned sing songs in The Gun & Glasshouse. Happy days.

Til the flu caught her.

My Joan. My Vivien Leigh.

Quick as a flash she was gone. Matter of days.

Coming home off afters shift and finding her gasping for breath in bed. January 1990.

Two weeks before the pit was to shut. Two weeks before redundancy.

She didn't have the strength for the Vespa. Taxi the short trip across to the General Hospital. Its own days numbered.

Waiting up all night. Knackered off the afters shift. My Joan gasping herself to an early grave.

Forty-five years old.

My young Vivien Leigh in the ground. Pit closed before the end of January. A new decade, a new life.

Foul deeds crossing my mind for the thousandth time this year.

On to the A614. Past Limes Cafe, where we'd occasionally ride out on an early summers weekend morning for a breakfast.

Down in to Bilsthorpe. Feeling somewhat miserabler now.

Round the back to the industrial estate. Greeted by that great big sign.

BRADSHAW BUILD - a name to trust.

A wave from Dale as I rattle in to the yard. All smiles and teeth that lad. Likeable, mind.

Barely got off me scooter and he's wanting to whisk me away to the new building site.

Development at Caunton. Over Newark way.

44 new family homes from BRADSHAW BUILD - a name to trust.

In Dale's fancy Range Rover thing. All leather trim and blacked out windows.

You can see out; but no bugger can see in.

Dale, all smiles and teeth, smoking a great big cigar and offering me one. -'filthy habit.' I laugh and roll some baccy.

Countryside looking glorious in the nicest end of the county. Miles of country fields from Ollerton over to Newark, and up to Retford in the North. Hugging the Lincolnshire border.

The Bradshaw's with business interests from the M1 to the North Sea.

That's what Griff always says to folks.

-'Nobody bigger from M1 to the North Sea.'

Dale with his smile and teeth reminding me of this fact of theirs all the road to Caunton. 31 years old with the youth of young unharmed teeth.

Fancy Range Rover with leather trim and blacked out windows. Passing place names where me and my Joan used to picnic. Taking the Vespa out with no set destination. Finding a spot to lay a blanket and eat our sandwiches.

Maybe have a cuddle, if it's private enough.

Taken from me by the flu in the bitter winter of 1990. Two weeks before pit shut.

Foul deeds crossing my mind for the thousandth time this year.

Pulling in to Caunton.

Tiny Nottinghamshire outpost.

The land turning flat over this way and wanting to be Lincolnshire.

Only other tiny villages for company and Newark a bus ride away to the south.

Fields for as far as the eye can see. Fields. A pub. A Post Office. And a village full of grumpy villagers.

Contempt for new houses and BRADSHAW BUILD. Not trusting, or liking, the name.

Getting out the Range Rover. Plots. Dust. Men in hard hats waiting for the summer and the removal of shirts. Foundations. Concrete. Bricks. Wagons and diggers.

A portakabin placed on top of another portakabin, by the site entrance. Iron staircase to the first floor.

Another Range Rover with blacked out windows. You can see out, no bugger can see in.

I'm guessing it'll have leather trim, mind.

Griff Bradshaw stomping down the steps. Taking me in a hug. All smiles and few teeth.

Putting his big bear arm around my shoulder and squeezing me where we might as well be lovers.

Him leading us over the yard and around the corner, wanting to show me the first fully completed home on the Caunton Development. BRADSHAW BUILD - a name to trust.

We walk past the house. Down the neatly paved path by the side of the garage. Back of the house facing fields that are being sown in the distance. This house a little detached from the rest. On the corner of the house there is an outhouse with a thick sturdy plastic door.

Griff Bradshaw, all smiles and few teeth, takes out a key and slides it in to the outhouse keyhole.

Foul deeds.

The door opens and he turns on a light switch; flickering on a clean line of strip lighting that burrows deep down in to the ground. A concrete staircase of thirty plus steps.

Down in to the ground we go.

Me, a man of simple means.

Griff Bradshaw, all smiles and few teeth.

Dale Bradshaw, all smiles and all teeth.

-'Voila!' says Griff excitedly. -'Welcome to the latest development by BRADSHAW BUILD Mr Braithwaite.'

I stand there, unsure of what I'm meant to say.

Before me is a vast empty room of concrete floors and eroding symmetrical brick archways leading fifteen feet up to a concrete ceiling, covered in clusters of lighting. Only the strip lighting lit up.

The place reminding me of a huge hallway that you'd find in some Medieval castle somewhere important, that's not been lived in for hundreds of years.

-'Very nice' is all I can eventually muster.

The brothers Bradshaw laugh out loud. Their sound echoing back and forth in the huge emptiness.

Griff giving me another hefty pat on the shoulder.

-'That's why we love you Maurice.' He says, all smiles and few teeth. -'A simple man. Not one for awe or too much unnecessary thinking. You're my kind of bloke Maurice. You always have been and you always will be.'

-'Much obliged Griff. And me to you sir. From me to you.'

They laugh out again, as if something funny has been said.

Griff falls silent and his face drops somewhere in between stern and excited.

-'It's this room that is going to make us mega rich Maurice. I can tell you this because apart from my brother I can trust you more than any other human being. You know that. More than my wife. More than my kids. More than my old folks, or my oldest friends. Your loyalty is unquestionable. Your work meticulous. No questions asked.' He pauses.

-'A man of simple means. More than an uncle to me.'

-'The sad and lonely decrepit uncle Griff?' I force.

He smiles, showing his few teeth.

Foul deeds.

-'This is the old Caunton service water reservoir Maurice. A baby really. Eight thousand square meters. Built in 1894. Drained and cut from the water system in 1981. Redundant, just like you Maurice. Sat here in the middle of nowhere doing nothing. Until we came along to rescue it, love it and restore it to former glories.'

Now I'm a simple man, not one for too much unnecessary thinking, but this even has me puzzled.

-'Pardon my asking young Griff, but what would a man like yourself want with an old disused reservoir?'

Again he smiles, thankful that I've asked him this.

-'Business Maurice. Business never stops and new ventures are always there to be discovered. Happens that I was enjoying dinner one evening in the company of the Westminster toad. That is that I was enjoying the meal; not necessarily the company of the toad, but means must. If you knew the toad you would understand that. Well, the toad being a politician is always on the lookout for new business ventures also. A lot like an old crook such as me Maurice. Those boys and girls down there in London might not be able to run a country, but with the promise of a buck they can soon get their heads together and get things sorted I might tell you; and it just so happened that I was looking for a new base for the illegal drugs arm of my empire. Somewhere private. Somewhere discrete. Out of the way and amongst respectable folk unlikely to come under much suspicion.'

Foul deeds.

Griff Bradshaw, all smiles and few teeth spreads his arms wide.

-'Perfection!'

I frown. Dale mumbles something irrelevant. Born of different brain to his big brother that lad.

-'What would be more perfect than a laboratory under a metre of concrete, and another metre of earth and 44 houses of respectable middle class families Maurice? With ventilation running to over a mile away in another field of a farming friend of mine.' He's pretty happy with himself is Griff. -'A multi million pound a year operation Mr Braithwaite. My soon to be flagship operation.'

He wants to be careful. I half expect him to take out an advertisement in the local paper in such joy.

-'It's very impressive Griff.' I say. Though I couldn't be bothered one way or the other, however I am impressed how he thinks this stuff up. He must spend every day thinking this stuff up; and now I can't get the image out of my head of this old place being like a bad mans evil lair. Like something off a bloomin Hollywood set.

Foul deeds becoming fouler.

Bradshaw pulls a thick manila envelope from his pocket and hands it to me.

-'What we owe you Maurice.'

-'Thank you young Griff.'

-'Shame about the other woman.'

-'Took me by surprise.'

-'The mishaps of innocents. These things happen. You shouldn't blame yourself. You had no alternative. You're just paying the bills.'

-'Aye, paying the bills. But a rum business nonetheless.'

-'It is a rum business Maurice. Not something to concern yourself with though.'

-'None of my business.'

-'That's my lad. Hopefully that'll be enough bloodshed for the time being.'

-'Can't say that I'm comfortable with three bodies in three weeks.'

-'Neither am I Maurice. Neither am I. I'm praying that'll be enough bloodshed for a considerable time yet. Though I still have the Irish question that concerns me.'

-'You know where I am. And thanks for showing me around your new venture.'

-'It's my pleasure Maurice.'

-'I have to get back though. Got a stew on.'

Bradshaw laughs again.

-'Simple means Maurice.'

-'Simple means young Griff.'

Redundancy leading to foul deeds. Foul deeds paying the bills.

They lead me back in to the open.

Past a Range Rover with leather trim and blacked out windows. Over to another Range Rover with leather trim and blacked out windows.

Dale squeezing his bulky frame inside.

-'What do you think Maurice?' Griff asks quizzically. No smile of teeth.

-'What do you mean?' I answer.

-'This development?.. These houses?.. That house we've just been to?'

The house sat over the top of a metre of concrete and another metre of earth. Eight thousand square metres of 122 years of space beneath it.

4 Bedrooms. En suite. Farmhouse kitchen. Double garage. Ample gardens. View across the fields. Outhouse leading to a secret inner sanctum.

Perfect for a man of simple means; or a man of more needy means.

-'It's very nice' I admit.

-'I want to give it to you Maurice.'

-'Hey?'

-'I want to give you that house. For the work you've done for me over the years. A gift.'

'But what would I want with another house?'

-'You could sell your other house. Nice bit of extra coin in the bank.'

-'But it's all I need. I've lived there for over thirty years. It's your Auntie Joan's house.'

-'I won't lie to you Maurice. That's the entrance to the reservoir in that back garden and I need someone I can trust completely to keep it secret. I was hoping it would be you. I can trust you more than anyone else.'

-'I'm sorry Griff but I'll have to decline your very kind offer. I have too many memories in my old house. My friends are in that town. In that there Warren estate. I have my allotment and people that I have to look out for.'

-'That's a shame Maurice' he looks disappointed but reasoned and somehow unsurprised. 'But I respect your decision, as always my friend.'

-'Thank you.'

-'A man of simple means, hey?'

-'Aye Griff. A man of simple means.'

I'm back in the Range Rover. Off back to Bilsthorpe and my Lammy scooter. Payment in my pocket.

Payment for two jobs by a happy customer.

I don't need a new house. Not even a nice big fancy one like that.

And besides; who'd look out for Karin?

## Martin.

New flesh far from my jaded mind right at this minute. New flesh seeming a mocking former bedfellow. An afterthought that lingers by a fickle coat hanger somewhere in the back of my sore mind.

A mind that drifts and sloshes on waves of a queasy endless sickness. One that isn't helped from having to share a ward with the seemingly dead or dying of Queen Alexandra Hospital, Cosham.

My lips tender and dry; probably blistering on the millpond sea of self pity.

My ribs broken and pleading their regret with every breath. Me wanting to stop breathing for a while, just to give them some time off from sarcastically insulting me.

My ruptured spleen bringing me laziness, confusion, nauseas anxiety and continual light-headedness that points and sneers.

My private parts swollen and black from a haematoma that extends down the thighs of both legs. Not that it matters any. My private parts having just but the one function in taking away the wastes that they keep straw feeding me; like a useless comedy dummy for the drip of gowned tourists to this windowed zoo to gaze and mock upon.

Clamped here with the rest of the dead or dying monkeys.

The groans. The crying. The staring and spitefulness. The agony and bitterness. The unforgiving and uncaring.

And that's just from my only visitor. Sat not three feet from me. A token visit. A business visit. A flying visit from a villainous turncoat.

Not one through love. Or of the promise of new flesh.

None of that nonsense.

Helen Smart. My literary agent from Smart, Smart & Ingle.

Not the agent who first noticed and captured my talent, before unleashing the world of Edgar Benedict upon the unsuspecting globe. That was the late and great Bertie Ingle. This is Helen Smart. All crisp flannels and powerful jackets. Always dark greens to complement her copper coloured bobbed hair, perilous green eyes and bloodstained lip gloss. Skinny and pale, but oddly attractive with her stilettos' and critical eyes jabbing and slicing the planet like laser beams. A human termite creating a billion holes in the Earth's surface with her swift noisy stomp and pierced drilling scrutiny. Unforgiving and harsh with a mobile phone constantly glued to her hair hooked ear. Not intentionally rude, just naturally crushing and downright clinically judgemental. But then I guess that is her job.

Oddly attractive if you like your heart being served torn straight from your chest whilst at your lowest ebb and being used as a garnished pate starter served on a black slate plate for a TV cookery show, all in the name of making Smart, Smart & Ingle further financial indulgence.

I would have sooner had no visits at all. Would sooner have been set adrift on a Morphine induced adventure to find Captain Edgar Benedict and the HMS Urgency lost in the fogs off the Cape of No Hope. A search party is what's needed and Captain Carruthers and the good ship Morphine could just about man a rescue mission to find our hero.

But the quacks don't want to hear this.

Helen Smart doesn't want to hear this.

Apparently nobody in the entire world wants to hear this.

Apparently the whole world wouldn't give a damn if old Benedict was to stay forever clinging to a jagged razored rock in the middle of that thickest grey fog. The crew and the Urgency lost in the deepest fathoms of the inky waters. The Ensign wiping the surface like a damp blanket.

The end to British sea power.

Nobody cares anymore, apparently. That's what Helen Smart thinks. The old man long gone, and her and her fat loathsome husband of hers at the wheel of the good ship Smart, Smart & Ingle.

Her the literary arm.

Him the arts and entertainments arm.

-'All I need is a sub Helen. I need research and I can't do it without assistance from a fresh advance.' I plead.

-'Martin you signed a three book advance six years ago. Six bloody figures. You'd have never have got a deal like that with any other publisher. It was Smart, Smart & Ingle that got you that deal.' She sneers.

-'It was the old man that got me that deal.' I correct her.

-'And if the old man was around today I doubt that even his incredible capacity for faith in you would secure you an advance. The publisher has had enough. The last two Benedict novels were weak. The reviews luke-warm. The reception for your titles waning. Sales dropping through the floor.'

-'Then get me out of this deal and find me a fresh publisher.'

-'Where is your work Martin? Where is a brand new manuscript for me to approach any prospective publisher? You've not produced anything for almost three years. You've almost dropped off the edge of the Earth and so has Benedict.' She is scathing. Punishing me whilst at my weakest ebb. All bandaged up like a comedy dummy, sucking through a straw, the magnified sunlight beaming off the top of my thinning dome through the nearby window in this little uncaring corner of Cosham.

-'I need a break Helen. To recharge the batteries. I've been going through a bad time of late. A tide of luck against me. I need a break. I need an advance. To recharge the batteries and come back with the best Benedict ever. A return to form.'

-' So you need six weeks in Burmuda to fill those cells and inspire you to bring back Benedict; more swashbuckling than ever before?' She mulls.

-'Exactly Helen, I plead with you. That is exactly what I need.' Searching in those hard green eyes of hers for the first glimpse of pity for an old fellow who has more than earned his keep.

-'You're pathetic Martin. Nobody gives a shit about Edgar bloody Benedict any longer. Get that in to your head. Benedict has already beaten every foe. Christ he's beaten some three times now. He's already bedded every vulnerable damsel in every port. I'm surprised that it's not dropped off. He's outwitted every sea captain to ever exist. He's risen from every adversity. He's defied every order. He's captured every treasure for the crown. It's tedious. It's boring. There's nothing left for the knackered old sod to do.'

I sit upright, aghast. Upright on a bed of half a dozen pillows. A scene that reminds me of Benedict's own plight in 'Benedict's Phoenix' where he was close to deaths door in St Lucia; only his strong will and incredible fortitude keeping him alive. The shot from a Spanish musket embedded in his shoulder.

It's as if the room has fallen silent and the tourists from every bed, chair and desk are looking over and nodding their agreements, along with Helen.

-'Well... Well, I shall kill him off then!' I announce. 'I shall give old Benedict a glorious death. For King and for country. In the most fitting of circumstances. A final act of great and moving bravery to complete the series.' I narkingly agree with myself. My mind not its own. 'The refreshment of a much needed break could pull the HMS Ugrency in to shore for one last time Helen. I have earned your business many many thousands of pounds over the last twenty-five years.'

She nods her head and takes a deliberate glance at her watch. Picking up her purse from my bedside cabinet. Her visit fleeting. The one to finally come and place her menacing stiletto on to the throat of a beaten man. Helping to finish him off.

She didn't bring flowers. Or chocolates. Not even a card. A busted flush for them now. A commodity that has outstayed it's welcome.

Her, like a dark angel wanting; hoping; that the story was true and I was in a bad way. Maybe if they were lucky I'd be at the devils step. Perhaps she could allow me a quicker passage with a firm nudge towards the door?

Her standing. Almost six feet tall in those nasty stilettos. Copper bobbed hair, green piercing eyes, skinny and pale, but attractive in a 'let me bludgeon you over your already broken bonnet and smoother you with a sodden piss stained pillow kind of way.'

-'Kill that character Martin and get a move on with it. I'm sorry that you're going through a bad time of things. Hopefully they'll catch the toerag that did this to you and you'll turn things around at home.' She's saying these things with barely a glance. Her beeping damn phone now wrestling her focus away from me. 'There won't be any further advance Martin. No refreshments in Burmuda as was the norm. The kitty is bare for Martin Carruthers. The publisher wants the final book that they paid for in 1990 and the only way that you'll see another advance is if you find a remarkable return of form.'

My head aches further.

My ribs twisting further inwards, restricting me.

The rupture to my spleen confusing me more so.

My big black balls throbbing.

-'Kill that bloody Benedict off Martin. Hopefully you'll be able to convince another publisher afterwards. Hopefully you'll be able to attract another willing agent. Smart, Smart & Ingle are moving in a different direction now it's just me and Trevor in charge of the company.'

She makes a call on her mobile phone and leaves without so much of a goodbye and good luck.

I press the button for more Morphine.

## Introducing Evan Speed.

This affair wasn't my idea, but I couldn't have planned it much better myself. The spotlight firmly fixed on the only subject in Ole London Town. Me.

On the outside one is purveying his rather humble side. On the inside one considers having these low lying yizzards eating from out of the sweaty innards of my gifted plimsolls.

Snappers pleading in yells for me to face them in front of the giant splash of the 'Doctor Who' billboard. Flash bulbs popping brighter than a nights sky over Beijing on Chinese New Year. My arm draped fashionably around the back of my equally young, clean cut and attractive new 'assistant', Kate Beckinsale.

My hand grasping and nestling on her animated elite backside as she flashes her sparkling white teeth for the paparazzi. Her all misery-guts and whispering beneath her breath for me to remove my offending fucking digit-scoop before she has it broken. Her thinking that she's a bit of a name cos her old man was once famous; now famously dead. Famed cos she's made a few sub-fair TV movies for nobody in particular and now all snappy having to play (a splendidly lovely) second fiddle to some buff stud from The Warren. Her not realising yet that I'll be calling the shots around this place during our tight working relationship; and the dogshite on her shoe attitude won't wash. Anyone else with a snobby sprout-chomping -'a hobo just used my gob as a back alley bog' pout towards kids TV performers can do one too.

I wasn't born in some darkened room at Television Centre; where they hatch us out of specially developed CBBC eggs that have been sat on and incubated by Feola Benjamin. I'm a serious bloody actor.

All elbows and fistfucking on my climb to stardom, and minor league players, like Beckinsale, better get used to the feel from the heel of my boot in to their whining fizzog on the race to the top. I couldn't give a monkeys bright pink ringpiece who I stomp all over to get there to be perfectly honest.

I'll race you to Hollywood ya narky wee rinser. Manchester School for Dramatic Arts in the house and I'll Sir Laurence Olivier you right off the goddam stage.

It was my agent Trevor Smarts call, all of this. Trevor Smart of Smart, Smart & Ingle.

Fat Trev: The shirt button busting, half-four shadow, monotonous warbling, sweaty purple face of Smart, Smart & Ingle. After my looks and my talent, he's possibly my next greatest asset.

I love the wheezing fat bundle of South African cholesterol on legs. He'd be the thing I'd rescue and take to my nuclear bunker if WW3 inconveniently burst out right now at this momentos.

Fat Trev would still manage to find me graft aplenty for folding brass in my pocket, room for my gleaming white set of gnashers on post apocalypse telly and a line of war wary snatchplate lining the bunker corridors, ready to shine their gratitude.

A big fat bundle of lovely Sooth Efricaan clogged arteries on legs. A primo clever fella that has executives, commissioners and producers dancing in the palm of his hand like Bonnie bloomin Langford with her toe stuck in the mains socket.

I just hope that he stays alive longer than most folk expect him too.

Champion virtuoso!

Worth his weight in Krugerrands.

The May Fair Hotel.

Stratton Street.

London W1

The Doctor Who Announcement after party. The new Doctor Who being the worst kept secret in British TV history.

Moi!

All metallic balloons and red carpets. Polystyrene Daleks. Cybermen posing for photos with pissed up young giggling hotties falling out of dresses. Self important BBC types with satisfied smug grins. Waitresses in revealing ill-fitting lycra and plastic alien fancy dress.

Geeky faggots outside. Suits, Z list celebrities, co-stars and collective sci-fi daftness inside.

Fat Trev Smart taking the event from the hands of the British Broadcasting Corporation and taking on the hosting skills all by himself.

The final bill, of course, will fall on the mat at Television Centre in the morning. The egg on legs directing his star towards a top billing reception deserving of his main client. Space-hoppered in from relative obscurity to gatecrash primetime Saturday night entertainment on a fun-packed one way rollercoaster to stardom.

He knows my gratitude and the debt I owe him; but he also realises that I'm the star performer.

The face of 1996 (and beyond).

The one they'll all be talking about on the streets: in the bars, in the playgrounds, in the hairdressers chair, in the bus queue and on the tube. The asset that will keep their poxy agency peeping well above water.

I'm knocking back Bollinger, nodding to the public's inane and dull ramblings, making firm friends with the gossip columnists who will help make my fortune, and fending off dirty looks from Beckinsale. Four years younger than me but already as bitter as a pint of Newton & Ridley.

You could see the soul sapping from out of her wingnuts to the sides of her bony cheeked fizzog, floating on up towards the bright hot lights to linger on the ceiling like nicotine bedding down in the deep forges of fresco.

I'm making it my immediate goal to bed her and allow her to unleash her sour-faced gurning angry assault on me as soon as professionally possible.

Always up for an entertaining challenge with the difficult ones.

She'll be a draw for the BBC, no disputing that, and with the right teamwork and a professional relationship we'd have the general public mongs eating out of our week old undies. But it's up to her to quickly change her frankly disappointing, world owes me a showbiz living, attitude.

If you didn't know her; if you were parked on your great trumper with your tea on your lap on a Saturday evening, gorping in to that life owning box of mischief, with a puk-ugly wife in the opposite corner and your robotic, bawdy, disobedient little brats spread out along the fake oak wood flooring that accompanies your matt black all-encompassing oxygen-giving vision-giver and your lost and loveless life perfectly, she'd give you the impression that butter wouldn't melt. Like an illuminated heaven sent angel that will have Dad's from Dornoch to Dawlish excusing themselves to knock one out behind locked bathroom doors and frosted double-glazing.

I do know her, and it's my duty to change her stinking demeanor. Especially towards her nemesis subject; children's television entertainers winning serious acting roles.

Seriously sister, lighten up. We could be a million dollars together.

It can work. I'll make sure it works.

Fat Trev is spoiling me with a never ending crescendo of superlatives to all tabs that'll listen in.

And at these things there is always plenty of goldfish bowl faces tab-hanging on to the every word of the star and his entourage. I have the suits, and the nobodies who claim to know the suits, clamouring for the insider knowledge on all things Timelord. Wanting to know any easily dropped nuggets of plot and what kind of Doctor I'll be. I tease them by revealing that I'll most definitely be the only one to have ever signed a contract for Calvin Klein underwear - Fat Trev playing an important and lucrative part in that process too.

Imported from some far flung frozen northern hinterland to brighten up the lives of the nation's poisonous offspring; only to find oneself the soon to be announced body and face of the world's favourite overpriced briefs.

It never rains. It always pours.

By the second hour of this routine I'm becoming increasingly bored, flaky-disinterested and niggled. The attention is obviously gratifying, but the constant whoring for my attention is only making me force more public funded bubbles down my increasingly thirsty neck. I've started to tell people to piss off from under my smirking breath whilst shaking their repulsive oily mitts; hoping they'll leave me alone. Directionless brickwall lives of average nobodies are taking their course on my quickly frazzled skull. Making me want to mainstream Saturday night lose it.

Fat Trev, being the luminary turn that he is, knows his delicate client, watching my torment closely and treats my needs much like a granny would serve her loving tabby cat.

He wanders over with a delectably dazzling princess on his thick arm. Her shining like an expensively assembled stately home chandelier; all stones, cream silk and South of France tan. Him introducing her.

-'Evaan. Evaan. Carm and meet thees larv-e-lee yarng lay-dee Evaan' he slurps knowingly.

Throwing me a wink for his troubles and sliding her off of his arm and expertly towards my eagerly flung open front doors.

Lena Frostrup-Singleton. 98th in line to the throne of England. The media darling. Their favourite current 'It Girl'.

Best-loved things include: Parties, the paparazzi, The Ivy, holidays in the Caribbean, yachts, tennis players, rugby players, polo players, The Met Bar, royal appointments, endorsements, horses, Monaco, parties, the paparazzi, charity engagements, fashion shows, Chinawhite, Lamborghinis, Windsor, diamonds & pearls, parties, the paparazzi, lights, cameras, action.

I know her game. It's one that she'll have played dozens of times already. Honed her skills like a young Maradona against a grotty seventies Buenos Aires 'villa miseria' wall. She searching out the talent, circling like a harrier hawk and swooping in for the kill before feasting on the bones of the latest media darling.

Flash bulbs going off like the first glimpse of New Year down by the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

I'm accessible, operational and available for action.

A whisper in the ear here. A hand in to a hand there. A goodnight to all here. An outstayed our welcome there. A disapproving glance from a co-star here. A triumphant nod of acceptance from a happy agent there. A thunderous shower of cameras by the door here. A climb off the red carpet there. In to the back of a limo here. A tongue down a well spoken throat there. A digit-scoop on a tiny royal tit here. The pursuit of the paparazzi there. A gentle roll up to the doors of Chinawhite here. A climb out of the limo there. More thrashing of flash bulbs here. Whispers from the crowds there. Envious looks off the punters here. A promise of a tasty nightcap there. Both done each other a favour here. Nobbing the ruling classes back at some Kensington retreat later there. Further partying back at daddies here. Not exactly a lock in at The Gun & Glasshouse there

It's all a big game in this industry and you have to know the rules on how to play to survive. Watch your back. Pick the right team players. Formulate a winning strategy. And don't change your mind once you've decided where to put it. Go with your convictions and stick with your confidence.

The words of Trevor Smart. Smart by name, Smart by nature. Trevor Smart of Johannesburg. Trevor Smart of Smart, Smart & Ingle Agency Ltd.

That was always the problem with my kid brother. No convictions and zero confidence were just the beginnings of his troubles. The gene pool only has so much it can dish out. Unfortunately for him there just wasn't a great deal left to go around after Ma and Pa Sweeney had had me.

He's another that detests me and my growing success but spheroids to the lot of them. This lot and everyone from my plummeting past will be left in the burned off stream from my jetpack. Moving on and flicking the V's to one and all.

## Billy.

You've a Sunday morning head that's only best shifted with a pint of best.

Might shift a few of these nerves as well; as you're pure bricking yourself and shrinking in confidence about this evening. Your wrought shyness getting the better of you once more, as the minutes tick by. Unable to enjoy the build up and actually anticipate having a good time. More concerned with cocking up your performance.

Why can't you be more like your brother?

You'd spent the best part of two weeks attempting to get in touch with Karin. Greeted by unanswered ringtones and sharp responses from this Maurice fella who you were meant to ring.

Struggling to get a word from her. Calling at the wrong time. Asking to leave your number but being baulked at the opportunity.

You'd played with the thought that it was all a dream anyhow. Then the wired neurotic finally set in as normal. Convincing yourself that she'd made an error. Kicking yourself for appearing so early the following morning. Almost stalking her with your eagerness. Not wanting to lose that little bit of confidence that you'd somehow managed to muster. A confidence that wanes by the second.

You got the paranoia and the paranoia has got you.

Four times you rang her in that first week. Twice there was no reply. Leading you in to thinking that it was a bogus number. Twice you'd spoken to this bloke Maurice. His voice soft and gentle; reassuring sounding. Only his responses defied that initial impression. You stuttering your pre-planned lines that you'd gone over in your mind like a madman. Him giving you short bursts of feedback that lacked much concern or hope that you'd ever get to speak to his neighbour. You wondering if this arrangement is some kind of joke. The urge to gather the stones to allow you the bottle to just nip across the town centre, to China Doll, and ask her for a time and place in person; but the courage and fear of expected rejection seemed a bigger threat than was actually worth the ease on your mind. Preferring the torture it was putting you through in your waking hours.

You've always got your fruit & veg.

You went in to town as usual on the Friday night. Unable to contact her in a full week. Unsure whether you were wanting to come across her or not. The elation of setting eyes upon her being countered by the dread of possible humiliation. Of being left exposed in the middle of some packed public arena; your gaggle of mates laughing amongst themselves in your bleak discomfort. Her forgetting that you'd even had the initial conversation and agreement, possibly? Her friend looking at your plainness and thinking you'd lost your mind, perhaps? Your heart set to burst right there in front of the entire world, no doubt. Covering everyone you knew, and everyone you didn't know, in a shower of your own embarrassed matter.

Self doubt and self loathing skip nonchalantly through your mind, hand in comfortable hand.

However, you didn't see her in the town on that Friday night. She was always in town on the Friday night. Always in that comfort zone spot on the dance floor. Except this week she was nowhere to be seen. Seemingly vanished from the face of the globe. Was she hiding away from you? Scared to appear, only to be stalked further from you? Nerved by your persistence and regretting lowering her guard the week previously? Her own anxiety setting in and making her stay at home on the sofa?

Or maybe she'd had a better offer from somebody with more purpose about them? From someone with a confidence and a better skill set for this sort of thing, such as Jockey, or Von, or Knoxy, or Matt T? Lads that would know what to do in a situation like this and shrug off the consequences either which way it led.

Self doubt opening the door to usher self loathing inside with a knowing warm smile.

You stayed at home and at work for the remainder of that excruciatingly slow weekend, feeling down and depressed. Not thinking straight and actually wanting to cry whenever you were alone. Harking yourself back to the good times that you'd had with Tina. Going strong for a week shy of two years. The train trips to Cornwall for weeks in the caravan beside Fistral Beach. The nights sat in the company of her and her mum; having to watch the soaps but just feeling comfortable in her presence. Being relaxed and philosophical about your increasing lack of a sex life. You loved her and wanted to be with her for the rest of your life. You hoped that it was just a phase that she was going through. Her being cold towards your advances. Unresponsive against your impulses. Accusing you of having an agenda when you did nice things for her, or made a romantic gesture. You just wanting to get in to her pants allegedly. You just wanting her to look at you in the way that she used to by the end.

The end? It came on a wet sail. All over in one Saturday night hour. Her meeting someone else. You just letting her go without so much as a fight. Your world left hollow. Her revealing that she'd never loved you. Telling you that you were a convenience. Dismissive words of your friends not helping. The uncaring words of your parents not helping. You walking around for months with your bloodied heart beating away in the palms of your hands; unable to adapt to the truth. The world opening up but refusing to swallow you; just like she did. Her engaged inside a month. Him bigger than you. Taller than you. Better looking than you. Better dressed and turned out than you. Probably better in bed than you. Her catching up on the sex life that she'd spent six months avoiding.

Self loathing inviting self doubt around for dinner and to reminisce about the good old days.

The uncomfortable weekend passed in to the uncomfortable week. You still denying yourself the opportunity to go and have a glimpse in the window of China Doll. That initial confidence lost entirely in a flooded sea of complete vacillation. Now you'd do everything in your powers to avoid the chance of bumping in to her. Unable to comprehend any possibility of rescuing this situation. It all going back to Tina again and the way that she smashed your already fragile confidence further. Making you feel worthless. Your best friend Knoxy bemused at why you adore this new girl so much but are unwilling to do something about it. Doubting that you're even that bothered. Telling you to stop moping about it; to get on the lager and give yourself some courage. Him belittling your own lack of worth; helped by the fact that he carries his abundance of it around in a wheelbarrow. You spending the Tuesday night quiz at The Gun & Glasshouse being sized up for abuse from your uncompromising pack of mates and their small troop of unhelpfully fawning female sidekicks. You doubling your nicotine intake. You not caring about the smell from your breath. Unlikely for it to play a meaningful part in your life again.

A life devoted to fruit & veg.

It was a Wednesday morning. You'd taken a delivery early doors. A little after half past seven. You'd sunk three coffees already and had sat down with the Mansfield Chad, looking over the sport. Opening up early for any unlikely premature trade. A cool chill reminding you that winter hadn't quite passed the baton over to summer just yet. The radio playing 'Don't Look Back In Anger' by Oasis. You looked up and there she was. A smile on her astonishingly beautiful face and a question whether there was more hot water in the kettle. You aching whether to laugh or break down and sob at her pretty little feet. Her apologetic. The excuses of a hectic week now seeming so plausible and dowsing the climbing flames that were burning down your cluttered house of muddled theories. Her sitting down next to you on the wooden boxes. Close enough to be touching knees and elbows, but still enough distance between you to remain strangers. Her having ten minutes to spare before she got to work. Her regretting the arrangement she put in place for being contacted with. You both agreeing that it wasn't an ideal set up. You both feeling a little nervous and uncomfortable, but by the time that she had left, you were happy that it hadn't all been an excruciating dream and that she hadn't been purposely avoiding you. She may even actually quite like you on last impressions.

The rest of the day had you bouncing off the walls. Confidence restored. A date made. Thoughts of Tina consigned back to their box. Hoping to banish them forever. Going to bed unable to sleep or believe your luck.

Self doubt and self loathing sat staring impassively with their arms folded.

The week and your mood had turned itself around with remarkable pace. You are thinking that nothing could top this, but throughout, the creeping spectre of uncertainty was attempting to slip beneath your door, the closer that the evening advanced upon you.

Little did you expect the pick me up that you were about to receive. A week that could just about rank up there near the very top, if your day ended in the fashion that it had just evolved in to.

Why can't you be more like your brother? He got the looks. He got the talent. He got the personality. You got anonymity. You got fruit and veg. You got zero confidence. You got the paranoia.

Sat in our usual corner of The Gun & Glasshouse tap room is a noisy Knoxy, Von, Jocky, Matt P and Stack; Leon is over by the bandit, feeding it another fistful of coins. You take your pint and join the delirious collection of grins. Knoxy passes over a copy of News Of The World.

What greets you buoys your spirits enough to buy every last one of them the drink of their choosing. The front cover cavorts an image of two semi naked bodies with the promise of more images inside.

## WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Doctor Who Stars Shame In Night Of Drug Crazed Debauchery With Lady LFS Dominik Fowler reports

The future of new Doctor Who star Evan Speed was thrown in to major doubts after your News Of The World exposes him of being an out of control drug fuelled pervert.

Only hours after partying at the recently under fire, lavish, 'money no object' license fee paid for Doctor Who announcement bash at London's swanky May Fair Hotel, the former star of the popular kids TV hit 'Jetpack Boy' was downing £250 bottles of bubbly with the 26 year old socialite Lady Lena Frostrup-Singleton at the Trendy Chinawhite club: a favoured haunt of the capitals rich and famous. An eyewitness told News Of The World 'They were clearly very much in to one another. We see Lady LFS in here a lot, but we've never seen her all over a guy quite like she was with Evan Speed. He's definitely got something about him that's a wow with the ladies, as many couldn't take their eyes off of him. He really has star quality and Lady LFS had the look of a cat that had got the cream.'

The famous pairs night of uncontrollable abashed degradation moved on to the It Girl's £8million central London home, where they continued to party, with events getting out of hand. Our insider was on hand to scoop our exclusive pictures. In them the half naked pair are seen frolicking unashamedly whilst happily taking cocaine in front of other guests. The heiress, seen topless yet again, whilst the BBC's latest sensation is seen mischievously licking the white powder from her body.

Speed, 27, has yet to even film an episode of the cult TV show and has been tipped in many quarters for major stardom, thanks largely to his smouldering good looks and the charm that has since been a knock out with the media. He is rumoured to have secured a six figure contract to endorse Calvin Klein underwear in the very near future.

However, an insider exclusively told our reporter 'this must cast some serious doubts over the future of the much publicised new Doctor Who relaunch. It's a shame because he was going down a storm all evening. Maybe the whole event went to his head, but when you party with Lady LFS it's usually no holds barred. Which it would certainly have been in the bedroom later, if these photographs are anything to go by.

Lady Frostrup-Singleton is no stranger to controversy and only last year found herself admitted by her father, the 8th Earl of Ely, to The Priory, a rehab centre favoured by celebrities, for her incessant cocaine fuelled habits.

Her meeting with Speed, who himself is renowned on the London scene as a hard drinking hellraiser is sure to have ignited unstoppable urges inside the pair.

At going to press neither the BBC or the Earl's office was willing to comment, but Evan Speed's agent Trevor Smart dismissed our revelations as 'unhelpful gossip and tittle-tattle.' But it is unlikely that chiefs at the BBC will be impressed with this latest blow to the relaunching of the thirty year old family show. They had recently come under fire from hardcore Timelord fans for their choice of the new Doctor. Coming in for criticism in promoting a children's television presenter ahead of more established character actors. Fans pointing out that the BBC were more interested in Speed's good looks and his pull on a younger female audience than staying loyal to the shows roots.

These latest revelations are sure to whip up the storm that the corporation and Doctor Who's producers had hoped was now behind them.

SEE OUR DOUBLE PAGE PHOTO EXCLUSIVE ON PAGES 4&5

## Karin.

I'd never eaten Chinese food before and wasn't prepared for the sensations that take me by surprise. It reminds me that I've still so much to learn after living such a sheltered life.

He's cute in an unorthodox way. And so crushingly nervous that it has actually helped dismiss my own few butterflies. Throughout he has been the model gentleman.

Picking me up from outside the shopping parade as I'd asked. Not wanting him to know my address. Nothing against him but I don't want him there, exposed to my fractured household, where he wouldn't be welcomed. For now I don't feel comfortable with allowing anybody near that place; it's difficult enough for me and it's all that I've ever known.

It wouldn't be fair on Billy. I think I've intimidated him enough already with what he perceived as my reluctance to come along. The mistake of producing Maurice as my own personal secretary was a failure too. Me underestimating how reserved my neighbour is himself, which must have forced a nervous and uncomfortable exchange. Maybe I'll just let them meet properly some day and they'll get along like normal folks?

He'd picked me up by the Warren Parade and stuttered some cute comment before handing me a colourful mix of flowers. I'm certain that he wouldn't have known what he'd chosen, just picked the ones that were mostly the stereotypical favourite girl's colours. He chose well.

He brought me out here.

To Farnsfield.

The Winner City.

Chinese food for the first time.

Me always extremely curious but never tried. My fascination with the East amplified. Promising myself to bring Joanne at the next opportunity.

Him opening up and relaxing more as the evening progresses. Me with a large glass of white, enjoying his anxiously delivered stories, littered with humour and self detriment. Me thinking that he's not like the other boys that I've met. Boys that I've refused to give my heart to. My heart not an easy gift to give. It feeling too much a precious part of me to give too much of it away. Me still content in being my own person. Happy with my own company and my certain freedoms. Enjoying my studies, my books and my music too much to allow myself the vices of boys. Leaving the urge for broken heartedness to Joanne; who is more than happy to keep placing her beating organ on the line.

We swap spoonfuls of differing desserts. Me conscious not to display too much ill-conceived acts of affection, to Billy or to the other customers and staff.

I'm done. Totally podged, and I thank him for a delicious meal and congratulate him on his excellent choice. I can see his spirits rise and I feel good about myself for making it happen. He's a nice guy. Awkward and a little too down on himself for my liking, but there's nothing about his personality that isn't likeable.

I urge him to find us a pub. I'll buy. It turns out that we are from the very same part of town. Our homes are only about half a mile apart. We marvel that we've never noticed one another knocking around before. Though he's six years my senior and we've hardly moved in the same circles. He belongs to that large, noisy crowd that populates The Gun & Glasshouse; a public house that my father used to frequent. It's a place that I've never been in and have no real desires to break that particular trend. A scene for fighting on a weekend night. A place that I remember the riot police going in to a few years ago when the national football team were knocked out of some cup. A raw, messy place that I'd always associated with loudmouths, wastrels and notoriously bad food by all accounts. Meeting Billy has blown much of those thoughts out of the water; though I tell him that it's not the place to take me for a drink this evening. He's happy to agree and takes me to the Sir John Cockle; which is uniquely busy itself for a Sunday evening.

We find a cosy corner to sit and I insist on going to the bar. An overgrown middle-aged character with bad teeth attempts to hit on me. I tell him that I'm with somebody I'm afraid. He makes a smart comment about being able to sort that out. I tell him to grow up.

His company tells him to -'Forget it Griff. She's probably a dyke anyway.'

I present Billy with his drink, place a hand on his own and give him a peck on the lips, thanking him for a good time; all in an act of show for the bull necked monster propping up the bar, unable to remove his eyes from me.

It's not something I'm unused to. I realise I hold an attraction on men. My mother never told me that I was pretty. In these last few years she's seemed to resent me so much that we barely talk. My father never passes any compliments. He just sits and stares; and touches when his breath stinks of booze. Neither of them complimented me on my outstanding school qualifications. My dream was to go to university. Only Maurice wanted to help me out with that, but I refused his financial assistance; telling him that I'll make it through by my own means. Neither of my parents congratulated me on securing a job on my first day of leaving school. Neither of them caring about my studies and my dreams. Them, so in to their own conflict with one another that I'm just a peripheral body in their stubbornly sculptured house of hate. Like the sink or the bath; the front door or the fireplace.

They've never told me that I'm beautiful, or suggested that I'm desirable. So when I get approached by men, like this goon at the bar, slipping off to the toilets with his gaze fixed on me, I appreciate it for what it is. Growing up with no words of praise from your own family makes me store every little piece that comes my way at a further stage. Even off dickheads like that.

Even off dickheads like my tutor in Agriculture and Horticulture at West Notts College. Jamie Pike. A married man of thirty-six. Two small children. A boy and a girl. An excellent tutor with an impressive knack of making the smallest of subjects sound interesting. A real asset to the local college. A tutor that has held his class captivated over the last two years. Made it an enjoyable place to learn. Undoubtedly playing a major part in all of our successes. A guy that has a friend that is part of the management for the local Forestry Commission in the Sherwood Office at Old Clipstone. A friend that he was sure could find me a job there if we were to do a favour for one another. He really likes me and would like to help me out you see. And his wife has suffered pretty severe post natal depression in the past three years. He's not had any sexual involvement in thirty months of that time you see. He really likes me. He likes me enough to want to book a hotel away somewhere. Tell his wife that he has to go on a course for a couple of days. Will happily whisk me off somewhere nice and posh. It'd help him out immeasurably and probably save their marriage. He feels sure that he could fix me up with the local Forestry Commission, as he likes me and would like to help me out. Things might lead to something more serious if I'd like it too. He sees no harm in helping one another to both get what we need.

I took all of that as a compliment too. The past two weeks of pestering. Of whispering in busy corridors. Of his tears by his desk when nobody else was around. Of the hand on my shoulder that would slip down my arm towards my hand. Of the puppy dog eyes that lay on me across the quiet classroom. I took the lot, unlocked my treasure chest of compliments and put them inside.

I then told him that I'd already been for the interview at the Forestry Commission headquarters at the Sherwood Office in Old Clipstone. The lady there was lovely and very enthusiastic for me to begin right away; the moment that I finished my studies and had worked my notice at China Doll on Queen Street. I wouldn't need the help of him and his so-called friend.

I get Billy to drop me off again at the Warren Parade. He insists on dropping me at home, but I insist louder on him dropping me here. I don't bullshit him. I tell him that I have my reasons and if we get a little closer I will let him know them. I tell him that I have enjoyed his company and I find him sweet. I don't find his accounts of watching me on the dance floor from afar, for months, at all creepy. I insist it doesn't bother me and that I find it flattering but I'm not too sure that he believes me. Again, another little welcome item to store in my neat chest of compliments.

At least he's not afraid to tell me these things, and that means a lot to me. To be honest, when I'm on that dance floor, listening to that loud bassline music, I don't pay any attention to anything or anyone. It's my opportunity to get lost for a couple of hours. My noisy peace away from real people and the stresses of the week.

For another fifteen minutes we sit in his car and chat in the dark with the engine off. I'm wanting to get off for bed, feeling exhausted from a long day and needing a good night's sleep ready for my final week at China Doll and college. He would like to keep me here all evening and it's clear that he's becoming more relaxed in my company, but eventually I make my excuses and leave. Leaving him disappointed and avoiding the real kiss finale that I know he is dying for inside. I never do the finale kiss. In fact I've never had a real boyfriend or a serious enough date to perform it on.

A string of dates, yes. A real boyfriend? Not yet. And nowhere near a sexual encounter, that I'm not yet ready for.

Keeping all of that heart to myself right now.

I promise to pop in to his shop at some point in the week and I promise to let him take me out again.

I'm happy to leave it at that and leave him sat in his car in the dark, agreeing not to follow me home. I trust him; he's a genuine guy.

Back in the house it is late and it is quiet. The lights are off and the place is at peace with itself until the following morning breaks out; when I'll thankfully be far from it. In my room I close my bedroom curtains, noting a light on in Maurice Braithwaite's bedroom window. I wonder to myself if he is going through his precious photo album that is his most prized possession, or whether he is reading a Martin Carruthers 'Benedict' novel for the tenth time, or if he is quietly playing his Elvis Presley records.

Only ever Elvis Presley.

I slip out of my dress and my underwear; crawling in to my comfortable crisp silk pyjamas. I go through to the bathroom and brush my teeth in to a frothy shower.

My father enters the room. His hair longer than usual but thinning. His grey whiskers glittering from the bare light bulb. His torso remarkably taut for a man of his age. A man that has always been lean and naturally fit. He is completely naked. He takes a piss whilst I scrub. His eyes sleepy and devoid of emotion. He washes his hands in the sink and dries them on the nearest towel. He turns me by the shoulders towards him, me still brushing. He is a foot taller than my modest 5ft 3. He carefully unbuttons my five pyjama top buttons, revealing my fulsome bosom. He cups his hands around my soft breasts; running his thumbs over my pink nipples. Leaving me chilled.

I am rigid, like a statue. My brushing ceased. My mouth full of suds. His eyes stare blankly through me and he utters no words.

No words, as always.

After thirty seconds that seem to last an eternity he unhands me and steps back through the door in to the dark of the corridor. Back in to his hole, closing his door. Locking the cache behind him. A similar cache to the one that my mother also has on her bedroom door. And a similar cache to the one that I'll be drawing across my own room for the coming night.

## Flaxman.

Incident Room.

Station Road Police Station.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

1996.

3 dead. More to follow?

The weekly brief.

Acting Divisional Commander Paddy Murphy wanting the lowdown. Unhappy at the slow progress.

Me? I'm busy nosing out of the window at a pretty female in a dress suit. Her arse eating her skirt.

Acting Divisional Commander Paddy Murphy flexing his muscles. Out of his depth.

Detective Sergeant Susan Redmond stood at the front revealing her and DS Thorne's less than reasonable attempts at catching the killer of Roger 'The dodger'.

A cousin and a wife still missing after 5 weeks.

Original concerns turned to suspicion. Now a murder hunt.

A Forest Town bookmakers shop with prints all over it burned to the ground.

-'Accident or coincidence?' Asks Acting Divisional Commander Paddy Murphy. Completely out of his depth. Holding on to the job that should be mine. A fact that he's more than comfortable with. A position that I intend to rectify.

A Forest Town bookmakers shop with prints all over it.

My prints.

My associates prints.

A field of our own. A fox. A toad. A great big bull. And a whole host of lemmings. One that's jumped.

Roger 'The dodger' Campbell. Put to sleep by our assassin for knowing too much and babbling too frequently. Unable to keep his gob shut.

His shop. The bookmakers at Forest Town. A partnership with his cousin Simon.

Burned to the ground.

Our retreat in the flat above. Our war room.

The building owned by BNR Ltd. The Westminster toads letting agency.

The Westminster toad. Bob Dunphy. Minister for Parliament for Mansfield.

Found us another place to assist us with our business needs. Picking up the keys this morning.

The toad as neck deep in this shit as the rest of us.

The toad always shitting it.

A field for the villains. A field for the law. A field all of our own. A fox. A toad. A great big bull. And a whole host of lemmings. One that's jumped before he had to be pushed.

DI Kenton going through our progress to an out of depth Acting Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield. A man under increasing pressure for a collar.

Another press conference this morning with his gaffer the Chief Constable. Him concerned that he has little to report. Me injecting that we have a couple of leads to follow up today.

A whisper we've caught wind of.

A collar imminent. But I don't tell him that.

I don't want him going out of here whistling a happy tune. I want him squirming for another twenty-four hours in his progress report with the Chief Constable.

I want his neck sweating profusely under the hot lights as the press and media probe him for answers. The general public worried behind locked doors.

I want him panicking and suggesting that perhaps it's time to bring further manpower in from the city. Looking reckless and not in control.

Us riding in to town with a bandit with blood on his hands to calm the situation.

A candidate already selected.

The best way to out villain a villain is to be more villainous than even he.

I'm sending Stokes and Driscoll down a blind alley with tales of a hunch.

DCI Stokes nodding encouragingly. Taking my words as complete gospel.

Me? I'm stood above working their strings; careful to note that these lads are no mugs.

Floating them purposely in the wrong direction. Not wanting them to accidently stumble upon the truth.

Telling them that we have a lead to follow up over Warsop Vale road. Non-league crook getting a bit braver.

Telling them that I'm getting restless. Wanting this evil bastard behind bars. Feeling so close that I can smell the blood on someone's hands. Saying that this is personal for the former Commander Walter Clarke's boys.

Acting Divisional Commander Paddy Murphy listening in and nodding his approval. Knowing that he has the right cop in charge, despite his lack of patience for an arrest.

Me? I have little time for small talk. I have a job to do. A villain to catch. My belly telling me that it's time for breakfast. Sending me towards the viaduct on White Hart Street. Pushing me towards Arches cafe.

Me, Kenton and Ryan with work to do. Stokes, Driscoll, Redmond and Thorne to stay focused and keep me informed.

Full English and 2 cups of black slurried coffee to spike my mind.

My mind occasionally wavering and thinking of her.

That crazy lithe body.

That beautiful face.

Blood all over the carpet.

That baby that was mine.

Circumstances altered with the flick of a knife.

Me? I need to snap out of this and stick to the plan. Plenty of time for reflection and remorse at a later date.

Tears when they lowered her in to the ground. You saving yours for the privacy of solitude.

Kenton and Ryan staying positive. Realising that today is an important day.

Kenton pumped and raw. Down the gym at 6am to work on his upper body. Taut and muscular. £200 a month on steroids.

Ryan no longer shitting it. Me coaching him round. Him getting weighty around the waist. Me telling him to get his house in order and be more professional. Let everyone know we're in control. The law holding the leash.

Heads on all round I comment.

I'm up and pushing the pay phone.

Calling the Westminster toad who's in his town centre office. Telling him to meet us at his new address.

A new war room.

An empty two floor flat above a fruit and veg shop.

50 West Gate.

A back entrance via a small alley that snakes through the grotty limestone walls and up on to Clumber Street.

Sweeney's Fruit & Veg.

Abbey National to the side and small budget, low rates stores across the way.

Looks innocent enough. Quiet. A young lad and an extremely pretty young lass stood giggling in the open shuttered doorway.

He has light brown closely cropped hair, ordinary, forgettable looking. He's early to mid 20's. He is 5 feet 10 inches and around 165 pounds. He is of average slim build. Fidgety and nervous. Not the owner, just an employee.

She has dark brown, almost black long hair in a ponytail. Late teens to early 20's. 5 feet 3 and 120 pounds. Very attractive. Well proportioned. Holds herself well. Smartly turned out. Instantly fuckable. Unlikely to be buying fruit and veg. Possibly a friend. Certainly not a pairing and not a regular fixture at this address.

They tentatively see me giving them and the place the once over.

The Westminster toad scurrying towards us, ushering me towards the alleyway down the side.

Nobody saying anything. Nobody daring.

Bob Dunphy MP. The Westminster toad. Opening a gate.

Coaxing us through.

The back yard full of crates and heavy duty cardboard boxes.

A fire escape, daubed in black, up to the first floor with the clanking of police boots.

No overlooking windows. Only the back entrance to the fruit and veg store.

The toad clumsy with his key in the door. Pushing it open.

The air stale. The flooring cheap. The decor old.

DS Graham Ryan sliding open a sash window to let in some air.

One main room. A small bathroom. An even smaller closet room with a sink; hardly a kitchen. A small back room with magnolia woodchip freeing itself from the bond of the wall. A small staircase up to the second floor. A small dark corridor and two equal sized rooms. Bedrooms in there heyday. Unused for almost forever.

The place sparse with furniture.

An old two seater leather sofa. A table with two chairs. A Van Gogh print in a shabby frame the only decoration.

Dusty.

Nobody been in here for a number of years.

The staircase to the ground floor bricked up long ago.

A war room for a fox. A toad. A great big bull. And a whole host of lemmings.

Bob Dunphy MP agitated and anxious.

-'When are you going to get top side of this Flaxman?' He spits.

Me? I insist he calm's down with a raised hand.

-'There's too much going on. Too much incident and suspicion. Too many people getting involved. If it all blows up in our faces we'll all be going down... Me... The Bradshaw's... You... All of you people. It's getting out of hand.' He stammers uncontrollably. Understandably shitting it. -'You do realise what they do to people like you and me on the inside don't you Flaxman?'

-'Just take a seat and chill the fuck out Bob.' I insist. -'Nobody is going down unless somebody makes a glaring error... Look around this room... Do you see anyone capable of making that error?'

He remains silent. My boys setting him with stares that won't appreciate any nonsense.

-'I don't think it'll be Bradshaw that drops the ball Bob, so have a little trust will you?'

-'It's not Bradshaw or yourselves that concerns me George. It's the hole that we are digging ourselves in to. The body count. The trail of blood. The cameras and the newspapers. People going missing with a story to tell.'

-'You don't know that the Campbell's have a story to tell Bob' I suggest.

-'And you don't know that they haven't.' He argues.

-'Relax. If they had a story to tell they'd have already blabbed to someone. Another force or the newspapers.'

The room silent. Only the sounds of the outside and the settling dust.

-'Either way. Until you find them I'll remain nervous with our position.' The toad utters.

-'They'll turn up. Always do. Dead or alive. They've given us the perfect excuse for an arrest. A bloodbath followed by doing a runner together. A classic three way love triangle rivals story. Those newspaper hacks will love that.'

-'And the other two murders? Walter Clarke's wife and daughter?'

-'Unfortunate, but we had no choice. The bitter old bastard wanted to take us all down. Gave her the whole story and information to convict every one of us. Narked that he'd been left behind on his death bed as we all stood to make a packet.'

-'So what did she say?' He asks.

-'Marched right up to me outside of the church. Walter been in the ground a matter of minutes. Bold as shining brass she was. Told me that the fucker had given her the lot whilst on that deathbed and she intended to squeal with it. Told her that we'd double crossed him. Made his illness worse. Came up with a cock and bull story that would eradicate him entirely of our business with the Bradshaw's of this world. After all that we'd done for the bastard. Would have marched to the gates of Hell for that man.'

A droplet of sweat slaloms from the brow of the Minister of Parliament for Mansfield.

-'The real threat has been taken care of Bob. The snakes head cut clean off. No alternative. She had to be dealt with and dealt with quickly before things could escalate. A sorry business cos I always liked Jenny and Rebecca. We all did. But Walt had turned on us Bob and we're all in this enough now to know the consequences of turning grass.' I coldly inform him.

-'Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right George.' He lowers. -'We have to save our own necks.

-'Correct. And it just so happens that we already have our fall guy to take the rap for this whole sorry episode. It turns out that Mr Bradshaw's man produced a more than suitable result for the second time inside a month and we're preparing for an arrest.'

-'Well, that's good. Reassuring.' He chips -'I don't want to know the facts. That's police work that I will leave to you. I'm a busy man and so are you.'

He throws me the keys.

-' This place should suit your needs for the time being. It's quiet enough. The people downstairs aren't any trouble and we can meet whenever it's required.' He turns to leave. Dabbing his head with a handkerchief. -'I'll leave you chaps to your work. Lets get this whole mess sorted and behind us, hey?'

I stop him before the Westminster toad can hop it.

-'Bob? Kettle would be nice... And some coffee... A microwave and a telly... And a filing cabinet... And whilst you're at it, get a bloody phone fitted.'

A war room of our own. Out villaining the villains.

She was the reason for it.

The catalyst for this sorry business with Walter Clarke and his wife. Both in the ground together inside a fortnight.

Rebecca Stevenson. Their only daughter.

Former Divisional Commander Walter Clarke (deceased) riddled with cancer. His dirty days leading to a premature close. Him taking me under his needy wing. Getting me to recruit a couple of equally keen and wanting to be swayed coppers.

My mate Brian Kenton as up for it as much as I was. A uniformed spastic, Graham Ryan wanting to be led. Walter promoting him out of the heavy boots and blues.

Walter's dealings with the Bilsthorpe based gangster Griff Bradshaw getting deeper and murkier.

To the point where our efforts were more in tune with the needs of our villainous little club than for Her Majesty's police force.

Turning a blind eye and giving a tip off.

Throwing our considerable weight around if necessary.

Now this isn't the seventies or eighties any more. Regulations are in place to root out the bad cops like us; and rightly so. We can't just go around giving people some fist and slamming hands in car doors like they used too.

The general public frowned upon that kind of behaviour and police commissions were introduced.

But trust me we've crossed that line and stared it down as much as we possibly could get away with.

Then she came along, the reason for all of this sorry business.

Her face and her touch like nothing you had ever felt before. Making you feel almost human.

Rebecca Stevenson. Divisional Commander Walter Clarke's only daughter.

Introduced to me from out of nowhere.

Me? I was completely ignorant to her existence. Me and the old man had far too many other pressing business interests to discuss than our private lives.

From out of nowhere and in to my arms. Attracted like powerful magnets. Unable to take our eyes and hands off one another.

Her with a kid. Me with mine.

Her with her unloved dick of a husband. Me with my unloved cunt of a wife.

Us meeting up whenever we could. Using that little apartment above the bookmakers in Forest Town. Our war room.

Rodger 'the dodger' knowing the score. Unable to keep his mouth shut. Thinking he was one of the boys. Squealing to Walter. Him dying of cancer after doing years of legwork for Bradshaw.

The bent motors. The people trafficking. The loans. The drugs. The counterfeiting. The prossies and the gentlemen's clubs. The gambling and the building developments. You name it and Walter's fingerprints were sat there right alongside Griff Bradshaw's. The likes of me, Kenton, Ryan and the Westminster toad were the foot soldiers that helped things take shape.

Then the toad and Bradshaw get this drugs lab off the ground. Everyone's excited.

Plans to create the biggest drugs distribution centre in the entire country.

Right here in Nottinghamshire.

Bradshaw's biggest venture by a country mile.

And old Walter, the Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield goes and gets the big C.

Bradshaw saying that there was no time to lose.

Sympathy for the top cop out of the window.

Walter Clarke MBE a dead man walking.

Me? I was installed as Bradshaw's right hand man.

And the final straw?

That'll be Roger 'the fucking dodger' squealing to Walt.

Unable to keep his trap shut. Jabbering away without thinking to a dying man.

A dying man who had been replaced.

Replaced by a man who is now shagging his only daughter too.

Walking in on us in our war room. Our bunker. The flat above the bookies in Forest Town.

Lunchtime on a Friday. Me supposed to be doing surveillance.

Only thing I was surveying was the insides of his daughter's thighs.

Him collapsing there and then. Us panicking and phoning for an ambulance. The chief dying right there in our own war room.

Walt in hospital.

Roger's card well and truly marked. Stood in our war room with that cousin of his and a couple of bloody punters, come to help.

Strangers inside our private bunker.

The secrets and the months of work on display to all.

Mine and Rebecca's affair out of the bag.

Walter hanging on for just four more bitter spewing weeks of life.

Enough to develop his loathing for me.

Death soon to follow for his loving wife.

Tragically followed by my loving mistress.

A jumping lemming wanting to knock your honey pot from its tree.

Warsop Vale.

Nottinghamshire.

In 1996.

'Welcome to Bosnia' daubed in red spray on its signpost.

The pit gone. Heroin very much arrived and taking its place.

The North Street terraces.

Kenton taking the rear. Me and Ryan taking the side that keeps watch over the blanket field and the spinney of trees.

Smashing our way through the locked door.

Chasing him up the stairs in just his boxer shorts at 2 in the afternoon.

Grabbing his ankles. The boxer shorts riding down in the struggle.

Ryan putting the nut in to his teeth; forcing blood.

Him scrapping as best he could with his germ filled smack crippled skeleton.

Taking him by the feet and tugging him down the flight of stairs. His shoulders and the back of his head bumping every last bare floorboarded step.

Kenton joining us inside and immediately keen to smash himself halfway through his solar plexus.

Ramming him down in to the solitary chair in the cluttered shit of a kitchen. As many germs in here as floats around inside his dirty drug fuelled skag body.

Nobody else home.

A field for the villains. A field for the law. A field all of our own.

He has red hair shaven in to a number 4 cut, making it stand on end like a ginger tennis ball. He is a ravaged mangle of skin and bone. He is 33 years old. He is 6 feet and 142 pounds. He is dressed in forest green boxer shorts and a collection of amateur blue tattoos across his arms, torso, neck and face. An unemployed convicted drug dealer and petty criminal. 3 shifts inside for a string of burglaries, robberies and minor affray.

His name is Joey Bryant and he is the murderer of Jennifer Clarke and Rebecca Stevenson.

Because we say he is.

-'Where were you on the evening of Friday March 29th of March Joey?'

-'Would these so called alibi's be willing to testify in a court of law Joey?'

-'Were you out doing burglary Joey?'

-'You still carry a blade Joey?'

-'You been moving in to the nicer parts of town Joey?'

-'You need a fix right now Joey?'

-'A wee jab of brown to take away the pain?'

-'If you aren't willing to help us with our enquiries it'll be your other hand next Joey.'

-'You not keen on a cigarette stub behind your ear Joey?'

-'Trust me, we don't want to rap you over the knees with our sticks Joey.'

-'You expecting someone round for a score Joey?'

-'Hope we're not in the way Joey? Just like Jennifer Clarke and Rebecca Stevenson was.'

-'Crying isn't going to help you here Joey.'

-'We just want to get to the bottom of why you did it son.'

-'Couldn't have got away with much more than a few pounds before you were disturbed?'

-'We have forensic evidence from the scene that I'm willing to bet has traces of you all over it Joey.'

-'And a boot print to match yours. Thanks Graham, they'll be the ones. Well found.'

-'We don't need to stitch you up Joey. You've stitched yourself up by being so careless.'

-'You really didn't ought to take on the police and our families. We're in a field of our own.'

-'Screaming and causing a scene really isn't going to help now Joey.'

-'You're going to need to find some suitable clothing because we're going to have a little drive in to town.'

-'Shush now and be a man. Don't fight it.'

-'Just a little statement to help us with our line of enquires son.'

-'You see. That's what happens when you fight us.'

-'We have to protect ourselves Joey. You are a criminal. You are unpredictable.'

-'Look what you did to those poor defenceless women Joey.'

-'We'll take you with force if need be.'

-'You'd better find a belt for his trousers Brian. With his skin and bone I'm not sure they'll stay up.'

-'Brave face now Joey. All the commotion you've created has brought a crowd.'

-'I'm sure that you're an expert at having your rights read by now, so we'll skip that part. What do you say?'

Welcome to Bosnia. Where the law are in charge. In a field of their own.

# Insularfield :  
paying the bills

## Maurice.

Wellies sink in to soft earth, up to the sole, and I'm glad that I thought of bringing them.

The couple of days of monotonous rain good for the vegetables after long days of sun.

Light drizzle smattering in to my face and at the end of the field I climb over the fence.

Slinging my haversack over first.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained.

Treading carefully through the thicket of trees in Barnby Fox Covert.

Finding a nice suitable spot at its opposite clearing.

Only elevated spot for some distance around.

Just beside the loop of the Chesterfield Canal.

The rooftops of HMP Ranby across the fields southerly in the distance.

The smell of dampened pollen I can almost taste, floating in the early morning dew.

My watch informing me that it's a little before 7am.

Seems the most ideal spot.

A wide panoramic area of vision, with good visual access to Forest Farm and its surrounding yards and out buildings.

Few blind spots this side of the property.

Access easily possible on foot, apart from the obvious obstruction of the canal.

I jab the tripod at the mossy ground.

Sinking it without so much of a struggle, before fixing the binoculars to the adaptor and setting the focus on the house.

I fold a blanket and set it out on a stone rock of a nice height to afford me some comfort for a long day ahead.

Picking up a straight, regular sized fallen branch from the ample stock on the floor of the woods and sticking it proud in to the ground adjacent to the tripod.

Attaching three photographs to it with sticky fresh Blu-tack.

Three faces staring back at me.

Three faces seeking to be found through those binoculars in the early morning pollen and dew.

Foul deeds are necessary to dust away dirty fingers and mischievous acts.

Pour a nice cup of tea from my flask, its sip stinging at my raw lips.

Taking a bite from an oatcake, baked fresh.

Bedding in to my surroundings and feeling comfortable that I'll remain private.

Unseen.

Through the binoculars, down towards the farmhouse, nothing stirs.

Between the smells of this covert and the half a mile of the lens, in the still naked open of the farm there are three fields. The largest out to pasture; the next largest and a significantly smaller one showing the clear early greenery of corn.

Comfortable to cross.

On the way here I avoided the Straight Mile of the A620 in to Retford from the A1 and the nosy exterior cameras of the prison.

Cameras busy scouting the road.

Instead I took the Lammy down the more discreet and direct route on the B6420.

Thinking ahead. Using care. Minding nosy intrusive cameras.

Plenty of time to think.

Peace and quiet in a beautiful rural spot in the flowered belly of springtime is dandy, but having so little to do never sits well with me.

Just sitting out a property and its surroundings with my own thoughts playing keepy-uppy all day makes me wearisome.

Makes me think too much.

Thinking too much isn't healthy.

Makes me think of Joan, and the things I miss. Not just herself, but the things that we once did together. The good times we shared and the comfort and stability that we gave each other.

She changed my life and every one of its perspectives.

Guided me down the right roads.

I've always been a simple fellow. However, I've had more than my share of wayward times on this journey of mine and Joan had nursed me away from them.

Given me a shoulder for strength and support.

A woman that could provide a good meal, a good ear and the only companionship I would ever need.

She was more than a wife and partner to me. She felt like a much needed good half; the one that kept the bad half in order and away from mischief.

Now she's just left me with my loneliness and a damn big hole in a heart that can never be filled.

That house of ours, not exactly a grand building, but it might as well be the size of Buckingham Palace with how empty it's felt over these past six years.

Nothing purposely altered and nothing purposely changed.

The only thing missing being my Joan. My Vivien Leigh.

A friend around the place would be nice, but nobody could fill the hole that remains.

The sounds of the place I try and keep the same.

Music from the late fifties and the sixties; her favourite era.

The sounds of Elvis both our favourite.

The living room religiously alive with her soap operas. Her biggest vice. Apologising to me for having them on. Inviting the whole of Weatherfield and Emmerdale in to our little 3 bed semi most evenings.

The place full of the smell of baking. Of fresh bread.

Young Karin popping through our gate for a bun.

Too much time to think makes you crosser.

Every Monday morning up to the cemetery with germinis and lilies.

No more nights out at the Welfare or the 5 minute hop over to The Gun. I can't face them without my Joan.

Gave up the drink.

Made me too aggressive in the end.

Too angry with being left all alone and being cheated of her companionship.

Bringing back that bad side of my youth.

The times when I used to get picked on by the bigger lads up in Stanton Hill, where I was brought up.

Picked on because they thought I was thick and wouldn't make much of myself.

Made me crosser.

Made me take it out on other things.

Other smaller, younger lads; defenceless birds and animals.

Doing bad things to them to help take away the anger that built up in my head. It feeling like an old washing machine.

Knocking and banging and whirling endlessly around.

Making me dizzy.

My brain bumping the sides of my skull; making it hard to think properly.

Those bigger lads getting their comeuppance later on.

Me still unable to stop doing the nasty things.

Even when I tried to count to one hundred to calm myself down.

My Joan coming along and taking a proper shine to me. Taking all of the pain away in my head.

Making me forget about everything but her.

When I thought of her I only thought of good thoughts.

Showing me the first proper love that had ever existed and making me finally feel good about myself.

Teaching me how to open my mind and think straighter.

Stopping it twisting and whirling around.

My brain no longer banging against my skull. Starting to plan and consider every action.

Being able to refrain from violent outbursts and hide my anguish.

Insisting that I wasn't thick, or simple; just that I operated differently from others.

Her liking the simple parts of me and coaxing the anger away.

Us both preferring the simpler things in life that made us happy.

Anger that I guess is just a part of me, but a part of me that I can control better now days.

No more time inside at Her Majesty's pleasure.

Wasn't a pleasure to me, and I apologise to Her Majesty but I don't want to go there again.

Places like HMP Ranby, that I can see through the binoculars.

Happily peaceful and still from this far away.

You cry yourself to sleep more often than even you dare count.

A gentle lady without a bad bone who took on a brute and made him saintly.

Showed him the path and guided him down it.

Through all that whirling anger and thumping pain.

Past the beatings handed down by my father and my elder brothers in those early Stanton Hill days.

On past the torture of those bigger lads who made my days hell.

Picking on me because I was soft in the head and an easy target.

And beyond the bully that I became myself.

Hand in hand fleeting past the fists, and the bats, and the broken bottles.

Her an angel that showed me the light; only to return to heaven far too early.

An achingly early return that made your head sting again. Unable to make it stop or go away.

I turn on the transistor radio for the company.

Before I can think too much.

Flicking the chunky knob through the channels until I find a tune I like, or that Joan would like, or just the company of a conversation between presenters.

I consider picking up my book. 'Benedict's Hammer'. The third outing for this edition. One of my favourites.

But I'm here for a reason and have to concentrate.

I jot down the details of the scene.

Marking out the landmarks.

Guessing at distances and perspectives.

Considering doing an oil on canvas from memory at a later date.

Joan had taught me how to do oil colours.

Her painting an absolute marvel.

Scanning the windows and the vehicles of the farmhouse yard.

The faces Blu-tacked to the stick wanting to be found through that lens.

A precaution for a possible event.

Young Griff wanting an eye kept out.

Check for movements or habits.

For me to get familiar with these surroundings and the amount of people that come, go and stay.

An insertion and an exit to flee.

A Paddy crew. Trying to muscle in.

Pushing their luck.

Balls of brass.

Hit them before they get too big for their boots.

Local radio churning out the half-hourly news:

Police in Mansfield have confirmed that a man arrested and taken in for questioning as part of their enquiries in to the vicious double murder of two Berry Hill women has been found dead in a police cell at the town's Station Road Police Station. Official details of the death are currently being withheld whilst further investigations are ongoing, but the man, named locally as Joseph Bryant, a 33 year old Warsop Vale resident, is rumoured to have been found hung in his cell in the early hours of Wednesday morning. Nottinghamshire Police have a press conference scheduled for tomorrow morning.

I turn the radio off before my head begins to thump.

## Martin.

This old place needs a good old tidy up. Of course I have to do that myself nowadays. No more finances in place for the cleaner; and no more Peter around to help. I'm not much of a cleaner and with my hand in plaster, my ribs in bandage and the throb from my nether regions I'm an even lesser one now; shooting pains and gurning faces every few moments.

My house: in the Portsmouth Battery House part of historic Old Portsmouth, 12 Grand Parade: 200 years old, Georgian, substantial, periodic charm, modern comforts, overlooking the harbour, the Solent and Gosport, 4 unnecessarily large bedrooms, my place of work on the top floor of four with its patio doors that swing out on to the balcony - the scene of many of the influences in to my most inspirational pieces. A mortgage for 25 years. 10 still remaining. Red letter bills on the desk beside the front door left unopened. Only a matter of time before they come and take this all away from me.

All that I have worked for. Yet completely empty with just me rattling around inside of it. Not even a spark in my mind to continue the adventure.

In splendid isolation up on that balcony with only a fresh salt breeze and the passing of sea traffic for company I sat at that desk. Turned on that word processor. Closed my eyes and inhaled a huge breath through my nose. Searching out and looking for feelers of a hope in the draughty black recesses of my sore head.

Remained seated for two hours without so much as even a work in progress title.

Before I never had to plan. An idea would just wash ashore inside an imaginary bottle, which I would wipe clean, ready to open and simply begin to write. Frequently by the end of that first day I would have cleaned up on fifty pages purely from that one hint of inspiration and pure adrenaline. No planning. No complex structures. The research already achieved. I couldn't possibly read up and store in my head any more naval documentation. Fingers humming along like bees wings over scented flora.

Now all I have are views of the Isle of Wight and another empty bottle of Martini.

Perhaps Helen Smart is right. Perhaps there is little to nothing left for Benedict to achieve. His adventures coming to a sad departure, rather like my own. Maybe he doesn't wish to set sail again. Happy to be safely back on dry land in Portsmouth. Wizened and grey, like me. Sad and lonely, like me. Lost and confused, like me. An old drunk recounting tales to nobody who is willing to listen, like me. No longer the hero, like me. Flung aside on the scrapheap, like me. Carrying suicidal tendencies, like me. No longer invited or wanted around, a washed out embarrassment, like me.

Perhaps only a matter of time before he is kicked out of Old Portsmouth and heads back home north, with his tail dangling limply between his legs, forgotten and broken, with no one to love or offer words of comfort and sustenance. Search for someone to just be around and have a conversation with, like me.

I think of the boy.

I think enough of the boy to go downstairs and unlock the Welsh dresser; though not until I have gone to the pantry for another bottle. Taking out the leather bound album with its sun scorched faded discolouration. Slumping to the floor, on my bottom against the wall, huddled in to the corner of the lonely empty drawing room. Once a popular and lively place during our raucous parties. The neighbours calling the authorities. Often getting an eyeful that they'd have preferred to not have seen.

The pages filled with a lost life. A young, confused man consumed with a secretive despair. A young woman: loving, willing, asking for little but the token things that life hands you. A house, a husband, a child and a future. All of which would come her way. Two of which would be cruelly snatched away.

The boy happily playing in the sands of Filey and Bridlington. The years would have been 1960 and probably 61', 62' or 63' - my memory plays tricks on me. Taken on 35mm film. The only reel of the year being dedicated to our summer holidays. An Olympus Pen camera. A gift from my editor at the Derbyshire Times, where I worked as a reporter of growing standing. Writing small paperback novellas in my spare time. An interest in the sea and all of its lingering wonders and threats handed down from my father, a no nonsense Merchant seaman during the Second World War.

I miss the boy and his loss makes me cry. A pal that I no longer have to hold. Hounded away because of my preferred sexual urges. Putting on a respectable front for nine years of marriage. No longer able to hide the true face of exactly who I was and what I desired. Abandoning my lovely, bewildered, fair boy and his broken hearted mother to years of torment and struggle.

Years of torment and struggle that followed me to London. It had seemed the only conceivable place to go. The only place for 'my kind' apparently. Moving in to a tiny bedsit in Canons Park and finding a job at the Enfield Gazette. 1965. 31 years of age. Struggling to make ends meet and writing to my boy every single week. Feeling pretty certain that the letters were doomed from the moment that they left my grasp at the post box. Not even owning a photograph. Writing to Margaret to ask for a photograph of my boy. Just the one.

Her sending all of the ones that contained myself. Her keeping the ones with her and him; eliminating me from the portholes of history. Probably framed and shown on the walls of her father's house, where they had had to go, cap in hand, worldly belongings in two shabby cases. The remains of a decade of lies. Of happiness for the majority; but anguish in the end. The three of us broken apart and broken hearted. The result of the chemical make up inside of my mind.

I wanted the normal life, I truly did. The modern nuclear family. A nice new home in the suburbs. A car and a pipe. Summer holidays to Filey and Christmas at the in-laws.

But I got 4 years in a bedsit. 4 years at a local newspaper covering nondescript stories that interested no one. Trawling the capital for sex like a tourist with an A to Z, not having a clue where to begin or where it would end. A small town boy with no previous experience in what I was looking for, going to the capital and being swallowed up and consumed by all it exists for. Other small town boys smattering that vast maze looking for the same thing: answers and a journey to their own enlightenment. Crying themselves to sleep at night, not wanting to be in this place with the hazards that their quest entails. The lucky ones, like me, stumbling upon a lover, who devoured me, broke me in and showed me the path. London in the swinging sixties. LSD and pot in the flats off Camden High Street. So much anal that I bled for days. Freely swapping partners like we were loaning Stones records. Finally feeling liberated and alive. The guilt of the pain that I caused slowly eradicating with every last blow job at every last party in every last vacant passing bed. Queer bashed in Charing Cross Station. Days in Middlesex Hospital. Out to be greeted by Teddy and Oliver and Cynthia. The four of us celebrating my release with a two day bender. The four of us swapping one another for an unrivalled hallucinogenic forty-eight hours. Me strangely enjoying Cynthia the most, messing with my mind and momentarily addressing my situation; in the end just admitting to myself that Cynthia caressed my balls with her mouth better than any other human being that I'd ever come across. I'd return to her on countless occasions, but it would always be boys, the bigger the better, that I needed.

And all the time that soft, gentle image of a fair headed boy from my past; the boy who was my pride and joy; the boy who was my best friend, who I would hug and kiss, spend the long days on the Derbyshire Times pining to see, and who would never leave my side for the happy weekends, was gradually being lost in to the dark cloisters of my mind. Never forgotten but increasingly irrelevant in my expanding universe.

A universe that had everything that I now desired. Going steady for three years with a photographer called Stewart. Ten years in London. Moving to Camden. Successfully getting the job as Arts Correspondent for The Times in the Autumn of 1974. Regular jaunts away to New York, Paris and Rome. Meeting the man who would become my agent; the remarkable Bertie Ingle. Him liking men much younger than himself. New flesh. Him seducing me with high talk of book deals over marijuana and pots of tea for breakfast; those mornings in bed turning to afternoons. Him unable to get enough of my many talents. Securing me a two book deal with Harper Collins. Prizing me away from Stewart; another life left behind. 'Benedict's Journey' released in 1977 to universal acclaim. Old Bertie moving on to further new flesh. Leaving me alone again; but of gaining stock and plentiful advances. Moving up in the world. A second novel published the following year. A healthy new contract and talks of a movie deal. Me leaving my position at The Times after four years to concentrate on my writing career. Success, financial reward, wild sex and a heady social life becoming my familiar cocktail.

A cocktail that had now consigned that fair, gentle lad, in his cotton shirt and shorts that exposed snubs for knees, to the infrequently visited pages of a leather photograph album. One that sat on a dusty shelf in that Camden townhouse and eventually followed me and Peter down to 12 Grand Parade, Old Portsmouth, where Peter insisted that it be put away, out of sight. And there it lingered as forgotten as the boy in the sand on those black and white photographs. Swallowed up in to a forgotten place from a forgotten time. Hard times and drastic choices that created havoc in a few previously simplistic ideal lives of regular normal folk; one carrying a dark secret that scared him for years to reveal, and when he finally did he'd left it far too late for it to end in any other way than wretched misery, hatred and disgust.

The boy lost during my sexual odyssey which I'd devoted my life towards. Creating a character of fiction from the kind of man that I had always wanted to be with: rough, brutal, strong, of clever wit and sound mind. A man that could love you as well as he could kill you. Captain Edgar Benedict, the crush of my life. A man that became such an obsession that the boy I had spawned in that small Nottinghamshire town in 1956 had withered to a vague faded memory.

I reached for the phone. The line was dead. British Telecom cutting the line after repeated threats.

I pulled myself together and splashed cold water on to my numb face, not having time to examine the further degradation to my once good looks in the bathroom mirror. Slinging on a sweater I am through the door with a slam and away down to The Still & West, a short brisk walk away in Bath Square.

There I buy myself a drink and with the remaining silverware I phone an old colleague from Harper Collins who after much fussing agrees to help find me the address of the former Margaret Carruthers of Kitchener Drive, Mansfield; or better still any information on her son: an address or phone number. Information to help me find him.

It was time to pack a bag and head back home. To find that fair haired, gentle boy with the snubs for knees. To tell him how sorry I was and to hold him like before. Of how I would like to make him a part of my life again. Reluctantly abandoned but now painfully seeked. The someone I need; grasping despairingly in the dark for a person to cling to.

And an idea of how to bring the wayfaring Benedict campaigns to a fitting final conclusion.

## Evan.

Helen Smart bucking and writhing like she's breaking in a mustang. Sat up on top grinding her hips. That ginger fedora splaying here and there as she jerks that head of hers; all pout and growl and specs clinging to the tip of her pert snozzle like a rock-climber to a jagged stone outcrop. That pale white skin a complete contrast to the thick all over body tan I'm wearing. The flesh on her skinny boyish frame like that of an oiled goose ready for the oven; pimples standing on end like yelling brail that dares me to read it, and the nips from her nonexistent tits protruding towards me like angry pink accusing digits.

Crossed over in to the wrong half of her forties and almost twenty years on me, but easily the best shag in town. Fat Trev still in the smoke working his arse off trying to smooth over this News Of The World bullshit with the top brass at Auntie Beeb. Me rewarding him by servicing his incredible unique specimen of a wife. The wicked witch of Smart, Smart & Ingle.

Fat Trev entering the lion's den at Television Centre, like a brave Daniel; massive set of tweezers at hand to eject the ruddy great splinter inserted by Her Royal Bimboness in to our flashing paw of progress.

Me rewarding my hardworking agent and his very kind offer of a place of retreat, whilst this whole fiasco calms down, by once again taking on his wife's venomous sexual prowess; recklessly jumping in to her cage for a good old fashioned blood and guts, flesh on flesh bare-knuckle fuck.

It's the only type she knows and I'm surprised old Fat Trevor is still alive to recount the tales.

She's squealing at me. Squealing at herself. Damning the entire human race and every frigging thing that has its dealings with them. The air crying blue bloody murder as she gyrates that pretty little backside of hers down on to me like she wants to ground he in to a soft pulp. Her long bony fingers clad in blood red varnish clawing at my neck and digging in to my mouth; making me grimace and sling her on to her back. That evil look in her eye never leaving me. That one that you'd swear deep down wants to see you on the National Express bus to eternal damnation. Me giving her as good as she gets.

Been a long time since Fat Trev banged her up like I do. Knocking her against the headboard like a sledgehammer through rice paper. Tossing her lightweight body around the show like a hollow plastic doll. Us both finally submitting through sheer exhaustion. Me collapsing in to a great big heap on top of her, coated in one another's lathered sweat and other combined juices. Her and Trev's sheets saturated in a huge damp patch of hard graft. Pair of us intensely dead-eying one another for a solid minute: admiration, passion and hatred for each other in an equal measure. Me finally giving way to her gaze through the sheer tedium of it.

She gets me to put the coffee machine on. It's gone eight and she's put the morning business news on the TV.

The papers dropping through the door of their spanking one year old property on the Sandbanks Peninsular.

Poole.

Dorset.

Starboard Lights House.

£2 million.

1996.

Wide waterfront property bought from the wheeling and dealing of the talents of others.

I want one too.

Them being in the type of business which means that they have every national newspaper delivered. The paperboy needing a better agent.

The Sun, The Mirror, The Star all continuing to carry snippets of this cursed story.

Writing me off. Wanting a public execution and tears of regret.

They can fuck right off.

I take a long shower to freshen up. Pruning myself and moisturizing before taking the coffee back through to that massive oval bedroom of theirs.

Throwing back the huge curtains is akin to a decent walk. Bringing in the vast expanse of water from Poole Harbour in to the clean, crisp clinically white, largely empty room.

The walls, white. The floors, white. The sheets, white. The furniture, white. The 46 year old dominatrix Helen Smart, white.

The only things of any colour being: the view from the window, the television screen, my naked body and her glaring red noggin.

She's in to the newspapers, square specs on her beak. Scalding with her contempt for the lazy journalism. Scything of my foolishness. Incredulous of my stupidity and of the uncharacteristic naivety of Trevor for placing that woman on to my arm. Her unsympathetic of the obvious outcome. Her intensely critical of the ill-judged sense of putting the pair of us together.

Fat Trev and her clashing angrily on my first night here. Trevor realising the error of his ways.

Telling me to sit tight.

Don't leave the house.

Don't call anyone.

And do as Helen says. He'd be away for a couple of days.

They exchanged no words in the time leading up to him leaving; and they exchanged no words as he left.

She made several calls to her clients, clearly still holding a rage, before going out in to the garden with the heavy rain and black skies; swimming dozens of lengths in that glorious new white pool of theirs.

When she'd finished it was almost dusk.

She took a bottle of bubbles from the cellar and dragged me in bed.

And that's where we'd stayed for the last half a day.

Her and her insatiable needs and unrelenting stamina frequently waking me from my slumber to go again.

Punishing me for my reckless youth and abandoned prudence.

Her taunting me; telling me that fucking would be all that I'm good for if Trevor couldn't reverse this situation with the BBC.

Again and again and again and again and again; making sure that I knew that I'd majorly fucked up.

Her determined to make my sexual incarceration a punishment to suit a crime.

Neither of us showing the slightest glimmer of satisfaction or fulfilment. Only exhaustion and aversion.

The loneliness of the long distance runner.

Scribing those vicious slicing talons of hers across my taut, youthful skin, like she was signing my execution papers.

Her taking advantage of me as if it was an everyday occurrence for a woman of her age, and power, to violate someone of my standing.

We drank our coffee and said nothing to one another. Me just wanting to sleep.

We drank another coffee and said nothing to one another. Me desperate to sleep.

Her walking naked out in to the garden and doing yet more lengths in the pool for forty-five minutes. Me finally sleeping and wondering where she found the reserves.

Her avoiding the telephone that continually rings.

Her waking me up by sitting astride my face, wringing wet and demanding that I satisfy her.

Her getting up to take a shower after deriding my lack of prowess for performing oral.

I sleep for the entire morning.

The house phone repeatedly buzzing in my semi-conscious.

The brightness of the room from that massive window hindering my sleep, but my energy levels too low to do anything about it.

She returns to the bedroom in the early afternoon. Still naked. Still seething. Still of few words.

Thrusting a plate of pasta in to my chest with the simple request to -'Eat.'

She leaves.

She returns twenty minutes later.

My head still dopey and my bones still fatigued.

She tells me to get up and follow her; which I reluctantly do. Getting pissed off with the naughty schoolboy routine.

Me thinking to myself that although I made an obvious error of judgement it was unfair to make me suffer so much.

My mind in disarray with the possible outcomes to my career and my future. Normally I'm uber positive, but the constant barrage of verbal dismantling from Helen Smart has cast a huge shadow of doubt across me. A fear has crept in and taken my nerves hostage.

Across the crescent shaped landing that looks over the balcony in to the reception hall of Starboard Lights and down the sweeping curvature stairs, through that reception hall, past the grand kitchen diner and out through the open doors on to the sheltered patio that is the size of many people's entire ground floor.

She's set up a massage table in the centre and I finally feel some relief, thinking that she wants me to wind down. But it's her climbing on to the table, and her handing me the oils. Leaving me standing there like a dipstick, barking at me to -'Massage me.'

No pleases. No asking. Just telling me. Like I'm the baddest man on the planet. Like I've shat in the world's water supply. Like I've turned off the planets oxygen tank and am busy flying off in the Space Shuttle, wafting the fingers at everyone below.

I've never given a massage in my life. I'd never expected to have to. It's me that gets the massages. The star treatment. The pampering. There's nothing pampering about life at Starboard Lights.

The breeze blowing in off the harbour concealed by trees, tickling every very naked sense and reminding me that this most definitely isn't the Caribbean.

Me pouring the lotion in to my hands. Gripping her back and feeling her strangely cold skin. Making it up as I go along. Attempting to recount the limitless massages I've received myself, but never taken a great deal of notice from. Not realising that I was meant to be taking notes. Washing over her shoulders. Considering how easy it would be to simply take a hold on her neck and never let go.

Agreeing with my conscious that you probably can only kill her with a silver bullet.

Her moaning abhorrent dissatisfaction after a few minutes. Telling me that we've found something else that I'm useless at. Spitting that all I'm good for is fucking up and putting my cock in her mouth; and she doubts that I'd be able to do that if she didn't guide it.

Orders me to lie down there as she climbs off. Me thinking, 'finally'. Her strapping my wrists to the table frame with ribbons. Asking her what she's doing in an annoyance. Her snarling for me to -'shut up.' Strapping my ankles to the frame too and placing a wicker stool at the base of the apparatus. Me tired of all of this fantasy nonsense now. Wondering how much she requires until she's finally spent her fulfilment. Doubts creeping in that I'm failing to satisfy her. Lingering thoughts of Fat Trev being able to outperform me. Debating the normality to be this crazily highly sexed; even when considering that she's been gift-wrapped a young stud star like myself.

She disappears, leaving me lying face down in my birthday suit trestled and contemplating more rain.

A few days ago it was images of Hollywood. Of Texan supermodels. Of palletised greenbacks and my name on a Boulevard star. Now it's of possible gloom and rain. Of wondering if the sexual pounding of Mrs Helen Smart will ever end. Of more rain and of a glittering career of such promise down the pan.

When we'd attacked each other before it had been in their Chelsea office. Sprawling across Trevor's desk and pulling the blind off the wall. Giving the builders working next door a worms eye view of her backside bouncing against the window. Over and done with in under ten minutes. For months I'd wanted a return fixture. The appeal of the racy, sexy and hard older woman. Unafraid, unashamed and vastly experienced.

But now I just want her to take her bat and ball and leave me alone.

Unfortunately she returns.

Unfortunately she returns with a black rubber dildo strapped to herself.

Unfortunately she is lubing it up with grease.

Unfortunately she slaps more around my arsehole.

Unfortunately she looks like the devil in hooves and horns.

Climbing on to that wicker stool. Me unable to shift myself. Panic spreading across my fizzog. Telling her that I've had enough and this has gone too far.

Her not listening. Giving me the first hint of a smile since Fat Trev had slumped me through that one year old front door. Paid for on the talent of others.

Putting that solid chunk of rubber in to the very last place on Gods planet that I want it to be.

Her telling me to -'Stop your whiny little noise. This is Neil. Neil is a very good friend to me and could easily be a very good friend to you. And you need all of the friends that you can get right now, don't you?'

I'm fidgety and attempting to steer as far away from this monstrosity as my clamped sore body would allow me.

-'You're a valuable asset to Smart, Smart & Ingle Evan. We have invested countless man hours and thousands of pounds in to you. Built you up in to what you are today. You don't honestly think that it has been all of your own doing, do you? The footwork. The image. The contracts. The connections. The days of delegation. The work of me and Trevor. We've moulded you and tried to sculpt a resalable resource to become a success for you, for us and for our entire business. ONLY FOR YOU TO JEOPARDISE IT ALL BY LETTING YOUR EXCEPTIONAL COCK RULE YOUR TINY OBTUSE BRAIN.' She yells.

My insides fraught and tense. I'm barely able to breathe. My body working against everything it has been programmed to do. Eyes watering and every vein in my neck preparing to explode in discomfort.

-'You've just signed a new ten year contract with us. We own you. Trained you to make a return. This is what happens when you create problems and build obstacles you stupid stupid boy.'

Helen Smart pushing in further as I try to contract against it, asking her to please stop it. The pain indescribable. Crying and demanding how sorry I am. How it will never happen again.

She stops. Withdrawing. On her tiptoes like a meerkat, stalking the air. Me thankful that my pleading has worked. Collapsing against that table in agony.

Her tearing off across the patio, down on to the grass at speed, past that glorious new white pool of theirs. Unstrapping that dildo. Her as naked as the day she was born. The harbour whipping up a swell of a gust. Making a fist around the dildo. Me confused and aching. Tears and snot down my face and on the white leather of the massage table.

Glancing towards the far side of the lush green one year old garden. Paid for on the talents of others.

Helen Smart. 46 years old. Skinny, athletic and white with hair afire and a solid black dildo in her hand.

Crashing it down on to a photographer who has sneaked inside and was happily snapping away.

Frozen to the spot with the excitement of what his lens had captured.

Already counting the cash.

Already spending the money.

The ginger she-devil crashing that solid black dildo down on his wimpy little frame.

Ripping the camera from his grasp.

This slight woman full of burning flames of rage, dragging him along by the lapel of his jacket.

Forcefully dumping him in the one year old glorious white pool.

Battering the camera in to forty thousand pieces of holy fuck.

Stomping over to me.

Cutting the wraps that bound me.

Me feeling far too violated to just eject myself and run to safety.

Continuing to lay there and watch the intruder flay around in the water. Defeat ripped from the jaws of his glory.

Helen Smart. The devil returned to the earth to wreck the apocalypse is back in front of me.

Throwing down my clothes.

Ordering me again. This time to get dressed.

Throwing me the keys to her Mercedes.

Ordering me again. To get the fuck out of here and find somewhere suitable to hide.

Throwing me a mobile phone.

Ordering me again. Ordering me to keep it charged at all times and to not call anyone but them.

I pull on my clothes as quickly as I can allow myself.

The clouds begin to pour all of the devils misfortune down on to that bloody one year old back garden.

Wounded photographer slipping back the way he came.

Helen Smart, as naked as the day she was born, stood with her arms folded in hooves and horns, ordering me to go.

Gripping me around my neck and clamping her lips against mine.

The first kiss of this past twenty four hours.

Biting my lip and drawing blood. Me unable to identify the pain through the clouds of others.

Her licking the blood from her lips like the Queen vampire.

Jumping in to that black sports Mercedes of hers and blasting out of the driveway.

Starboard Lights.

Sandbanks Peninsular.

Dorset.

1996.

My head a cluttered shed of just what the fuck is happening to my life.

## Billy.

You skulk in the corner drawing on a cigarette. Your third pint and your hazy head evaporating. Melting in to your surroundings. Unable to stop thinking about her for any longer than a couple of minutes. Off your food but your mates refusing to let you off your drink.

The Submarine Bar.

Cleethorpes.

North-east Lincolnshire.

May bank holiday weekend.

1996.

On the drink again. Our average and anonymous lives, which mean nothing to anyone, come alive in the colours and noise of a bank holiday weekender.

You sip your pint and you think of her. You take a piss and you think of her. You queue for a round and you think of her. You put two quid in the jukebox and you think of her. Pulp - 'Common People' and you think of her. Watching Leon clean out the bandit and you think of her. You up next on the pool table and you think of her. Von eight balling you and sending you back to your seat in humiliation and you thinking of her. Jocky still pissed from the night before and singing out erratically to The Prodigy's - 'Firestarter' and you think of her. The puzzled looks of a couple of locals and the giggles of a barmaid and you think of her.

You remaining anonymous as usual.

Your sisters fella Dave asking you about her and you barely pausing for breath for five long minutes.

Knoxy belittling your whole arrangement. Telling Dave that it'll go nowhere soon. Not even shagged it yet. Not even had the decency to have pretended to have shagged it yet. Accusing you of preferring to stay in your room on weekday nights and wank behind a closed door than go for a pint down The Gun. Putting a silly wee girl, just out of her school uniform ahead of your mates. You remaining silent. Knoxy saying he's only kidding when he catches you sulking. Reminding you to always move along if they aren't willing to play. That nobody gets a medal for being a nice guy and showing courtesy. All the girls love a guy with a bit of a dark side to them. Keep's them fresh when they're constantly under pressure of losing your interest. The Knoxy formula tried and tested. Certificate and badges sewn to his swimming trunks to prove it. Dave smiling at you. Giving you a big hug and kissing the top of your head. Telling you to ignore dicks like Knoxy, who has a lifetime of solicitors fees and future CSA payments in the pipeline. All the while you thinking of her.

You seeing the best in others but not yourself.

Her booking an impromptu holiday to Ibiza with her pal Joanne. Flying out on bank holiday Monday.

San Antonio. Long Balearic nights and sweaty Balearic days. Buzzing clubs and fizzy Spanish beer. You seeing her in Mansfield last night. Your heart racing at the pure joy of the splendour of being in her company. Your mates pulling you away from her in The Swan. Telling you that she'll be waiting in Limo's. You knowing the exact spot that she'd be in, doing her own thing. You learning by now to just leave her alone. She wouldn't notice you anyhow. Collapsing in to the chill out room chairs together towards the end of the night. Von trying to hit on with her mate Joanne. Them leaving shortly after. Karin disappointed to be left alone. You having to remind her that you were still there. Her cheerily perking up with the news and apologising. Unable to control herself in telling you that they'd booked the holiday that afternoon. You feeling left out. Dumped. Wondering if you're even at a position to be classed as dumped. Walking her towards home to the catcalls of the remains of your mates. Going the same way. Offering an arm for her cold shoulders. Her stale perfume and the nicotine smell in her hair failing to make you think anything less of her. Asking if there's still a chance of you taking her out for a third time once she returns home. This holiday and Joanne seeming to be wedging between the pair of you and your hopes and ambitions. Her telling you to stop being silly. Giving you a peck at Warren Parade. You taking the opportunity to hold her. Thinking that she's not holding you in return with the same wanting enthusiasm. Feeling that you're losing her already. Hoping she has a great holiday. A smile and a small wave. Gone.

Your paranoia wondering if you'll ever see her again.

You think of her again. Wondering how you will go over a week without seeing her. Wondering how you will take a Friday night down town without having her to look upon. Without her popping in to the shop for a coffee and a banana. Thinking of her all of the time. An obsession. Just like it was with Tina. Even after she'd given you the elbow. Six months in to her engagement and you still woke everyday thinking about her. Knoxy right by calling you soft in the head. You're shitting it. Fully expecting her to be swept off of her feet, looking a glittering standout million dollars in some heaving foreign nightclub with lads who offer so much more than you. Where normal rules no longer apply. Her pal Joanne thinking of Von. Von already chatting up the barmaid in the Submarine.

Cleethorpes.

North-east Lincolnshire.

May bank holiday weekend.

1996.

A boozy walk back home to your sisters. Your twin sister Melanie. Her born six minutes before you. You the baby. Adrian the eldest. Adrian the TV star in a newspaper shitstorm; who prefers to be called Evan these days. Melanie as plain to look at as yourself, but handed the majority of your families humility and joy. Her boyfriend is Dave. Three years older than you and three times nicer than any brother in law type is ever supposed to be. Him working in Grimsby as a head of year at a comprehensive. Melanie head over heels in love following him here. Him a beast of a party monster and great company to be around. Like the best pal that a sister could have chosen for you. Him joking that when he looks in to your twin sisters eyes he pretends he's shagging you. You laughing along. Thinking of her. Looking at him. Hoping that he's joking. Three times a year they allow you and your band of marauding mates up to stay: You, Knoxy, Von, Jocky, Matt P, Matt T, Rixy, Leon and Stack crammed in to the tiny box room bunk beds, the guest bedrooms small double, the two seater sofa and a pair of inflatable beds for two nights.

Easter bank holiday.

May bank holiday.

August bank holiday.

Every year for the past three. First back to the house gets best sleeping arrangement. Knoxy always willing to jump in with Mel and Dave. Always having a thing for plain as yourself Mel. Mel always telling him to piss off. You comfortable with the fact that he'll never get his way. Her snaring the best bloke in the whole of our town in Dave, the head of year at some Grimsby comprehensive. A sad loss to our town; but a more than suitable arrangement for an away day. You getting up for a change of scenery whenever possible. You all the time thinking about her.

Happy to be surrounded by the good people in your life. Wishing that one other was here too.

Noisily back to Mel and Dave's on Thrunscoe Road. Bright unfamiliar bank holiday sunshine. Carrier bags of pre-match booze clanking. Ready for a feed and a scrub before piling back in the town for an away day piss up. Mel, and particularly Dave, always looking forward to your nights out in Cleethorpes. Melanie made an honouree 'lad' for the occasions. Melanie never being too flattered with the term. Usually inviting along a couple of friends that she'd met in the area. The usual suspects trying it on with them. There's a very flash motorcar blocking in the driveway. Parked dangerously close to Matt P's VW Golf. You still thinking too much of her and of planes to Spain to really care.

Why can't you be more like your brother? He got the looks. He got the talent. He got the personality. You got anonymity. You got fruit and veg. You got zero confidence. You got the paranoia.

The look on your twin sister's face tells you all that you needed to know. The whispers between her and Dave. The wry smile on Dave's face. The raising of eyebrows. The walking in to the living room and finding the almighty cock sat in the armchair flicking through the channels. You suddenly temporarily erasing her from your mind. The group of merry lads with carrier bags of booze that clank together piling on top of the unfortunate cock end. Him seeming to be actually happy to see everyone. You virtually remaining anonymous to him. The irrelevant brother left behind during the pursuit to stardom. You and Melanie almost forgotten by him. You even more than Melanie. Him on the run from the press. Needing a place to hide his pretty little face for a few days. His mind fucked up. Him giving it the big un. Your mates appeasing his gigantic ego by bombarding him with questions for tales of celebrity tittle tattle. Of details of sorties with some royal nobody. You happy to skulk off to the kitchen where just you and your insignificant twin sibling sit and drink tea and allow normal protocol to take place. Laughter from the living room as the jester takes court. Shouts of derision about comments made in gossip columns. The cracking of beer cans and a crescendo of chatter. You and Melanie sipping tea. Her asking you about this new girl. You trying to suppress your enthusiasm; aware that things could collapse at any moment. Not wanting to look a lovelorn fool again. Wanting so badly to spill out your heart to the sister who you know will understand. The sister who would be genuinely cautious but pleased. The sister who wanted to drive all the way back to Mansfield to kick seven shades of shite out of that effing Tina; who she'd admitted to never liking. She puts a hand on yours. You both sipping tea. Her as plain to look upon as you are yourself. Happily going steady with Dave for four years. Yet your own sister still probably the only true love of your entire life.

As kids she was always the wise one. The more mature one. The one who led you. Who told you that you'd always be together in your hearts; like you were in that womb.

He's hitched along. Out on the town in clothes borrowed off of Knoxy. Derided the offers from Jocky, Stack and Dave. Pinched the scent of Matt T. And finally taken time out to come and take the piss out of you. Like he's never been away. Everyone asking why he's walking funnily. Straight in to Bootleggers, sending you to the bar for the round with a fifty pound note. Flash bastard. You trouser the change when he forgets to ask for it back.

Cleethorpes.

North-east Lincolnshire.

May bank holiday weekend.

1996.

Your sister looking presentable greeting a couple of friends from her work. Them scarcely able to believe that Evan Speed has joined us all on a night out. Him muttering to Jocky that he doesn't like the look of his much. You going and standing with Leon at the bandit to get out of his way. You thinking of her again; trying not to establish that he is even present to wind you up.

Standing over you like an ever present shadow.

A few doors down in Baton Rouge. The weather nice enough to stand outside. You wonder what she's doing right now. Packing? Sitting in her room that you cannot envisage, in a house you don't know? Out somewhere with Joanne, listening to her talking about Von? Von who is chatting up a couple of blondes; pointing out the celebrity that is with you all and making himself sound equally as important. You think of ringing her neighbour, Maurice, to see if she's there. You don't want to seem pushy or desperate. You are desperate. Desperately wishing you were going to Ibiza and not here having to listen to your cock of a brother recount more bullshit to a crowd of the easily impressed. Dave understands your agony. He's heard it all before and has had enough himself now. You debate why he's walking so funnily. You wonder why there's tiny specs of blood on the backside of the borrowed jeans. You make nothing of it and quickly forget about it. Asking Dave what he thought to the end of the football season and of England's chances in the Euro's. You don't really listen to his thoughts. Too busy thinking of her and what she'll be doing.

Sent here to pick away at your growing paranoia with small taps of a toffee hammer.

In the Dolphin he's surrounded by women. Signing autographs and shaking the hands of random blokes. Happy to pose for a few photographs when the landlord appears from behind the bar with a camera. You come in to this pub three times a year and now you know that you'll be having to view those photos on display from behind the bar in the future. Your heart sinks. The specks of blood on the arse of those jeans slowly becoming more notable; but only because you'd spotted it earlier and are struggling to stop viewing it now. Melanie seems to have lost her friends to him now as well. Everyone wanting to hang off his every word, like celebrity junkies. Him still having so very few words for you. You having so little in common that you wonder which one of you got handed to the wrong parents at birth. Mel putting an arm around your shoulder. Sensing your discomfort and lingering paranoia. Whispering in to your ear that she loves you. Showing motherly affection that you rarely receive off of your own mother.

The wise one. The mature one. The one who led you. You needing to be led.

By the time that you're in O'Neills it's as if half of the town is following you. Making you feel uneasy. Never enjoying an evening of an away trip lesser. It descending in to the Evan Speed show. You telling anybody who will listen that his name is really Adrian Sweeney. They look upon you and judge your jealousy inside seconds. Those specks of blood now merging in to a small patch. Him wanting to order Champagne for the whole pub. The kid behind the bar reminding him that this is North-east Lincolnshire and not Knightsbridge. Our group splitting in to those that keep their distance and those that cling to him like a Siamese best pal. You know that he'll drop them the moment he gets the opportunity.

Why can't you be more like your brother?

Submarine Bar and the groups have separated in to opposite corners. Even the usually quiet and reserved Rixy is bemoaning what a penis your brother is. Hijacking the weekend. Turning it in to a circus. Wanting him to fuck off with Miss Humberside as quickly as she can feasibly show.

His appearance and her disappearance being the mother of all shit swaps.

In the long queue for the nightclub, Pier 39, jutted out in to the waters of the murky Humber. The tide has slunk in and is lapping the 123 year old wooden legs. A biting spring wind off the estuary that makes you wonder whether you've accidently turned a wrong corner and ended up in Siberia. You with your head down and your hands jammed in to your jeans pockets, thinking continually of her, like the sad no life loser that you repeatedly call yourself. Your brother (who you flatly refuse to call Evan) has jumped the queue and gone straight in with Von and Knoxy and a small group of local girls. Leaving the rest of you to suffer the twenty minute wait in the cold. You'd sooner be out here with these people than in there with them. So much so that you consider going elsewhere.

When you do finally emerge inside the club its furnace type heat hits you. You've been knocking back the booze like it's going out of fashion. You feel miserable and neglected. Even you feel like telling yourself to cheer up and get a grip. The music is crap and the lights shine from the ceiling leaving a halo glow on the head of your TV star brother. You're slurring your words and your feet are rapidly becoming someone else's. You bump in to people. You trip against the most inoffensive of objects. You make your way over to the new Doctor Who. Evan Speed, off of children's television. You fight your way through to him and cling to his shoulder. Him holding you up with an assisting bronzed arm. You putting your hand on his backside and revealing it to him. Asking who he's been sleeping with for rent down in the smoke. Him shoving you away two handed in instant annoyance, sending you easily flying across the polished floor and in to a collection of blokes. An unseen assailant putting the boot in to your side. A collection of angry voices and faces from people who you've never known. Doormen pulling you off the ground. Ignoring the pleas of your friends. Throwing you outside. Telling you to bugger off and back off from Evan Speed -'the blokes going through enough as it is without morons bothering him.'

You lie on the ground dazed and confused until familiar faces come to look after you again.

You think of her.

## Karin.

Let's nip this in the bud. Things haven't always been this way. In fact they're a very recent development. He never abused me when I was a child. At eighteen I no longer consider myself as a child; and I'm nineteen in July anyhow. He never touched me inappropriately or did anything remotely unlawfully. He barely ever spoke to me. But then my father has never been one of the great speakers. He usually keeps his own council until he explodes in to one of the fierce rows he has with my mother. The rows that they seem to live for these days. Coming out of their respective corners two or three times a week to go at it hammer and tongs, over any slight issue, until they both retire back from whenst they came to calm down. Both of them happy to have got the debate of the day off of their chests.

But the point is that I've never considered him a bad man. He's had some difficult years. He lost his job on the council. He was a joiner. He never did reveal to me directly what had gone off, but he'd had a disciplinary and was fired. That much I'd heard amongst the arguing. Now he makes ends meet by selling his wares in the town centre. A very talented carpenter. He spends much of his hours in his workshop at the bottom of the garden. Single bulb often blazing away long in to the night as he worked on his latest piece. As a child I was never allowed in there. Dad's den is what mum would call it; more in disdain than affection. He'd quite often make me things from wood: frogs, a Pinocchio puppet, a Swiss cottage dolls house with all the furniture and characters inside, which was my Christmas present in 1985. I remember it like it was yesterday. The best present that a young girl could have ever received.

But we never talked about it. All of these items. There was never a story or a conversation about what he'd made. They'd occasionally just appear on the sideboard of my bedroom. I'd say thank you and he'd just waft me away with his hand as if it was nothing. Without so much as a word. It was a sign that he loved me, he just had a very unique way of showing it.

I grew up wanting affection; and I grew up wanting to talk. A chatterbox and an inquisitive mind, always wanting to learn and ask a thousand questions, when the one would have done. I could never ask my parents a question, unless it was relevant to our immediate lives. That's why Maurice and Joan next door were my godsend. My mother and father much preferring to get drunk in The Gun & Glasshouse or the Warren Parade Social Club and fight afterwards. Leaving me alone in the house from being about nine years old onwards. I doubt that they ever even considered the legality of it all. I just went round to Maurice and Joan's if I needed anything, as if it was all normal practise. Our neighbours discussed going to social services many times but always agreed that I was better off where I was. Where they could keep an eye on me themselves. I was to let them know whenever my parents went out drinking so they could be on guard. When Joan died Maurice remained on sentry duty; more vigil than ever before. I think it's safe to say that he cares for me more than any other human being and I love him incredibly.

This business with my father started about nine or ten months ago. He'd appear in the night laying by my side, or he'd sit on the toilet whilst I showered. I'd find my underwear missing, turning up on his bedroom floor. He developed a bravery to touch me. He's never touched me down there, where he shouldn't, but as my breasts matured they've seemed to fascinate him. As I've become a full blown woman and started to dress nicely and smell nicely I seem to have become an object of obsession to him. Like a project to study and take notes on. That little girl who he paid little attention to has grown in to a woman, with curves that clearly fascinate a man who has an eye for shapely, delicate things. Just the other week I came home from work to find a figurine on my sideboard. A naked sea nymph laid on rocks; the proportions fitting mine perfectly. I thanked him for it. He never said a word. He's been selling that design on the stall in town ever since. I told myself that he'd used me as a template for his latest design. Touching me to understand the concepts for that piece of art.

I've tried to take it as a compliment.

The touching didn't stop.

So why don't I go to the police? It's a fair enough question.

Why don't I move out and take Maurice up on his offer of free board and lodgings? Again, a fair question.

It's not who I am you see. I actually don't want to be sat in a courtroom facing the man who haphazardly attempted to bring me up. Pouring shame and rumour on to our family. There's been enough of that over the years with the scenes those two used to create in the pubs of The Warren. Thankfully they choose to take their liquid dining in opposite directions these days.

I also want to be the strong one here. That's my character. I have to be in control of a situation. If that man ever touched me down there, then it's over between us both. He'll never see me again. I'll take a bat to those treasures that he has made me down the years. Treasures that mean so much to me.

I could easily move in with Maurice, but I have a strange independence here in this house. I'm my own person. I come and I go. I choose what to eat and drink and I can sit behind that bedroom door and study. Soaking in as much information as my brain can absorb. And when I want to wind down I'll put a disc in my Discman that either has hard beats or gentle repetitions. If I went to live with Maurice I would be waitered on hand and foot. That beautiful man insisting on doing everything for me. Giving me no peace. I don't want that, as much as I love him. I'd much rather just keep saving until I can afford a place of my own. That day will come sooner rather than later.

Now I need to pack. I need to pack for Ibiza. My treat for myself for getting my grades and finding a dream job. My chance to relax and wind down; in the most intense sort of way.

It was Joanne's idea. I looked at my calendar and had the spare week in between jobs, so we just booked it; on the day that we thought about it. I'd had to take the cash out of my savings account that's building for a place of my own but I figured that it'd be worth it. Of course when I told Maurice this he insisted on paying for it.

We were sat at the bench table up on the allotment drinking green tea and he goes

-'Lass I know by now that you want to do everything for yourself. Gives you some satisfaction that everything you achieve you've done off your own back and I understand that. I admire it and I admire you a bloody ton. But it'd make an old bugger a very happy old bugger if you just let me pay for this one thing. A gift for you. A little something to show you how happy I am at what you're becoming and how proud of you I am.'

I cried for the first time in years. I gave him a big kiss and a cuddle and he gave me a thousand pounds from out of a Bassett's Liquorish Allsorts tin box that he keeps in the chest of draws in his dining room. He wanted to give me more but I wouldn't allow him.

I've never been abroad. I own a passport. I got it last year so I would be prepared if I ever just decided to take off somewhere. I went through a phase of thinking that I might travel and see the world. Maybe I will someday. I spoke to Billy about it, the boy that I've been out with on a couple of occasions. Told him that I'd mentioned it to Joanne. Now I love Joanne dearly; she's my best friend; but I have my doubts that travelling halfway around Asia would ever be her thing. She's far more of a make-up and handbag girl. A drink in her right hand and a ciggie in the other; gossiping about the latest boy or the cows at work. This Billy guy, who is as sweet as they come, was instantly up for the task. So keen that he'd have packed my bag and carried me to the airport on his shoulders, if I'd have shown him the green light for us to go. But like I said, it was a phase and now I have the job that I've always wanted. Maybe I'll do it one day. The Far East: China, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia. Build up enough courage, experience and determination to head off on my own. Do some charity work. Maybe even settle somewhere.

Pipe dreams of a teenage girl.

First I have this to deal with. My father. This is a new low for even him and it's even taken me by surprise. I'd not expected it to escalate this far and I have to be careful just how to deal with this situation.

I've come in from Maurice's. Kissed our goodbyes for the week. Two hours until the taxi arrives for the airport. I'm so nervously excited that I can actually feel a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. Apprehensive and feverishly excited. Racing upstairs to pack. Fashionably behind schedule. Not like other girls.

My door already swung wide open. My father sat on the end of my bed. The scent from my perfume sticking in the air. His trousers around his ankles. My father hard and stimulating himself on the edge of my bed.

I wait at the door and digest the scene. My eyes and senses shocked at first. Taking a deep breath. Not expecting this step in our strange relationship. He stops. His grip never letting go of himself. He seems shocked himself. My appearance catching him unaware. My mother seemingly out of the house. It's a bank holiday Monday; she'll be at my Aunt Barbara's no doubt. Another funny sort my Aunt Barbara.

He stares at me. His noisy breathing ceased. Weighing up his shame? Eye's like a startled rabbit in headlights. Days without a shave. Repulsive to my eyes. Hundreds of possible responses blurring through my mind. Me stood at my open doorway considering my options.

Slowly he begins to rub his shaft again. Slowly his breathing begins again. His eyes surveying my body in its simple summer dress.

-'STOP IT RIGHT THERE.' I point angrily and he stops instantly.

-'Let's get this clear right now. This ends today. This nonsense that you are going through has to end right now. I am your daughter, not an object for you to fantasize about. If you want to fantasize about someone buy a magazine or a dirty video. Tidy yourself up and leave my mother. Up your game and find yourself somebody new. I am not going to be the object you find pleasure from. Get yourself a sex life. Either find it or buy it, because if you put that thing anywhere near me you'll lose it or you'll end up behind bars. Don't make me decide which I'd prefer.'

I stop. Take a breath. Considering my words all of the time.

-'You're my dad and I love you because of it. It doesn't make you a good dad because I love you. You've been a terrible one; but it doesn't mean that you're a bad person. You've got a sickness in your head. You're poorly... I'm going away for a few days. When I get back we are going to see a doctor... You and me... To find a cure to what you're going through... I will think of the best options and we'll consult the right person. I will no longer have you pawing your hands over me. I will no longer allow you to inch yourself further towards me in that way. Pull your trousers up, put yourself away and get out of my room. I have some packing to do.' I fume.

He pulls up his trousers.

He puts himself away.

He gets out of my room. Without a word.

I get my packing done.

## Flaxman.

Ley Lane.

Mansfield Woodhouse.

Nottinghamshire.

1996.

23:06

Two wanted people on the run.

The death of a bookmaker. Murdered in his own Woodhouse home. Around the corner from here.

Spouse and cousin of deceased gone in to hiding. Fearing the long arm of the law.

Plenty to fear the long arm of the law for.

DCI George Flaxman still on duty in the quiet dark of Mansfield Woodhouse. Keeping an eye on the property of Simon Campbell.

A sip on the sharp stuff. Waiting for 'the wanted' to make a mistake.

Cosh in the glovebox of the Mondeo, itching to kiss the skull of Simon Campbell and his accomplice Lisa Campbell; bitch of the murdered bookie. A back history waiting to be written.

Not trusting DS Susan Redmond and DS Peter Thorne to find this pair.

A job for myself to deal with.

The Campbell's being the final fly in the ointment. Gnawing away at my knotted brain.

Wanting them in the ground. Their mouths sewn up.

Would settle for stitching them up. Like Joey Bryant.

Joey. The drug dealing little scumbag who with the flick of a knife murdered the two closest members of the family of my former boss.

Divisional Commander Walter Clarke MBE.

Joey Bryant. Who with the flick of a knife reached the attention of me and met his sad demise dangling by his belt in the cells of Station Road nick.

Helping us with our line of enquires.

Demanding a confession.

Allegations and pressing charges.

An incident room of raised voices and heated exchanges.

Joey not playing ball.

Me? In the end I had to give Kenton and Ryan the eyes. They did the rest.

Forensics finding evidence at the scene of the crime to complete his guilt.

I'd even convinced myself that he'd done it and wanted revenge for Walter and Jennifer; and for Rebecca.

Rebecca and the child.

Our child.

Especially Rebecca. Who I mourn for more with each passing day.

Each day that should have been closer to the beginning of my new future.

Me wanting Walter's job so badly. Wanting his daughter even more so.

The flick of a knife and she was gone. Her and the child.

Nobody is going to show. I've convinced myself of that now.

I start up the Mondeo and I head over to Bradshaw's whorehouse on The Warren estate.

At the back of the Laundrette. Last shop on Warren Parade. Down the back passage in the dark and in through the door under the veranda of the flats above.

Under the protection of us. The cops in a field of our own.

This is the low budget scale of Bradshaw's whoring operations.

High class place in Southwell.

Another thirty quid for a fifteen minute jump outfit working out of Lincoln.

They know me here. No need for a debate or a flash of the warrant card.

Bradshaw lets us come and get our fill. Part of the perks of paying the bills.

All foreign women. Shipped in illegally from Eastern Europe or South-east Asia.

The cream going to the place in Southwell. The remainder coming here and to the Lincoln dive.

Bradshaw having them on a pittance. Board and lodgings. Practically living here. Takes away their identities and their wills.

A place full of sad and lonely, punctured lives with nowhere else to go. Promised the golden paves of London. Ending up with the dogshit caked crappy corner of Mansfield. An estate where even the rest of this doss town looks down upon.

Bradshaw holding them under the intimidating threat of the gun.

Me never letting the working girls know that I'm a copper, just in case something goes wrong.

The sadness of her loss makes your focus hazy and your actions less defined.

I'm out of there in half an hour. Most of that time spent sharing a cigarette with a broken shell of an Indonesian. Barely out of her teens. A name I paid no attention to. A story I have no interest in.

I've told Bradshaw before that he needs to rein these women in. Disclosing their hearts and agonies to customers. It's not good for business.

Some sad old twat will end up blowing the whole operation because he wants to be the hero and rescue the girl. Falling for a sob story.

I leave her the rest of the cigarettes. A tip for a job adequately done.

I drive home.

Sheepwalk Lane.

Ravensdale.

Nottinghamshire.

To her and to him; the boy who she wants to dance. Like her.

Not a copper like his old man.

1996.

00:17

I take a large sip of the sharp stuff and put on the telly.

Thinking of her. Rebecca Stevenson.

Thinking of him. Simon Campbell.

Thinking of her. Lisa Campbell.

Thinking of him. Joey Bryant. Dangling from a belt in Station Road nick.

Kipping on the sofa with the telly on.

Your moods swaying like a palm tree in the eye of a tropical storm. Your bitterness and sadness wishing to consume you.

I'm up and out before her and Michael Flatley junior are up and about.

Up Harlow Wood Hill doing a ton.

In to the nick at 07:15. The place quiet and nervous.

Ongoing enquires in to the death of Joey Bryant.

A failure to follow protocol.

The top brass angry.

The press sympathetic.

The public fucking beside themselves with relief and derision for the deceased.

The public wanting to shake the hands of coppers. Never been so popular.

Telling us that we ought to have done the job ourselves before he had the chance to do himself in.

Me? I've almost convinced myself that it really was all the drug dealing scumbags own doing.

Let's all form an orderly queue to spit on the bastards soon to be dug grave.

The murderer of a widow who had just buried a husband. The murderer of a young mum who carried a baby inside of her.

The murderer of three innocent people.

The general public wanting him to be the murderer of a fourth in Woodhouse three weeks previous to these deaths.

Only a spit across fields from his Warsop Vale lair.

All the hallmarks of being the same killer.

The public wanting that hanging bastard to be the murderer of the fourth victim.

The romance of a serial killer in our own town.

The notoriety of it all.

To tell the tale to folks they meet on their summer holidays.

To push out their chests and remark about 'our serial killer.'

The general public wanting to shake the hands of coppers. Coppers never being so popular.

So wanting to add a fourth victim to the same face.

The romance of a serial killer.

Our own serial killer.

Something to give us an edge over other towns without a serial killer.

Me? I think that the brass will appease the public's wishes.

The public gets what the public wants was what Weller sang.

The Jam going to be playing in your head all day now.

The moods of bitterness and sadness fighting out a war of attrition in the battleground of your mind.

I call my best mate Brian Kenton. I tell him to keep out of the way of Paddy Murphy. Him and Ryan to stay out of the office today.

Let Acting Divisional Commander Murphy and Chief Constable Garvey deal with their latest press conference and the ongoing enquires.

Stay away and take a much deserved day off. Get pissed or take the missus out shopping, or down the gym like they both do. Jacking off on the steroids between them. Sacrificing a sex life for bigger muscles. Mrs Kenton wanting to look like a man.

I've got work to do.

I drink a couple of coffee's in the Arches Cafe on White Hart Street.

Thinking of her. It sinking in further by the day.

Glad Joey Bryant is off the streets. Unable to continue his wrecking spree on the claret coloured streets of Mansfield.

The cafe proprietor shaking my hand. Wanting to shake the hand of the copper that collared our own serial killer.

His customers shaking my hand. Coppers never been so popular round these parts.

Telling me I deserve a bloody promotion. Me agreeing with them.

Moods in your head wrestling hand to hand on the beach of your mind. In the eye of a tropical storm. Palm trees bending and snapping.

Up at the new war room at 50 West Gate.

The grocer lad whistling a song I don't recognise in the back yard.

Making eye contact but exchanging no words.

Up the black ironwork with the clanking of heavy police boots.

A key in the door and in to our war room. A new war room.

A microwave. A telly. A filing cabinet. A phone.

Photographs from surveillance pinned to the wall.

Ongoing issues.

Issues that had to take a back seat to recent events.

Maps with coloured pins in them.

Filing cabinets we're gradually filling with information.

A wall for the Campbells.

A wall for the mob from Donegal.

The Irish lot set up at Forest Farm, near Retford. Muscling in on Bradshaw's business interests.

Antagonizing the bull. Wanting a war maybe?

Setting up their own operations in the north and east of the county, spreading in to South Yorkshire and over the border in to Lincolnshire. Not in to our town yet, but the bull seems sure that it's only a matter of time.

Wanting to antagonize the bull.

Stepping on his toes.

Calling him behind his back.

Only small time players at the moment; but setting up a rival network.

The bull paying me and my lads handsomely to prevent this type of thing.

Me with enough on my plate right now but this is business and what I'm paid to do.

The sideliner paying more than the job. Taking priority.

The bull understanding my current dilemma but needing me to have a word with these Donegal fuckers before things kick off.

No room for outsiders. Especially outsiders from over the seas.

Not wanting to call his man in again.

His man already overworked tidying up our business and leaving a trail of blood on the streets of our patch.

The general public so badly wanting their serial killer that they'd kill again for it.

I spend the morning going through information in that new war room of ours.

Above a fruit and veg store.

50 West Gate.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

In the year of 1996.

Going through the Westminster toads coffee.

Staying out of the way of inquiries and press conferences.

Chasing up on the work of invading Paddy's.

In a field of our own.

An insularfield where nobody else is invited.

Bitterness and sadness choking the life out of the little goodness of your mind. Battered in the eye of a tropical storm. Her gone forever. Leaving you back at square one with just your thoughts of malice and depression.

# Insularfield :  
clanking of marbles

## Maurice.

Plastic over the tomatoes is torn. Constantly got at by the mice.

I've plenty more to replace it in the second shed. Wouldn't want to put poison down for fear of killing the birds. Buggers that they are with my seeds.

I unlock the second shed. It sits adjacent to the main one, only around the back. More of a lean to than a real shed. More private from the eyes of other blokes round here.

I keep the plastic in a roll hung by rope from the low wooden rafters. Adds some innocence to the place.

I take it down, roll it out, cut the required length, roll it back and put it back in its home.

Leave the door to the second shed unlocked. I'll be back in there in a short while and the only other person around is old Ted over in plot 6.

This is where you feel contentment. What Karin calls your 'happy place.'

I burn the old plastic in the incinerator along with the rotting wood of the old water butt base and the plants destroyed by the mice. A small fire that has mainly burnt itself out after a short fight.

The burst of wild mint retaking its rightful place at the top of the pecking order with my sinuses.

I put the kettle on again. Too much tea. The thought of another drink making me go round to the dry stone wall to pee whilst it boils.

Mae-ling has got me on green tea now. It's taken to me; and me to it. Karin the same.

Pouring the water from that happy little kettle that whistles along quite intently, makes my mind up to visit Mae-ling tonight. With Karin away I have nothing urgent to stick around for. I'll pick some of the hydrangea which is in bloom in my flower bed; put them with some of the lilies from my back garden. The bees buzzing around the crocuses already.

This happy place that makes your mind rest and smile.

I take a seat at our bench seat and roll a fag. Mucky habit but one that sits with me less often these days. The good natured nagging of Karin and keeping myself constantly active usually persuading me to keep the tobacco in my top pocket. Sucking the tea through my teeth; the bag left in too long and making it bitter. Strong wild mint pleasing my sinuses.

I'll pop by the mini market on my way home. Pick up some small treats for Mae-ling. Keep her spirits up. She loves Jaffa cakes and Bournville. Hobnobs and cocoa. In fact I think that Mae-ling might just have a thing for chocolate. I'll do a little shop for her. Get her the things that she can't get for herself. A little treat for the coming days. Keep her pecker up.

This place happy. That place not so.

After draining my tea I'm in the second shed. More of a fancy lean to really. Moving the terracotta pots to one side and pulling across the rug. Lifting the concealed cover and in to the dugout. It's perfectly dry down here, six feet below the surface, but I keep all of the guns in a steel container anyway. Same with the ammunition. Enough to start a small war that I'll never need, but Young Griff keeps me well stocked and it's safe and dry in the dugout; hid beneath the cover and the rug and the clutter of terracotta pots in the second shed. More of a fancy lean to: with its work bench and its hanging plastic; it's pots and its paraffin lamps.

A happy place.

I strip the Soviet made Dragunov. This one seeing service in their offensive in to Afghanistan in the eighties. Gas operated. Rotating bolt. Nicely balanced at nine and a half pounds. PSO-1 telescopic sight giving it an effective range up to 1300m.

I've never shot the thing in anger. Only in practise. Would be a pretty standard shot from Barnby Fox Covert to Forest Farm, but the sound from the shot would reverberate throughout the flat land. Maybe unlikely to alert anyone. Uneducated ears perhaps thinking it was the farmer with his shotgun. But with three targets I'd never get the shots away at that distance and be successful.

Eyes aren't what they were.

Odds too large for failure.

Would maybe have to go in close.

Be quiet.

Be patient.

Use the blade again.

Though a couple of these Irish boys are burly men. More than a chance of being overpowered at my age.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained.

I've never been army or owt like that. Just had an ache in my head that made me handy with a fist or two. It was my Joan that came in to my life and added the focus. Calmed the demons that jumped up and down in my noggin. Added a bit of clarity to my violent urges. Introduced me to her nephew Benjamin. His mates called him Griff. I have no idea why.

He was always a big bull of a lad; even as a young un.

A right tearaway and always in a spot of bother.

Joan introduced me to him. Her nephew. And we got off famous. Rarely calls me Uncle Maurice or owt like that. Talks to me just like an old boy that he's known for most of his life. Same with that brother of his, Dale.

Doesn't bother me mind.

Benjamin; or Griff as they like to call him; well he knew that I was steady with my bread hooks. That I won more often than I lost. Had me threaten folk that owed him money. Earned me a little bit extra towards my retirement. Just paying the bills.

It made our Joan happy that I was helping out the family. And with her coaching my demons it helped greatly.

My Vivien Leigh improving my reading. Happy to sit for long hours listening to me stumbling over silly words that I shouldn't be stumbling over. Always a smile. Always encouragement.

Her finding books at the library: hand to hand combat, self defence, The Art Of War.

All that interesting stuff.

Stuff that interested us both. Stuff that interested the family.

Griff pleased as punch. Knowing that he could always trust me.

My Joan saying -'You'd never tell would you my love?'

Me admitting that I'd never do anything to drop the family in a spot of bother.

That beautiful woman, just like Vivien Leigh, they all said it. Quite the catch, they all agreed. Taming your reckless demons and making you focus.

I'm not trained with guns.

It's all self taught.

Me and Joan going through manuals and military information. Bought from fancy shops in Nottingham or Sheffield. Nothing you could get around here. We'd go out to farmland of friends of Griff and practise our firing. Me and my Joan.

Vivien Leigh being a good shot but me being a natural. She said that herself. Made her admire me more.

Owt that made her admire me more I wanted to get even better at to please her further.

Nothing pleased her more than looking after her family. Helped pay the bills too.

Vivien Leigh coaxing the enforcer out in you. Then the assassin. Putting a bit aside for the both of you in retirement.

I put the Dragunov away. Feeling a little upset that I'll probably never get to use it, but honest enough to admit that it's a younger mans tool. Something for a sharper man with a clearer vision and faster reactions.

My game is still the close up one. Using my power and my ability with a knife or a pistol. Or just plain old fashioned slugging it out. Though these younger lads would probably get the better of me these days.

I have to start realising this, and so does young Griff.

There's going to come a time pretty soon when he's going to have to look for someone younger.

I'm getting old and slowing down.

It takes me fifteen minutes just to pull my old bones out of bed in a morning.

I have to think about Karin. I have to be there for her. She has nobody else there if she needs anyone. I have all of this money put away for a retirement but there's far more than I'll ever need and she usually refuses to take any of it off of me in that flibbertigibbet fashion of hers.

Too much pride on young shoulders that lass.

Very admirable.

A lot to be impressed about with that lass.

But this money will be hers once I'm gone. There's no Joan to leave it too.

Joan who always told me to write out a will. Dying before she could help me with it.

Me wanting to ask Karin about sorting one out. Reminding myself that she's only a teenager. Why would she know anything about wills.

Not being able to keep all of this money in the bank. Couple of hundred thousand pounds looking out of place on a pit pension.

Keeping it safe amongst the Dragunov and other weaponry in the steel boxes of the dugout.

Hid beneath the cover and the rug and the clutter of terracotta pots in the second shed. More of a fancy lean to: with its work bench and its hanging plastic; it's pots and its paraffin lamps.

Completely innocently unseen to any intruder types.

Scared that your number will eventually come up. Leaving that money up there on the allotment. Meant for Karin's purse but not knowing how to inform her of it. Your head aching.

Mae-ling always having a big smile for me. Probably because I never visit her for any 'how's your father?'

I visit her because I like her and I enjoy her company and her stories of the Orient; which I can relay back to Karin, in her admiring oblivion.

Mae-ling has her own room above the Laundrette on the end of Warren Parade.

Griff's ladies of the night place.

I've set the video player to record Emmerdale and Coronation Street.

Watch them when I get home.

Taken Mae-ling some of my stew. Tell her that I'll make a tomato soup for her once the tomatoes are ripe.

Mae-ling overjoyed at the carrier bag full of treats that I've bought her.

Slinging those tiny arms around me and endlessly thanking me for being a kind man.

We sit on her bed and she tells me again how she misses her family in China. How she has made a big mistake in coming here. How she had to leave a child behind until he could follow her to England.

How she was a simple maid in China and wanted to come to England to seek a better life for herself and her boy.

Her being thirty and her boy being ten.

Broken promises and lies leading her here.

I tell her to get her chocolate down her. It'll cheer her up.

I tell her that Mansfield isn't such a bad place. A nice spot of countryside about.

I tell her that hindsight is a wonderful thing.

She forces a smile and changes the subject.

Me trying to catch her up on the goings on down the Rovers Return.

Not seeming to be interested.

Her little room not having a television set: just a bed and a chest of draws, a selection of her private things, an en suite with a toilet and a sink, and a small window with a view on to the backs of the Parade. Looking across The Common towards the allotment. My little shed and the second shed on the brow of the hill. It turning dark outside.

Mae-ling being happy that I sit with her for an hour.

Giving her company and bringing her nice things that she can't normally afford.

Me not wanting any 'how's your father?'

Not wanting to step on Joan's grave and my memories of her.

Her nephew Benjamin; Griff to his pals; telling me that if I liked Mae-ling enough I should keep her.

His gift to me, like.

Take her home.

Could do with a woman around the place he reckons. Would be good for the Chinese lass n'all he says.

I decline the kind offer.

Not wanting to step on Joan's grave and my memories of her.

I have Karin to think of too. And that money that I have stashed up at that allotment for her, on the brow of the hill. In the dugout of the second shed. More of a fancy lean to.

How to let her know of it making me scratch my head.

-'No.' I said to Griff. -'I think Mae-ling is better off at your laundrette there. I can always pop along and say hello every now and then. Help keep her pecker up.

## Martin.

Eleven thousand for my dear old Jag. Eleven thousand pounds.

Goodness gracious.

The dealer must have sensed my desperation and seen the wolves hovering around my door.

It'll be enough to pay the debt I owe on the mortgage for another month or so but I am so desperately pained to see her go. Sailing off in to the sunset on a separate voyage. Leaving me even emptier. My 100 gun flagship without her captain. A captain without his HMS Urgency. Losing part of his esprit de corps.

A sad sad moment. That distant clanking being the well bucket hitting the bone dry bedrock.

I immediately made myself a promise to return to her once I have fully rediscovered my mojo. Finally a topic to mind as regarding the next chapter for the Benedict odyssey. Volume thirty of his voyages.

The one where he finally returns to the land of his home and faces the ghosts of his distant past. Addressing that past and trimming the loose ends with those that he left behind.

His most arduous task yet. Confronting the past that he'd supposed to have escaped. Not through fiendish acts but through deception and affairs that were beyond his powers. A bleak sadness that forced him to seek his fortune in other pastures and lands.

A sort of homecoming. One that he hoped would be kindly and less fraught than he previously experienced. Hoping for a fresh, balanced train of thought.

The evening previous I had surprised even myself. Sitting in front of the word processor my fingers began to tap away; and continued to tap away.

The Martini stayed full in my glass and quickly reached room temperature.

At 6am the following morning, exhausted and twenty-six thousand words in to 'Benedict's Homecoming' I poured the Martini down the sink. Replaced it with a twenty year old reserve that I'd been saving for the occasion. I lit a fresh Cohiba Havana; and enjoyed the happiest moment that I had faced in the year.

My path seemed clearer. The future brighter. My injuries lessening from their painful grip upon me.

I'd captured something from the bones of my own agonising story. From something that I needed to do for myself. Confront my past and seek pardon for these lost years. A remission for my son.

To exonerate myself and re-establish our lives that were lost in the gloom of the ignorant sixties.

And from those spilt ashes would rise the inspiration for a fitting finale to the Edgar Benedict legacy.

Helen Smart was right after all. It was time to put my dear old friend out to pasture and move on.

I'd been missing it all along, so blinded by his success and my desire to keep him alive. His stories had become over fulfilled, smug and stale. The only unanswered part being that of his distant past.

The part that set him out on his voyage in the first place.

The discrimination and the hounding that set him forth to seek his bounty. To alter the course of his life.

Sink in the burdened waters of home, or swim to calmer climes. Despite these new perils Benedict had become immune to castigation and torment and was willing to battle these other foes hand to hand.

Nothing could intimidate him like that sad and lonely period in the land of his fathers. Left on the scrapheap and shunned from place to place.

This book would reveal Edgar Benedict's true murky past. He will confront those demons and his oldest nemesis and reclaim his honour. Striding in to town as the famous sea captain, born of the fields enveloping its northern lip. Now a name. A face. A legend.

I felt alive again. Invigorated!

I felt in the mood to clock up another twenty-six thousand words after just a few short hours sleep. But I needed valued first hand source material. The ideas there, after hiding away for so very long in the dark closets of my mind, however they required the raw emotions to go with them to produce the collective magic of a masterpiece. An ending to the most epic of tales. A happy ending for a battered and bruised old man who wishes to close with equanimity and gladness in his heart.

I rose at eleven and made myself the dirtiest, thickest coffee imaginable.

Still in my pyjama bottoms I went in to the cellar and seeked out my brown paper, its length rolled tight in a cracked and worn rubber band; prepared and daring to ask of where I had been hiding.

Up in my third floor study the light shone off the harbour, like a new dawn; flushing away those darkened moods that bleached my soul and dampened my inner fire.

I feel positively jubilant. Like a giddy child on the morning of his birthday. And as I begin to unroll the brown paper and pin it to the wall of my secluded workplace I shed a tear.

A tear of thanks. A tear of happiness. A tear of hope. A tear that anchors its ambitions on the world being set right. My career realigning itself. My life being re-established with that fair child that I had lost; not to mention any new subsequent family. My heart finding some inner peace and security that it mostly yearns for. That scrapheap it had originally been dumped on in the mid-years of the nineteen-sixties looming largely once more.

After pausing for reflection I'm back at work, floating around that study. Brown paper covering the back wall of my laboratory. My favourite place in the whole wide world.

I pour away the dirtiest, thickest coffee imaginable; cold and untouched. I make another, this time even dirtier and thicker; pouring its bitterness in to my body to kickstart my senses.

I scribble on to that brown paper the beginnings of a plot. Saving a corner for the players in this drama. Old faces from the Benedict chronicles being few. The introduction of new characters being plentiful. Characters all too well known for Benedict and I but not our loyal fanbase.

Black marker pen flying north by northwest and plummeting southerly.

Names. Places. Events. Sub-plot. Back stories. Historic circumstances. Unfortunate conjecture. Sinister revelations. Fights and important dialogue. Every important issue in 'Benedicts Homecoming' being logged for my reference whilst fresh to mind. The detailed scribe to put this elaborate jigsaw puzzle together being the easy part.

Once finished I wash and dress in to beige flannels and peach collars before packing a holdall tight for a short stay. Hoping that a larger version would be required at a later date.

I print off the work that I'd written and clamp it in to an A4 binder. Setting it in to a satchel and placing it beside the holdall by the front door.

I take a brisk afternoon stroll to Portsmouth Harbour station and buy a ticket to Nottingham for the following morning.

I grab a taxi and get the cabbie to drive me to the middle of Portsmouth city, to the Hampshire Boulevard bar. A gay bar that used to be a local where I knew plenty of people, though now I know nobody amongst the younger, fresher faces.

The place is sparse. A weekday and even homosexual people have to work for a living. It's not all hanging around looking alien to regular folk. Threatening them with sexually transmitted diseases, easily passed on by simply frequenting the same side of the road.

I order a large Scotch and sink it in one. Its fire burning my belly white hot.

I order another and tell the girl behind the bar, a punk rocker with jet black hair and heinous makeup mixed with irregular piercings to her face, to get herself one too. In fact, ask everyone in the place what they are drinking because I feel in the spirit to buy. So buoyed and confident is my mood. And with only half a dozen people rattling around I realise that the round would be quite affordable.

Perhaps I might even find a new friend to talk to, or at least look at. Though my guard is well and truly up and I'm on my toes in preparation for the worst, should it want to rear its unwanted head again.

## Evan.

Slurping from a cereal bowl and crunching on toast. He's already looking on distastefully and shaking his head in his 'head of year' suit. Clearly a very important person in his own world.

My brother in law, Dave. Laugh a minute with his part-time pals up for the weekend. Stony faced and restless at having family around, requiring a room to lie low for a short time.

Seems to be forgetting that this place in the arse-end corner of the bleakest outpost of eastern England is my sister's home as well.

I'd have hardly chosen this dosshole unless it was a last resort.

If I'd have thrown a dart in to a map of Britain and it had landed in bloody Cleethorpes, I'd have yanked the thing back out again and have taken a re-throw.

So bad is it around these parts that I'm almost regretting leaving Helen Smart behind. Though the thought doesn't last with me for long.

I hear him whispering to our Mel in the kitchen. Asking how long I'll be here for. Making the place my own; camped in his chair, eating his food, kidnapping his remote control, smoking in the living room, shitting in his toilet and wanking in to his sink. A right funny fucker is my brother in law, Dave.

Best pal of my clever bugger brother - the vegetable trader. No time for the likes of me. No doubt intimidated by my celebrity status. His palace too good for the likes of me but not for that ragged-arsed bunch of pissheads who shuffle themselves up here on bank holidays and bed themselves down in every corner of this rabbit hutch. His sort of people. The head of year at some Comprehensive for the future unemployable feeling more at home with the regular folk than with successful types like myself.

I'm probably needing to understand the awe of fame on normal people. I used to be a normal person myself and I have to admit to being naturally coerced in to feelings of daunt when Ian McKellen came to perform with us at the Manchester School for Dramatic Arts. It's fair to understand that the likes of Dave, feels under threat at not being the alpha male in his own pad. Though he's not even a proper brother in law yet is Dave. He's just some yizzard from Sutton that's been shagging my sister for a few years; me and the vegetable trader have been frogmarched in to understanding that he's some sort of brother in law by the tugging hands of others. He's just somebody who's been shagging my sister. I will no longer allow yizzards to refer to the rinsing mong as my brother in law.

It's not like I'm going to be here forever anyhow. Expecting a phone call from Fat Trev today.

It's not like I'll ever be returning again anyway. The rabbit hutch in the arse-end corner of the bleakest outpost of eastern England being an unwanted necessity in my temporary concealment.

I think it's about time that he pissed off to the schoolyard and left us adults alone with our business.

I light another fag in his living room just to piss the throbber off again before he wrenches the keys from the kitchen hook and agonisingly inches his 'head of year' Saab from the driveway, past Helen's Mercedes. I decide that I will put the Merc in to his space once my sister departs too. That'll wind him up further.

I try my best to catch up with small talk with the sis before she goes about her own boring everyday existence too; though I'm desperately short on things to actually say to her now, and even she seems mildly acrimonious towards me without ever actually saying -'when are you going to piss off?'

I've only been here half a dozen days and already I'm being made to feel as welcome as a turd in a slipper for intruding in to their idyllic east coast existence. There's certainly no helping some folks.

I'll be gone soon enough anyway. Once I get the thumbs up from Trevor. The press soon heading off for a fresh story, I reckon. Becoming bored with hunting a well hidden rabbit in his well hidden east coast rabbit hutch, where even the gutter press wouldn't want to look.

Boredom set in days ago. There being the square root of nothing to do around these parts. I take the Mercedes in to Grimsby and buy some everyday Joe clothes; the only type that's for sale around here. Me running dangerously low on threads. I pick, for what seems an age, between this mundane shirt and that mundane shirt; this anonymous pair of jeans and that anonymous pair of jeans.

I stroll in to a bookmakers to put a bet on a horserace. The peak of my boredom disgusting even myself. I leave unable to understand what the hell to do. The whole process seeming a tangled web of working class code that the men and women of Bletchley Park would struggle to decipher.

I head in to the nearest public house instead and order a local pumped brew to fit in with the locals.

Nobody seems to pass a second glance as I sit in a window seat that looks out on to Bethlehem Street. I'm rarely as underwhelmed as I am right now. Wondering quite what went wrong to find myself in this place. The world at my feet just a short time ago, now finding myself in the pit of humanity grasping for a rope ladder. Only my strong will keeping my chin from scraping along the grubby ground. Finding little solace in the sights and sounds that surround me. Wondering if all of this hiding is worth it. Wondering if I'd be better off back in London; persecuted by the clicking paparazzi and the worst reporters that Fleet Street has to offer. All after a scoop and a silly, frustrated comment which would set my feet in to a concrete block and sink me to the depths.

Surely all the hassle of that is better than sweating it out on the grotty east coast, surrounded by a cast that replicates Darwin's evolution of mankind?

I drink up. Fed up of looking at that mobile phone; urging and pleading for it to ring. For Trevor to save me from this madness. To call me back to the smoke and tell me that the coast is clear. The big wigs at the beeb seeing the error of their ways. Wanting to get me and Beckinsale together as rapidly as possible to start that much needed chemistry to reignite their dead show.

Seven years out of production.

The establishment wanting to revive a British TV institution.

Dusting away the cobwebs of past Doctor Who and reinventing it as modern and sexy, with a budget to match.

The new Doctor athletic, appealing, charming and stirring the imaginations of the nations women; not just fanboys hidden in the dark recesses behind drawn curtains.

Plucking me before other interested parties could manipulate me away from their clutches.

Calvin Klein signing me up on the wave of this new era. Their fresh face in the United Kingdom. An ideal partnership for all three products: CK, Doctor Who and Evan Speed.

Me going from children's television to the white hot face of 1996 inside a few short months. A monumental rise that carried the hopes of British Saturday night entertainment on my shoulders.

This fucking phone needs to go off before I internally combust and weld myself to the paving slabs of North-east Lincolnshire. The last place on earth that I would want my statue pitched.

I pump the Merc out of Grimsby.

Out past Cleethorpes. Out past Humberston.

And Tetney. And Marshchapel. Over to the Donna Nook Nature Reserve.

The landscape as flat as the hopes and dreams of the people of North-east Lincolnshire. As deadly grey as six days in Cleethorpes. As banal as a night out with the yizzards of The Warren on an away day to the arse-end corner of the bleakest outpost of eastern England.

Here I pull the car up in the car park to nowhere and slip in to a vest, joggers and some trainers. Checking my briefs for spots of blood. My anus thankfully returning to normality.

Locking up the motorcar I start to run. Run through the barren landscape. Towards the sands. Towards the sea and across its dirty edge for miles. Determined to stay in shape. Needing to keep my mind alert and my body fresh. The stinging wind off of the North Sea making my eyes stream and my nostrils tingle.

Boredom sending me to this place.

The long days with nothing to do but wait for a phone to ring forcing me down to the call of the sea. Pushing me on past adversity and in to the open arms of success. Like Rocky Balboa doing the miles around the streets of Philadelphia before a title fight.

The longing for London: of Hollywood, and glamour, of hot studio lights, of lingering leading lady kisses, of boozy West End nights, and passionate hungry mornings. All a far cry from here and the humdrum of now.

Though as I splash through the filthy puddles left in the sand, out past the rocks and seagulls that stare back at me with their searching beady eyes, heading south, away from Grimsby and Cleethorpes and Thrunscoe Road, with its pissed off 'head of year' who just happens to be shagging my sister; through all of the boring horrors of that horrible corner of the country; amongst the gasps felt by my burning lungs I feel an epiphany. A realization that this is why I've worked as damn hard as I have. To steer me away from shit like this. To not be a vegetable trader, like my cancer riddled old man and my younger sibling. To not be a 'head of year' at some Comprehensive for the future unemployable, like Dave; the bloke from Sutton who's shagging my sister. To not be a plasterer, like Knoxy, my brothers best mate; who's jeans I had to dispose of discreetly; covered in the blood from my battered and bruised backside.

I've worked hard to leave these kind of people in my wake and I wasn't going to let some petty outrage stop me in my tracks and send me back from where I'd dragged myself up from. I wasn't returning to a place where weekend warriors found places like Humberside a pleasant bank holiday jolly to ease away the boredom of their limited little lives. Fuck that. I'm Evan Speed. I need to keep telling myself that, or the madness of these last few days will continue to consume me and let me forget it. The course that I'd set myself had suffered an unexpected stall; however it is a minor hindrance on the road to Hollywood success. In six months it'll be forgotten Cleethorpes chip wrapping.

I feel the power of the Mercedes beneath me as I steam off the country coastal road and back in to Humberston. Stopping at the newsagents on Grimsby Road for a pint of milk. Noticing the front cover of The Sun. Buying The Sun. The kid behind the counter observant and quizzical. Me telling her that, yes, I am Evan Speed. Climbing back in to the Mercedes.

'Kate Quits Troubled Show'

Beckinsale bailing.

Quoting professional differences.

Winning a part in the movie 'Shooting Fish'.

Pursuing interests in the United States.

Not wanting her progress damaged by the troubled show.

The show's producers on the lookout for a new sidekick for the Doctor.

Returning the reeling programme in to turmoil before a single frame of film has even been shot.

Evan Speed still in hiding.

Kate quitting being sure to reignite the ailing situation.

Fuck. Bitch. Interests in the United States? What bloody interests in the United States?

She's a bloody bit part TV movie actress; and not a very talented one at that I might add.

All because of her yizzard father being part of the establishment; not a greengrocer from some backwater town with no acting heritage. Pure discrimination.

A library photograph of her beaming back at the lens. The Doctor Who launch night. Her privileged background teeth dazzling towards us and blinding us from her limited talent. Me feeling all hot and bothered, obstructing my breathing and assuring me that there's something just not right about this whole sorry palaver.

Pulling on to Thrunscoe Road. May sleet searing sideways in to the windscreen. Puddles turning to rivers in the gutters. Fog forming on the windscreen. Pulling up yards from home to wipe the glass.

Revealing a body peeking through the window of my sister and the 'Head of Year's' house. Collar from a coat sodden and tight around his neck; a hat pulled even tighter around his ears. Persistently slamming a fist against the door. Nobody home. The Mercedes humming beneath me as I crawl closer; within touching distance. The rain getting larger, heavier and even quicker. The wipers on full and the blowers beating back the mist. The man stopping peeking. Stopping banging. Producing a camera and legging it towards me. Shooting off the flash that dazzles in the mid-afternoon gloom. I'm sat frozen with thoughts of Beckinsale in the US and of understanding who this visitor might be. Finally snapping out of my dream and racing on past the house and away from Cleethorpes, and Grimsby. Shooting down the A180 at 120mph. The rain stopped and the sun appearing from nowhere. Playing hide and seek. As if a character in this whole debacle. Pulling in to a lay-by before the road turns in to motorway. Finding that mobile phone and finally calling Trevor Smart. No longer able to wait any longer.

-'Eivan?' his South African drawl unable to hide his surprise at my call.

-'Trevor. I have the press on my back. They've found me. Found me in the most unlikely place ever. They're persecuting me Trevor. I can't go on like this. I need to be back at home. I need my work and London. If they can find me here they can find me anywhere Trevor. It's persecution. I need to work. I need London. You have to help me Trevor.' I gasp breathlessly.

-'Eivan, calm doon. Thees ees a very difficult matter. You mast keep a clear head.'

-'How the fuck can I keep a clear head when I have the press knocking on every door? It's madness Trevor. They're sending me fucking crazy. This whole situation is crazy. You said it would blow over in no time. It's been two weeks now. I'm going mad out here, on the run like a criminal.'

-'You have to realise the situation here Eivan. The farkin BBC are speetting feathers and if eet wasn't for me you'd already be garn. Do you understand? You've farked up Eivan. You have to stay away and let me do my job?

I'm blabbering down the phone now. Snot bubbling and bursting from my nose and moisture streaming from my eyes. The clouds disbursed as if they'd never appeared in the first place.

-'Stay away from Landon Eivan. Do not show your face. Go to your mothers and barricade yourself in. Be around people who will look arfter you and tell the press to fark off when they call around. I've met your mother Eivan and her bite is worse than her bark. She'll take no farking sheet.'

-'I can't go back there.' I splutter.

-'You farking can and you farking will. You fark off back there and let me do my job. No more errors Eivan. It's 60/40 against you eer and I don't need you around to cock eet op. You listening?'

I'm bawling down that receiver. Unable to speak.

-'Leave that car at a friend's hoose. It's like a farking beacon. Go to your mothers. I will call her and tell her to expect you. You have to stay tight my friend. Let me do my job. Everything will be fine san. You will be back in no time shooting thees farking show; trust me. Just stay out of sight and stay out of trouble. You hear?

I nod but am still mute throughout my sobs.

-'Now be a good lad and get home. I have important business to deal with. Leave it to me and give me a charnce. I'll be in touch Eivan; I promise.

The receiver goes dead and he is gone. Trevor Smart, my lifeline. His wife I have fucked on more than one occasion. My professional career needing his CPR.

I'm shaking with despair as I roll the car back on to the highway.

Kate Beckinsale heading to the Hollywood Hills.

Evan Speed heading to Mansfield. Back to The Warren.

## Billy.

Paranoia getting the better of you.

You told yourself not to, however you couldn't help yourself and before you knew it your face was in the phone directory looking under - Nemeth.

Her surname had been on her student union card when you'd slipped inside of her purse. You were so thirsty for information about her that although your instincts begged you not to, you had taken advantage of her need for the lavatory and rifled through her things. Your delirious mind going crazy at knowing so little, yet with a file so wanting to be filled with her.

You beat yourself up endlessly for being such a creep but your days passed by with little fact and much guesswork. It was only once that you knew where she lived that you realised the mystique involved in not knowing.

There was only one - Nemeth - in the whole local phone directory. You'd found it an unusual sounding name but was grateful for it when it shone off of the page at you.

Nemeth P. 19 St Matthews Close, Mansfield, Notts. NG18 4PU (01623) 618909

A small amount of her mystery imploded in to a puff of brightly coloured smoke. Yet it was replaced with an urgency for investigation.

You'd delivered the free press here as a kid. You and Von doing the Observer's. 1p per property. 450 properties on the west end of The Warren. £4.50 split between the pair of you. Paid for a Stags match and chips on the way home. Panini cards and bubblegum. Foam glider aeroplanes and sweet cigarettes. Real cigarettes and aerosol cans. Fireworks and cans of Shire Bitter.

You'd have delivered the paper through that door as a teenager in your last years at upper school. Karin playing behind it, not in to double figures yet; the future for your desires.

Even as a child the paranoia followed you like a black cloud.

You slump in the van and suck on a roll up. Some inane rubbish playing quietly on the wireless.

You observe the walls of a place that you wouldn't have given a second glance to during those paperboy days. Ordinary and silent. The woodwork flaky and bruised. Curtains still drawn at a quarter past nine. You dropping your father off at the hospital for his fourth batch of chemo pills and tests. His hair not falling out like you'd told yourself it would. Your father mostly the man you'd always known, only locking himself away to watch videos from Choices Video and constant scouring of the racing formbook. Giving you his selections before you left the house early every morning.

You'd never been great talkers. Even during days in the shop together; as a kid or an adult. He never had too much to say to any of you kids. Left the talking to your mother. Everyone feared her tongue, even him, who'd hide in the bathroom reading the paper, or down the garden in the shed listening to commentary of the match. Meek as a mouse nipping out for a bottle of milk and being found half an hour later sinking mild in The Gun & Glasshouse. Humiliated in front of strangers when only looking for a reprieve from her constant nagging and nitpicking.

He'd told you once that he'd considered having an affair. Came right out with it in the shop, with a gaggle of customers around, an age of silence leading up to and commencing his announcement. He'd been in one of his funny moods. Said he'd had the opportunity once. A bonnie lass from the flats up round the back of Warren Rec. Only thing that had stopped him was the ringing in his ears of your mother. It wasn't worth the hassle, even though he'd wanted to and bonnie lass had much about her to fancy. It wasn't your mother finding out that had scared him, more the endless lip he'd have to endure afterwards.

Paranoia in the genes.

He'd not wanted you to come in to the hospital with him. Told you you'd get bored with the waiting around. You'd told him that you wouldn't mind but you knew that he'd just feel uncomfortable with the small talk. Chat of Mansfield Town and today's Page 3 filling about two minutes.

You saying that you had a couple of errands to do anyhow.

You shot off to find this address in your idleness, filled with contempt for your mother because she'd stopped coming with him for support, yet she'd dished the responsibility on to you without a moment's hesitation whilst you were supposed to be running that shop that paid the bills. Her telling you that she wasn't needed anyway and it wasn't something that you couldn't do.

Of course it didn't bother you, however Adrian was home. Evan Speed taking over your sister's old room at the back of the house. Hiding from the press. Running his eyes over every newspaper. Hugging on to that mobile phone for dear life. Giving you crisp notes to go and get him some cocaine to help his anxiety. You asking him just where he expects you to find cocaine when there isn't a market for the stuff around these parts. Him settling for wraps of speed and an eighth of bud, that you scrounge off of Leon, sweating it out in that back room which still has wallpaper with rocking horses on it.

You dealing in paranoia and finding a willing buyer.

Him wanting to be all friendly with you now. Happy to chat and be pally when no one else is around. Sat in that back room without a friend in the world. Much to your amusement.

His best friend being his biggest supporter. Your mother. Happy to dump your disease riddled father for your bullshit riddled elder brother. Swapping one sad case for another less deserving one. Everything stopping for Adrian. Adrian feeling so sorry for himself that he is still yet to even ask about your father's health and welfare. As selfish as he ever was and as faultless as he's ever been in the eyes of your mother.

Ever the critic of your father.

Ever the critic of your twin sister Melanie.

Ever the critic of you.

Founding member of the Evan Speed fan club. She even calls him by that name, despite christening him with another.

Sending you down the shops for his newspapers and his cigarettes. Talk of buying you a mobile phone in case he needs anything. Wanting to install you as an accomplice in his crimes towards British light entertainment. You just getting on with what you're told to do, as always.

Consume or be consumed.

Monday night. The only night of the week that you don't drink. The only night of the week where you detach yourself from the friends that feel more like family than your family.

The twin sister who you adore deciding to camp her tent in another town. Your mother inviting the soap operas in to the living room; the only thing in the world that can shut her up. Your father put in his place and left to consider his own fate; swallowing the radioactivity to make him better and keep him here in his torment. Your brother in your room mostly wanting to talk about himself but strangely asking about you too; so desperate is he to actually have someone to talk to.

Asking you about this girl he's heard about.

Betting that she's a minger.

Telling you that you'll be taken for a ride by her; like with that Tina.

Gave everyone right a giggle that one did.

Telling you that the Cleethorpes altercation between you was just banter and nobody got hurt.

Admitting to you that he'd had haemorrhoids, explaining the bloodied jeans, but you're sure that he's holding something back. Adrian being a terrible liar.

Saying that you must come down to London and stay for a few days once normality sets back in.

Asking you to run down the shops for some cans for him. Desperate for a bevy.

You zipping up your tracksuit top and pissing off down to The Gun & Glasshouse on the only night of the week that you don't drink; just to fuck the wanker off.

Bucket full of paranoia, sixty-five pence a pound.

None of your mates loitering in this place. Monday night being the only night of the week that none of you drink. The place dead except for a few older regulars and a bunch of younger lads on the pool table: Enzo Hamilton, Sean Nipwud, Roy Gilchrist and that gobby young footballer Jeff Maguire; just been released by Rotherham United, signing for Doncaster Rovers after 6 games on loan.

Thinks he's Edson Arantes do Nascimento from full back.

You sit and contemplate. Karin's plane back from Ibiza landing tonight. Offering to pick them up from the airport but knocked back in favour of her mate's dad. Her mate shagged by your mate Von. Von dismissing her prowess in between the sheets and pleased to see her jet off abroad on the same weekend as you all eloped to Cleethorpes. Von hoping that he's easily forgotten after a week with suntanned ravers.

You spotting a face that you recognise over in the corner; watching you, yet not watching you. A face from upstairs above your shop. The flat above 50 West Gate. Sat alone. Dressed in the shirt and suit as you've become accustomed to seeing. You raise your glass in recognition but receive no response. You regretting your action immediately; wishing you'd just got your head down and minded your own business. You wondering what they do up there in that flat. Serious looking faces of few words. All suits and heavy boots on the ironwork of the stair. Comings and goings being few but with menace following them on the air. You thinking it best to mind your own business and keep out of their way.

Your paranoia asking you why you'd never seen them before until a few short weeks ago, yet now one of them was in here and had clearly clocked you. Your paranoia suggesting that you're the missing link.

You thankful when Maguire, Enzo, Nipper and Gilly join you at your table. No longer feeling as vulnerable. Drinking like boys that have just discovered alcohol. Talk of shagging and scrapping and the whereabouts of your brother. You happy to tell them that he's bunked in your sisters little box room. Telling them to feel free to pass it on. Passing around a bottle of poppers and you happy to have a sniff. Giggles and red faces all round. Maguire making it his goal to shag every barmaid in this place. You telling him that they've already all been tainted by your mates. All except for Frozen Faye the bar manager. In to her thirties, joyless, unapproachable and untouchable.

Maguire telling you that he's ticked her off already, to sniggers from his mates. You telling them to fuck right off despite their claims of having proof.

You sharing a chinky with Maguire on the way back to his tiny first floor flat just off the Parade. Not even twenty-one yet but with a place of his own. Small and minimal but a space without a domineering dictator. Talking of footballing success as if copying your brother's own mantra for television. Adrian swapping CBBC for Hollywood; Maguire swapping Belle Vue for the Camp Nou. You with the promise of fruit and veg. You hoping that neither of them meets Karin Nemeth.

Your paranoia knowing that Karin Nemeth would immediately be put under the spell of minor league stardom, despite her sophistication.

Slumped on the worn second hand settee of Jeff Maguire. On a Monday night. The only night of the week that you don't drink. Six pints of bitter and a chinky just to piss off Evan Speed. Sat alone in a box room with rocking horse wallpaper, his mobile phone, a pile of amphetamines and his own lingering paranoia. Your brother peeking through the edge of the curtains in to the black of night; you peeking in to the intimate life of Jeff Maguire: twenty year old fledgling footballer with his own tiny pad off the Parade. Shagging Frozen Faye from The Gun on a purposely hidden camera tucked away on a vantage point beside his bed. A home video that you feel was never just for his own viewing. Her stark nakedness appealing to you through the magic of Jeff's TV. Her nakedness being far more impressive than you'd previously considered. Her standard brewery uniform hiding a list of buried treasures. Maguire winking for the camera. You hard in your jeans. The untouchable being touched. This young pretender succeeding where the Friday night charmers had failed. Proving that even they could also be the inadequate flops that you were. Maguire being ridden by Frozen Faye in to an unassailable lead that would have your poorly old dad handing you a note and whispering -'fiver each way on the young footballer fella.'

Paranoia is a gift that should be shared by all!

He goes off to bed and lets you kip on his settee. You deciding that you prefer it to being harassed by that brother of yours. You wank your stiffness away in to a sock from out of Maguire's wash basket and think of Karin's head on the body on Frozen Faye. Only you know that Karin's will be even better. Her plane hopefully landing safely. You hoping that you still share a small part in her immediate and future plans. Fully expecting her to have returned home with a bronzed Adonis called Juan. Wondering when would be the right time to reacquaint yourself to her. Certain that she will have forgotten your existence. You telling yourself that there's little you could do about it if she has had her head turned by some smooth talker like this Jeff Maguire; four years your junior but a lifetime ahead of you in confidence.

You pull a glass of water from his kitchen tap. The darkness only broken by the orange dim of the street light through the timid blind. A Ford Mondeo pulling away as you swallow.

## Karin.

It would sound bizarre to most but I'm as excited to be returning back from Ibiza as I was about going out there. The thoughts of an English summer in the countryside filling me to the brim with good feelings. To be away from the clutter and the dust of the town. Swapping it for the smells of bloom and the glory of colour which makes the hairs on my neck stand on end with pleasure. The great outdoors and its deep breaths of lung-filled fresh air. Peace and nature to compose my mind towards ease of thought. Hope for an agreeable initial season to work in; though the job will be much more thorough than idling away the days amongst the most beautiful parts of our county; I'm not daft enough to underestimate the graft involved.

Joanne has rattled along for the entire journey back from the airport. I've just sat in a comfortably numb haze, watching the lights in the dark whizz by. Content with my lot and feeling rather smug with myself. Wrapped in a summer sweater and nuzzled up against my friend. Most of life going my way and having little to complain about. A week in the sun agreeing with my soul. Us both making a pact to do the same again next summer. Though I'm just hoping that Joanne will be around to see it through. The way she falls on men who give her a second glance is unnerving. Her saying that Ibiza is an easy place to lose yourself and wake up with another man; though I seemed to manage nicely. I enjoyed the walks back to our apartment as the sun came up over the sea; I didn't need a boy to hold my hand to appreciate it. In fact if truth be told I quite liked the fact that even Joanne wasn't there on a couple of occasions, so I could soak it in by myself. Like nowhere I have ever experienced. That place a stark contrast to my adventure with the Forestry Commission but diversity is the food of life, so they say, and I will be happy to swap the late nights/early mornings of Ibiza for the early mornings/early nights of Sherwood. Joanne thinks I'm bonkers and boring but we're just soul mates with contrasting outlooks on life.

You spend seven days out of the old town but within sixty seconds of returning it's as if you've never been away. I don't know what I was expecting to be different but the late night quiet of a Monday night in our town is a world away from the vibrant streets of San Antonio. Roads quiet of cars. Pavements even quieter of folk. Feeling rather cheated that the whole town isn't out and about to witness our return. Just to acknowledge that we'd been on our holidays and to envy our damaged brown skin.

There's a light on at home, and there's a light on at Maurice's too as I kiss my goodbyes to Jo. I scan my watch. 11:57. I consider it but then decide it's too late to knock Maurice up to share a coffee and recount holiday tales. Tales paid for by that hopelessly lovely man.

I'm worn out from the travelling, from the waiting, from the seven long days that went before the travelling and waiting. The stories would be best left for the morning; or maybe even the early afternoon, if I'm cheeky enough to bum away a few lost hours in bed to recuperate.

The back door is still unlocked as I jiggle my keys from my handbag. The light from the bathroom illuminating the yard and burning off in to the dark recesses. One of my parents is still likely to be out. Tripping the light fandango like only they know how. I fill the kettle; no glow of light from the door edge of dads shed through the window. I pull the tin of tea bags from my designated cupboard and make a cupper before bedtime. The tin being lighter than it should, as always. Mother being unable to keep her dipping little drunken fingers from out of my stuff. The kitchen clock ticking but seventy minutes behind time. Me helping the finger along like I had done before I'd left. Only ever me helping that finger along. A war of wills. Who will be first to give up and purchase a new battery in this broken house of three? No contest. It will always be me.

The bitter strong drink scorching the back of my throat. The first cup in a week to be served the way that I prefer it, as I slouch on the hard wooden stool. Elbows lent on the table. Lazy eyes stung from the steam of the drink drifting to the calendar on the wall next to me. National Parks of Great Britain. The Pembrokeshire Coast designated to May. Put up by me. The dates beneath the picture. Bold black marker pen - Karin away in Ibiza. No other comments added. Only ever Karin adding her commitments to the calendar of National Parks of Great Britain. Only Karin having a plan for life. The other two making it up daily. Karin's bed calling out to her. A week of laziness, if she wants it, before the start of her latest adventure at the beginning of the following week. Karin joining the rest of the house in having no plan for the next six days. Agreeing that I'll have to put a stop to that as I yawn an endless gasp.

Wasting the rest of my drink to the sink. Washing the cup and letting it dry itself. Slinging my rucksack over my shoulder and picking up my suitcase. Dirty laundry. Wiping stray hair away from my eyes and looping it behind my ear. Turning out the kitchen light and heading up the stairs. No need for the intrusion of more light, the wide open bathroom door allowing me to see the passage. Straight on at the top of the stairs and in to my small room. Bedside light clicked on. Everything seemingly in place. The house eerily soaked in silence. No TV sound from beneath my mother's door to share with us all. Wondering if I should lock that back door or not. Rooting around in the suitcase crudely burst open. Searching for toothbrush and paste. Sleep on my eyelashes. Fresh pyjamas on my pillow. Sneaking out in to the passage and falling in to the bathroom.

My father sat upright on the grey and cream linoleum flooring. Naked again. Naked in a pool of blood. His own blood. Lapping his hairy legs and soaking in to the bathmat; like a crimson lake. Seeping under the side panel of the bath. Him dreadfully white, the life leaving him in a vacuum. The only sound an occasional sniff. His eyes clamped tightly. Cheeks damp with moisture. Teeth chattering to themselves. Between his thighs, detached from his body, the severed genitals. Swimming in the lake alongside a chisel and mallet.

I drop from my slumber. Falling to my knees amongst the splash of my father. Grasping for a towel. Shoving it tightly in to his open wound. Him emotionless. Drifting in to unconsciousness. Yelling at him to stay awake. Slapping him around the face. Shouting for mum. Opening up the bathroom window. My clothes drenched in red. Crying out for Maurice; my saviour. His light still on. Listening to Elvis or reading a Martin Carruthers. Moving my father's hands to the towel; bleached in his fluid. Telling him to hold on. Bursting from that scene. Scrambling down the stairs. Phoning 999. Blubbering down the phone. Asking them to be quick. Losing his life in front of my eyes. Maurice charging through the door. Me barely able to inform him of the situation through the tears, spittle and snot. Opening up the freezer. Half a tub of raspberry ripple. Racing back upstairs with my beloved neighbour. No change in a room saturated in artificial light. Immersed in horror. Dry towel swapped for the covered one. Thrown away in to the splattered porcelain bath. Scooping his bits in to the tub of ice cream and securing the plastic lid. Maurice's lips moving but me unable to hear his words. Both of my hands held tight on to the towel. The smell of shattered lives hanging in the creeping air. My head resting on Maurice Braithwaite's shoulder. Our bodies and clothes mopping up enough blood to recall the look of the linoleum. The flashing blue that bathes the darkened landing. The neighbour scampering towards them; taking evidence of this event with every bloodied footstep. Professionals on the scene. A hug from a powerful man. A kiss on my forehead and a large hand cradling the back of my skull softly. No time to stop and change dress. In to the back with the patient. Hands clasped together like one of his dovetail joints.

From hectic bustle and pumping heart, to anxious wait and nervous still. A father rushed in to theatre. Kept alive from the shock by the trauma team. Leaving me alone to bathe in my own worry and wonder in the mental mischief of the situation. Questions bouncing from ear to ear. The stickiness of his dried blood all over me. Washed from my hands and face but caked on to my clothes and matted in my hair. Finding my Discman in my sweater pocket. Underworld's album - 'dubnobasswithmyheadman' expanding in to my ears; keeping me company and holding back the urge to throw up. Taking a stroll outdoors in the dark & long. Considering my mother and if she'll even notice the disarray of her home or go straight up to bed in a stumbling stupor. Wondering where I'd find the strength without Maurice. Realising that the cleaning up of that mess would be a job for my hands. Assessing if his mutilation was caused by the grip of the depravity that was getting a hold on him? Stopping himself before he did something that he shouldn't? Wondering if the actions were even his own but the demons holding the reins to his mind; steering him towards an unfenced cliff edge? Cursing the deranged home life that I'd been dealt with. Pondering where this jumbled nonsense had all evolved from. A messed up befouled relationship doomed from the beginning. Spawning an innocent, strong enough to deal with it. Until now, perhaps. Tears and bitten lips. No family to trust or assist. The guy next door being my only reliable ally. The fury at being nominated this fucked up state of things taking over gradually from my sorrow. This was going to alter everything. Dad would need professional care. It's too big for me now. My brain a knotted muddle of unanswerable interrogation of what happens next.

Minutes ticking past like days. Stationed on a plastic chair watching people in scrubs not seeming even nearly urgent enough. Momentarily resenting the normality of their behaviour. Smiles and whispers. Fiddling with hair. The clicking and unclicking of a pen. Moving pieces of paper from one place to another yet never seemingly taking it anywhere. Drinking from a mug with a cartoon of an old man asleep in a chair, it could easily be a caricature of Maurice wearing Wellington boots and a sun hat, the phrase 'Shed Happens' emblazed across it. Eating an egg custard from a silver foil; crumbs clinging to a chubby face. Catching a conversation about a night out at the pictures. Wanting to scream at them all to get on with mending my dad. Tiredness playing its part. Seventeen hours without sleep. Too much caffeine slushing around inside of me. Little else to keep it company.

And when I do nod off, exhaustion finally defeating me, I'm awoken gently by a friendly Asian face. My father is in a stable condition. Doctors unable to save the remains of his private parts, despite all of our efforts. Thirty-two pints of blood used to keep him alive. Making me aware that this is a police matter. Me making them aware of my father's chaotic state of mind. Telling me that I need to rest and to get out of these clothes. The trauma being something that is going to hit me. To get home and gather around the support of the family for myself and for my father. I don't even have the energy to consider stifling out any possible snigger. They've arranged me a taxi. Given me some blue scrubs to cover up my dishevelled clothing. Sending me on my way with sympathetic brows and able, well meaning words. The sun rising resplendent over King's Mill Reservoir, hinting at Ibiza; attempting to agree with my soul in a similar fashion. That whole journey seeming a borrowed hallucination.

Pulling in to St Matthews Close. A middle aged man already waiting for me; probably been stood there for hours. An arm around my shoulder and a helpful smile. Him already cleaned up that mess in the scene of my father's self inflicted crime against himself. Not his battle. My mother not returned home. Making my already tumultuous train of thought think that she may have played her part in all of this.

Maurice Braithwaite telling me that I need to stop persecuting myself with these theories and find myself a bed to lie down in.

He offers me the one in his spare room. The one that he'd kept ready for me for much of the past half dozen years. I'm asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. Temporarily away from that house of sudden violence. Feeling safe and protected. Sleep bringing rest to the arguments in my head.

## Flaxman.

A sore neck from laying on that small sofa with one pillow to its name.

Laid awake for hours before finally getting up and putting on the kettle.

The place black and still when I stumbled in during the short hours of the night; now bathed in light.

A heavy head and too many thoughts to put in to separate boxes.

Noise from the kettle dominating everything.

Regretting coming back here instead of going home.

Trying to remember why you didn't go home.

50 West Gate.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

The War Room.

Still trying to hide from her and break it to her softly. Yet now there's no affair to speak of.

Yesterday I'd interviewed for the Divisional Commander's job.

Walter Clarke MBE's job. My mentor. In the ground pushing up daisies. The bentest copper the town has ever known.

Sat before Chief Constable Jim Garvey and his counterpart from Derbyshire.

Snivelling pair of aloof strutting peacocks the pair of them.

Paddy Murphy being Jim Garvey's man. Currently acting out the part.

Garvey telling me that I'd interviewed well and was an outstanding officer with obvious leadership qualities. A standout candidate who'd get the full backing of the local division if selected.

All I could think about was Rebecca Clarke and the look in her eyes as she lay in a mess of her own blood. Sucking me right in with each passing hour. Garvey sticking his hand out and throwing me a wink. Telling me that they wanted the position filled quickly and they will be announcing the successful candidate soon. Perhaps even by the end of the week.

Might as well have flicked my tie, ruffled my hair, pointed, laughed and said that the job is Paddy Murphy's.

Another invading Paddy.

They'd interviewed me late in the day. Understanding that we were busy with the Campbell search.

Following a lead down in Warwickshire.

Couple pulled over with a matching vehicle. Fake plates and a scrubbed stamp.

Beating a path to Rugby nick. Me and Kenton smelling blood in our flared nostrils.

Tightening that grip around the cosh.

Cracking skulls for a living.

It wasn't the Campbell's.

A wasted visit.

Blasting back up the M1 in time for my interview.

Nicking the Campbell's being more important than the job as Divisional Commander.

I earn more in a year off of Griff Bradshaw than the Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

The power and the title being my goal.

Keeping it from her until the time is right. Distancing yourself more by the month. Playing the long game.

Through cheap supermarket coffee and two day whiskers I have mischief running amok inside of me.

The Donegal mob. Ready for a visit.

The missing Campbell's. Ready to be found.

The Joey Bryant inquiry. Keeping out of the way until called upon. Forensics as good as locking that prick up anyway.

The roadblock of a personal life. Bags packed in my mind to leave my wife. Months in the making. Rebecca leaving her husband too. Walter Clarke now in the ground erasing a complication. Prepared to walk out on that picturesque home in Ravenshead, to be with this woman who had swept me off of my feet.

I'd never been swept off of my feet in my entire life.

Bags in my mind unpacked again.

Long term plans changed with the flick of a knife.

I'd left Station Road nick and driven straight over to Bradshaw's whorehouse in The Warren. Intent on working off my frustrations.

I've been working out a lot of my frustrations there lately. Looking desperate. Losing some power in the eyes of the small people who work there.

I'd taken a stroll to the pub stood across the way. The Gun & Glasshouse. A proper shithole only loved by the reprobates who have grown up with the thing encamped in their back yard.

A Monday night and I'd left the food that I'd ordered there and sunk several pints instead.

Shot of Bells into pints of McEwan's.

In a world of my own thinking about her and us. That baby inside of her.

Unable to comprehend that she is gone for good. As if I'd been waiting for a telegram from the Queen to confirm it.

DEAD DEAD DEAD DOT MY COMMISERATIONS DOT HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH II DOT

Before I knew it I was pissed as a newt and bumping the Mondeo head first in to a shiny red post box.

And then I remember why I'd slept the night in our West Gate war room.

I'll put the thing in as stolen once I've got my head sorted.

The lad from the greengrocers opening up the metal shutter from the shop down below with a clank that splits right through me.

I'm down the ironwork and in to his wide open back door with a call for his attention.

Rabbit in the headlight eyes. A look I've seen on a few wrong uns in my time. I raise a hand and force a grimace smile.

An axe through my splintered cranium.

Asking him if he has any painkillers to help take this throbbing head away.

7:36am and the fruit and veg world opening up for more crates of greenery.

Him handing me a boxes of Anadin Extra and Alka Seltzer.

Telling me to keep the boxes.

Telling me that he needs them all the time after a late night.

Me making note that this fucker drives to work under the influence. Thanking him for the gesture. Him wanting to continue small talk. Hadn't seen me in The Gun before, apparently. Me nodding and wondering just what the fuck he was going on about.

Unloved by you for years. A pin cushion for your frustration, anger and lust. Being traded in for a newer, younger model.

First of our crew in to the nick as usual. Drinking more coffee and listening to the word on the street.

Painkillers making no difference.

DS Susan Redmond called in to work just after two in the morning.

Paramedics sent to a house on The Warren around half twelve. A bloodbath.

Her not afraid to tell you that she needed to cover her mouth with her handkerchief.

So much blood that it had stained the downstairs ceiling.

Let in by the neighbour.

Home owner taking a wood chisel to his meat and two veg. Fucked up in the head.

Redmond heading off back home to her bed. Back out later to interview the rest of that household who were all conveniently out at the time. Daughter came home to the scene apparently. Redmond wanting to check all the bases before shutting the case. The man himself alive and stable. His intimate parts lost for good. Would like to interview him as soon as able.

The thought not easing my head.

Through the fog of misery I wish that I could head off home with DS Susan Redmond too. For her to hold me in her bed as I close my eyes and pretend that she's Rebecca.

I lock myself in a toilet cubicle and hold my head in my hands.

Needing a break from all of this shit.

You'd married too young. Regretted jumping in to it for years. Weren't even sure at the altar. The faces around you telling you as much that you were making a mistake. You just needed someone to love you. To fill a void.

Driving out Retford way. Sat in the back of DS Ryan's Passat. Happy to clasp my brow with my palm and let Ryan and Kenton make jokes about slicing off your manhood.

All fields and trees out this road. Doesn't bark out to you the words - 'organised crime.'

That's why I like it. It calms me that there's no interference of local scallywags and prying nebby eyes. That's why Bradshaw made the move to the country.

These three Irish fuckers. Brothers from County Donegal in Northern Ireland. Our intelligence telling us that they're former IRA.

Still having strong links.

Perhaps using those links to set up something here and raising funds for the struggle.

Me not telling Bradshaw. Can't afford to spook the bull. His nice little organisation under threat from kneecapping paramilitaries.

Three brothers.

The Flannery's.

Kenny. The eldest and the dominating brain of the family; though we'd joked over a pint about an Irishman and brains. Sandy curls. Thick features. He is 43 years old. He is 5 feet 11 inches and 196 pounds. Sluggish in appearance. A wife and six children - all thought to still be in the emerald isle.

Danny. The main muscle. The eldest brothers remote control car. Shaven thug head. Broken teeth and nose from too many scraps. He is 36 years old. He is 6ft and 240 pounds. Fists braver than his brain. Twice married and four kids - all thought to still be in the emerald isle.

Micky. The token beady eyed fat cunt. Hard drinking and easily agitated. A loose cannon. Shock of black hair and beard making him barely recognisable from this other pair. He is 42 years old. He is 5ft 9 inches and 230 pounds. A mouth that would upset Bernard fucking Manning. No wife or kids.

You wondering what she saw in you; even in your younger years you were a wanker with her. Not like you were with Rebecca.

Ryan slowing to take the bend on to the dirt track leading up to the farm.

IRA loving a fucking farm.

An old stone building with a modern extension that sits ill at ease in its surroundings. Like an uninvited guest.

Like the law leaving our field to enter there's.

Big fuck off empty barn encasing a stone paved courtyard housing three 4x4 vehicles.

Surprisingly no caravan out back.

You'd have lived in a caravan with that woman. Leaving that beautiful home in Ravenshead behind to live anywhere with her. A cave in Ireland would have sufficed.

The sparky fucker, Micky, is out of the door before Ryan has parked up. Wiping a dinner plate with a tea towel. His mop of jet hair sleeping where it had landed.

Happy to bellow -'Who tha fack are youse?' Before we can even properly introduce ourselves.

I've climbed out of the back. Head still insisting on thumping and this cunts Irish drawl instantly making it feel worse.

-'You'll be the drier upper will you?' I ask flashing my fake warrant card with the name Walter Clarke on it. Wanting to get this over with.

Kenton cracking his knuckles.

-'We've come to speak with the pot washer, not the drier upper.' I wave him away.

-'Go and get me Kenny Flannery you popeyed fat twat.' I hiss.

This Micky Flannery wanker stoking a sore head as thick as mine. Chewing on his beard and striking me dead with his tiny puffed red eyes.

-'What tha fack do youse coppers want with Kenny? We minding our oawn business out here. Fackin troublin naw one.' He spits.

-'The sheer pitch of your voice troubles me you doss potato picking prick. So hush your tongue and get the pot washer before I set my dogs on to you. Call it victimization if you want.' I speak in a more calmed tone.

DS Brian Kenton mocking the dark haired Flannery with a dogs growl.

That lad couldn't give a fuck about connections to the IRA. Probably can't even spell it through the steroids.

-'Youse can't speak to a man lyke that Mester Polisman. We ave our ruyts ya'nawr.'

This Micky bastard having to have the last word.

Me within touching distance now. Him feeling my breath on his face.

-'You'll have whatever rights I allow you to fucking have thick Mick. This is our field and we decide who plays in the fucker.'

He's furious. Wanting to land one on me. Only that badge holding him back from what comes naturally to him.

Spittle in his thick beard.

Hand in my pocket on the cosh. Happy to greet him with the thing if he so wishes it.

His red nose looking an afterthought in the dense growth that covers his whole head. Happy to flatten the thing for him if he so wishes it.

Just as you wished to flatten the hopes and futures of your wife and your twinkle-toed son.

-'Let's be calm abort all of this sharl we Mychael?'

Kenny Flannery emerging from the doorway. The big lug Danny closely following.

The lead brother hands raised, over to me swiftly and dangling out a hand for me to shake.

An offer I decline.

Kenton and Ryan stepping forwards to flank me.

Three Irish invaders facing three British bobbies in a stone courtyard in the middle of nowhere.

Eyeball to eyeball.

Kenny Flannery breaking the standoff. -'What seems ta be tha problem Mester...'

I flash him the fake warrant card. - 'Mester Clarke?'

-'What's your business here Mr Flannery?'

-'It's a farm Mester Clarke.' He laughs.

-'A farm without much farming.'

-'What makes ya say that?'

-'Not a great deal of livestock around, Not a single scrap of machinery. The surrounding fields sold off to your neighbours for a price they're not too keen to reveal. I'd imagine that there's not a great deal of farming going off around here at the moment.'

-'There's naw crime in tha is there officer? We're not committing naw offence by sellin orf tha land an' considerin oar options.'

-'You make me nervous Mr Flannery.'

-'Why's tha?'

-'I don't like Paddy's Mr Flannery. I like Paddy's with connections to the provisional IRA even less. And when they move on to our patch it makes me twitchy. When I get twitchy I get nosey. When I get nosey I look in to the rackets that our new visitors are sticking their dirty unwanted fingers in to.'

-'Dose are pretty big allegations Mester nosey polisman.'

-'I don't deal in allegations Flannery, I deal in research and fact.'

-'Youse don't have any evidence abort daft wee claims abort the IRA. That's slander and oi could get my lawyer involved. This is a free cuntree and we're citizens of tha United Kingdom.'

-'This is our fucking kingdom... cunt!' I prod the wanker in to his chest. Another Irishman trying to pull the veiled wool over our eyes again. -'Our kingdom... Our rules... Our county... No room for our own crooks, never mind you foreign fuckers with your own spinning web of corruption. Working out of your innocent looking base in the middle of fucking nowhere; thinking you won't be seen. We have eyes everywhere.'

Kenny Flannery smirking. Shaking his innocent looking head.

Gripping that cosh til my knuckles turn white.

These bastards wishing to upset our earner by pushing in where they're not wanted.

Tentacles testing the water of every arm of the bull's business operations.

Intimidating the intimidator.

Us his first line of defence. The weight of the law behind us.

My head throbbing. The brain wanting to break out.

These shits winding me up further, just with their existence.

-'We're jus simple farmer boys Mester Clarke.' The bastard just smiling as if we were having a laugh and a joke together. Nudging shoulders and swapping a yarn. -'We have naw interest in anything illegal. Jus United Kingdom citizens wishing ta set up a new loyf for our families. Tis arl.'

I explode. My nose right in to his. Wanting to brush this yard with his gleeful mocking face.

-'I'm warning you now and it'll be the only warning. You're going to move on. Back to Ireland or some fucking place else. Away from here. I'll stick a car at the end of your drive twenty-four seven if I have to. Follow you every bleedin where til you're gone. I'll cut off your arms and poke out your eyes with them if I have to stop you from getting your hooks in to my patch.'

I'm breathless and my head pounds relentlessly. Feeling nauseous.

THUMP THUMP THUMP DOT

KILL KILL KILL DOT

PADDYS PADDYS PADDYS DOT

-'We'll troy ta be as helpful as we can Mester Clarke however oar families will be joining us in the next few weeks. Ta start a new luyf in the mutherland. Away from any troubles back home. A fresh start fa tha bairns Mester Clarke.'

Kenny Flannery leering in gloat.

Micky Flannery poisonous.

Danny Flannery too punch drunk to think anything at all.

Us back down that drive in a cloud of dust.

As dusty and lost as that marriage to her. Held together by brittle fabric just needing a tug.

A sip on the sharp stuff to aid your head.

Telling DS Graham Ryan to drop you off home. You're feeling unwell.

Feeling their eyes in mirrors, questioning your leadership.

The qualities that seemed to please Chief Constable Jim Garvey.

Coming over the radio that your Mondeo had been found crunched up against a post box in The Warren.

-'The fucking Warren.' We all mutter.

The car falling silent again.

Irish bastards spooking the lot of us. Their feet settling under the table. Unwilling to be intimidated. Knowing we have shag all on them.

Strength in their unity. A whole clan getting ready to converge on that postage stamp of land surrounded by farmland that they've traded to others.

A shield to protect them.

I call the bull. Telling him that we've met with his new rivals.

I tell him to prepare his man. We have no time to lose before the place is teeming with screaming wee paddy bandits.

Seventeen years of marriage. Seventeen years of lies and deception. Seventeen years of you going your way and her going her way. Married to the job. Living with her and him; your boy of fifteen years.

A home in leafy Ravenshead. With lots of trees with low hanging branches. The trappings of the honey pot.

Sheepwalk Lane.

A Mondeo not on the driveway. Her Volvo not on the driveway.

A home that whispers of appliances.

The stillness of an empty house.

Of closed doors and lint on surfaces.

Of empty coffee pots and made beds.

Clean sheets and buffed pillows.

Of calm contrary to my aching being.

A feeling of being the last person remaining on Earth.

A sealed A5 envelope purposely placed on my side of the bed.

A blank card of a rural scene. The Broads, where we first holidayed.

A card which speaks of love lost.

A card which tells of lonely lives and mixed fortunes.

A card that reveals a second chance for her and the boy she claims I've deserted.

History repeating itself with an exclamation mark!

Offering good fortunes and a prosperous future.

A phone number along with words of hope that I'll fulfil my fatherly duties.

A card letting me know that now I'm completely alone.

# Insularfield :  
are you sleeping?

## Maurice.

Lassie from the police coming to have a word with me after going next door. Gave me a fright at first, putting that card in my face when I opened the door. Stern face and serious tone. Telling me I'm an important witness of events. I told her -'That fella's for the loony bin. Always been an odd sort.'

You thought they'd come for you after years of getting away with it.

I'd seen the same lassie the night before. Flashing lights and blokes in uniforms. Wondered why I'd not called them myself. Thought hadn't even crossed my mind. Am only a simple chap. Just assumed it was a hospital matter.

She'd looked different before; the policeman lass. More disorganised and breathless. Now she strode with more purpose; her eyes flitting everywhere, searching for summat. I wasn't sure what. I suppose everyone's a suspect until they get their story in order, but I just went to help I assured her.

Getting away with it for so long that it's become routine.

We'd sat at the kitchen table. I'd been netting all the weedy gubbins out of the pond, so my hands stank. I'd washed them in the sink and heated up a brew for the pair of us. Being quite sociable towards an agreeable looking young lady.

I started right from the beginning. Told her all about that house and how booze had owned it. Leaving that young lassie to fend for herself. How she'd become like a daughter on loan to me and my Joan. Showed her a picture of me, Joan and Karin together.

Told her folk often likened my Joan to the movie star Vivien Leigh. From 'Gone With The Wind'.

She didn't really seem interested.

She always told you to be careful. Say nowt and keep the police at arm's length.

Carpenter for the council, that's what he was. Got the sack when he threatened someone with a chisel. Crazy folk rattling inside his head. Policeman lass was more than interested to hear that. --'Previous with that same sort of tool' she said. -'Something to follow up.'

Surprised that Mrs Nemeth and her daughter hadn't said anything similar.

I put her straight. Remarked that everyone had always kept quiet about it from Karin. Didn't want to scare her. This lad he'd had this disagreement with was only a young un; sixteen or seventeen. Pinned him to the floor and threatened to gouge out his eyeballs. Summat had been said. When the other blokes intervened he wanted to have them lot too. I'd heard it all from Colin up the allotment. Inspector for the council is Colin.

As for Mrs Nemeth. She's not remembered nowt for years; only the way to The Warren Club and the off licence.

You'd wanted to go round there and have it out with him. Joan told you it wasn't worth the risk.

She wanted to know why I'd cleaned the place up? The house wasn't my responsibility and it could be a crime scene. I could have disturbed vital evidence.

I'd told her I was only being neighbourly. Saw it as a silly accident by a bloke ready for the loony bin.

Can't expect young Karin to do it. Just back off her holidays and half a night at the hospital. Wouldn't have been fair. That useless mother of hers shacked up somewhere she can't remember. Thought it was the natural thing to do to get my hands and knees mucky and make new.

Policeman lass full of funny looks and bemusement; like she reckons I'm some sort of idiot, ready for the loony bin myself.

You'd gotten away with this business for so long that it had appeared that the law was on your side.

When she left I asked if I'd be seeing her again. Almost disappointed when she commented about not thinking so.

I waited until she'd pulled off in her car before I reached under the table and pulled out the Gerber combat knife and the BC-41 knife from off the top of the stool she'd been sat next to. I'd brought them up from the allotment ready to sharpen. Specific for hand to hand combat. The BC-41 was used by commandos in World War II. It fits nice in my hand and that's why I like it. The knuckle duster handle being a bonus during a bit of fisty cuffs. The Gerber is big and makes you feel that little bit more confident. I like the weight in my hand of the Mk 2. If it's good enough for paratroopers then it's good enough for an old fuddy duddy like me.

I put them away out of sight for now.

A tip of her knee and she'd have sent one of those knives falling to the floor. How would you have explained such vicious instruments? Joan would have scalded you for such an error.

Karin was round almost as soon as I'd hid them from view. Still knocking at the door after all these years. Given her a key donkeys years ago but never using it. The kid looking shattered and nervous. Mixed up with feelings of what to do next. Again I try to persuade her to move in here. As always she dismisses it. Making me frustrated and almost helpless.

I'm wanting to reveal to her about the money I have saved up for her. A vast chest of cash just lying around. Never getting touched. More than enough to buy her own place outright. However, she'd want to know where it's come from and at the moment I have no answers that would be greeted by her approval.

It's important to me for her to always approve of me. She's all I really have left in the world; apart from the things I grow and nurture around here.

I'd given her a love and she'd wrapped her arms around me. The best feeling in the world for an old man like me. Glad I could be there for her, both last night and today.

Throughout her worry. The worry of the police taking away the chisel and mallet as evidence; as if it had been the scene of an untold crime.

Black slices and indentations in the bathroom floor whenever the facilities are used.

The worry for her father's sanity. Her suggesting that I'm not helping when I mention the loony bin.

The worry that her mother is a raging alcoholic who does nothing around that place. The responsibilities of running a home falling on to a teenager wanting to make her way in life.

You could offer your help, but you have all on looking after yourself since Joan left you. Everything paid up, just the regular bills to pay and food for your tummy.

I'd told her to let that lad take her away somewhere for a day or two. The grocer.

Get out of this place again until she starts that job next week. It won't do her any good to linger around that house doing nowt. He'd seemed a nice enough kid from what I can make out.

Though she seemed unsure.

She said she needed to be around. For the hospital.

I told her that her old boy wasn't going anywhere. Keeping my thoughts of the loony bin to myself.

She seemed unsure about this lad too. Didn't want to send out the wrong messages. She likes him and all that but wasn't sure where she wanted it to go. Didn't want to mess him around. It's obvious he really likes her and she doesn't think he deserves being given signals she's not even convinced about herself. Needing her space.

She could leave it to you if he's not happy with any signals she sends out.

I told her not to be daft. That she's always been an honest lassie; so just be honest. She needed support in an hour of need.

Her uncomfortable with revealing her messed up family life to a lad that's still almost a stranger to her.

Go somewhere with that Joanne lass then I said.

Just this minute come back from somewhere with Joanne she insisted. Can't just bunk off her work like that. Just spent a week allegedly on the sick. A right yarn still left to spin.

I leave it with her as she leaves. I'm a simple bloke with only so many ideas up my sleeve. My Joan used to do all of the thinking and planning around these parts. Handed down plenty of advice but I left the social skills mainly to her; she was so good at them. Always led me in the right direction.

Karin is brighter than me. She'll make the right choices for herself. Don't need a bumbling idiot like me getting in the road.

You learn nothing about your close brush with the law.

Karin off on the bus in to town. Going up to the hospital.

Not wanting a lift on the back of the Lammy. Allowing her time to think.

I wait for the bus to pull off. Being able to sneak a view of the bus stop at the end of the road by standing on the chair arm and having a crafty neb through the nets that need a rinse.

Soon as it's away I'm out of the door and up the path.

Into next doors path and down the side of the house.

Through the gate and the back door without a knock.

The radio left on playing Cliff singing 'Congratulations'.

The thick smell of bleach still drifting and lingering at the bottom of the stairs, insisting on tickling my sinuses.

She's sat in a chair in the front room staring blankly towards the window. Picking at her nails with her teeth. A cloud of nicotine filling the room from a long burned fag end.

Startled by my appearance. Leaning back in to her chair and craning her neck as if it hurts just to turn.

Her teeth yellow and her skin following suit.

Her grotty appearance disguising her claim to that child of hers.

I pick up the poker from the fireplace beside her. Push her right back in to that high-backed chair and whacking her across her bony knee with the metalwork.

Her letting go of a shrill.

-'Start looking after that lassie.' I tell her.

Daggers instead of eyeballs flying back towards me.

I whack her again on the other knee and she lets go of another shrill.

-'Start doing your responsibility and get this house in order now he'll be off away to the loony bin.'

Water filled daggers instead of eyeballs flying back towards me.

I whack her on the knee with the cool brass and she lets out a shrill. Nobody running to help her.

Can't help herself.

-'Tidy yourself up. Sort your life out. Look after that lassie proper. Or you'll have me to answer to.'

Water submerging the daggers for eyes and suppressing their danger.

-'It's alright to show yourself now he's not here isn't it?' She sequels through bubbles bursting on her lips. Faggy breath making my sinuses twitch.

-'Waiting til he's in the hospital out the way. Your wife long since gone. Knowing that girl could easily be yours.'

I whack her on the knees.

-'Girls not mine.'

Her reeling and spitting. -'You don't know that. Back alley fumble whilst your mealy mouthed woman was away. Couldn't help yourself' her tongue taking vicious swipes.

I whack her on the knees.

-'That was the booze talking.'

Her struggling to even find her vocal cords in her discomfort. -'You two all so perfect. Always shouting the odds. You knowing that that girl stood a chance of being yours because you couldn't help yourself. Her all prim and proper and you her lapdog.'

I whack her on the knees.

-'Karin is not mine... Nothing happened.'

No daggers now, just scrunched up grooves and flowing tears and wailing between broken English.

-'You keep telling yourself that. Scared of what she'd do to you... Hiding yourself from Karin as much as me. Her dad in the hospital who know's full well that she's probably not his.'

I release her and stand up straight.

Throwing the poker to the ground with a clank.

Ramming my fingers menacingly towards her. Anger taking control.

-'Look after that lass of yours!'

Storming out of that house.

"Congratulations and celebrations. When I tell everyone that you're in love with me. Congratulations and jubilations. I want the world to know I'm happy as can be."

You've known it for almost nineteen years. A moment of weakness whilst Joan tended to her dying father. A boozy night out opening the door for the demons to step in. Only a couple of days out of her sight in twenty years. Had only been together for two years but already she dominated you. Only in that house a month or so. The new neighbour leading you on between the beers down your new local. A chance to get out and be free. The ingredient that had been your downfall invading your space whilst your trusted ally was out of town.

Back in to the kitchen at pace.

Finding that Gerber knife.

Stomping back out like a bear with a sore head. Not in control of my own movements.

The demons at the reins.

In to their kitchen and through the dining room.

That smell of bleach grabbing my sinuses at the bottom of the stair.

Gripping me from bursting in to that living room for a second deadly time.

Reminding me of the lessons that I'd have learnt. Joan's disapproving voice echoing inside.

The sobs of the Nemeth woman from behind the pursed door.

Thick bleach coaxing me back around from my anger. Nursing me back to my familiar self.

Cliff replaced by The Carpenters on Radio 2.

You deny that Karin may be yours because of the hold on you that still remains. Even from the grave she rules you. Making you think that being Karin's father would be worse than the wrath of a dead woman who ruled you with a rod of iron.

In our home I lock the doors and draw the curtains. I stick the Gerber back in its hidden place.

I do the thing that helps me the most. I go up to the bedroom and put 'Love Letters From Elvis' on the CD player. Turning it right low.

Composing myself and adjusting my glasses on my nose, sat on the edge of the bed.

I lay back and harmonize by breathing.

Reaching for my Martin Carruthers book.

Volume XXIV.

'Bendict's Rage'

You insist that the Nemeth woman is out of her mind. The drink talking. Karin being his. Him ready for the loony bin. Or one of those other scrubbers that she used to flirt with all the time. There's only a slim chance that she belongs to you.

## Martin in the sky with diamonds.

I apologise endlessly but I have to keep getting out of my seat to check if my unicorn is still parked outside of her caravan. Snarfing at me and nodding it's eyelidless head in reassurance.

Famous Indian palmist Ninda Singh grabbing my hand and slamming it back on to her Formica desk with a crashing thump. Her green robes and partially veiled face unable to hide her mad eyelidless eyes, twice the size of a normal persons. Voyaged to England via her equally famous elephant Alfred and then wavebreaking Mechano set cutter The Admiral Peter, crewed by ruffians from all of the world's eight continents - the last one still to be properly found. Shifting her head across the soft microscopic plains of my sweaty paw. Its lines engraved in moving circles instead of channels. Making her scratch her imagination and question her floundering ability for the very first time. An array of colourful, serious birds in their cages of differing sizes squawking confusedly. Doing her talking for her whilst she madly cogitates. I want to check to see if my unicorn is still parked outside but she has a masterful grip on my wrist this time and my brow gushes forth with Martini flavoured sweat. Loosening my golden cravat and removing my Sugarloaf hat in my discomfort. Needing to get out of this place as it swells hotter and hotter. My dinner of new flesh in LSD gravy repeating on me and forcing a burp that strips the old lady of her veil and knocks a puffin out of its French carved wing chair. I'm unsure whether it was because of my rudeness or of her annoyance to not be able to read me that made the fifty-five inch bachelorette take me by the lapel and dropkick me out in to the street without as much as a cheerio; however I was staring at my thousand year old self in a muddy puddle groping amongst the cobbles of Old Portsmouth. Gentleman and ladies; sailors and wenches; press gangers and their drunks, all eyelidless and psychedelic and appreciating my misfortune with tuned whooping chortle. War is in the air and victory on foreign fields echoes amongst the burghers. I find my unicorn replaced by a coach drawn by a baker's dozen Staffordshire Bull Terriers. The driver a giant of nine feet tall: a jutting right-angled jaw, piercing deep Atlantic blue eyes, fixed with real eyelids, and crackerjack hands; one taking the reins, the other resting dandily on the hilt of his ruby encrusted sabre. Bellowing a guffaw and skilfully scooping me from the eyelidless rats scampering to all points of the compass from the busy street stones. -'I am Edgar Benedict' cried the giant fellow, -'and I know what you seek Lord Carruthers of Intake Farm.' This fine gentleman striking up his whip which makes the beasts in their diamante collars yelp forwards at speed. Haste being the only gear that Captain Edgar Benedict knows. -'It has indeed been good fortune that you selected to retreat to that friendly tavern, Hampshire Boulevard, to make your celebration Lord Carruthers of Intake Farm. For without it you would not have been able to suck on the kindly gifted bibulous paper tainted with the powerful hallucinogenic named Lysergic acid diethylamide. In turn you would not have been able to find and accompany me and in turn a great sorrow would have befouled me; for I know what it is you search for Lord Carruthers of Intake Farm.' Surging in to the heart of the city, my carriage hurdling a succession of sleeping policemen tucked beneath their Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles duvet and pillow sets, the sky a sort of crimson saffron with mauve trim and swoosh's of turquoise amongst the alphetbetti spaghetti clouds which spell out words to taunt me: poofter and bum burglar, nancy and marmite miner, fairy and cockpipe cosmonaut. Bendict protecting my fragile emotions challenging me to ignore their contempt. He will deal with Heinz and each of their 57 varieties on his return. Him already having a score to settle with their chilli sauce meatballs; a cad too eager to defame the honour of a lady. As methodical in his pursuit of our destination is the good Captain in his planning of an ill debt. Some ill debts served and owed for much of his heroic life. From the pirate fearing ocean of the Caribbean, to the Castile's of Northern Spain, the Gallipoli peninsular of East Thrace and the golden corn fields of Nottinghamshire this captain never relents from a challenge. -'I took away their eyelids for both you and for I Lord Carruthers of Intake Farm. Never again will they be able to ignore us or look the other way. Never again will they be able to avoid the tales of my journeys or the pain and loneliness that you are going through.' He slings across the curtain in to the carriage behind our seat; it filled to the window ledges with shorn eyelids. Turning to my companion, a grotesque irrational grin formed across his massive chiselled square face and his dark swashbuckling curls flaying in the wind of our travels. In to the depths of the darkening city. Narrow ancient streets with buildings that lean in on one another and kiss at the gable ends like lovers. The Alley of Thieves and not a place for the faint of heart. Dealers dressed in frogmen suits selling children trapped in cages. Well built Victorian strongwomen with parted hair and anchored biceps armwrestling challengers for the prize of silver. Men on stilts bending their buggered backs to light gaslamps three feet from the ground. Bandits in the shadows with shiny daggers between their shinier teeth beckoning you in. Safe with the Captain at your side. Pulling over the carriage and reassuring you -'I know what it is that you seek Lord Carruthers of Intake Farm. Join me to the safety of the tavern for there awaits your Holy Grail. Alas I am too large to fit inside but it is perfect for one as small as you. I shall keep watch from outside, looking in by the great circular moon window. A thatched Tudor building with a swinging sign claiming 'The Insularfield Inne'. Great plumes of bellowing soot from its fat chimneys. His great fist pushing open the door and ushering me through. A bar of cutthroats and convicts, smugglers and slavers. Benedict's giant eye gazing through the open window, high up in the wall beside the mounted heads of my scorning past lovers, the draft from his flapping eyelid enough to freeze the corrupt thoughts of any villain before he chooses to strike me down. A tavern sculptured from walnut and playdoh, brass and egg boxes, stained glass and sticky back plastic. Summoned to the bar on a moving walkway stolen from Mount Everest Airport it slowly moves me towards a bonnie looking lass beneath a heap of black curls and blacker lipstick, her face a place for scrap iron and tiny studded junk. The moving walkway stopping me at the bar rail where she points her eyes towards a bell above a message that asks to - "Ring For Attention". I swing the clapper but it makes no sound; instead she barks -'what da'ya want?'

-'I want what I seek' I reply in a chipmonk voice.

She pulls down her blouse to reveal the most enormous buxom that I've ever witnessed; a loveheart tattoo that flexes as it beats. -'That isn't what I seek' I say abruptly.

-'Ya not like most men are ya? She puckers. -'It's over there, in the corner, what your lookin for love' wafting her curls and making her face jewellery jangle. In the recess, sat with a gang of the most ferocious looking villains and killers, wearing a suit that is thirty years too big for him, drinking from a tankard filled with poisonous bile and gnawing on a bone of the long forgotten is a sweet fair boy aged nine years old. The whole table turning to face me. The child spitting bits to the sawdust made from silver trillions and throwing the bone to a cat searching for the time on a 1980's calculator watch, awaiting a date that never comes.

-'What the fuck do you want?' Questions the boy.

## Adrian.

The Daily Mail is open on the coffee table. Top of the mountain of dailies. Page 26. The Richard Littlejohn column. An article about how celebrities and people in the public eye are becoming increasingly happy to lay their lives bare for all to see, exposing and degrading themselves in the process. Alongside it there is a cartoon by Mac which mimics that famous image of the Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc sat in the lotus position in Saigon during his self-immolation ; except Mac's version doesn't display Thich Quang Duc's head but the head of Evan Speed, complete with a cheesy grin and a thumbs up.

I throw up in my mum's kitchen sink.

It's a good job that the poisonous bitch is out.

The Sweeney Family Penitentiary.

The Warren Estate.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

1996.

I pour two glasses of water down my throat and put the Daily Mail in the kitchen trash. Peering through the window there is just one cameraman sat in his car this morning. Daring himself to wait and see whilst my mother is out. Pouring gloss paint over their motorcars becoming a gleeful favourite of hers now.

Hiding up in that little room of my sister's. Beginning to prefer its tight compact walls that tuck in like a prison cell without bars. Remembering my younger sister blow drying her hair, her Smiths tapes playing over the top of it and her singing along to Morrissey. My mum barking orders at our Billy sending him on this chore and that. The runt of the litter. Having to share a room with the kid. Him with his permanent raw face like an arse that had been slapped too many times on a miserable wet bank holiday trip to the seaside. Melanie forever mollycoddling him. My quiet accusations of incestuous motives. The pair of them against me, like a continual internal struggle that I was glad to see the back of. Threatened by my talent and my mother's favouritism. Dad having eyes for his daughter like dads do. Though never a looker my sister. The gene pool drained dry at the first attempt.

The tabloids wanting to untie you.

Dad in his living room chair, coughing and spitting. Poisoned by cancer and Capecitabine; fighting their private struggle inside of him. Making him say even less than he normally would in his self pity. Something that he started from the minute he'd asked our mum out in some forever darkened corner of the world. Suffering ever since. The cancer and the Capecitabine just adding to his lingering issues. Thirty years with that woman enough to send any weak willed, mild mannered coward to pills. Like me. Popping a couple of the uppers that I found at the back of the medicine cabinet. Washed down with the rank tangy taste of a can of Fosters. The only alcohol left in the house. Mum bringing some more back from Tesco. The toxic antipodean venom being far more harmful than these pills; especially if I was exposed to the press for drinking the rubbish.

Mac and Littlejohn would have a field day.

To numb you and to purge you.

Trying to read a book on Brando. Entering the world breeched. Feet first, kicking and screaming. Alcoholics for parents during the prohibition era. His epic womanizing. His machismo. His rage. His bisexuality. His deep depressions. An insatiable hunger for knowledge. Fluctuating weight issues being a weakness. Buying the French Polynesian island of Tetiaroa and living there for thirty years. His son sentenced for manslaughter. His daughter committing suicide. A Streetcar Named Desire. The Wild One. On The Waterfront. Sayonara. Mutiny On The Bounty. The Ugly American. The Godfather. Last Tango In Paris. Apocalypse Now. Death in California through respiratory failure. An inspiration in my incarceration. Wanting to wrap my arms around him and thank him for everything. Wanting to be Marlon Brando from an early age. The epic cool. The enigma.

Oily silence mocks the legless.

Self harming myself again for the first time in years. Scratching the skin of my arms open like when I was a teenager. An overwhelming feeling of inadequacy creeping in like it did back then. Before I fought it off with my rising confidence. The slightest setback making me itch and rake and paw. My mother's love not the normal mother's love. My father's love being kept well hidden, like everything else. Needing the drip feed of praise to stir the chemicals. Classmates not knowing how to take me: casual, standoffish, unsympathetic and detached. A favourite with the girls and the cooler kids. Beaten up against a tree on the school drive whilst everyone looked on. Cutting myself open with the jagged point of a tin opener once I got home. Unable to leave that place quick enough to go to drama college. The draw's of long sleeved shirts eventually being replaced as my confidence took off. Leaving the abuse of my own body a distant memory. Returning now in that little cell that used to be a bedroom for my sister. Amongst the spent cans and blister packs, the crushed cigarette ends and the residue of dust that has been shot up my nose in my incarceration. The silent innocence of a safety pin and the bloodletting that is hidden beneath my shirt arms. Carrying a guilt for my actions and loathing my predicament. Needing a drip feed of praise to rescue me from this plight. Surrounded by people who aren't giving it to me. No love for Evan. Just quiet contempt for disrupting their dull little lives. The love of my mother not being a normal motherly love. The woman looking after her own best interest behind that mask of bitterness.

We found your weakness. And it's right outside your door.

The pumping of my heart fills the walls as I lay on my back on that cheap and cheerless steel-tube single bed. Fresh psychosis besmirching my sanity. Wanting to convince me that the whole world was outside the window, wanting to suck me back in to the public eye. Sticking me under the microscope and dissecting my every move. Questioning everything that I've ever done in the past and informing me that they'll all be over my shoulder in the future. Coated in an oily film of sweat from my highest hair to my lowest heel. My emotionless father sat downstairs in that chair that wears a permanent indentation in tribute to his arse; doing nothing to help me. My forthright mother who wishes to shape all of our lives; back in mine; down at Tesco fetching the shopping; convinced by my need for the nourishment of alcohol; doing the best she can to keep the wolves from the door. My brother Billy steering out of my way as much as he can. I might as well move back in to that room that we once shared. Bunk beds and a little square white portable telly. Madonna, Mia Sara, Demi Moore on my wall and footballers on his. A dartboard that our mother banned and a wardrobe that I'd trap him inside. The window looking out on to the front garden and the street where you could hear the yelling of voices and the breaking of glass in the night. Opening up a gap in the curtains, hoping to see someone being chased, or a fight breaking out. Occasionally Lucy from across the street dressing and undressing in front of her window. Her appeal waning as I became more popular and confident; spurning her advances and laughing in to her face in the end; my interest becoming virtually nil as I discovered better sights in places further afield than our window.

Slaving, sweating the skin right off your bones.

The sickly bile taste of Foster's from a warm can, mixing with the uppers and making me feel weaker.

In the grip inside the palm of the hand of the press. Able to squeeze out all of my juices if they wished. My friend Trevor never calling. Reluctant to keep me informed. Needing to work and play but instead I cover myself over those sheets. Sheets of my sisters, on a cheap and cheerless single bed. Tended to by my manipulative mother. Happy to have me back beneath her roof and be my protector. In her control inside the grip in the palm of her hand. Able to squeeze out all of my juices if she wished. Never wanting to return to this place. Only for Christmases and unique occasions. But now in the comatosed control of that room. 42 square feet. Smaller than the standard sized UK prison cell. And don't be fooled by the omission of bars and the availability of a freely opening door; because she holds the keys; the mother who shapes and moulds the family to her blueprint. Held captive, hidden from the clicking fingers of the press inside of her walls. The walls where I'd try and catch a glimpse of my younger sister in a state of undress. Fascinated by her puberty. Nothing to look at but an overwhelming need to observe her skin; either in that room smaller than the size of a standard UK prison cell or amongst the steam of the bathroom with a shriek and a moan. Shipped off to a gloomy east coast No Man's Land with a 'head of year' at a comprehensive for the future unemployable.

On a bed of fire you're choking on the smoke that fills that home.

Voices. A distant conversation. The closing of a door and a shuffling of feet. Down below is muffled sounds as I move out in to the corridor. Electric charge shooting through my head as I cross the threshold of that door. Mother in control from the safety of Tesco. Creeping down the stairs listening to the barely audible tones of my father in chat with a female voice. A quick glance through the porch window shows the photographer with the car now stood at the hedgerow with his camera poised; joined by a fellow snapper now. Competition for the prized photograph of the prisoner.

In here we lie in tombs, crafted from when we were babes.

She is like an oil painting to me. Bringing in a shaft of blinding light to crack open the oppressive gloom. Fresh as a strong foreign coastal breeze straight in to my face. Awakening every sense and tingling each pore. A pictorial illusion of captivating beauty that releases me from the grip of the palm of the press and my mother. Making me instantly forget my discomfort and blinding out everything else in the world. Blinding out my father, who is back in to that chair and holding her council; this, this, this enchanting wonderess to my starved palette. Delivered to me as if by God sending an angel to lift me. Taking me from those threatening eyes outside that want to pick at my bones, and my mother swinging her ring of keys, the old man with his cancer and his Capecitabine, my brother inmate who escapes these walls and the sister who has been released from her sentence. Forgetting about the absence of my lawyer, Fat Trevor Smart, and his slow progress in getting all charges dropped to break me out of here; waiting by the prison gates with his Cadillac and Ray Bans in the mid-afternoon desert sun.

Youthful virginal olive skin. Effortless shining brown hair that matches her eyes. A minimal showing of skin to her calves and forearms but holding enough radiance to want me to pull her close and recharge my flagging energies. Who is this delicate caste dream?

The jury's sleepless. We found your weakness. And it's right outside of your door.

Unable to comprehend that she has an association with him. My brother. What is this new devilry come to taunt me? This girl completely out of his box. Never of this same earth. Delivered to separate ends of the galaxy. Poles apart and running in opposite directions. My head splitting in befuddlement. This bounty sent to blight me and provocatively slap me around the face in my dilemma. The balance of the world knocked from its axis. Me alone in this world with warm Foster's and emptied blister packs of uppers for company, on a sweat soaked mattress in a room smaller than the standard UK prison cell; my soppy no mark of a brother, in his ordinary face and below average personality having the attention of a heaven sent angel.

Passing through during visiting hours.

## Billy.

You rarely get days like these. Not only did Karin appear out of nowhere at your house this morning; after bumping in to Matt T at the hospital; but your dad also told you to take the rest of the week off as he was going to go in to work. You being sure that you'd heard him mutter something about your brother and your mother being worse than the cancer, from under his breath.

Karin had been around to the shop but Wednesday morning is when you do home deliveries and she'd found the place locked up. She'd long left by the time that you'd come home in the early evening and the old man had taken you to one side and revealed that he'd met her and that she'd had a spot of personal bad news. Needed a friendly face she'd revealed. She'd stayed for half an hour and by the sounds of it she'd bewitched the pair of them; even your brother; who looked terrible. Adrian struggling to find words to fathom things out regarding you and her, and dad actually putting an arm around your shoulder and whispering -'bloody well done son.'

Paranoia?.... What paranoia?

Your mum was less than impressed, as you'd completely expect. Not happy that a total stranger had been in her house whilst you were all harbouring your brother.

-'You don't know what she might say to the newspapers.' She'd accused.

Dad and your brother getting it with both barrels and you being for the high jump if this visit damages your brother's career.

She is even less happy when she hears that your dad is going back to work and has given you a couple of days off work. Who was going to help her out with looking after Evan Speed?

The incredulous woman seeming to completely forget that her husband was fighting a life threatening disease.

You'd not bothered hanging around to hear the rest of the fallout. Grabbing some toast and some crisps for your tea. Your dad giving you her address on a scrap of paper. Telling you to take the van and pop over to Melanie's for a couple of days if it suits. Throwing an overnight bag over your shoulder but not wanting to yet be convinced by your chances of spending time with her.

The dad who has become more and more reclusive during his illness seeming to be even more excited by her appearance than even you. Looking perkier and with an added spring in his slippers.

You see the best in others.

You'd jumped back in to the van. Your mother left with a scowl in the kitchen. Your brother left peeping out from behind the curtains. You tipping the photographer a wink and a smile. Swerving out of the street and down The Warren Mile (which is less than half a mile.) Your head covered in thought. Wanting this moment for weeks. It being the complete centre of your attention. Something you'd gone over in your mind again and again. Just wanting to be alone with her and having some quality time. The looks on both your father and your brothers faces confirming that this girl was more than average. Thanking your lucky stars that your mother wasn't home to ruin things when she'd arrived. Feeling that there'd be a fair chance that you'd have never have seen or heard from her again. You pull the van over outside of the Warren Parade chippy and call Mel. Your sister happy to have you over as ever if you decided to make the trip.

Will you begin to try and see the best in yourself?

Your heart failed to stop racing until you were ten miles clear of the town. She was happy to be invited to the seaside. Four days until she started her new job. Her with a loss of sparkle in her eyes and you unsure how to address it. Telling you that it was her neighbour Maurice who'd suggested that she gets out of town for a short while. The same chap suggesting you to deliver it for her. You feeling flattered by a person that you'd only briefly spoken to on the phone. You stop at the Trent Lodge on Gainsborough Bridge and buy dinner for you both. Karin picking at her food and muddling her way through opening herself up to her story and what had unfolded over the past couple of days. Her dad losing his marbles by the sounds of things and damaging himself. Her not wanting to go in to things but he's lucky to be alive. You feeling your stomach turn with her heartache. Wanting to go around to the other side of the table and hug her but your feet welded to the carpeting. Feeling inadequate again. Out of your comfort zone. An emotional sort but lacking in a way of dealing with emotions. You not being one for an ability in counselling others.

You having little ability for anything other than fruit & veg and getting pissed.

Fortunately at Thrunscoe Road, Cleethorpes there's always a keen smile and a hearty welcome to ease a traveller wanting to take their mind off of things. You promising Karin not to divulge in to things with anyone else. Taking her down to the sea front on a pleasant evening. The days lasting longer in the emergence of summer. A stroll down the Central Promenade in the twinkle of dusk. Wanting to put your arm around her but your fists welded to the insides of your jeans pockets. Slipping in to The Bootlegger on the High Street; you still unable to go a day without a pint and the lure of a public house. Wanting to show off the treat that is almost on your arm to strangers who don't even know you. Now a little more relaxed. Changing her subject to her holiday with her friend. Enthusing about music and the Mediterranean. Telling you about their pact to go again next year. You unable to help asking yourself where you'd fit in with all of this. Her waxing lyrical about starting her new job. Her new challenge to take her out of the town and the hustle of people and traffic. You not wanting her out of the town; much happier with her at China Doll and her brief occasional visits to your store on West Gate.

Her moving closer to you but moving away from you.

On the walk back home she loops her arm through yours as you pace. Her taking the lead with the conversation again. On a different plain of intelligence to you. You feeling the connection between you though and praying to yourself that tonight will be the night when you see her in all of her glory and take her in your mouth. Thinking she'd taste sweeter than anything imaginable. The only thing that you've filled your head with for weeks. Wanting her more than oxygen. An urging need for you to make the next step in your stagnated life. A life at twenty-four, at home with your parents. Playing out with your pals on most nights, larking down The Gun or spilling around town. Your life having as much direction as your alcohol induced vomit in the toilet bowl. Wanting a girl more than anything in the world. Wanting this girl even more than that. Wanting nights in, cuddled on the couch. Wanting nights of rampaging sex, followed by more in the morning. Of kisses saying -'have a good day' followed by kisses of -'how's your day been?' Of feeling loved and of feeling less inadequate than your mates who view your pursuit of the fairer sex as a bit of a joke. To end the quotes of their girlfriends, of you being a nice guy but probably not the sort that you'd want a relationship with. Of being able to go out on a night and not have the pressures to perform, knowing that you had her to return home to. Of just being able to wrap your arms around someone and hold them, love them and not feel so alone any more. A life where you are surrounded by family and friends. Where you feel suffocated by their constant presence, yet you feel completely alone without the type of love you want.

The only love you've ever felt being tough love; even during your time with Tina.

In to the happiness of Thrunscoe Road. Your sister and Dave cuddling confidently on the couch watching television. Being everything that you want to be. Cursing that your closest family lives furthest away. Making a pair of teas and taking them upstairs to the guest bedroom. Sitting across the bed, leaning with your backs to the wall making small talk. Wanting to touch her or hold her hand but your hands welded to the sides of your mug. Wanting to lean over and kiss her temptingly gorgeous fulsome lips but the back of your head welded to the wall. Your pulse beating quickly and an obvious nervousness in your tone.

It's almost a whole year since you last slept with anyone. You'd calculated it in the quiet boredom of the shop: 50 weeks of placing yourself in the meat market of town centre socializing; over 130 times of pruning yourself and checking your breath before venturing in to the pulling arena; above 700 hours of eyeing up girls that were completely unattainable to you; above 700 hours of eyeing up women that you were too nervous to approach; above 700 hours of avoiding the advances of the ones you viewed as even below you, of over 130 times of waking up with a wary head alone and feeling worthless; 50 weeks of seeing the same band of mates slipping off in to the night, around corners with a different lady under their arm.

You began to understand why you were less successful as each purpose made stat was created with the basis of making your own self look even more pathetic.

Happy to dismiss that you're just a shy lad and replace it with your version of being ordinary and pathetic.

You're lying on the bottom bunk of the box room. Karin telling you she felt exhausted. You offering her the small double if she wanted it. Her peck on the lips doing little for your easily uninspired ego and sending you reeling off across the landing feeling deflated. Lying in the eerie pitch black searching for noises that would encourage you back to her room. Wondering if she'll enter in to finding you herself in the middle of the night? Wondering if you should be more assertive? Perhaps she wants you to force yourself upon her more, and be a man? You forgetting that she's had a traumatic week and could well have more pressing issues on her mind than a fumble in a house which is alien to her.

You consider how far you can go with those stats until it pushes you over the edge.

You're that nice quiet and shy lad, who we wouldn't want a relationship with.

Around the breakfast table with your sister. Her with the day off. Dave already off at work. Karin still in her foreign bed. Your twin gushing in her first impressions of the new girl. Most of your family holding you in false praise at your conquest. You regretfully informing Melanie that it seems that you're just friends. It being glaringly obvious that you desire much more. Mel offering words of encouragement to be yourself; you're a nice lad and well meaning; you'd be a catch for any girl. You needing her moral support more than ever. Asking if she'd please join you on a day out at Pleasure Island? Mel being unsure that it'd be the wisest tactic but she'd love to come along all the same.

Having to hold your sisters hand. It's been like that from birth.

The two women screaming on the parks few white knuckle rides. Rotting their teeth on candy gloss and Coca Cola. Their prowess on the shooting gallery matching your own. Their heads for spinning repeatedly on a waltzer far more natural than your own. Melanie and Karin getting on like they'd known each other forever. Your sister, the social worker, able to elevate herself up to Karin's level. You feeling peripheral but glad they have each other to chat to. The presence of your twin being a good move in making life with you seem more attractive; even if little of that is actually down to you.

Smiles at the end of the day and a quiet word of thanks from Karin. A cuddle and a squeeze forwarding you yet another injection of hope. The trip enabling her to relax and enjoy herself. Back in the house for 3 o'clock; enough time for her to ring the hospital and catch the current condition of her father. You wondering what her mother's part is in all of this? Struggling to come to terms with the oddness of her family. Making your lot look like The Walton's.

That dominating environment where you were placed firmly at the root of the ladder seeming an altogether more sane place for a moment.

Thursday night and you've dragged Melanie and Dave out to the Submarine to play pool. Your sisters company being successful in the daytime encouraging you to draw on it again in the evening. Dave happy to be pulled away from paperwork for a brew. Asking how the fuck did a little-dicked virgin like you manage to pull off the coup of the century in snaring that absolute fox? You blame your animal magnetism and bat away his queries about her prominence under the covers. Dave hoping to see much more of her in the future. Both Dave and Mel being on her level. You feeling the odd one out. The kid that flunked school and now helps run a fruit & veg shop. Karin being decent at pool too. Banging down the spots and slipping home the black. A fist full of change from her hand to the jukebox filling the hall with The Prodigy to the admiration of a crowd of youths watching a England Euro 96' warm up friendly. You forgetting England were even playing. Karin Nemeth taking over your life. Her laughing at Dave's jokes. Her nestling her head in to Melanie's as they chatter. Her nodding her head to the beats, reminding you of Friday nights in The Yard. Her sweeping back her hair and looping it round her ear smiling towards you as you can't help yourself from being transfixed in wonder by her. Keeping you under her spell. A spell that simply won't release you. Wondering what you'd managed to do to get her to spend time in your company. Her being so out of your league that it wasn't fathomable to understand. You wanting to take her to one side and tell her that you love her. You barely know her but you are so in love with her that you question your own logic and desperation.

In love with a girl of 18 who you barely know anything about. Who you feel so far beneath in intelligence and looks that you feel a fraud. In love with a girl who you have barely touched but have studied every last freckle and crease and dimple on display. In love with a girl who smells like a fresh new day whenever she steps in to a room and could make you feel invigorated on the murkiest of occasions.

You urge yourself to pull it together and stop being so soft, but your heart refuses to listen.

You wanting to fall in love but deny it because your mates would laugh and taunt your naivety. It's the one thing that you don't possess, which you crave the most.

You're sat across the small double in your sister's guest bedroom. Mugs of tea welded to your hands and heads resting against the wall. Her expressing her admiration for your family; particularly your twin sister who apparently looks so much like you. Doesn't say much for your twin sister. Karin Nemeth finds them both fascinating to be around and clearly they're so in love with one another. She's enjoyed her day and thanks you once again. Telling you that it has been exactly what she needed. You feel a powerful urge to stroke the skin of her arms. To feel the warmth of her neck with your hand. To press your lips against hers.

You tell her that if it was something that she wanted you to do, you could easily fall head of heels in love with her.

## Karin.

I'm told over the phone during my lunch break that my father had been detained under the Mental Health Act of 1983. Severe signs of anxiety and depression from a psychological disorder, coupled with his reluctance to eat gave them little choice. Doctors holding serious concerns that he'll try to commit further harm to himself should he not receive the proper treatment he requires.

Monday 13th May 1996.

Admitted to Meden Ward at King's Mill Hospital's Millbrook Mental Health Unit.

A place the butt of many a local joke.

The date coincided with my first day working for the Forestry Commission. Led by a weeklong induction at the local head office in Old Clipstone.

Two other new recruits other than myself: Ben from Whaley Thorns, and Wes from Blidworth.

After all of my initial anticipated excitement about starting work here, the news of my dad, coupled with the crushing boredom of the induction, makes me feel like a part of the joy that I'd held in store for this day had been stolen from me. Now the remainder of the day feels like wasted enthusiasm draining from my pores. My mind usually a willing sponge for information has become aggravatingly unreceptive. The induction being taken by Brendan, an overweight middle aged grandfather with an insatiable appetite for tea breaks, personal life storytelling and frequent subdued attempts at comedy, that pass us by without bothering to say hello. The week wearing the barcode of a long and heavy one; as slide follows slide and video follows video I find my mind drifting off to thoughts of my dad and his hospital bed on the ward for nutters. Brendan having a unique talent of wavering me from my learning and ushering my floating thoughts towards any other thought of my choosing.

For the first time in a very long time I feel beneath a black cloud. A downheartedness swelling my heart with a feeling of clogged melancholy. It's an unfamiliar feeling for me and has taken an unexpected grasp. Even before I heard the news from the hospital I'd felt the spectre of it coming on. The diagnosis outcome from King's Mill was always on the cards. I'd visited him on both days over the weekend and we'd sat opposite one another: me and my unread book, him and his drip and his thousand yard stare. Us rarely passing a conversation but now he showed discomfort in me being around; a pain drawn over his features and a fidget of unease about his reactions. Although they'd saved his life I'd left that place without much doubt that I'd lost him. A man who had never shown me much emotion was showing me no emotion. It was a default setting but it left me heartbroken. The cold realization helping draw a shadow over me. A crack of thunder and the drift onrushing of blackness, like waking up to winter, being felt throughout my core.

Perhaps the shock was finally catching up with me?

Going from the elation of my summer holiday to the sudden trauma of my return had hit me but I'd not had any proper down time for the adrenaline to kick in. Having Maurice pester and entangle me can have its benefits of course, however it also kinda undermined my own ability to act how I naturally wanted to act. My defence mechanism disabled and the initiative taken out of my own hands. There being moments when my body just begged to be left alone. Solitude playing a role of strength in my life. Helping me, shaping me and allowing my previous evolution. Me at my most rational when alone, yet the burdening involvement of others had shifted me in to a corner and trapped me. Leaving me breathless and encroached upon. People like Billy taking too big a bite out of my fragile emotion and unfairly getting bitten in return.

I hadn't intended to be cruel to him. He's a sweet guy who clearly thinks a lot of me, but the last thing I need right now is to be waylaid by the heaviness of a lad demanding the entirety of my attention. I felt something of a victim of his kindness. Like my vulnerability had allowed him to slip right inside and take advantage of my position. His sudden forwardness, although probably brave for a shy person like himself, felt like a trick. Like the true meaning of the trip to his sister's place by the coast had been a covert way to ambush my weakness rather than to offer me comfort. Though of course it had been me who'd allowed myself to be pushed towards him in the first place. I'd visited his home and encouraged it. Letting Maurice talk me in to the idea and it sounding a reasoned and plausible solution for my early distress. Actually coaxing me in to the thought that it would be for the best; yet my head being so panicked and not knowing what was for the best at all. I'd instigated it under the duress of Maurice; insisting that it was what I needed. To get away and take my mind off of events. The overwhelming feeling of pressure had messed with my thoughts. My head dizzy with just what was going on in that crazy few days. Unfortunately for Billy, he was mown down in my alarm.

Maurice was wrong. I did need to think about everything. I hadn't required a hand to hold to compose myself. My father was poorly and I should have been around and by his side, not becoming the object of someone's desires. It wasn't the time or the place. Even if there was little that I could do and the relationship between me and my dad was skinny and perverse and had shifted in to the downright odd, I should not have left town and my father's side. But I'd allowed myself to be led by others. Dropping my guard and overindulged upon. Making me angry and briefly bitter and lashing out with my tongue. I don't know why. I was a bitch to him. To Billy. I'd told him in no uncertain terms that a relationship between us was impossible and simply was not going to happen. I'd got more important things going on in my life than him. He finally left me alone and pretty much sulked until he dropped me back off at home the following morning. I'd spent that last night in Cleethorpes feeling enclosed like a prisoner, wanting to break out in my discomfort. I'd insisted that he take me back home as soon as politely possible. His sister and her bloke went to work and we'd closely followed them out of the door.

I'd only wanted a friend. I'd been naive to think that was how he should have viewed me. I'd probably unintentionally led him on, though I realise that he'd wanted to be led. I'd known all along that he desired me. He'd been honourable with me and introduced me to some family that I really like, but I felt starved of oxygen. Like he and Maurice had innocently claimed a grip around my throat. Like Billy's few words and attempt at a kiss had made the whole realization of the week come unexpectedly crashing down on top of our heads. In the end I treated him like shit to fight away the frustrations that quickly devoured me.

I'd felt sorry for how I'd treated him from the moment that he'd returned me to my door; like the gentleman that he'd always been. He'd showed me no malice, indeed quite the opposite, he was clearly mortified to think that he'd offended me. In a horrible way I'd taken delight in leaving him with that thought. I'd cried once concealed from sight, and briefly hated myself. I'd got so few people in my corner but here I was with unexplainable anger built up towards a boy that I'd only known for a few short weeks, who had done everything in his power to endear himself to me and I'd punched him in the heart.

It had been me that had brooded for the passing weekend. In my room alone, like when I was a child. Finally left by myself to grieve for my father's failing sanity, and left alone to punish my own. No mother around. Probably out celebrating his demise. A guilt falling over me. For abandoning my father and neglecting his uncertain future. For being angry at letting Maurice dictate to me. For treating a nice lad like a pariah for just wanting to get close to me. Something I'd normally take great comfort from. Feeling sorry for myself regarding my upbringing. I never feel sorry for myself in that way. I face it and show it antipathy. Now I felt the weight of my unjust baring down on me. The cold reality of my father's condition sealing me in to a box of depression.

Was I showing my immaturity?

Was I showing my vulnerability?

Selfishness?

Stubbornness?

Have I been fooling myself all along, thinking that I was a tenacious person; when really I should embrace people wanting look after me and be with me?

I gratefully accept a lift home from Wes. Him happy to take the long way home to drop me off and saving me time from having to wait for the bus with a head full of unappreciated Discman. He's confident, mature and intelligent. All rugby jersey, neat hair and grunge music that sits ill with his image. "Absolutely" being his absolutely favourite word. He just as disappointed with the day as I've been myself. Our zeal for the day witnessing a slow puncture. I get him to drop me at The Warren Parade and he offers to pick me up for the rest of the week. I gladly accept through torpid, though much obliged smile. The Parade at eight. Happy to give a small bit of gratitude back to someone.

I slunk in to the newsagent for Diet Coke and then hump up to the comfort of the allotment. Avoiding my room and also any hope of bumping in to a semi-dazed mother with her whinging sounds and triumphant gloat. My contempt for her growing faster than for anyone else. She's played her own major part in the catastrophe of this family and being in her own private psychological disorder for some years.

I collapse in to the comfort of the iron framed bench seat, leaning against the shelter of Maurice's cabin. My ears ringing with The Orb - 'Adventures Beyond The Underworld'. My eyes glazed to the favourable view of the town, mixed in with the greens of the hillside. I hide myself away, not wanting to be seen or touched or spoken to. Fathoming out a rescue mission for my desolation. Wishing for the first time in years that I had a real father and a real mother. Wishing to receive love from family; though now unsure that the gene for real love was anywhere inside of me, wanting to be unlocked and adulated. A devil guarding it and spiking the fingers of anyone trying to get too close with his sharpened trident.

I take my book from my bag - 'In To Asia'. The mountains, plains and seas of that continent had never appealed to me more.

## DCI Flaxman.

Chief Constable Jim Garvey taking court at Station Road.

Mansfield nick.

1996. The Chinese year of the Rat.

A spread of coppers. The force changing. The nick changing.

The landscape remaining exactly the fucking same. Their field. The other field. Our field.

A field of our own.

A field for the villains. A field for the law. A field all of our own.

Jim Garvey introducing us to the new Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

Bold as brass. Smug as fuck. All hands and gestures is our Jim.

Sheepish flicked little glances towards me is our Jim.

Lavishing praise on the new Divisional Commander like a thirsty dog on the hottest day of the summer.

His tongue almost mopping the floor.

Never been a bloody copper. All shiny buttons and brown nosed badges.

I hate coppers like Garvey.

No room in his field of law for you. You never wanting to graze in that field.

She is of dark brown curled shoulder length hair, southern European skin. French ancestry. She is 33 years old. She is 5 feet 5 inches and 120 pounds. Dressed in cream blouse, pencil skirt and natural tights. Classy, sassy and intelligent. A career cop. Moving back up home after spending eight years on the Berkshire force. Mansfield born and bred.

Kate Tissard. The new Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

The new Walter Clarke. Smaller. Fairer. Sexier. More charismatic. And so obviously so much cleaner.

I hate her already.

Of course I want to fuck her. You can see on every male face in the room that it's the only thing that anyone is thinking. Probably some of the dykes as well.

Jim Garvey salivating himself in to dehydration. Showing the signs of a man who let his sexual urges choose the replacement for Walter Clarke deceased. Me wondering where his man Paddy Murphy is?

Paddy Murphy kicked in the bollocks, like myself, in favour of a skirt and a pretty head.

Unprofessionalism being in control of the Nottinghamshire Police Force.

A new cow in a field for the law. The bulls on parade for her. The bulls in our field over at the fence. Chewing on the cud. Taking the bait. Wanting to mate with the new cow. Me the fox that carries the electric prod.

Tissard giving a speech as well groomed as herself. Her bra visible through her blouse.

Me? Am I the only copper in the room that finds that inappropriate?

Drawing the weak souls in to her way of thinking through visual persuasion.

Making them love her and be led by her with rings hooked through their Jap's eyes.

Her tugging on the ropes to make them follow her in a trance-like state.

The new leader.

The new Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

33 years old. Slim, attractive and her bra on display. Chosen by dicks with dicks.

Their brains mushed by a pretty head in a pencil skirt.

I'm fucking repulsed by it.

Law enforcement in North Nottinghamshire in the control of a pretty head and a pencil skirt that has a station full of coppers in the palm of her hand.

Law enforcement in North Notts is off its pretty head.

And the villains?

The best villains aren't as naive when faced with such blatant trickery.

The great big villainous bull in the field of our own never swayed by a handsome new cow. He'll turn away and cock his leg in defiance.

A buzz around the station.

Sniggers and words of regret towards me from the underlings.

Chief Constable Jim Garvey offering me his condolences and slaps on the back. Telling me that Tissard was an impressive candidate that couldn't be ignored. That working alongside serious coppers like myself will only make the Division tougher on crime.

Her in the background shaking hands.

Shaking the hands of my mate Brian Kenton, and Graham Ryan.

Me needing to rein in them pair of cunts.

Me wanting to take Chief Constable Jim Garvey by the tie and draw it to around his ratty fucking neck, right there in front of a room full of North Nottinghamshire's finest.

None of them would notice my crime because they're too busy in their trance-like state being led by Kate Tissard. Her ropes tugging at the rings through their japs eyes.

I'm repulsed by it and I have work to be getting on with.

The field of the law amid the mayhem of spring. Of beasts willing to mate. Only one cow in the field stood to attention for the bulls on their parade.

I'm back at my desk. A billion things going through my mind.

Rebecca Stevenson put on the back burner but the light never going out for her.

Meddling invading fucking Irishmen to deal with.

The bull priming his man.

His man an expert in the field of pest control. Always a useful number to have in our book.

His hands permanently stained in blood these days.

The Campbell's still on the run. Hiding in shadows from our search light. DI Susan Redmond and DI Peter Thorne still drawing a blank.

Me? I intend to get this Tissard woman onside as regards the urgency of catching this pair of fuckers as soon as possible. Me wanting to draft in some more bodies. The Campbell's importance being lost in the developments surrounding the nicking of Joey Bryant and the similarities to the murders of Jennifer Clarke and Rebecca Stevenson.

The whole bloody town crossing their fingers and hoping for their own serial killer to pour their scorn and affection upon.

The Campbell's still having tongues that wag, making me nervous.

Needing this Tissard bitch onside from the get go.

A serious candidate that couldn't be ignored to work alongside a serious copper like myself to make the Division stronger.

A Division that will only remain at strength with you pulling the strings. Like you did before with Walter Clarke. Walt giving you plenty of string to go about your work to earn yourselves a living. The fear being that this new woman may rein in some of that string.

I'm away and out of the office before I get embroiled in to pleasantries with the new Divisional Commander bitch.

I want to fuck her, like the rest of them, but not talk to her.

She's nothing to me. I'm repulsed by her selection. Made by dicks with dicks.

Nudging me and Paddy Murphy aside for a pretty head and pencil skirt, a bra on display and French ancestry.

Incredibly naive leadership skills by the top brass.

I'm thumping on the door of The Portland. Needing an early morning refreshment to settle my thoughts.

The landlord sliding across the bolts and opening the door in his sweat and stubble; his double crown sticking up hair and his forty a day breath.

I sit and keep the paper company. Sinking my lager in double quick time. Asking for another.

A trip to Bilsthorpe to see the bull is in order.

A sting to set up. A unit on Old Mill Lane to decorate in plants of illegal varieties.

Helping to keep our crime figures up and suspicion away from the door.

Kenton and Ryan finally slipping through the door sheepishly.

Me smacking them across the face with a foul look as they join me.

More words of regret and fake condolences.

Me underlining just what this new imposter means to our operation.

The threat that she holds in the palms of her hands.

A new broom always liking to sweep fresh.

Us needing to stay focused.

Paddy Murphy wouldn't have been so bad. He was a known quantity. Someone who I could get singing from my tune. Easily led by my influence. This Tissard woman is a threat to everything that we've created.

This pair of fuck-rods don't seem to appreciate that. Wouldn't surprise me if they've already got a poster of her on our office wall: pretty head, legs in natural tights and flash of a bra through cream blouse. Miss Station Road nick for January, February, March, April and etcetera fucking etcetera.

Pushing your cattle prod in to the sides of your beasts. Letting them remember who's in charge around this place.

Driving over to Bilsthorpe in a new Mondeo.

Head playing tennis between thoughts. Rebecca Stevenson on one side of the net; her and the boy on the other.

One gone forever, the other two vanished in to thin air. Leaving just an unfamiliar phone number.

Over a week now since I've been in that Ravenshead home on my own.

Plans to elope with Rebecca vanished down the same lost hole as my family.

No more tears for sympathy. No more tears for regret. No more tears for fears.

Manning up and moving on. With a job to do and work to attend to.

Maybe still the odd tear for Rebecca. A tear that you'll deny with yourself has actually happened. A tear that you'd pass a lie detector test over.

The bull prowling his yard. Controlled worry across his brow.

Pleased to see a friendly face.

-'George. Glad your early.' He begins.

-'We've work to do Griff. Can't afford to be late.'

-'You got the keys?'

I hand him a pair of Yale's on a ring with a plastic fob. An address for a unit in Mansfield Woodhouse.

-'The paperwork is in the right hands. Make it look settled like before. No silly finger prints that can lead back to you or your boys. Leave the rest to us.' I urge.

-'Who you got pinned for this caper then?'

-'Couple of cocky fuckers off Ladybrook. Had our eyes on them for a while. Small time but big mouths.'

-'How come I don't know them?'

-'You can't know everyone Griff... Even you can't supply every little wannabe dealer and gangster.'

-'Not yet but it's coming.'

-'You never want to shore up the market Griff. You have to leave room for the fresh blood to come through. Leave the little men to build up their businesses. Even if it denies you some revenue streams. Without them coming through who are we meant to keep fitting up to nick and keep the wolves from your door?'

-'You're a good bloke George.'

-'The address is on the keyring... Make it late evening. Be aware that uniform will patrol around there so be careful. There's a big shutter door that you can get a Luton through, so don't be foolish.'

-'You realise how much this'll cost me in lost plants and equipment?' He pleads fake poverty.

-'Please Griff, don't preach. Fingering someone else for drug production is invaluable to all of us. It keeps you to quietly go about your business and it looks good on our figures.'

-'So when's the bust going down?'

-'You deliver the gear tonight. Set it up as a professional looking operation. I'll organise a sting for the weekend. Hit this warehouse and two other addresses hard. Make it look like we've been working on it for months. Flood the place with coppers. Get a thumbs up and another pat on the back from the brass.'

-'I couldn't do this without you George. You and dear old Walt, God bless his soul... Same with these paddy fucks over Retford way.'

-'You ready to move with that one?'

-'Couple of days. A lot of movement over there. Our man in the crow's nest has reported a movement of supplies.'

-'What do you think it is?'

-'Fuck knows George. Has me scratching my head. Surely they wouldn't be so bloody bold after you and your boys went around and let them know that you'll be standing on their toes?'

-'That's the problem Griff. These fuckers don't give a shit. Provo's thinking this is Northern fucking Ireland and they're still in charge; calling the shots. Not afraid of the old bill after years of the army, the RUC and the secret service breathing down their necks. That's why they need cutting off at the roots early doors.'

-'The phantom will eat their fucking roots in a soup for them whilst they watch.'

-'I hope so Griff. I hope so.'

A great big bull and a fox shaking hands. A mutual respect and an unwavering trust. Letting absolutely no fucker stand in our way.

Back at the station at tea time. The place deserted apart from floating uniform spastics and the odd pen pushing wanker.

Me? I pour a well stewed coffee from the percolator and pack a box of personal items. Marking it - FLAXMAN - and setting it aside for the move to the new building.

Headquarters on Great Central Road completed.

Another box ready for my new office.

The wrong new office in the wrong new part of the new building.

Tank proof.

A knock at the open office door.

The new Divisional Commander. The wrong new Divisional Commander.

Still looking as fresh as she did from her address this morning.

A hint of freshly squirted perfume to add the gloss.

-'May I come in?' She asks with a smile that could glow any room. Any room but this fucker.

-'The door is open ma'am.' I point out the bleeding obvious.

-'I've not had the opportunity to talk to my DCI yet.'

-'Police matters have been taking precedent ma'am.'

-'Good. Don't let any minor alterations around here get in the way of your work George.'

-'I don't intend to Mrs Tissard.'

-'Call me Kate please George. And I'm still a Miss I'm afraid. Married to the job.' She giggles.

-'We're all married to the job Kate. And the job wears the trousers in the relationship.'

I lean back in my chair and sip from my coffee. Taking a look at her legs that have been on the go all day. Down to Sutton and up to Woodhouse. Kirkby, Hucknall, Forest Town and Warsop nicks on the agenda for later in the week.

More coppers to take under her spell.

-'I know that you interviewed for the job George and I hope that it won't affect our working relationship?' She leans against the wall, arms folded and hiding most of the hint of bra.

-'Not at all, best candidate got the job. An impressive candidate that couldn't be ignored. I'm a serious copper and we need to work together to keep this a top performing Division.'

-'My thoughts entirely. I'm glad we're speaking from the same page.'

-'Always will be ma'am. Coppers needing to be led by a strong leader. I hope you can be that strong leader and realise that not much is broken around here. Impressive figures have been the norm before you got here and I'm sure that impressive figures will continue in your reign.'

I survey her impressive figure. Tight and lean. Slim and clean of any trauma of childbirth. Fragrant and glowing. Not a hair out of place on her pretty trussled head.

-'That's what I intend George. I know that you were very close to Walter Clarke and I'm sorry for all of your loss. I intend to move the Division in to the new building seamlessly. There's little change required in a well functioning department. Your results speak for themselves DCI Flaxman and I plan to work closely with you in particular and continue my own policing education by learning from your methods. Together we can make this place even more formidable than it was under yourself and Mr Clarke.'

-'Brave words Kate.'

-'I consider myself a brave woman. I won't be intimidated. I'm single bloody minded, hard and responsive. Someone who's people can trust and crooks will learn to fear. It helps to have people like you on my side George.'

She approaches and offers me a hand, which I shake. It is tiny and warm and weak in mine. I cover it in strength and let her know that mine is there. Always in control.

-'It's been a pleasure to meet you George.' She loops her handbag over her shoulder. As quick to leave as she was to appear. Probably off for a secret liaison with Chief Constable Jim Garvey no doubt. -'Good evening.' She strolls impressively out of our office, all pretty head and pencil skirt, cream blouse that you can see her bra through, heels that click on the floor as if they already own the place. Mansfield born and bred but from French ancestry.

-'Evening Kate.'

You want to fuck her. You don't want to talk to her. She has nothing to tell you. You are in control from the field of your own.

I take the piece of paper from my pocket. The paper that I scribbled the number down from the card of my absconded wife. A phone number added to a plea to be a father.

I dial the number and listen to the tone.

About to hang up in its reluctance to be answered.

A male voice on the end of the line.

A male voice that says -'Hello, Patrick Murphy.'

# Insularfield :  
paranoia the destroyer

## The Aging Hitman.

Dawn and fresh dew laces my boots with moisture.

A light load and sniffles of hay fever greeting the appearance of the sun on the horizon.

Clear cloudless skies and a chill in the air which nips at my fingers, nose and ears.

9mm Glock pistol with suppressor. 100 rounds just in case. Gerber combat knife and BC-41 knife.

Wrestling through a gap in the hedgerow and on to their grounds with more fuss than I'd have liked.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained.

Curtains drawn and the usual three vehicles on display.

Finding the location that I'd chosen, hid from sight behind the oil silo, with a good range of vision of the farmhouse.

Hay fever swelling the glands of my nose. Wiping it with my sleeve.

Settling in for the wait.

06:13 on my watch.

Lighter outside than I'd hoped it would have been. Clumsier than I'd wished to have been. Fortunate that I've not been spotted despite my poor calculations.

Crouched on my behind at the back of the silo. Catching my breath. Rubbing my hands. Wiping my glasses and putting them back on. Strapped to my head.

My heart pumping in anxiety and adrenaline.

Nervous of making a mistake and out of my comfort zone.

Forest Farm,

Barnby Moor,

Retford.

Nottinghamshire.

1996.

Where foul deeds are necessary to dust away dirty fingers and mischievous acts

I witness the birth of a glorious hopeful morning. The still of the countryside and the happiness of the birds. The temperature creeping and rheumatoid arthritis in my knees tingling.

07:19 on my watch.

Almost time to sow the cucumbers and the runner beans at my allotment, and the Sweet William and Forget-me-nots for the garden. Something else to tease and tempt my fragile sinuses.

Needing to stock up on antihistamine for the summer.

Stifling a small sneeze and noticing that the curtains of the upstairs room have been half-heartedly opened.

The makings of a small plume of smoke emerging from the stone chimney stack.

My heart pumping in anxiety and adrenaline.

The odds against me if I make a silly mistake and the words of my Joan would replay to themselves in my head.

Just trying to pay the bills.

The money in the steel container. Six feet below the surface. With the weapons and the ammo. Protected by a rug and terracotta and a shed that's more of a fancy lean to.

Still a secret from Karin.

Karin who I worry endlessly about. In her grief for that dad of hers. Karin not being mine.

Not seen hide nor hair of her in a week. Worrying endlessly about her.

Having to let her have her own space to consider him in the nut house without his crown jewels.

Pissing in to a bag and unlikely to ever come home.

07:46 on my watch.

Still not getting around to revealing about that money. Don't know how to word things properly as always.

Not even telling Griff to make her aware of it should I end up meeting my maker and joining my Joan amongst the good folk in the clouds; where she can look after me again. Probably won't be going there mind you. A different destination in mind for me.

I tell myself to let young Griff know about where I'd want my money to go, should I not get the opportunity to hand it to her myself. Though it mattering to me how Karin considers me, more than owt.

I can trust the lad. I've known him long enough now.

Should have done it already. Come up with a plan for that money, like I had for this place.

My heart pumping in anxiety and adrenaline.

Miles away from the comforts of home and the things that I love the most, should I meet my maker out in the fields in the north-east of the county.

It's as good a place as any.

Determined to give up this game before time catches up with me. The bills can take care of themselves now. Young Griff beginning to offer too much.

I'd told Griff that there was too much blood being shed. I couldn't keep up. My body won't let me and it's beginning to play on my mind. Can barely pull myself out of bed in a morning.

Three dead bodies inside of a month. The last having a little baby inside of her and it upsetting me for days afterwards.

Now we have three souls here that he wants dealt with. That's too much blood being shed in a couple of months.

No amount of bills are worth as much as the killing I've been asked to do lately but I do it out of courtesy for the lad and my Joan. It is family n'all. But I'm not getting any younger these days.

I have pains in my knees and a wariness to my head. It's a young man's job, but I'm grateful for the work.

07:52 on my watch.

Movement at the back door.

The big chap. Danny is his name. A proper big un who I'm not keen to mix it with.

Griff says that he's slow in his head but he looks handy enough with those big dinner plate hands.

He carries a black bin bag which he tips in to the bin with about as much noise as he can feasibly muster before loping in a unique style across the courtyard. Sliding across the runnered door of the barn and going inside.

I've got to make a quick decision on whether to follow him inside or not whilst he's on his Jack Jones.

Taking the Glock outside of my belt and attaching the suppressor. This is an opportunity.

One eye on the barn door, the other on the windows of the house until I'm out of the sight of it. Across the courtyard slower than I'd have liked.

I'm more of a sprinter than a marathon runner.

My heart pumping in anxiety and adrenaline.

Wondering if I'll need to write out a formal notice of my decision to retire?

The big fella crouching over a box with his back turned to me.

Boxes closed and boxes filled to their open brim with household articles. Like you do when you move.

Griff mentioning that more of their lot were about to move. I'm hoping that it's just the four of us out here at the minute. I've seen nobody kicking around. Just a big delivery the other day. Perhaps this stuff?

The back of Danny's bald head making a target that Stevie Wonder couldn't miss.

His bulky frame cumbersome and his appearance placid and lazy.

I'm able to get almost right up behind him and scratch the back of his head with the barrel of the suppressor before he's alerted to me and turns.

A bullet, with a 'duff', in to the side of his temple before he can get a look at me. Dropping his great heavy weight to the ground. Sending up a billowing cloud of dust in the spotlight of sun rays that split through the timber of the barn.

The box full of food stuff. A Kellogg's variety pack cereals in his big hand.

I wonder which one he was going to choose for his breakfast?

I take a moment to think about trying to shift the body out of view behind the boxes; eventually coming to the conclusion that I'd probably struggle to drag him and sap my strength.

The barn gives me a perfect hiding spot and I hope that his none return will eventually spark one of the other pair to come looking for him.

I set myself up behind the door, figuring that any new arrival will make straight for that same spot over by the collection of assorted sized cardboard boxes. Danny Flannery spread awkwardly across the ground, his Rice Crispies or Cocoa Pops unopened. Flies already buzzing around his body, dancing with the mist of floating dust.

My heart pumping in anxiety and adrenaline.

The main danger comfortably out of the way. Fortune smiling on me in making his demise a simple one.

Wondering if I'll have to work a month's notice before I can give back my steel container of weapons and put my feet up?

08:17 and still nobody searches for Danny Flannery. A small brain but huge fists which fortunately won't be felt.

I'm cramped in my crouched position and have to make a choice what to do next.

Do I change tact and position or stay inside here and just wait and see?

The sliding runnered door being the only access in or out.

Up out of my crouched position with more of a strained click than a fluid burst. My knees killing me and my nasal passage stuffed with a mixture of black dust and pollen, making me sneeze in to my hand.

Flexing my knees and trying to kick start some feelings back in to them. Deciding to leave the barn and inch closer to the house in my throbbing impatience.

Nobody at the windows. An upstairs window being clouded in a mist; possibly from the hot steam of a shower or bath. Maybe halving the immediate threat?

Creeping over the cobbles with the Glock extended out in hand. My eyes flitting over all openings. The back door swung in from where I expect a body to pass through at any moment.

But it's from behind me, away by the cars, that I've neglected.

A blind spot that I'd rendered unimportant in the absence of footsteps.

A crash against my back which knocks the wind from my sails, sending me to the ground, the pistol lost from my grip.

Bent on all fours gasping for breath.

Another crash to the back of my skull is heavy and debilitating, spinning me around and bringing me face to face with the mad bearded face of Micky Flannery. Armed with a shovel. Craziness filling his red eyes.

Lifting that tool above his head again ready to pounce on a defenceless old man lying with his back to the cobbles and the concrete of north-east Nottinghamshire.

Rolling to my side as he brings it down. Catching me full on the elbow and sending a shooting pain throughout the whole limb.

I manage to bring my knee up and stamp hard down on to his shin with a crack. Making him yelp and tumble over gracelessly in his slippers, allowing me to grab hold of the shovel as he falls alongside me.

I push the bladed edge of the tool in to his face and roll heavily against it with all of my clumsy weight as he struggles about. Breaking in to the skin of his cheek and his mouth, making him growl in discomfort. His fist taking hold of a clump of my hair, thrashing about as I take out the serrated Gerber and fill his belly with it. Using my extending waistline to anchor him beneath me in his spluttering.

Shushing in to his face and those wide wild red eyes, as if we were lovers.

Fortunately not the scrapper that his bigger and younger brother had looked. Yet those mad eyes remaining hating me and the rest of the world, even after he'd waved off his last breath.

My heart pumping in anxiety and adrenaline.

My elbow feeling a searing pain and my head split open and weeping warm blood down the back of my neck.

Filling in that hole in the gound inside the shed which is more of a lean to. Wanting to create a space to restore a new scooter. Spare parts hanging from the rafters. Something from scratch to give me another project. A project other than killing.

The gun lost. Down in to the drain beside the house. No grate to cover it.

My good arm up to the shoulder in clouded suds of household water, grasping around feeling for it but it has sunk from my reach.

The smell of menthol bubblebath briefly smiling upon my sinuses.

Back on to my knees wincing in pain. Wet from drain water and the blood from my head wound.

Pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. My injured arm being my stronger arm. My doing arm.

I wrap my fingers through the knuckle duster on the BC-41 knife. It feeling odd in the wrong hand but me thankful of the reassurance of its comfortable grip. The old trusted commando knife.

Sneaking through the back door. My brain frazzled a little.

Making me less anxious but my adrenaline pumping.

Looking for the last brother. Kenny. Younger than me though of a similar size and build.

The farmhouse kitchen missing the touch of a good woman.

Bread brown in the toaster.

The farmhouse lounge missing the touch of a good woman.

The breakfast news playing to itself.

The farmhouse stair missing the touch of a good decorator.

The paint blistered and peeling from the skirting boards. Wallpaper dry and peeling its edges from the walls.

I steady myself up the steps. Holding my damaged elbow with the hand that cups the knife. Stopping to listen after every couple of flights but only hearing the distant chatter of the breakfast news. -'Sunny with the chance of light showers across the north of England and in to Scotland in the evening.'

Fully aware that if Kenny Flannery is armed with a firearm then I have little chance right now. Probably losing that edge that I had, despite his brothers laying outside, spent.

My heart pumping as anxiety returns to join adrenaline; and pain.

A nice quiet life with some pills from the doctor for the angry voices that have controlled me since my Joan passed away in the winter of 1990. The same month that they closed the colliery.

I lean against the first door with the point of the knife. Pushing it inwards with a creak that has needed lubricating with oil for some time.

My injured arm tucked in to where my ribs once lived happily.

Kenny Flannery wasn't hiding out waiting for me in the hide of a corner, tooled with a shotgun or a hurling stick. He was propped up against the sink with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth, sucking on Aquafresh, dressed in his dressing gown.

I lurch forwards, taking him by surprise, but he evades my lunge and grapples with me.

My flailing arm being untrained and less skilled.

Him awkward. His arms around me. A forehead in to my face, making the light turn briefly black.

Both of us tumbling in to the empty bathtub. Menthol suds gathered around the plughole to watch as we crash around them.

Flannery on top, his toothbrush still poking out between his lips.

Me wincing from his bulk heavy on my poorly arm. The commando knife stuck inside his back. Wedged against gristle and bone, making it difficult for me to release my grip.

His face up against mine with nowhere for us to move. Two burly blokes sharing a bathtub with rapidly expanding waistlines from too many hearty meals.

Reaching for his nose with my mouth. Biting down hard as his fist smacks repeatedly down on to the top of my head.

Doing little damage to the hardest part of my skull.

His nose tearing away between my incisors.

The menthol bubbles stinging the open wound on the back of my head.

Kenny Flannery screaming out aloud and covering me in toothpaste spittle and its brush.

Him managing to reach up and push my chin back jerking. Fingers searching for the vulnerability of my eyes. Scratching my skin with embedded nails. Blood pouring from his face across my gritted teeth.

No room in this tight spot for telling blows that create an advantage.

The angle that we squeeze about in twisting my grip from the knife. Him crashing his sodden head back down in to my face in desperation. Him holding the advantages, of positional and of youth.

The US army issue garrotte slipping out of my unbuttoned combat trouser side pocket. It's scrape on the enamel reminding me of it.

Forcing the forearm of my useless injured limb against his throat. Raining short harmless blows against me.

Able to scoop up the wire by its handle and agonisingly force his head back with the searing pain of that broken arm.

Agility being lost, waistline being gained, but still quick enough in close combat.

Looping the garrotte sharpishly around his head. The wire slipping down the inside of his thick dressing gown collar. Baring less weight against his throat and allowing it to adjust from his lips to the underneath of his chin.

Taking the handle between my teeth. My useless arm still forming a capable barrier between us. Him beating down on me exhaustedly with the sides of his fists. The bath clanking with each blow.

Grasping for the opposite handle to the garrotte and yanking it tight. Closing the space. Cutting in to the flesh of his freshly shaved throat. My head hard back. An anchored grip between my teeth on that US army issue garrotte that a ball and chain couldn't shift. My good arm shaking from the strain of the force I'm putting in to strangulating him with that ligature.

Kenny Flannery gasping for life from an open mouth with a swelling tongue. His eyes like searchlights and the hole where his nose once stood is a bloodied pulp. His smacks to my exposed face becoming ever weaker with each waft of his knuckles.

The smell of menthol bubblebath. The taste of another man's blood. The dying final gasp of a desperate human being. A neatly buried thin red line of dripping blood around his taut neck. A heavy weight on top of me briefly making me forget my agony.

A caravan for my retirement. Somewhere quiet and within suitable range for the Lambretta. Sutton-On-Sea or Chapel Saint Leonards.

Opening up the heavy lid to the buried cesspit. Mindful not to hover my head over it, to catch any escaping gasses.

The mobile phone that Griff gave me in case of emergencies not having a signal.

Not able to use any house phone that could be traced. Griff's policeman friends urging him not to give me this mobile phone either. Too much risk involved for him but him wanting to help if things went south.

Having to do the heavy lifting and cleanup work all by myself.

Using their 4x4 vehicle to shift the three men from the house and grounds across to the grassy field at the rear of the property. The sealed refuse tank of the cesspit and its foul odour punctuating the immediate air around the open hatch.

Dragging the corpses to the cusp and tipping them in with a vile sceptic splash.

Sealing back the lid and taking the vehicle back to the courtyard.

09:29 on my watch.

The dust of the barn floor soaking up most of the blood from Danny Flannery's head shot. A quick sweep and it's unnoticed.

The courtyard suffered more so. The Karcher by the outside tap bursting away the remains of Micky Flannery.

The fumes from bleach overcoming the smell of menthol in the bathtub of Forest Farm. The body of Kenny Flannery wrapped in the best table cloth to prevent him dripping all over the floors when I dragged him down that stair.

Wrestling through a gap in the hedgerow and out of their grounds with more fuss than I'd have liked.

A Gerber knife, a BC-41 knife and a garrotte. A 9mm Glock pistol lost in a drain.

The birds singing happily in a beautiful hopeful morning. The sway of green shoots of corn on the breeze.

The stall of an engine and a skid of tyres. The opening of a minibus door and the chattering of excited voices. The voices of women and of children filling the courtyard of Forest Farm, Barnby Moor.

1996. The year that the soil of the county stained with blood.

10:42 on my watch.

A mile and a half over fields and the Chesterfield Canal. Through Barnby Fox Covert and to the Lammy hidden in the brush off of Old London Road.

Just trying to pay the bills.

## Martin.

On the journey North I read and edit work; thinking endlessly about the boy. My boy. Thirty long years of enforced separation.

It would be excusable to consider that I had played my own significant part in becoming estranged from his life but in those early years I felt it important not to expose him to the cruelty and malice that surrounded my banishment. No child deserved the stigma that would palpably stain him.

A guilt I carried for many years of abandoning him had meddled with my mind and forced me deeper in to my isolation.

It wasn't a case of not wanting to be around him. I wanted that more than anything in the world. Let's just say that it wasn't encouraged and falling short of midnight witch hunts with lit torches and raised threatening pitchforks it was accepted by all parties that it would be best all round that I simply disappear. It wasn't just threats from my wife's family you see, even my own kin sent me to Coventry; severing all ties and advocating that most would just prefer it if I were to disappear to prevent further shame upon our name. The name that would later adorn million selling novels in bright capital letters.

The boy was no longer considered mine but theirs.

Despite the love and attention I had displayed for almost a decade I was now considered a monster, a bad influence and a danger to the lad. After ten years of supporting and tending to his every need, like most good heterosexual fathers would also do.

The fact that I'd lived a lie didn't sit well with many. Scared of what other secrets I hid behind closed doors which would influence the upbringing of the child; and probably turn he himself in to a pervert too. Instigating a whole line of Carruthers perverts. Tarring and feathering the name for eternity.

That fair and gentle lad, that after thirty long years without his true father would now receive the best of him and enjoy his full reserved attention.

The soul and foundations of this true tale had the makings of the best Benedict novel yet. The outpouring of grief and the hardship that had set upon our once hero feeling so callow and tender. The reader being of unyielding heart if remaining unmoved by our main characters harrowed plight.

Edgar Benedict, born Cuthbert Jones. The bastard child of the Earl Manvers: Robert Nicholas Benedict. The son of Mansfield woman Elizabeth Priestley and her Norton farmer husband Fred Jones. Beaten, hated and worked to the bone by his adopted father. His true sire the Earl categorically denying the existence of a child born from his drunken raping hands to a young farm lass. A twenty-two year old Cuthbert coming across the Earl's son, the real Edgar Benedict, by chance. Fallen from his frightened horse and paralysed in the twilight storm of the forest around Budby. The injured man, his spine broken, begging to be taken from his misery. Cuthbert wanting to save the stricken fellow, unable to take a blade to a person who was his half-brother. Relaying his story to his unwitting relation. Outraged, the true Edgar Benedict tells of how he too hated his father and was to travel to Portsmouth, to the Royal Naval Academy to train to become an officer, to escape his wrath. Cuthbert Jones spent the night in the forest tending to the wounded fellow and they traded many tales, developing an all too short a friendship. Edgar slipping in to unconsciousness in his sleep. Cuthbert burying him in that forest and stealing his identity. For years nobody knowing whatever befell the whereabouts of Edgar Benedict. Nobody ever caring what befell the whereabouts of Cuthbert Jones; the farmhand who's mother died shortly after he had stolen the identity, clothes and the horse of Edgar Benedict.

Vowing to make good of his new identity and eventually seek vengeance upon the Earl and his own vicious step-father.

I take a taxi from the splendid red brick of Nottingham Railway Station to the flaking slapdash magnolia washcoat of The Midland Hotel in the centre of Mansfield. 250 years old and grade II listed but now an establishment to crush the most enheartened of spirits in to the cold harsh soil of that once romantic now utterly disheartening former colliery town. The old town devoid of lodgings choice, that would befit the stay of a gentlemen of my usual measurement and on booking myself in to this humble auberge I pray thanks to small mercies that my stay in this place will be brief.

My room is small, wearing aging vinyl wallpapers alongside borders that host an unhappy marriage where words are never shared. Stains map the worn maroon carpet and the furniture is irregularly stamped by careless and carefree one night owners. Behind that door marked 11 is displayed the hallmarks of a room sad and dishevelled in its skin, unloved and unknown from the world outside of its pockmarked window. Perhaps the perfect place for me to reside after all?

The view from my window is of grey: the sky grey, the grey buildings, the grey tarmacadam, the grey traffic, the grey arches of the Great Central Railway viaduct, the grey wandering people. As if the colour from thirty years of diminishment has drained completely from the dear old place. Tarnishing the fondest memories from childhood through to youthful adulthood. The home of my birth. The home of my boy; and the home of Edgar Benedict.

In to decline in 1996.

Would Benedict wish to return here?

Of course he would. He has nothing left. He is in disgrace. His reputation plundered. His pride ravaged and picked at by the birds. His heart and soul empty. All he has is the cold harsh soil of this place, and those he bitterly left behind. All he has remaining lay here, amongst the grey.

I spent an uncomfortable night in that place. Avoiding the near empty bar. Making a tangible decision to steer clear of pubs and bars for a while. My experiences of late taking their toll and placing me in uncomfortable positions. The acid trip of the Hampshire Boulevard making me draw a line through them. Folk taking advantage of my friendly nature. These establishments hosting nothing but mischief to my wariness these days and that LSD experience failing to take me back to the good old days; only managing to put back my plans for a week and forward me nonsensical bizarre nightmares.

I had my Martini with my roast beef dinner in the safety of the restaurant and retired early to bed to ponder my plan of action. My former colleague at Harper Collins managing to locate the former Margaret Carruthers. Unable to find the boy directly. Making my immediate task more problematic. Making me face the woman who bore the largest brunt during that horrible time. The woman scorned and left hung to dry.

A woman who married again and moved to the far side of Kirkby-in-Ashfield. A neat little bungalow at the end of Orchard Road, past the Kirkby Cross.

I spend the night nervously going through the script in my head. Hoping that she will entertain me. Wondering if she'll bare me no ill and point me in the correct direction. Trying to visualise the woman whom I'd loved but held no physical affection for. Leaving her tossed aside, past her sell by date.

I spend the sleep deprived night listening to car engines demanded their optimum in the council car park below and to lovers rhythmically beating the living daylights out of our dividing wall with their headboard; like you are meant to in these sorts of places. Cheap and cheerful and perfect for an illicit moonlit rendezvous.

I make the taxi driver hang around. This may be the shortest of all unrecorded visits.

A polite, apologetic place tucked in to the corner of the cul-de-sac. Hiding from the prying eyes of the world behind a short wrought iron gate painted green. Almost wishing to remain undiscovered; like it too had been banished from the area for reasons best not gone in to.

When she answers she holds my gaze impassively. As if she's been expecting this moment for years but had concluded that it would never come to pass. I gently whisper my hellos and remind her how grand she looks.

She looks old. Old and wary and unaccepted, with even fewer years remaining of this world than I.

To my obvious relief and enormous surprise I am invited inside with the need of little explanation. Waving off the cabbie emphatically.

Inside the bungalow it is as spotless as I'd have guessed, though dating quickly and filled with a pungent smell of some vanilla and pine type air freshener that struggles to agree with me.

She moves slowly and less purposely than I remembered. My mind striving to undertake that I was once actually married to this woman. In a life that now almost doesn't seem to have been my own. In the faint glimmer of the past, I'd stood at the altar of St Lawrence's church on the junction of Pecks Hill and Skerry Hill. In front of our relations, who are now almost exclusively with our maker, I had pledged my love and loyalty to this old lady struggling on her feet before me. Only just in to her sixties but looking far older and moving less freely than an older, better lived, individual in myself.

A flashback to a day that almost seems an outer body experience of a life that was borrowed haphazardly from somebody else. Handed back in a disrupted state where I'd lost my bond and the respect of the vendor. Those happy days at the seaside. Those romantic walks across fields of poppies in the summertime. Those nervous fondlings that we made up as we went along. The hiding from our strict parents. The ecstatic birth of our lad. All now memories that seemed on loan to me. Like books taken from the library and handed back thirty years too late. Incurring a pitiful fine. Long time read, the text almost forgotten. The fact that they were read at all casting doubt in my mind. As we sit at this plumped settee, surrounded by vanilla and pine extract and photographs of that fairheaded boy, our boy; the boy who was the result of me lying with this old woman in front of me, when we were young and confused; creating a child that was now a man.

Pictured with his stepfather. Dead for eight years. Emphysema from being exposed to coal dust. Sixteen years older than her. Her just wanting the security of a family again for her and the boy, despite the age gap and the minimal love and separate lives involved.

Pictured with his mother. Few smiles. That happy boy and his contented mother reduced to a belligerent and strained relationship over the years. My former wife satisfied to hand me the burden of the blame. Me willing to accept it from her and store it in to my head as valuable research for the final Benedict novel.

The boy became tricky to handle, with an ambiguous personality that was hard to puzzle. Restrained though tactful, with a concealed bitterness. His mother gifting me more harsh words to describe our son. A fair boy who has little time for her now. Who rarely visits and blames her for much of his lot in life. A life which by all accounts is successful, but of which his mother is repeatedly reminded that it's despite of his parent's involvement in it.

Pictured with her parents as a teenager. People who wanted me gone for good. Her father the sort of person to endorse capital punishment for homosexuals. His bond and his influence strong with the boy. My lad spending a great deal of his youth in the man's company. Lectured on the rights and wrongs and encouraged to take what he could out of life. To develop his own inner strength and his own design for life.

Pictured with his family. A pretty brunette with plenty of colour to her cheeks and a pout to thin lips, along with a slip of a lad with unhappy frail features and perfectly straight hair. A stiff breeze looking as if it would send the two of them hurtling: my grandson and my daughter-in-law but not my boy. Him towering above them; masculine and dominant. The wife and child far too good for him Margaret tells me bitterly. Shows about as much love for them as he does for his abandoned old mother she cuts. The daughter-in-law unhappy, she can tell. Our son wrapped up entirely in his work. His 'business' he calls it. Him wrapping himself in it as a shelter from his vulnerable fatherless childhood she reminds me. The only thing that matters in his life. Their boy, my grandson, requiring a father, not simply a passing adult male to repeatedly chastise him. Making the son, my grandson, suffer like he had done himself. Our son being denied a father and now attempting to deny his own son of one. Preferring work and other commitments to home life. A sort of perverted reoccurrence she strangely titles it.

Pictured in the uniform of his work. In his younger days. Before the promotions. Just before he met his wife. Making the grade and becoming a local beat Bobby in and around the town centre. Becoming an influential detective with high aspirations. That photo telling me a thousand words that the former Margaret Carruthers had need not say; the stern unapproachable look to a dedicated face: sharp, formidable, single-minded and determined to reach the top. Him moving out of the town and taking them to a fancy address a stone's throw away from Newstead Abbey and Byron. She hands me an address and warns me not to expect a warm welcome. The wife and child will be programmed to despise me; and the boy, his surname now Flaxman, could turn hostile. That was his nature these days.

I thank her. I wish to hold her and apologise again to her like I had repeatedly done all of those years ago, but she would not want me to. George's address inked on to a slip of paper. I tell her that he may not welcome me but I could only try.

## Adrian.

I swear I actually started to see those walls drawing in on me. Making that tiny room even tinier. Pushing that cheap and cheerless steel-tube single bed further in to what could be best described as the centre of the room. The room smaller than the standard sized UK prison cell. Inching itself inwards and restricting my claustrophobia. The carpet gathering as it's nudged by the skirting boards and the creak from the timber as it's shifted. Contracting the space a few millimetres at a time.

In space, no one can hear you scream!

I got the holy fuck out of there before it was too late. Dad was down the shop with Billy and our mother was hanging out the washing. I slipped out of the patio door and legged it down the garden, scaling the fence in to the grounds of the house at the rear, the minute she walked back up the side of the house with her empty washing basket.

Her and the snapper out front from the Daily Seek&Destroy none the wiser. Me slipping out the driveway of the house at the rear to befuddled looks; lifting up the hood of Billy's borrowed top as I go.

Escaping The Sweeney Family Penitentiary without a single shot being fired from the lookout tower. Knowing that she'll raise the alarm soon enough. But for now even the air of The Warren smells sweet compared to that room of our Melanie's. Like a small victory has been achieved as I amble down the street in my disguise. On the run and out of bounds for some much needed R&R.

In to the Paki shop for cigarettes and a lighter, thinking the days of shopping on the Parade were long behind me. The skanks that hang about outside the shops, dodging a day's graft and the boredom of the classroom. Happily swarming around in life's gutter like content little workshy bees. All dirty baggy jeans and naff common-folk sportswear, mixed with filthy language; dropping litter and plotting ways to steal their days oxygen. The fact that I find myself back amongst these people would be enough to sink any individual. The fact that I'm not just any individual but one that cannot get a reply from my agent or indeed anyone of influence at Smart, Smart & Ingle is enough to further my fragile anxiety. The pull on nicotine brings me short sharp respite from the horror of my situation.

Back amongst the rats of the rat race and the rats happy to avoid the race entirely.

It's years since I've been in The Gun & Glasshouse and nothing has changed whatsoever. The decor remains drab and soulless and the clientele is as uninspiring as it ever was. Old men nursing hour old pints of bitter, their lives replicating their beverage of choice. Middle-aged divorcee's on their tenth pint of the day, the empty bottles of mouthwash and Nightnurse and their last can of Special Brew all a distant memory. Shady young wankers half hidden behind pillars crafting their latest deal. A chubby barmaid that looks exactly like half of the countries chubby young females, fending off the small talk of life's perennial losers with their talk about the horses, the dogs and the bloody football.

I feel like collapsing in to a ball in the middle of that lounge and crying my last tears in to the alcohol soaked remains of that carpet. Begging for comfort and almost wishing I was back in that shrinking room of Mel's, or even back up at that house of theirs on the grim brown shores of the Humber estuary.

I take a pint of horrid fizzy bubbles and hide in the most remote alcove of the bar; away from nosy spying eyes that want to slice me to pieces.

The Gun & Glasshouse. You have long mocked this place but now you seek it as a sanctuary.

This is 1996

This is Mansfield. The Warren.

Not Hollywood.

Or Pinewood.

Not even Television Centre.

I cannot linger in that place. It's symptoms on my eggshell like state leaves me short of breath, like the situation has me in an unyielding headlock that refuses to let go.

I need the air of the outdoors to lift me from the fumes of certain death to my sanity. I drift down the Warren Mile, towards town. I can't think of anywhere else to go. Caught inside a limbo for a month now. No visible signs of wrestling myself out of this dilemma. Another call to an unreachable agent. His absence long taking the piss. Maybe he's caught wind of my treachery with that monster that he calls a wife? Her using me, yet seemingly despising me. Helen Smart despising everyone. Both of them probably wishing me out of their way. Fucking up their little empire. Bigger than the pair of them can handle. Perhaps needing the assistance of a more capable management team. It's not me that's the problem, it's the mismanagement of the situation. The press aren't even that bothered now. Some days the paparazzi don't even doorstep my parent's house.

The world keeps turning.

Show business keeps on moving.

One week you're hot. The next you're not.

The face of 1996 can soon become yesterday's man.

The public thrives on their thirst for stories and scandals.

Well I'm currently not a fucking story and the scandal is surely waning.

I'm drifting from the public eye and my agent isn't even answering the telephone.

That showbiz world is revolving without Evan Speed on board.

Trapped away in his sister's childhood bedroom. Like a naughty boy.

What sort of bloody stardom is that?

You need to make yourself the story again. If Trevor Smart and his partners aren't willing to seek out the media spotlight you might have to do it for yourself.

I've doubled back home. The hood tucked tight to shield me from the blather of my mother more than anything else. The press man is sat in his motor picking his nose and fighting a yawn.

I tug at his passenger door handle and bundle myself in amongst his crisp crumbs and empty cans.

-'This is a fucking disgrace man. You ought to take some pride in your workplace.' I turn my nose up.

He reaches for the camera on the dashboard but I'm quick enough to take it from him in his surprise.

-'Look, can you get us out of here before she spots us?' I point towards the house.

He's bewildered but kicks the car in to life and asks me whereabouts it is exactly that I want to go. I instruct him to head in to town, seems as I was already halfway there before.

-'Listen, I'm fed up with all of this pissing about and I'm pretty much sure that you'll be feeling the same way.' I hold fast on to that camera. -'Quite frankly that house and those people are fucking killing me and I want to be in London as badly as you do.'

-'I'm not from London mate, I'm freelance.' He answers, almost apologetically.

-'Really?'

-'Yeah.'

-'So they couldn't actually send up a real bleeding photographer, from down south?'

-'I am a real photographer.'

-'You've not managed to get a decent photo of me yet though have you?'

-'No.'

-'That's what I mean. That's why you aren't down south amongst it. Minor league for fucks sakes.'

He doesn't reply, just looks at me all sheepish like I'm a frigging lunatic or something.

-'So what's the inside knowledge? What's going on? Where have the talks got to with the Beeb? I need to get back down to the smoke and start working. Being up here is throttling the life out of me.'

-'Mate, I'm only a photographer. I get paid to take photographs.'

-'You've not taken any photographs.'

-'I know.'

-'You're not getting paid much then are you?'

-'Not at the moment.'

-'Minor fucking league.'

-'Fuck you mate.'

-'No, fuck you mate. If I was as bad at my job as you were I'd.......'

-'You'd what?'

-'I'd probably be back at my mum's in the arsehole of the world, kipping in my sisters little box room. That's what.'

As we pass the bus station on Rosemary Street I see her. Looking as effortlessly beautiful as she had before. Standing. Waiting. Looking as cool and as delectable as can possibly be in the hell of my recent weeks. Dressed in green overall trousers and a black vest top but looking every bit the angel that had visited me the other day.

-'STOP THE CAR!'

He keeps going though, trying to beat an amber light.

-'STOP THE FUCKING CAR!'

-'Okay, okay.'

-'Listen. You want a photo and I want back in the public spotlight. I need to be in those newspaper sheets to breathe life in to my publicity bandwagon. I'm being let down by those I trust.' I hand him back his camera and get him to pull over in the busy dual carriageway.'

-'Get your hazards on and get your camera ready. I've seen a chick of mine. I'll give you your fucking photo. You get me back on those front covers before it's too late.'

-'You're mad mate.' He shakes his head in puzzlement as I vacate the car, sticking my hand out to slow the traffic and jogging across the road and in to the bus station.

Plebs everywhere. A vision of an angel in my sights. An angel waiting for the number 77 bus to The Warren.

As I approach her I smile, pulling down my hood to reveal myself.

Kids in school uniform chattering excitedly about the Jetpack Boy. Me never removing my eyes from her gorgeous head that belies those working clothes.

-'Angel!' I call out.

-'Angel!' Desperate for her attention.

-'Angel.' As I am within caressing distance of her.

-'I beg your pardon?' She confusedly pauses.

-'You're the angel from the other day. You came to my house. To see my brother Billy. I can't imagine what you see in a no mark loser like him.'

-'Angel? I haven't a clue what you mean, my name is Karin.'

-'Karin you are incredible. I'm Evan Speed; but you'll already know that.'

-'Who?'

-'Evan Speed. From off of the television... Doctor Who.' I laugh.

-'Oh. They've spoken about you... Your brother and sister.' She mutters and raises her eyebrows. -'What can I do for you? I have a bus to catch.'

-'Well you can forget about catching your bus and come for a drink with me if you wish. I'll make you famous.' I tenderly touch the warm skin of her bare arm. She feels as good as she looks.

She looks absolutely absent. Moving her arm from my hand.

-'Trust me Evan, the last thing I want to be is famous.'

-'It's not for everyone I grant you, however, for some people it is inevitable.'

I reach over to her, conscious of the angle and the absence of any obstructions. I put my lips on to hers before she can react. My hand moving back to her flesh. Holding it as long as physically possible.

-'Hey! Piss off will you!' she pulls backwards, looking incensed and horrified.

-'What's wrong?' I plead.

-'I don't even know you.' She spits.

-'You not bothered about that drink then? I think I owe you one.' I smile.

She picks up her bag and starts walking. Waving her arm and suggesting that I go forth and multiply.

She may look outrageously desirable but her behaviour is no different than the rest of the yizzards around here. Leaving me on the concourse with just a smile and a momentary glow in my heart.

Hopeful and triumphant.

I spin back towards the road. The hazards still blinking. Me dodging the reversing buses and more shouts of abuse, this time from overweight bus drivers glued to their seats.

-'Did you get it?' I shout over the traffic.

The minor league press guy winding down the window of his mobile dustbin.

-'Did you get a decent photo?....One to get me back on to the front covers?' I shout over the noise of the traffic.

He pulls away, turning off his hazards. -'Mate, you're not a full return ticket.'

Flicking me the middle finger.

## Billy.

He turned up out of the blue looking like his familiar cock-a-hoop brash self, about an hour before you closed. Your dad hadn't said a great deal all day, just like his own self, and the appearance of Adrian was enough for him to quickly finish supping his tea and head off home, taking the keys for the van with him.

Adrian looked different. Some colour had returned to his face and he had pulled himself out of his mopes.

You didn't like it.

You didn't like it one bit.

Quite enjoying the wallow of his latest incarnation. The fallen star hitting the earth with a hefty bump and happy to lie there nursing his sore ego in front of you all. It made a change for him to be the one needing the mental band aid that mum was all too eager to wrap him in.

About the only thing that she'd not done for the self-righteous wanker was to bath him.

It'll be in the pipeline.

You were thinking that paranoia had become infectious.

He was friendlier, chattier and oddly complimentary; to a degree. He suggested you go for a pint in town and you'd actually agreed to it. Surprising even yourself as you stepped through the door to The Ye Olde Ramme Inne and allowed him to locate the bar. Not once did the obnoxious prat mention his profession. Not once did he mention his agent, or his agent's wife who he regularly enjoyed sharing bizarre sexual rituals with. Though he was keen to list the well known faces that were equally partial to the delights of the 'showbiz sherbert', as he liked to put it.

Generally he'd seemingly placed his bitterness to one side for a day. As if his time in your sister's old room had cleansed him like 9 years in a Tibetan mountainside monastery.

And as one pint became four he slunked closer to you until he was so close and pally that you didn't even recognise him in the blur. Making you decipher that actually he hadn't been cleansed at all but had simply just lost his marbles.

You wonder whether there's a stage which skips the paranoia and throws your sanity straight in to the bottomless darkened abyss.

He'd always been bigger and stronger than you, not just older. And with that birthright and natural selection had come an imbalance in the household.

You'd suffered at his hands from the moment you could begin to recollect.

His favourite was to pin you to the floor using his far heavier frame. Kneeling on your arms, trapping you to the ground, covering your mouth and pinching your nose. Making you panic and think that you were about to die. Almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen and gulping in great loads of air when he finally released you. Laughing like someone who had total control on your restrictions to live or to perish.

You'd avoid him whenever possible but when you were alone and he was in charge he made sure that you were fundamentally certain that he was in control. Any lip or a disregard for his orders and you were for the black out. Even when your twin sister was around the collective strength of you both wasn't enough to prevent his wrath.

His jealousy of your popularity also pricked his spiky temperament. You'd been fortunate to develop great childhood friendships with the likes of Knoxy, Von and Matt T. You'd not even had to try hard to get it. You were a natural draw for friendships with the same sex: reliable, friendly and good to be around. All things that Adrian culpably wasn't. He was aloof and an exhibitionist with an unlikable swagger. It attracted bullies who where bigger and older than him and he struggled to attract friends in the manner and mass that you did. Because of that you suffered at his cruel hands. Precious possessions would break or go missing. Sly remarks would become every day normality. Tedious spiteful one-upmanship still remained to the day. And cowardly beatings when in solitude were a mainstay of your relationship.

Much of that paranoia planted by the man that you choose to sit with now in The Ye Olde Ramme Inne. In 1996.

He signs a few autographs for silly middle aged women who fawn all over him and wish that they carried a camera. He retells stories to bemused men who haven't the foggiest who the hell he is.

He attracted a crowd like Adrian always had. Skilfully playing the celebrity.

It used to be for kids and admiring mothers forced to watch children's programmes with young Jimmy or Jenny; but now it was for the masses who had read all about him over the past few months. Becoming familiar with the local drama school graduate who had made good.

The normal wee scrutter from The Warren estate who could have lived next door to you or I.

A true rags to riches tale that could be dressed up as pretty as you'd like to make it.

Though as you begin pint number five from a table in the window on your own, looking on at the flesh and blood that used to beat your own flesh, and try to spill your own blood, you hold nothing but contempt.

Contempt for what he's put you through. Of the abuse he has sent your way and the callous treatment that he has dished out throughout the years to the loved ones surrounding you.

You wish he was in London.

You wish he was in Hollywood.

You wish his ridiculous dream of becoming a world superstar would come in to fruition.

Simple reason being that it would take him far far away from here. Away from your space and time, and the space and time of the family that he must have been airlifted in to. Him so unlike you and your twin sister. Distanced from the quiet ponderings of your father, who clearly can't stomach his own first born.

Only your mother bares any semblance and love for the monumental fuckwit.

And even now, as he is on the best behaviour which you can recall for over a decade.

And even now, as he places his arm, wrapped in a stolen top from your own wardrobe, around you and proudly boasts that you're his brother.

And even now, as he unforgivably sticks a kiss on to your forehead and says he bloody loves you.

And even now, as he blatantly lies that he'd do anything for you.

You can't stomach even considering breathing in that same air which he is expelling.

With each drink his friendliness becomes bizarrely cuter. With each drink your paranoia wants to stomp on top of his beautifully sculptured head......... And only stop when you run out of puff.

Midweek nights never attracting a particularly healthy crowd in the town centre but if any night gets close to an acceptable one then it's a Thursday.

Before you know it the clock has ticked around to ten-thirty. You will have been missed in The Gun by the pre-weekend priming crowd. You have forsaken an evening meal and replaced it with a small barrel load of ale. You have stayed loyal to the person that you loathe the most. A man who you have not spent six continuous hours with since your family used to take the long trips down to Cornwall in the summer holidays.

You have absorbed his strange good mood and intentions and let your hatred simmer on a low light. Happy for him to keep dipping his hand in to his pocket. Happy to watch his vain attempts to locate the whereabouts of any potential cocaine. Happy for him to spill his dribbling affection all over anyone willing to humour him with any small adulation.

Mansfield's favourite son. Almost blown it before he's even become famous.

You're in Valentino's nitespot.

Grab a granny night.

Clumber Street.

Mansfield.

1996.

Year of the rat.

The face of 96'.

Calvin Klein's man in the UK stumbling across the brightly lit dancefloor of your token bog standard late license establishment on the most depressing night of the weekly social calendar.

A half empty pint of overpriced suds. Most of it spilt by his incoherent hand.

You are happy to sit back on the balcony, alone. Watching the bright lights covert him and highlight his absurdness.

As always you think of Karin Nemeth.

Trying to forget about Karin Nemeth and not torture yourself any more.

The reason you are on a bender with the brother that you hold nothing but abhorrence for is most likely down to Karin Nemeth. Needing any reason that you can produce to try and put her out of your mind; and put out of your mind the daft, untimely decisions that you chose whilst having the impossible on the ends of your fingertips.

It had always been unlikely that she would become yours; you knew that as much. But you'd somehow managed a foothold and even devised a plan to play for the long game.

To reel her in with a charm that you'd hoped to find and evolve from somewhere. Her still being the thing that you wanted most in the world.

Her situation tripping a switch in your plan. Making you go for broke early when you thought you'd witnessed a gap. Making a massive miscalculation of the circumstances and being left dumped on your arse.

When all had seemed to have gone so well.

She'd even met and enjoyed the company of your family.

The only thing left to complete the circle was to bide your time and not do something foolish.

The signs for that kiss had only been read by you in your blindness. Even Melanie had told you that she was clearly delicate and in need of a shoulder, not a grope.

Your brother-in-law Dave beside himself that you'd blown it. Telling you that it was clear that Karin Nemeth was fond of you but even he'd read the signs that read - 'Keep off the grass until further notice.' He told you that it was in a great big neon sign surrounded by flashing hazard lights and "a break from your regular programme to bring you important breaking news."

It hadn't made you feel any better.

Hi, I'm paranoia, I just thought I'd pop by and say -"hello, remember me?"

You return from the toilets. Hiding away in that stink hole for ten minutes to collect your thoughts and consider slipping away in to the night whilst the knob-socket is off around the place fumbling for a late night wet digit or two down Clerkson Alley.

Your surprise and dismay to find him at your table, with your ex-girlfriend Tina sat on his knee is the very last thing you'd expected. Though after about five seconds thought you realise that you shouldn't have been surprised at all.

There's never a moment when you don't find her beautiful.

Not an obvious beauty to most but with a sparkle to her crystal blue eyes that belongs with her blonde hair.

She'd always been a stone or so overweight when you were together, something that she frequently bemoaned but something she has clearly addressed and even through twelve pint beer goggles she is looking at her finest to you.

The fact that she is laughing and joking on his lap crushes a portion of your spirit and makes you question whether it'll ever return.

He waves you over and brings you both together again. Together in conversation, but never in body.

She'd never consider you ever again. Let's face it, she'd spent the majority of your relationship tunnelling a way out of it.

Paranoia inviting everyone round for an important mediation session where the subject is 'let's take the piss out of William.'

Before you knew it you were sat in a cab heading to Forest Town and to Tina's parents house.

They were away on their annual fortnightly pilgrimage to Sardinia and she'd moved back home.

Her engagement called off and her relationship over.

Her fiancé caught with another woman. The secretary from his work. Staying behind late to get some overtime in.

Now you were sat alongside her, your ex-girlfriend Tina, and that almighty prick of a brother, in a black cab riding up to Forest Town 'for a coffee', with them necking and slobbering all over one another whilst you stared sideways out of the window wondering if you'd manage to get up in time for work in the morning.

You paid for the cab and they were away to bed the minute you arrived there.

You making a coffee for yourself and another passenger, her work friend, a Scottish lass called Jess, in a kitchen you were completely familiar with. Knowing exactly where to find the correct ingredients and utensils to make a brew.

You'd never meet Jess before tonight. From Montrose on Scotland's east coast, with its harsh winds and its world renowned links golf courses.

Seven years in Mansfield enough to make her feel local. Her accent enough to make her sound as exotic as it gets around these parts.

Both of you feeling embarrassed and manipulated by the predicament that you had found yourselves in.

Abandoned by your ex-girlfriend and the Hollywood bound heartthrob who was in lock-down.

Having to explain to this girl your current position and your past positions in your relationships with the pair of them.

Deciding that you were well past the being embarrassed by that stage.

Her flabbergasted by the situation.

The first time that she'd ever been out with Tina Dunkley.

Keen to express that it'll probably be the last time that she ever goes on a night out with Tina Dunkley.

Jess feeling as dumped by her as you once were.

The coffee tasting good. The Dunkley's and their passion for Italy always guaranteed good quality coffee. And you also knew where Bob Dunkley kept all of the best biscuits too.

You're happy to share them out with Jess and loan her some stories about the big time Charlie upstairs who had barely passed her a glance.

Her as conscious of her ordinariness as you of your own.

The pair of you loosened by your nerves thanks to the booze and the neglect of others.

Happy to slip out of one another's clothes on the comfortable pile of the Dunkley's lounge carpet.

Tina's friend Jess being a curvaceous hourglass with nervous lips and an acute sensitivity.

You not packing any rubber jonnies and spunking halfway inside of this stranger and halfway down that familiar piled lounge carpet of the Dunkley's.

You knowing that house from top to bottom.

You passing that bedroom doorway where you used to lay with the daughter of the house. Your cursed brother now the invited guest.

Taking a blanket from the laundry closet and passing a totally naked Tina, returning from the bathroom, on the landing. It dimly lit from the downstairs light.

Sharing no words. Not even a smile; only a look.

Her looking the best that you've ever seen her.

Devoured by him. The television star.

The months where she'd baulked at your advances in that very same room, under that very same roof.

You return to the comfort of the Dunkley lounge. That stranger whom you'd never met until this evening spread across the spacious leather sofa. Her nervous smile, her fulsome figure, her enormous bosom and her straight brown hair flayed across the baggy sofa arm.

You join her laying that blanket over the pair of you. Your head full of a skinful of beer and the scent from her neck.

Asleep in the dark with a perfect stranger in a house where you'd slept many times but in a totally different arrangement and with a different person.

The first sex that you'd had in a year and a day.

## SPEED DATING?

HIDEAWAY STAR CAUGHT ON CAMERA WITH MYSTERY BEAUTY  
Dominik Fowler reports

His career may hang in the balance but it hasn't stopped ladies man Evan Speed from being the man about town. Your super soar-away Sun finally caught up with the Doctor Who star back in his home town and in true Speed style it seems that he has spent little time in reacquainting himself with the local ladies. As our picture exclusive reveals, Speed, 27, was seen looking a shadow of his former sparkling hunk self in drab jeans and a grey hooded top cavorting in the town centre of Mansfield, Notts. The star that is also the new face of Calvin Klein and is tipped by industry insiders to become one of the biggest stars of British TV was seen in deep conversation with a gorgeous mystery brunette. Tenderly kissing and caressing happily in front of crowds of shoppers, without a care in the world.

The former children's TV star has gone underground since he was exposed in a sex and drugs photo scandal with the socialite heiress Lena Frostrup-Singleton only last month, leaving BBC bosses still undecided as regards to the future of the former 'Jetpack Boy'. It seems now that mixing with royalty is well and truly behind him as this latest raven haired stunner was seen dressed casually in plain cargo trousers and a tight fitting vest top which showed of an admirable figure that couldn't fail to be missed by the stars famous roving eye, though far removed from the world of Lady LFS and her IT crowd. Nevertheless the loving pair showed little interest in anyone other than themselves, with his career troubles seemingly far away from each other's thoughts.

As our photographs exclusively reveal Evan may not be looking his usual sharp self and his role of Doctor Who may be hanging precariously but there's no hiding from the fact that his charm to woe the ladies has certainly not left him.

Do you know the mysterious Evan Speed lover? Call our newsdesk hotline on 0121 567765

Maurice must think I'm daft or something.

Battered and bruised and telling me that he's tumbled in to the vehicle pit inside of his garage. He's not a good liar and that's why I usually trust him so much, because you can tell when he's fabricating the truth.

He has this split to the skin at the back of his head and his face is covered in purple and green bruises.

I've told him that he needs that cut seen to before it gets infected. It needs at least a couple of stitches but he wafts my concerns away with a raw looking hand.

I tell him that it must have been a hell of a fall to have done so much damage to so many different areas of his body. Letting him know in no uncertain terms that he's not pulling the wool over my eyes.

He tells me to -'stop fretting lass.'

I tell him -'look if you've been set upon by someone, or some people, then you need to inform the police. People shouldn't be allowed to just go around laying in to poor defenceless old men.'

He sticks to his story about falling in to the pit and I know that it's a forlorn wish to think I'll get any further with the stubborn old so and so.

I clean up the cut and put on antiseptic cream. Doing the best that I can to close it shut with some butterfly strips amongst his hair and crusted blood. It's a nasty split and really needs the attention of an expert.

I can't take my eyes away from that newspaper; if that's what you can really call it.

Either Maurice hasn't read it, or he hasn't recognised that it's me in the photographs, or he's avoiding discussing it in the same brutal fashion that he's avoiding discussing anything this morning.

I'm not quite sure how I have become embroiled in all of this nonsense. I'd only met the guy once and hadn't a clue who he was. In truth I'm still not sure who he is, other than Billy Sweeney's brother.

Billy had briefly mentioned him, and his sister Melanie and her partner had traded some stinging barbs about his character, but I had little interest in celebrity gossip or science fiction rubbish. I'd mainly ignored the talk as family issues. Yes, I was surprised that the family had got connections with a well known name but I guess that they don't just pull these peoples from a factory production line.

When I'd gone around to the Sweeney's house I'd met their father; a wonderfully lovely man with a quiet nature about him and a kindness to his tone. The brother, this Evan Speed man, had sat in the chair wrapped in a winter jumper and a week old beard, just staring and saying little.

He'd been quite unnerving to be honest. Originally I'd wondered if he was damaged in the head or something. Nothing like the rest of the family, who'd seemed the most hospitable people imaginable. Especially Billy. The thought of him momentarily increasing my guilt. Cowardly thanking my lucky stars that I rarely come in to contact with him. Thankful that he didn't approach me in town last night, despite our eyes meeting.

I'm not good with apologies; especially when I don't feel as though I was much in the wrong. Abrupt, yes. Somewhat obnoxious, yes. But in my rights to be uncomfortably angry? I think so.

But now I have more pressing issues. Something I had never expected in a million years. Something you never pull yourself out of bed in the morning to expect to be greeted with. My image splashed all over a national newspaper. From out of nowhere. Them asking who I was?

From an incident that I couldn't fathom at the time. Him popping up out of nowhere. Calling me an angel, like the basket case that I'd initially had him down as. Blatantly kissing me in that busy place and causing a scene.

I'd not been able to get out of there quick enough. Getting on my heels and deciding to walk home. Just grateful that he'd not followed me. Briefly feeling under threat and anxious; looking over my shoulder every few yards.

I rang that phone number the moment I saw it. The Sun 'hotline'.

I told them that they'd got their wires crossed. Evan Speed isn't somebody I know; I mean, I know his brother and the family, but we certainly haven't got anything going on. I barely know the guy. He'd kissed me out of the blue and was acting like he'd been drinking. I'm not sure why it is that I have to explain myself but could they please stop running the story and respect my privacy. I'm going through a very draining emotional period right now.

The girl on the other end of the line listened, yet I don't think that she'd listened at all. The moment that I'd finished putting her in the picture she said. -'Can I have your name and number please Miss? The reporter leading the story will call you back. Maybe you'd be interested in doing an exclusive interview and there may be a financial incentive involved for your correspondence?'

I hung up exasperated. Not knowing what to do and wondering who will be first to call that 'hotline'.

I was awakening from my brief malaise but the events of today are doing a grand old job of putting me back there.

The clouds of depression blowing away as my grief and anger subsided. Happy to have my induction week out of the way and being allocated over at the former Sherwood Colliery site with one of the other new recruits, Wes, for the following few months. Creating new woodland and regenerating the former industrial landscape. Breathing new life back in to scarred blighted land. Only a spit on the wind from my own home in my side of town. Helping give something back to the community. Removing that tarnished black oil spill of slag from the view of the town and replacing it with a beautiful rural oasis for a built up area. The beginning of my induction week had me fearing for the mundane, however as the week continued it built up the excitement in my head at the possibilities and swept the doubt clean away.

I can't wait until Monday and to get started. That pit site within view of Maurice's allotment and giving us the perfect position to gradually watch its canvas evolve. Giving me the satisfaction of helping produce something for the future. To point out and tell myself -'I helped do that!'

Maurice suggesting that there's some sort of higher force involved, with him being one of those that helped create that dark local landmark and me being one of those to help return it back to nature.

Him the bad guy. Me the good guy.

A cylindrical cycle making the earth good again. Repairing the ground like I'm trying to repair his beaten up head.

Talking in philosophical riddles in his dour, slow tones; making him sound punch drunk.

Me not being able to evaporate the suggestions of him being set upon by mystery assailants.

Voices inside my mind declaring - 'Do you know the mysterious Maurice Braithwaite attacker? Call our newsdesk hotline on 0121 567765'

I'm happy that he shares my optimism.

I'm not happy that he likens his head to a black and blue waste dump.

I fix him lunch. Him happy to have something but only if I join him.

Cloudy outdoors and with little appetite for the allotment he begs his pardons and slips off to bed to rest his wary head. Another person for me to worry about.

Watching through his window nets as I wash up the dishes. Straight in to the kitchen window of my house opposite. Only a small wall and five metres between them. My mother sat at the kitchen table puffing on a cigarette, still draped in her dressing gown. Chewing her precious-little fingernails down to the bone and staring off in to some distant place. A place where I'll have little involvement and where my father, her husband, will be seated in eternal damnation. That woman showing little of the basking in her glory that I'd expected, with dad gone; perhaps for good. Him unrecognisable to me. Millbrook already considering sectioning him further and passing him across to a more secure facility better suited to his damaged psyche. A danger to himself and possibly to others.

Me feeling oddly about the whole affair.

It evoking feelings towards my father that I never really knew that I had. I genuinely did miss him, strange as it may sound. We rarely conversed or shared feelings or emotions, and his behaviour towards me was getting perverse, erratic and threatening, however I missed his presence around the home. I felt more vulnerable with just my mum around, who simply ignored my being. At least the strange attention that I received from dad was at least attention. He recognised that I was there. That little girl who had vanished one night and returned a woman to confuse him.

The daughter that they'd dragged up; more by good fortune than through skills.

She'd not done anything. Not even cooked me a hot meal in years.

To be fair, she'd not cooked herself or anyone else for that matter, a hot meal in years either.

The woman was completely useless unless it came to drinking or smoking or getting in to scrapes with other women's husbands from the worst classes of public houses on the estate.

The moment that the opportunity arises I will be gone from that house. I can't live with just her and the horrible men that she will drag back to and fro with more frequency in dad's absence. She certainly won't care about my feelings towards it, but she will care when I exit my funding in to paying towards that place. The house where I'd always lived. The only home I'd known. With all of its quirks, mischief's and rottenness.

She'll be in all sorts of mess then.

It crosses my mind to take up Maurice's offer of moving in here. To a safer environment where we can both look out for one another. It'd seem a strange affair to most. Especially the neighbours around the street who have never really gotten our envolvement with one another. But I don't care and Maurice certainly won't.

I'd also much rather share my income with a good honourable, hard-working and gentle man like him, than a parasite like my mother; until something else came along anyway. Putting that money away in to savings all of the time. Soon be enough towards a deposit for a place of my own. Somewhere away from here. This estate where Maurice is a rare bred.

An estate with my mother and the blokes she temporarily keeps, and of idiots like this Evan Speed arsehole who has dragged more unwanted misfortune to my door.

Me wanting to go around to that house to confront Evan Speed, but not wanting to upset his father with his illness; and not wanting to face Billy who I treated so shockingly.

I wonder to myself just what Maurice's opinion would be if I moved in and regularly altered his radio frequency away from local radio and it's ballads from the dark ages, and the constant BBC news bulletins:

Metropolitan Police remained tight lipped this morning over arrests made yesterday of several back bench Members of Parliament, including the MP for Mansfield Bob Dunphy. It is widely expected that a leading Sunday newspaper will be leading tomorrow with an article exposing the arrests as part of a connection with Operation Willow Tree, the investigation set up to combat the growing market in to the illegal importation of foreign nationals through the vice industry.

Mr Dunphy was arrested yesterday afternoon at his Westminster home and questioned at Belgravia Police Station. The BBC has not been able to get any confirmation or a statement from Mr Dunphy, or his party, but understands that conditions for his bail, and for the bail for two other Members of Parliament, not from the East Midlands area, were reached in the early hours of this morning.

BBC Radio Nottingham will bring you further information as and when we get any.

## Flaxman.

They'd got my back against a cold harsh steel table top, right there in my own war room and they were skinning me alive.

A bright spotlight was glaring straight in to my eyes but I could still see them all in the shadows.

Huddled and afraid.

But huddled and excitable too. For this is want they'd wanted.

Gathered around to examine a specialist technician at work.

Walter Clarke and his wife Jennifer.

All three Campbell's: Simon holding Lisa's hand and Roger the Dodger to their side.

The great big bull in a field and the Westminster toad.

The Flannery's three.

Kate Tissard, flanked by my boys Brian Kenton and Graham Ryan. Their hands on her arse. Chief Constable Jim Garvey at her knees.

And then there was her and the boy. My boy. And they were stood with Paddy Murphy.

Seventeen frightened, yet ravenous souls, taut and exhilarated and expecting an execution.

The great big bull in a field's faceless assassin with my hand flat to the table.

A scalpel in hand. Making an incision around my wrist, down my palm and through to the nail on my middle finger.

A huge mountain of a man, the size of a bear, but with no face in front of the dazzling white of the spotlight.

I am in a semi-conscious state. Sleep paralysis. My brain alive to this madness but my body completely unresponsive. Wanting to thrash and defend myself but I am completely exposed to whatever actions the assassin wishes to use. Lying on his slab, nakedly exposed for all to see.

Those seventeen martyrs signing my death warrant in the most painful way imaginable.

The assassin slowly peeling the flesh away from my hand and throwing it to the floor of the war room.

My war room.

They all applaud.

My brain interrupted and making me alive to the abuse. My body closed down for REM sleep.

The floor running with blood.

The audience chattering.

-'Finish him off.'

-'Don't stop until we've all had our pound of flesh.'

The assassin taking my other hand.

Both feet already gory and red, shorn of their skin in the bathed floodlight of the war room.

Everyone wanting their pound of flesh in a doggy bag for home.

Park Plaza Hotel.

Maid Marion Way.

The City of Nottingham.

1996.

04:42

The curtains are swept wide. Affording me just enough light to pour a coffee without having to turn on a light.

Two sugars. The wet spoon wiped dry on my complementary hotel dressing gown.

Pulling up a chair to the window and sitting in the almost dark.

The bed soaked from my nightmare. My head a funny haze of alcohol and misunderstood reality.

The coffee stinging my lips with its brutal heat.

A view from the twelfth floor, out across the city. Looking down on the Old Market Square and the lights of Nottingham Council House.

This meant to be our time together.

Not another secret liaison.

No more faffing and sneaking around.

We'd have been together now. Our families banished and given the red card in our disdain for them.

The future comprising of just me and of her. Me knowing nothing of the foetus inside of her belly until the autopsy report revealed that I'd have been a father again. Her promising to have halted her sexual obligations to her husband.

A second chance to mould a child how I wanted it moulding.

Taken away from you by the great big bull's faceless assassin, with a flick of a knife.

We'd had tickets for Simply Red at the Royal Concert Hall.

A celebration of our independence.

Dinner for two at Hart's on Park Row. Followed by the Mancunian six-piece and their soul. A night of love making in that retreat that we'd used on times previous.

Nights in on their own no longer becoming a surprise to our respective partners.

Them in a bed of their own whilst we held each other in our arms in the dark above the city.

The city being somewhere that Rebecca Stevenson craved. It's sophistication. Its shops and its plaza's. Its wineries and its restaurants. Its bright lights and its sirens going off in the night.

I'd have moved to Sodom or Gomorrah for her. Despite my discomfort for the crowds and the business that fucked with my train of thought.

Me preferring a smaller, more controlled level of town; where I have more of a handle on the manipulation.

Though I could quite easily have hid away in the avenues of Nottingham. Pulling on my strings of influence from a safe distance.

Your plans shattered when she got in the way. An accident that changed the fortunes of everything.

You'd arrived late. Trawling the bars of the Lace Market in the early evening and making the concert with it already in full swing.

Mick Hucknall on fine form and balancing the audience perfectly in the palm of his hand. An accomplished showman. Their disc never out of your car CD player.

But when Hucknall started looking like Rebecca and sounding like Kate Tissard you knew that it was time to leave.

Sticking around just long enough for 'Holding Back The Years'. Her favourite tune.

Leaving in a flood of tears.

A revolver stuck down the back of your belt and pleading to come out to play in your misery.

Wishing that you'd never come here.

Making you weak. Making you crave something that could no longer be touched. Making you feel mortal and out of control. Making you angry for the disappointments passed in your life.

Sinking something sharp in The Blue Bell on Upper Parliament Street.

Pistol whipping an old drunk in the doorway of the Multi-storey car park on Market Street.

Kicking him to within an inch of his life for bothering to speak to you in a forgotten bar.

Following him down that road with that gun in your hand for the whole wide world to see.

Reckless and unforgiving.

Your reputation and future put in your locker.

Your jacket removed and your sleeves rolled up.

Smashed to the ground with a blow to the back of the head.

A kick to the chest for Rebecca. A kick to the chest for your unborn child. A kick to the chest for the bull and your continued union.

A kick to the back for the careless Westminster toad. A kick to the back for the bull's faceless assassin. A kick to the back for her and her lover, Paddy Murphy. A kick to the back for Chief Constable Jim Garvey. A kick to the back for his outstanding candidate, Kate Tissard.

A final kick to the head for the fact that you've been put in this position. All alone once again.

You always being a loner. It giving you a position of strength.

From being a boy and the desertion of your father that you adored. Through to your rise in your profession and the development in your family life; being a lone wolf had suited you best.

But now you didn't want to be alone.

You wanted life with Rebecca.

A life here in Nottingham, as she'd wished for.

You wanting to give her everything that she desired.

The daughter of Walter Clarke. Nottinghamshire policing legend. The bentest copper to ever walk the streets, footways and byways of our county. His beautiful daughter hidden away for so long.

Her existence to you not even known, for years.

Her disabling you from the moment that you first clamped eyes on her.

The hardest cop of them all, held under her spell.

A spell that you could not resist.

For the first time in your life you truly wanted to be with another human being. Opening up your doors wide to let her in. Revealing your true inner self for the first time, and her liking what she saw.

Craving the power. Craving the badness. Craving the sensitivity. Craving the money and the corruption. It exciting her. Making her feel like she was part of a movie. Directed by Scorsese. With gangsters and villains. With good cops, but mainly bad cops. Her playing a glamorous Moll. Wanting the nice house that comes with the trappings of greed and nastiness. Wanting the car and the clothes and the nice things afforded to her on the misery of others; and you more than anything in this world of vanity, corruption and waking suffering and heartache were determined to give her whatever she wanted.

Whatever it took.

It was what she deserved.

You left that old man unconscious in the doorway of the multi-storey on Market Street, Nottingham.

Only surviving because passersby were moments away. You vanished in to the night, tucking that gun back in to your belt.

You sit and down more coffee.

You watch the early Sunday morning day break over the City.

The small army of street cleaners and their machines returning the old town to new. Wiping away the booze and the drugs, and the violence of the night.

By the time that the buses and cars return to the city centre roads everyone will have forgotten about Simply Red and will no longer be holding back the years.

The radio will crackle with the news of a man on a life support machine in the Queens Medical Centre; and the papers will yell of government officials and corruption.

You pass judgement on Bob Dunphy MP, the Westminster toad. Uncharacteristically sloppy and bringing more grief to your door.

The signing of documents. Putting pressure on people to turn a blind eye. Using influence and power, just like you. Doing the job that the public have paid him to do. Ticking boxes and signing forms. Setting the rules and breaking the rules. Providing a public service and making himself rich in to the bargain.

You needing to think and react quickly once more. Hoping that the toad has enough connections up on high to get himself out of this mess. You having no influence with The Met.

Pushing the toad in to quarantine, away from your field.

You sit and down more coffee.

Straddlers shuffling across the pavements and the Sunday traders opening up.

You think about her and the boy. Living with Paddy Murphy. Somewhere in this city. Murphy being Jim Garvey's man. A Nottingham man. Piped to the post by Kate Tissard. The loins of Garvey having the final say.

You wondering how they met. Your eye off the ball. Too busy with Rebecca and your work interests and making plans for the future.

You wondering if Murphy got anything out of the boy that you couldn't.

You realising that you knew so little about the man.

You only briefly caring about the scenario before turning your gaze back to your own life. Happy to let Murphy have her and the boy. Happy to let time pass by. Happy to let them settle together. Happy to abandon the boy completely; like your father had with you. Happy to exact your revenge at a later date, when things were more settled, when you had less on your plate; when you were almost forgotten.

Verve in your belly, mischief in your head, violence in your heart.

You sit and you down more coffee.

The glory of a new day flooding that hotel room.

Park Plaza.

Maid Marion Way.

The City of Nottingham.

1996.

08:43

Your suite. The one that you and Rebecca had shared on numerous occasions.

The one where you had continued to validate your love for one another.

In that bed, where you suffered another of your many nightmares, you used to make love with her.

Hidden from sight from everyone. Just you and her and the things that you did to one another.

The same suite on every occasion.

It feeling right. It feeling pure. It feeling yours. Like the apartment that belonged to you both.

You need to get out of this place before it consumes you.

Never to return.

It wanting to drag you in and keep you there in your vitriolic loneliness.

You have another woman on your mind now. Plunged to the forefront from out of nowhere.

An outstanding candidate who cannot be ignored.

Standing above you with her eyes on your every move. Like an agent sent from hell to spy upon you.

Kate Tissard with her confident innocence and her rings hooked through coppers cocks.

A tug to make them follow her.

Her perfume down the corridors of Station Road nick.

Her beautiful face and her curled hair inside every door.

Her flawlessly manicured fingers in every local police issue.

The point of her perfect nose in everything everyone touches. A determination to scour every morsel of information regarding every itsy-bitsy microscopic piece of investigation.

The echoing click of her stilettos on the old grotty floor tiles of that tired old police station that has passed its sell by date, long in to the evening when most of the boys and girls in blue have packed up their shit and left for home.

Wanting to put her touch on the new building. A woman's touch, down to every piece of wall furniture and carefully selected plant pot. Like a wife taking control of her newly built, off the peg show home.

Her legs in her pencil skirts and her southern skin. Her hint of breast and her fresh fragrance, her delicate poise and her calm exterior. An outstanding candidate. Her perfect little nose over your shoulder, threatening your business.

You take a shower. You let the water drain over your face. Your hair clinging to your forehead. Evaporating your mischievous fuzzy head. Thoughts of Kate Tissard taking away the agonises and worries of other issues. Ejaculating against the wall tiles.

# Insularfield :  
listen to your dad

## Maurice.

Young Griff turned up on my doorstep just as I was about to make my weekly pilgrimage up to the cemetery. He walked up our path all smiles and few teeth. Taking me in one of those trademark big bear hugs of his, unaware of his bloomin strength which makes me wince.

He'd not made this journey for a few years. It was usually me that made the trip to his when he paid, but I'd let him know that it might be a while until I could get over.

I ached from ear to toe and was black and ruddy blue.

He was visibly knocked back when he first saw me. Always having this opinion of me as sort of indestructible. Always in and out with a minimum fuss.

Keeping folks at arms distance and not so much as picking up a scratch.

But now I ached everywhere. I might have achieved my mission but I'd paid a heavy burden that I only really noticed once I got on the road back from Retford.

The sorting out of those Irish fellas had seen me with a broken nose and cheekbone; the nasty slice in the back of my head will heel despite the fussing of Karin. My back was stiff and sore and I think a disc must have been dislodged or something. I'm struggling with my sleeping because of that, and the few cracked ribs in to the bargain. I can't lie on my back because of the discomfort and I can't lie on my usual side because I've broken my elbow. The humeroradial joint the quack reckoned I'd cracked; setting my arm in this damn great chunky plaster.

At least believing my story that I'd come off my Lambretta on Cuckney Hill, when Karin had pretty much forced me to go up the hospital. Concerned with the shape I was in.

Taxi turning up out of the blue, pretty much how Griff had now.

Mischievous acts coming at a price.

Well I had come off the Lammy on Cuckney Hill.

After lugging over those fields dragging my sorry self back to the scooter my heart was still racing.

I'd uncovered it and had my helmet on in no time; keen to kick her up and get out of there.

There were no sirens or any of that business. Only the voice of Joan in my head telling me that I'd done a good job; that I could be proud of myself and to get home and get washed up.

Well eventually the adrenaline dropped you see and I felt every damn bump from Worksop to Cuckney Hill.

Every last bloomin tiny divot in the tarmac and every last painted line in the road.

Eventually it threw me off.

Taking yet another tumble.

Quick to get up and look around to see if anyone had noticed.

The Lammy clean through a hedge and in to a farmer's field.

Me swearing several varieties of hail Mary's to nobody but myself and my Joan.

I'd thrown the knife and the ammo in to the bottom of the canal, so I was clean. Clean for a seven mile walk home, holding my arm to my side and looking for all the world like that Elephant Man fella.

I kept my head down all the way home. Every step sending a jolt through me.

Foul deeds catching up with me and making me suffer. But not as much as my victims.

Griff's boys had rescued the Lammy. It had been in that same spot untouched.

He wanted to get it fixed up for me and make it brand new, but I'd told him that was my job; my Joan inside of my head telling me that I'd got it in that mess, it wasn't for her nephew to right my wrong.

He sat at the table and his mood changed from jovial to concern as I hobbled and swore and shook around that kitchen. Griff insisting that I sat down and he made the tea.

Telling me that he was sorry that I was in a state.

Telling me that he would get me sorted privately. None of this NHS bollocks.

I told him that the NHS was good enough for his aunt Joan when she was poorly.

Reminding me that there was nothing that the NHS did that helped his aunt Joan.

Telling me that they'd had a man up in that Fox Covert keeping an eye on things down in that farm. The families had buzzed around seemingly as if nothing had happened, but when he'd sent someone around to pretend to sell double glazing, they could tell that the women were visibly shaken but were trying to go about normal life.

He wanted them gone back to Northern Ireland as soon as possible. Was even considering torching the place.

For all the world it seemed like those Flannery's had not been detected; and Griff's police friends said that nothing had been reported.

I told him that with a family of that size that cesspool will soon need pumping out.

He sat and he supped and he pondered and he picked up his keys to take me up to the cemetery.

Agility lost, waistline gaining

I'd laid some carnations and chrysanthemums and given her headstone a wipe. I'd said a few words whilst Griff stayed in his car on that mobile phone thing of his.

Joan saying more than a few words back. My Vivien Leigh unhappy that I'd put her nephew out.

Him being a busy businessman n'all that.

Me pointing out that it was him who'd turned up out of the blue and volunteered his services.

She wasn't happy that I'd had to have my hand held by her family again.

The wind blew up and shook as it always did on the draughty hill; almost blowing me sideways in my weakness back to his car. Young Griff continuing his conversation as I waited in quiet for several minutes, pondering how I should put this. Never getting around to drafting that letter for my retirement. My writing arm all busted up and stiff in plaster anyhow.

Him finally finishing his call and doing the job for me.

Setting himself in that comfy leather seat; the sort that warms your back on a winters day; him switching it on especially for me and telling me that it'll make my back feel more at ease.

-'Uncle Maurice, I love you very much. You know that don't you?'

-'Aye, of course. And I love you too son.' I reply. And I mean it too.

-'I don't want you doing this anymore. I've asked too much of you and we've taken you for granted. It's taking its toll on you now and you deserve peace and rest. I look at you and I feel guilty. Age is catching up on you Maurice. Just watching you out there struggling about, it sounds mad but for the first time ever I have finally realised that you are turning in to an old man and it's tugged on my conscience... Here's me thinking, why am I putting my uncle through this? Making you do all of this dirty work. Being my muscle when I have others that can do the job.' He stops and sucks through his few teeth. -'Do you know why I do it Maurice?'

I shake my head.

-'Because you've always been there. I've always trusted you and you've always come through. Every step of the way. You're this phantom. Feared by crooks throughout the district. Griff Bradshaw's assassin, that's what they whisper. Never seen and never known. The ghost that comes in the night and makes you pay the price if you don't tow the fucking line. Kin' hell the press have even started running stories about a serial killer. That boy from Warsop who choked himself in the cop shop getting the blame but it was the phantom that did it, everyone on the unspoken grapevine hushes it. Griff's assassin. The man I turn to first. My Uncle Maurice; a bloke that I could always rely on. A bloke that has got old and I never even saw it coming. You just go about your business Maurice, you don't even realise how you are feared. From the Motorway to the North Sea, and little parts either side. Just a middle aged old miner with his allotment and his simple ways. It's a brilliant disguise for a phantom.'

-'These past weeks have taken it right out of me young Griff.' I admit with a bloomin great lump in my throat.

Joan in my head telling me just what I'm putting this young fella through.

-'I don't want you doing this anymore Maurice. I've asked far too much of you over this last couple of months but it's been so crazy that normal thinking flew out of the window. We've had so much going against us. So many dirty floors to sweep and tidy up, and so many holes to plug that I'd lost sense of reality. I'd simply turned to the face that I could trust the most. And you're so bloody good at it that age belies you my friend.'

He sticks out his bloomin great paw and we shake hands.

-'I'm officially retiring you Uncle Maurice. I'm thanking you for everything that you've ever done for me and our Dale. He's a big soft cunt that's a bit loose in the head, but I know that he appreciates you and looks up to you as much as I do.'

-'Thanks young Griff.'

-'I'm going to get you some proper health care. Get that back sorted and have you back in that garden sharpish. My Auntie Joan will run out of flowers at this rate.'

We both laugh, but Joan is in my head, not laughing at all.

-'This deed that you did for me with the Irish was invaluable. I don't have a monetary value to put on it. I know that you agreed on the usual fee but that's bollocks to be honest. You've paid a price and this wasn't just a normal job. These fuckers were serious players. A real threat to our whole operation. I can't put a value on getting shut of them... I have a man in effluent services... That was him on the phone. We're going to go around and fish those toe rags out of there whilst they're still fresh; so to speak. Get them gone for good and clear up the loose ends. Try and get those Mick women to spill the beans on the lay of the land whilst we're round there. Act dumb and nosy.'

-'That's a wise thing to do son.'

-'And for you I have a promise Uncle Maurice. I will not pay you in cash for this deed. Instead I give you my word that whenever you need anything: money, a house, a holiday, a new vehicle, a couple of heads smacked together, your shopping fetching, a hole dug, the roof fixed, a new shed put up, the Pools put on, your nose picked, your arse wiped. You pick up that phone and call me personally. Until you are in that patch over there reunited with my dear old Aunt Joan I will look after your every need, just as you've looked after every need of mine.'

I sit and I ponder. Thinking that this is a good opportunity to cement something for young Karin.

-'I'm very grateful for that Griff. I'm a man of simple means, you know that. There's very little that I want or need in life. I'm happy in my little house and I have my things which I potter about with. Generally I'm a contented soul with my books and my music and my allotment to keep me company. I don't need any more money. I have a mountain of it still stashed away that I'll never ever spend. But there is a girl...'

-'Really?' He looks and that toothless grin spreads across his face.

-'No, don't be daft in the head lad. It's not like that. This is a girl. Eighteen. Nearly nineteen. A neighbour that me and your Auntie Joan pretty much almost adopted when she was a young un. The neighbours neglecting her and me and Joan keeping a keen eye on her... Well, I'd like her looking after, you know, once I'm gone.'

-'You've got years yet Maurice.' He laughs.

-'Well I'd like to think so but you never know what might be around the corner.'

-'What do you want me to do for this kid Maurice?'

-'Well, me and your Auntie Joan would very much like to leave her something. She's never had much; least of all luck in her life. But she's very head strong and isn't one for favours. I don't want any more of your money or gifts from you Griff. I just want you to make sure that if owt ever happens to me that you'll be sure that she gets what is mine. That house of me and Joan's and the money that I've got hidden out back.'

-'You need to put that in a bank Maurice.'

-'I don't trust bloomin banks. I have it hid in a hole up on the allotment, along with all of those gifts you got me.'

He laughs and shakes that big old head of his.

-' How much is there?'

-'Pretty much every penny that you've given me since Joan died.'

-'Bloody hell Maurice. Don't you see the toe-rags that live around that estate of yours?'

-'Aye, I do.'

-'Christ on a penny farthing, for a cold hearted killer you don't half have some funny ways about you Maurice,'

-'I'm a man of simple means.'

-'You can say that again.'

We both smile.

-'Listen Maurice, we'll draft up a will. The kid will be left everything you own. We'll get that money stuck in a bank, despite your distrust of them. It'll make it legal and above board. Silly old twats like you are always leaving cash to soppy kids and cats homes. Though the first thing you need to do is dig the sodding thing up and get it under lock and key in your house. I'll come and help you myself. We'll get her details and she'll be looked after.'

-'I appreciate that Griff. I've just carried a feeling for a while that my numbers almost up. A sense telling me summat. I can feel it in my bones. A feeling that I'm going away.'

-'Your retired now Maurice. You're going to live forever.'

## Martin.

I'd almost given up hope. Never seemingly able to catch anyone home. Understanding that George would be a busy man with a hectic schedule.

You can't hold a career like his and not expect to have your home life blighted by irregular hours, though I'd expected to have caught the family at home at some stage. But I'd held fast.

I'd looked forward to catching the family in. To meet the pretty, though serious looking wife and my slip of a grandson. Carrying a couple of my hardbacks to parade to them who I was. It was often talked about that some day they would adapt my books in to a TV series.

I'd deliberated on just which angle to approach this.

Would they even know of my existence?

What sort of picture would my boy have painted of me?

I'd always been a caring father. We'd shared good times for an all too brief spell, but I'd tried my best to stay in touch and it was only the meddling hands of others which had denied the continuation of our relationship.

The situation had driven me to lose faith and sever all ties in the end. Though I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't carried a suitcase of guilt, which burdened my load, as I visited that house.

That house in leafy Ravenshead. Splendid. The village which used to be called Fishpool when I spent my days in these parts. I guess it just didn't sound quite grand enough for an aspiring community?

A world away from our little terrace house on Kitchener Drive. That house where George was born in the quiet of the back bedroom in the storm of a darkened winters hue. The smells from the brewery and the clammy smog of the old town. The memories seem like several lifetimes ago, with so much water gone beneath the bridge that it's a wonder that the whole world hasn't drowned.

We'd nothing then. My job on the newspaper failing to provide the glamour that I'd envisaged; only producing long hours on nothing stories for a minimal crust. Though that house on Kitchener was our own little empire for our neatly knit family. Me and that old old lady of whom it no longer seems at all feasible could have been mine at any stage of my life. The thought now being ludicrous; but mine she was. Together in that tiny terrace with a sweet fair boy who was bright and inquisitive. After time to think about it, it doesn't seem a surprise that he's gone on to be a policeman. A Detective Chief Inspector too. A man of responsibility and a leader of men.

The boy had done good.

Serving the community, providing a service and giving something back. I feel immensely proud just thinking about it. And relieved. Relieved that he didn't let our turbulent past effect his education or hinder his prospects. Using that brain that I knew he had to reach his potential.

And now he is the owner of this spread here in the hinterland between the city and the counties largest town. Progressed in the world through hard work and determination. A nice looking family catered for in a desirable home in the village that used to be called Fishpool.

Who'd have thought it in those days on Kitchener Drive? The three of us all going our separate ways and surviving the crushing fist of fate, yet prospering and strengthening.

I can't deny that I've often wondered a great deal of late of just what would have become of us had I continued the lie and kept the family together.

Would we have ever moved on from that small townhouse terrace?

Would I ever have been successful?

Would George have reached the heights that he has?

Would that old, old lady who used to be mine have gone senile with my slackening desire for her?

A wise man once said, -'don't expect to find the right person if you aren't willing to let the wrong one go.'

Never has a truer word been issued. It just saddens my heart that it seems that neither I nor her ever really found that right person who we both desired so much to complete ourselves.

I touch the doorbell and hear it's now familiar ring through the glass.

A noise that has repeated itself to me for the past five days, but only now with true evidence of life behind the front door. The gunmetal grey Ford Mondeo positioned on the driveway at a jaunty angle.

Nobody quick to reply. Touching the button again and humming along to the crispness of the sound with a nervousness in the pit of my belly.

Wondering if it will be the boy at home, or the wife.

My mood arguing with itself on which I'd prefer it to be. No kind of training being able to make you feel anything other than anxious for an occasion like this.

Perhaps the wife, who in turn can break the news to my lad gently. Preparing him for the shock of his father turning up at his doorstep after thirty long years.

Another part of me wanting to take flight and away in my dread of being rejected.

I have his address now, so I could simply write and beg my forgiveness. Pleading to be taken back in to the fold.

But then I remember the other reason why I am here. To witness the emotions. To store them in to my vault. Serious research in to the turmoil which would also plague Edgar Benedict. For his climatic volume to his odyssey.

It's not selfish to use the occasion. It's simply painting two walls with one brush.

A shadow through the frosted glass. Movement in the hallway that sends my tongue dry and my throat narrow. The shadow frozen and myself following suit.

Impossible to tell whether it is a vision of a man or a woman, or a teenage boy.

Me wanting that fair boy of nine years of age to open the door. Like it was still nineteen sixty-five.

Wanting to embrace him and lift him from the ground like thirty long, hard years had not passed.

Like this uPVC front door was that old wooden green one of Kitchener Drive. With kids playing on the streets, kicking balls against kerbs and jumping hopscotch. The house at Kitchener opening right out on to the pavement. This house here at Ravensdale being hidden from the view of the road on Sheepwalk Lane.

The shadow encroaching upon the door. Pausing at the other side of the threshold. Sizing up the visitor.

I'm wondering if they can tell who it is through the mystery of the glasswork. My confidence wavering. Angry with myself at feeling intimidated of reactions at my ripe old age and countless experiences. Gulping on my spittle. Expelling a short muffled cough to clear my throat.

The shadow moving away from the door. Back down the corridor and closing the light off from a gap at its end with the shut of a door.

-'Wait!......Wait!......I can explain!' I yell. My anxiety disappearing in an instant. Fearing rejection before I could even make a fool of myself. Hammering against the door and touching that doorbell again. That anonymous digital tune drifting through my ears for the umpteenth time that week.

-'Please, I must talk with you' I talk calmly through the opening of the letterbox. -'I've journeyed a long way and have visited you on several occasions already this week. I need to chat with you. I only want to see George...My George...My boy...It,..It's his father...Even if it is just to set my eyes upon his face for one last time. I'm just an old man wanting to see his lad more than anything else in the world.'

Nobody returns to the door.

My words lost in the echo of that modern cream and stain corridor. Held in by closed doors that have little desire to be opened. Swirling around until they vanish, like the shadow before it.

Making me drop to the seat of my pants on to the stone step of the porch; lighting a cigarette and mulling over my next move.

If the boy doesn't want to be met what am I expected to do?

If the wife of the boy doesn't want to pass on my wishes what am I expected to do?

Maybe the pen shall be my better and only option. Always being cleverer with words than I was with conversation. The rhythm of literacy masking the humdrum of the accent that I had pained to hide for so many years.

I wonder if the world contains enough paper to get across my truest feelings?

Writing down columns of hundreds of thousands of words to George when he was a child. Not a word of it I am convinced he shall ever have read.

I finish my cigarette and immediately light another one. Caught in two minds of to stay or to go.

There being no doubt that the person on the other side of that door will have heard my plea and now know who I am.

I hold my wary head and wonder just what Edgar Benedict would do in this position?

Before I know it I am struck with a hard object across the shoulders, which sends the cigarette flying in to the nearby plant pot and forces me back against the brick pillar of the porchway.

There stands a man of six feet, with a heavy fair head of hair and a dirty chin of stubble. Tennis shorts and polo shirt, flip flops and poisoned lips. Poised with a child's cricket bat that is stationed in a high guard; the sort used by the Medieval Italian longswordsmen.

-'Wait!' I cry. -'Let me explain. Please let me explain to you George.'

Recognising that child's face in this ferocious looking man. The same shape to that once angelic looking rounded face. His eyes unmistakably stark, now with the ability to shave right through pleas with their razored edge. A dial carrying so much exposed paraphernalia that it screams thirty years of hurt within one scowl. Reducing my carefully prepared appeal to the dust of bones.

Scythed down with the hurt of willow and the numb of a glare.

-'George. It's your father. I've wanted to reach you for so long, don't you recognise me?'

He stands with puffed chest and white knuckles. Stinking of alcohol and malice.

-'George. Please hear me out. I never wanted it to come to this. I wanted to be a father to you. I never wanted to be exiled from your life, like a bad person.'

Heavily breathing through flared nostrils and with exposed legs taut and set with flat feet, promising to pounce. Lips pursed firmer than the vault to the Bank of England. Me doing all of the talking and all of the panicking.

Trying to hold fast.

-'I wrote to you George. Hundreds of letters I wrote to you. Telling you how much I missed you and wanted you in my life. It not being complete without you in it...My best friend. The best friend that I'd ever had in my life... All I've ever wanted is for us to share our time together again. To make up for all of those lost years. You are all that I have left in the world.'

He lowers the bat. Pointing its worn, frayed tip straight at me. Decades of taking guard and marking out the centre stump in the dry earth wearing it down. A child's bat, bandaged up in masking tape to cover the cracks of thousands of defended deliveries.

-'Please don't make me plead with you George. Please don't make me hasten my words in panic and let me come across as some drivelling old fool. Please let me talk to you man to man. If you don't like what you hear then I'll be gone, out of your life forever; never to scar your door again.'

He places the cricket bat against my ear. Stroking its rough timber against the side of my face. Unblinking and chewing against the insides of his lips.

-'Do you remember this bat Martin?.. Old Garfield we used to call it. After Gary Sobers. You always promising to take me to see him play one day... Yet I couldn't give a shit about your love of cricket... I just wanted to bash a ball out of Fisher Lane Park with as much force as I could muster... And this old bat is the only relic of those fucking years that I kept. I reminded myself that all I could remember of you was you droning on about sodding cricket. Buying me a bat and telling me how to properly use it. You weren't a father to me Martin. I don't have a father. Please don't kid yourself on... I'm a bastard... I've had adults telling me how best to run my life for long enough; but none of them know shite... Nobody has taught me anything that I couldn't teach myself. My best teacher has been me, and the lessons I learned from doing for myself... I didn't need a father; especially the burden of a soppy great queer to hinder me further... I know all about you. I ignored everything my bitter family told me about you and researched it for myself; learnt who you are and what you are. I could barely remember you and what I read just made me decide to eradicate you from my memory. You have nothing to offer me other than shame. So don't come around to my house and expect a big sloppy kiss and forgiveness. I'm eternally thankful that you fucked off... You're an old man with too many moons to cloud your memories of us. Remembering what you want to remember no doubt?' He spits in waves.

-'That's not true George. I remember good times and a smashing relationship.....What happened to you? What made you forget what we had together?'

-'I'm not a nice person Martin. I'm not that nine year old boy that wouldn't say boo to a ghost. I'm a nasty horrible bastard. The kind that you might write about, but would never know. The things that I've been part of, you could only imagine. And right now I'd like nothing better than to spread your skull right across my nice clean driveway; the sole reason why I'd kept this bat for all of those years. For when you came knocking and wasn't wanted.'

-'I don't believe that you are George Carruthers... The George Carruthers that I knew had a gentleness to his heart and to his tongue... I don't know what devil has taken over his body, but you're not the lad that I remember.'

He steels right in to my face. His spit covering me and his breath choking me with its drunken pungency.

-'That's right Martin. I am the devil and the devil's name is Flaxman.....I'm the law around these parts and I do what I want.....Never underestimate my capabilities because it'll rip out your heart... I take what I want and I give what I want and you don't want to mess in the place where I'm standing right now because nobody is safe from my wrath... Not even you. The man who professors to have given me life. You really couldn't have timed your return any worse if you'd have been writing one of your shitty books.'

His anger is volcanic and his vision is close to madness. My fear for him and his next move makes my bowels tense. A mutual agreement between his vitriol and my soul to wave a white flag, to beg my pardon and be on my way.

Leaping to my feet and scurrying towards the safety of the street. Leaving him there stood in his pool of venom and hate. Not the man that I'd anticipated.

Even the bravery of Edgar Benedict would have been taken aback by such an unwelcoming barrage.

My shoulder stinging and fearing the taste from another whacking.

-'Totter off Martin... Don't ever darken my door again and don't ever turn off the light at night unless I give you permission to. You don't know what might be lurking in the dark.'

## Evan.

To think that that soft shit of a brother of mine almost cried himself in to a premature coma over this girl.

I'm not saying that she's a bifter, cos she ain't.

I'm not saying that she's rough, cos she certainly is not.

I'd probably mark her a shade above the average and certainly a better all-round looker than when she was dragging him around from the collar, make no mistake about that. What's shocked me is the fact that she is so mind teasingly boring. In a way that would have the most mundane of chaps tying together bed sheets and making an escape.

Though it has to be said that she's been a slightly better option than that cubby-hole in that house of my parents; and for all of her dullness at least she's been something to occupy myself with.

Helping me to focus and grapple my way from madness.

Though even the sex is probably the worst I've experienced in years.

Like copulating with a fallen tree stuck in the middle of a haunted wood. Rigid, eerie and cold. Perfectly happy to let me do all of the running; like it's her God given right to have someone of my standing plough the field and scatter the good seed on the land, with her just lying back and thinking of all the best ways to tell her pals about being banged around her folks house by the telly's Evan Speed.

I'm beginning to think that she was actually punching above her weight with even our kid, never mind myself.

At least it's been a new bed to lay my dizzying head; and fresh walls to bang my head against.

I'd easily convinced her to throw in a couple of days off of work, so I could selfishly take advantage of her having the free reign of the house to let me dwell inside.

It's an upgrade on my folk's doss. Beaumont Avenue. A nice semi on a quiet Forest Town street. No press intrusion and no fucking Sweeney's to muck up my day. Just fanciful Tina trying to get across her dull as a rainy day in Manchester virtues in life and boring me with the ins and outs of her failed recent relationship.

Me being reduced to merely nodding terms.

Her never mentioning my brother. Almost as if the anonymous sod had never existed.

Me feeling almost sorry for him. Remembering hearing of him moping about for a lifetime when this floozy had binned him off in the type of manner that she's now been binned off herself in turn.

It'd had the shock of my life when I'd woken up to find her lying across my chest. A proper midweek session in the town with my brother. Everything after eight in the evening being forgotten in a blur. Me being so desperate for the company, and an escape from that military dictatorship called my mother, that I'd just got to get out and voluntarily lose my mind before it was taken from me by force.

So here I was lying on my back nursing a mouth like a camels backside in a room filled with pictures of Take That. For fuck sakes this woman is twenty-three years old, not twelve. I'd had to look at her about nine times just to convince myself that I hadn't wandered in to some boarding school for teenage girls.

Yet I still didn't recognise her.

It was only when I'd pushed her aside to go for a walkabout that I discovered the whole story.

Lying on the sofa downstairs with a great big heffer wrapped around him was my tiny cocked younger brother, dribbling down the side of his cheek and barking a snore that could snap a Trappist monk out of his vow of silence.

I gave him a nudge and asked him where the fuck we were?

He'd hardly seemed too enthusiastic when he told me I'd got off with Tina, his Tina, and we'd ventured back to her gaff for some after party celebrations.

I'd left the miserable yizzard there anchored beneath that monster and told him that I was back off upstairs to finish what I'd started.

I had no intention whatsoever to continue the previous night's forgotten debauchery. I had a head that felt like it housed a hidden hatchet, but it had put an extra spring in my heels to have got another one over on that soft little twat.

It was the last that I've seen of him. Him and her creeping out before either me or Tina had got up.

Eventually I'd had to kick her out of that hot and sweaty sack to go and make a brew.

Her barely able to believe her luck at the result which she'd pulled.

Me hardly believing her luck either. Clearly I'd bottomed out in my current misfortune.

Us spending the whole weekend holed up in that place. Her mum and dad not back until Tuesday. Me sending her down to the video shop in her little VW Golf with a list as long as your arm. Getting in takeaways every night and trying to encourage her to suck my cock.

Her flatly refusing.

Me wanting to ask -'do you know who I am?'

Never trust a girl that doesn't suck your cock!

Me being out of my mind with boredom by the time Sunday night rolled on by.

Banging my head repeatedly against their bathroom door, as I waited for the bath to run.

Itching and scratching my skin in anxiety. Being barely able to breathe with the situation again.

Getting out of my parents house allowing me a second wind but already I was falling back in to that same place. A subscription of regular bog-standard intercourse clearly wasn't going to be the dose which pulled me completely around from my lull.

Even the pleasure that I got from seeing my name back in the newspapers had been short lived. Repeatedly looking at the picture in the newspaper of that girl Karin and wishing it was her I was holed up with instead. Tina not even sticking her nose in to the newspaper to question me about it.

I'd phoned The Sun hotline on her parents landline whilst she was down at the shops.

Informing them of Karin's name and her probable place of work, after remembering my knackered old dad gleaming it off of her.

Them thanking me and wanting to send me a small reward.

Me just happy to help them out in their search and thanking them for their continual progress in the Evan Speed story.

Urging them to keep up with the good work and to keep us updated with his whereabouts; the story fascinating me.

Me trying to phone Trev all day on the Sunday. Eventually getting in touch with Helen Smart.

Her informing me that he was hoping to get close to a compromise if I could actually manage to keep my nose clean and stop pissing around with yet more girls in the pages of national newspapers. That was the whole purpose of me supposedly hiding away, -'didn't I get that?'

Apparently Trevor wasn't talking to me because my constant calling was pestering his equilibrium.

I said to Helen -'what the fucks that supposed to mean?'

She told me to get back to bed and get my mother to tuck me in.

Her and my mother ought to join forces and create a Junta. Both talk to me like I'm some useless possession for them to toss about like an object without feelings.

Of course Tina wants to know about 'us?'

That's 'me and her'.

Like I'd have anything to do with her once I'm back down in London. Get a grip woman.

She'll become a memory that will be all too easy to erase. Providing nothing of any interest to remotely threaten a moment on the lavatory, never mind any future autobiography.

Humouring her I'd insisted that she means so much to me after helping me out in a tight spot. Feeding her needy imagination that is so bereft of producing anything worthy for itself.

The girl genuinely with nothing about her. Honestly, I think our Billy got a lucky escape.

By the time that Tuesday had come around and she needed to tidy up the place I couldn't kiss my goodbyes quickly enough.

Me as eager to give her my phone number as she was to give me a much needed blow job.

She wanted to go for dinner somewhere tonight. Probably needing me to rubber-stamp our love. Yapping as if we were an item.

She's got the chance of two hopes; and Bob Hope left town once he'd heard that she was intending to call round.

I tell her that it would be a lovely idea and to give me a call at mums later. Something that I'm not sure had even crossed her stupid little mind. There's not a pray of her tackling my mother and it coming up smelling of roses for her. For the first time for a while I'm thankful for the old boot and her first line of defence on the gates of The Sweeney State Penitentiary.

I get her to drop me off in town, just before five. Her parents back within an hour and me not ever wanting to meet them. Fobbing her off by telling her that we'll go and get a feed at eight and to give me a call before she sets off.

I have no intention whatsoever of being at that house for around eight.

Her wrapping that tongue around mine for the very last time as I exit.

Even her taste has lost its flavour quicker than cheap gum. I'm thankful of once more being released from the clutches of another hanger-on.

Straight to the bank to fill my wallet with cash again and over to The Swan for a much needed wet.

Back on the phone to call Trevor. Still not answering. The fat bastard is taking the piss and I'm fed up of it frankly. Probably recharging his equilibrium.

I'm the only punter in the busiest bar in town on a Tuesday teatime.

Seriously considering getting in to that car of Helen's and blasting off down to London.

So tedious has this place become. Its claws doing their best to drag me in and keep me here.

People like Billy and his mates, my family and that Tina reminding me of why I was so keen to leave in the first place. The stale stench of the place is claustrophobic in my nose.

Though I'm now feeling more confident that Fat boy Trevor is close to getting my naughty smacked backside sorted. Speaking to Helen the other day was a positive call that made all the right sounds filtered through her sarcastic bitch talk.

I've been to hell and back recently, yet she never quits.

I pester the boy behind the bar to see where I can score some coke. He laughs and shrugs his simpleton shoulders and trades me an eighth of resin instead.

Evan Speed truly slumming it with the paupers.

Eating my dinner at a table for one at the Modha Mitha on Ratcliffe Gate. Happy to be dining alone. Comfortable that the silence of my own conversation in my head is more entertaining than one with Tina would have been. Especially after five whole days in her draining solitary confinement.

Me certainly developing a newer opinion of my brother. Realising that he is clearly even more boring and undemanding of life than even I had imagined of him beforehand.

Chuckling beneath my breath as I order the Lamb Bhuna.

Dropping in to the Bridge Tavern to give myself another half an hour before walking up to home and a fresh round of bollockings off of my mother.

The last thing that I need this evening is bumping in to a stood up lass, with a fat bottom lip.

Having to break it to her that everything she'd considered as new was just fabricated bullshit.

I roll a joint of this cheap gear on the bench outside of The Bridge, and at quarter to nine I begin to trudge off in the direction of The Warren.

The town deserted like a vacuum.

Lumping it up to West Gate.

Lighting that smoke beside the alleyway of the old fellas shop.

50 West Gate.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

Sweeney's Fruit & Veg.

The year of our lord nineteen ninety-six.

The gate to the back yard left open as I stumble through to relax with the joint.

Me grateful to be the one born of talent.

The lightweight who ended up fending for a living in this soulless shithole, living the life of a sad-sack who's had his beloved ex-girlfriend snatched away by his successful older brother.

A light on in the upstairs flat.

I sneak quietly up the fire escape. Not even realising that the place was now being occupied.

I'd never seen the place in use in all the years of the family having this store. In fact I remember them blocking up the staircase. The flat never having any interest due to its poor access.

I put my ear to the door but can hear nothing.

The small out-swinging window to the side being slightly ajar.

I wrap my knuckles against the door to see if anyone is at home.

Perhaps the owners had been around and simply forgotten to switch a light off?

It certainly seemed that nobody was living here and if it had been mentioned before then I'd not been party to the conversation.

I pull myself up on to the metal railing, holding myself carefully against the wall. Leaning across and prizing open the window with my fingernails.

Again listening for sound or movement, before stepping out on to the windowsill and pushing myself through the gap.

Landing headfirst on to a toilet basin.

## Billy.

You'd taken Tina's friend from work, Jess, out the night before. You'd seen it as a common courtesy.

Liking her but not altogether fancying her.

This situation sort of flung upon you in an instant. The alcohol in both of your systems being the main ingredient.

You'd woken on that sofa and neither of you were particularly clear what to say to one another.

She was as nervous as the night before and clearly carrying a tinge of guilt at allowing herself to go all the way without even properly knowing you.

You'd apologised despite you both being equally culpable.

Never letting your paranoia get in the way of a fresh bout of paranoia.

She suggested that you walk in to town to clear your heads. The small talk being agonising as your mind remained clouded by what had gone off. That brother who you loathed, together with that woman who you'd shared so much with.

It felt like they'd both taken it in turns to take a running kick at your scrotum.

In the Arches Cafe on White Hart Street you bought teas and made uneasy conversation. Both of you wanting to break free from the other but neither of you having the gumption to make the first move.

Her with a gentle Scots accent, a charming innocence and a nervy cough. Unsure what to make of you and certainly unsure of what to make of your brother.

You'd asked for her number and she hadn't been reluctant to give it to you.

You'd spent the weekend deliberating whether to call it.

You'd seen Karin in The Yard from afar and your eyes had met. Her smile melting your heart and leaving you there in a puddle of regret.

Totally afraid to approach her. Needing to move on with your life. Always trapping yourself in to corners with your complicated feelings.

Locked inside a bubble of turmoil. Wondering what Karin would make of your situation with Jess?

Would she care at all?

Is it simply folly to think that your chances drifted away forever because you feel cornered in to taking another person for a drink? Betraying her.

You think that she's probably halfway to denying your existence.

Your brother taking your paranoia and holding it up for the whole wide world to see.

Knoxy and Von taking turns to pick at your fragile psyche.

Your disorder being plain for them all to see. Regretting even mentioning the fact that you spent Thursday night in town with Adrian; him ending it with the girl that you'd once proposed to.

They finding it highly amusing. Knowing that you'll be the victim of their cutting remarks when your back is turned. The story spreading like wildfire to eager ears.

Adrian becoming an even bigger tosser in their eyes.

Adrian becoming an even bigger hero in their eyes.

You spent the weekend thinking of both women.

Your total adoration of Karin Nemeth and the beauty of everything that she was. Her flawless perfection holding you in stocks and forcing you to think of her; even when you try to block her from your mind.

Your sketchy memory of sharing yourself with Scottish Jess on the living room carpet of Mr & Mrs Dunkley's Forest Town home. Her being a plain but amiable sort. Rather quite pretty actually; though as the days pass and your mind thinks more about Karin, then Jess's image begins to drift quickly from your mind.

You wonder if Jess waits beside her phone, wanting you to call. Or does she share the same thoughts of regret that you do? Would it sink her heart should you ring?

Perhaps her paranoia is as alive and well as your very own?

You'd opened up on Monday morning. Still no sign of Adrian. Your mother doing her nut. Blaming you for taking him out on Thursday. Telling you that he could be anywhere in the awful mindset that he finds himself in. How could you have been so stupid? You don't seem to appreciate just what he's going through.

You tell her that he went home on Thursday night with Tina. It stops your mother clean in her tracks. Never liking that girl. Never liking really anyone in particular.

You spent the day unable to get Karin Nemeth and that three second smile out of your brain. It totally dominating your thoughts, despite the fact that you got more than an eyeful of another female form on the night previous to it.

A three second smile that lasts an age the more that it revolves around inside your head.

Karin Nemeth telling you in no uncertain way that there would never be any chance of you getting together. You'd declared your feelings and shown her your hand. She'd turned the table over and stomped on your cards.

You called Jess that evening. Her remaining just as apprehensive in her tone as before. You just about refraining from telling her that she doesn't have to go for a drink if she doesn't want to.

You take her to the Burnt Stump pub, near Papplewick.

She looks nice, but she isn't Karin Nemeth.

She has a congenial manner about her, but she isn't Karin Nemeth.

The conversation, although filled with its pregnant pauses, isn't as difficult as you'd expected, but it's not like the ones with Karin Nemeth.

Much of it revolves around Tina Dunkley and her selfish ways.

Her not being seen at work this week. You not seeing your brother in five days either.

Paranoia buying them a whistle stop holiday to paradise.

You never once want to reach over and kiss Jess's lips. You get the impression that the feeling is mutual.

You never once want to reach for Jess's hand. You get the impression that the feeling is mutual.

Thoughts repeatedly enter your mind of regretting taking Jess on that living room floor and engaging in an awkward alliance. You get the impression that the feeling is mutual.

But you don't currently regret meeting a decent person. Whether that feeling is mutual is open to debate.

You drop her at home and no words of a repeat encounter are exchanged.

An almost unspoken agreement that this is probably the end of the matter; despite neither of you disliking the other.

You've had your show of affection. You've had your feeling of guilt. You've had your go at being sociably acceptable, in a vain attempt to eradicate any feelings that you may have actually used and abused her. You've given it another go to see if there was any kind of spark. And you've almost shook hands before diplomatically going your separate ways.

All the hallmarks of a Billy Sweeney (kind of) one night stand.

Paranoia shakes its head in its utter contempt of you.

Wednesday morning and your father decides to join you again at the shop. You happy for the company once more.

The sitting in there on your own was beginning to take its toll. An odd loneliness amongst the crowds of shoppers.

You've noticed a gradual downturn in your father's rehabilitation but he remains as vague as ever in wanting to talk about it.

You feel a sense of guilt that his health isn't at the forefront of your mind, demanding to be listened to. Making you feel equally as selfish as the behaviour of your brother, and particularly your mother.

His serious ongoing therapy remaining a poor second in the priority list to the career of Evan Speed. Everything always taking a back seat to the priorities of Evan Speed.

You watching him shuffle about, wiping the cold away from his nose with a handkerchief. His features drawn. A sad imitation of his previous self. His colour altering. Slipping away for you all to see but nobody caring even nearly enough.

Only now in your own self-pity do you recognise the fact that he might just want to be around you. Him having nothing in common with Adrian. His precious Melanie being miles away. The woman that he married never being the right choice in the first place.

Paranoia in the genes.

You serve an old lady mixed fruit and small talk about the weather. You help her to the door.

You close the door and turn the lock. The sign turned to closed.

You move over to your father, who you rarely exchange more than a few drops of worthwhile conversation with. A quiet man.

He looks at you and anticipates your actions. Holding out his arms.

You embrace in the middle of that store. Watched on only by the potatoes and the carrots, the lettuce and the apples, the cauliflower and the strawberries.

He is an inch shorter than you and you wrap him close. Closer than you've ever felt before. Kissing him on the head and ushering an -'I love you.'

He nods his head and sniffles his nose, which makes you pull him even tighter. Your heads side by side on one another's shoulders.

-'I'll always be here for you dad. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. You're the best dad anyone could ever wish for and I love you more than you would ever know.'

You hope that it is a small enough gesture to recover from your previous lax attitude towards his welfare. Always caring but probably always taking his assumed full recovery for uneducated granted. Thinking that your old man would live forever, and not helped by the lack of gravity given to the illness by your callous mother.

Paranoia stopping to mock your pathetically late show of awareness.

Your father takes you by the shoulders. His eyes full of bloodshot moisture. His lips a quiver.

-'You're a good lad Billy. Don't let anyone ever tell you any differently. Always thinking of others and never bringing us a moment's trouble. Ignore what your mother says. She's a one-eyed bigot. Only ever has time for our bloody Adrian. Fails to recognise what a fine pair of kids she has in you and our Mel.'

The hairs on your neck stand on end. It's a pleasant change to hear a glowing reference of you.

-'I'm getting weaker Billy. I feel it by the day but I need to get out before I no longer can... Not rot away in that stuffy house. I want fresh air and I want to be around other people. I fully intend to keep coming down this shop whilst I'm fit enough... I don't want to be enclosed by walls.'

-'Of course dad. I want you here. I want to help you in any way I can.'

You're welling up yourself. You can see a dying man finally breaking free of his own forced shackles. Finally denying that he face his pain alone.

-'There's two things that I want you to do for me Billy.'

-'Anything dad.'

-'I'd like you to take me up to your sisters for a few days. I'd like some sea air and I haven't an appointment at the hospital for a couple of weeks. I intend to pack a little bag and have a week up there. I want to be close to Melanie and enjoy her company.'

-'Absolutely. It's as good as done. The minute you want to go I'll take you. The minute you want to come back I'll fetch you.'

-'Thanks lad... I appreciate that.'

-'Anything dad.'

-'And one other thing too.'

-'What is it?'

-'You Billy. That's what... You and this lass; Karin... I see what she does to you. I've had it myself in the past and I've let it go... Don't let it go Billy. For yourself. Don't carry on your life with regrets of "what if", cos it'll stalk you forever. Get over any feelings of making yourself look daft. You'll only ever feel daft with yourself at a later date when you've not even tried... She's a diamond, that girl, Billy. I know that after just half an hour in her company. She has feelings for you. They might need dusting off and shining up somewhat, but only you can do that and make it happen. Be the decent lad that I know you are. If you want something so badly you have to work at it; not just go around with your head held down, feeling sorry for yourself... Up your game lad, for your own peace of mind. Up your game for me if that helps. I want to see you happy before I'm no longer here son. And I fear you've not got long to achieve that.'

## Miss Nemeth.

-'What's your relationship with Evan Speed, Miss Nemeth?'

-'Have you been together for long?'

-'Does he regret jeopardising his promising career?'

-'Is his drug habit really as serious as is suggested?'

-'When does he plan to return to the public eye?'

-'Would you consider sitting down to do a full in depth interview?'

-'You're a pretty girl Miss Nemeth, would you consider doing an exclusive photo shoot?'

-'We can make you famous.'

Said with a smirk and a Dictaphone plunged in to my face. Repeatedly clicking an electronic camera to expose me. Wes and my supervisor Colin Monroe battling to get in between me and the reporter.

Telling him to get lost. Wes threatening to put that camera where the sun doesn't shine.

I'm lost for words.

Trying to plant saplings.

Wes pulling chunks of earth out of the ground with a drain spade and me setting row after row of baby trees under the watchful eye of the site supervisor.

Someone telling them of my whereabouts and following leads.

I'm bemused at how I've become a story. It's madness.

-'Why don't you just leave me alone?'

-'I don't even know the man.'

-'I'm a friend of his brothers.'

-'Don't you have any real stories to cover?'

-'No I'm not a fan of Doctor Who.'

-'All I want is for you to leave me alone so I can work.'

-'No I don't know where you can find him.'

-'Get it in to your head that I don't know the guy.'

-'Why are you so intent on just making things up?'

Wes becoming increasingly irate with the state that their pestering was getting me in to.

Threatening to stove in heads if they didn't piss off.

Colin telling him to calm down and handing him the keys to the wagon. Telling him to -'knock off and get her out of here.' Warning them that if they carried on he would not hesitate in contacting the police. This was harassment.

My heart raced and my upset was open to see as we drove quickly away. Swapping the wagon for his car before the newspaper men could scamper down the hill after us in time. I changed in to fresher 'home clothes' in the back of his car and apologised profusely.

Wes putting a hand on my leg and insisting that this wasn't my fault. I'm unsure what to even say to my colleagues. There's no story to tell but I worry about any implications from this. They won't be happy about me drawing press interest on to site.

Wes asking if I want dropping off at home? Suggesting that things might be a little easier if he takes me back to his place for a couple of hours to let things cool down.

Agreeing without hesitation. If they can follow me to my place of work, I'd imagine that finding my home would be even easier.

Arriving at his house in Blidworth, still feeling incredibly uncomfortable. My private space invaded and my harmony knocked off its balance. Clammy with sweat. Hair littered with a day's toil in the field, making my neck itch and scratch.

Asking if I can use the shower and him happy to show me the way. Telling me to take my time. To give him a shout if I need anything.

Soaking and letting the jets fizz constantly against the top of my head. Trying to take away the mischief and trying to build a wall around my head from all mounting outside interference.

Never thinking that something as ludicrous as this could happen to me. Needing to bite the bullet and visit the Sweeney's at home. To stick up for myself and punch my way out of this crap. To talk to this Evan Speed. Knock him down a peg. Inform him of this nonsensical harassment. Get him to tell the press that there is nothing going off. To get them to leave me alone. To plead with Billy and his father to have a word with him. My life full of turbulence and this complicating the issues. Gutter press stalking me and unwilling to let it go until I tell them something that they want to hear. Not interested in answers that seem evasive. Insisting that they won't leave me alone until they have something newsworthy. Time to come out fighting.

None of this is newsworthy. The life of a small time TV celebrity? It's pathetic.

Feeling like crying in that shower but I'm stronger than that. I've been through hell and back in these past few weeks and I'm never going to let nonsense like this dictate my life.

I've been through too much and overcome everything so far.

Contemplating getting Wes to drive me round to the Sweeney's the moment that I'm dried and dressed but my head is all over the place. I need to slow down and think this through. Become less impulsive and be more pragmatic.

Wes offering to let me stay at his for the night but me declining with a thank you. Grateful that he was there for me. Offering to take me for dinner before dropping me off at home instead.

Agreeing on the condition that he realises that he knows that I'm sincerely grateful for his help and that it's only dinner that we are going for, as friends and colleagues.

Must think I fell out of the Cuckoo's nest if he doesn't realise that I know that he wants more.

He's a nice guy, don't get me wrong; I'm attracted to him, but not enough for it to get in the way of my new job and our work.

He smiles and forces a bemused look to his face; as if questioning what the heck I meant by that.

Spotting it before it even comes around the corner nowadays.

Feeling drab and colourless in here. The Larch Farm bar and restaurant a couple of miles from Wes's place in Blidworth. Over in Ravensdale. Newly opened and full of suits.

Dressed down in a Gap t-shirt and cargo pants. Hair tied back to a ponytail and completely naked of makeup. Calmer, and am happy to welcome his offer of a drink to soothe my raging innards.

He's asking again about this Evan Speed guy. I tell him for the hundredth time that I hardly know him. Only met him twice; both by chance and the second time somewhat creepily. If he walked through the door right now I'd go over and smack him between the eyes for putting me through this. Wes revealing that the guy was everywhere these days. A face always in the papers. Them always wanting to latch on to a good looking face. The fact that he was a notorious bad boy just made his aura more intriguing to them and the general public.

Wes mischievously thinking I should cash in on the opportunity. Make something up for a price. The papers would love me. Give them what they want. Scandal. Make sure that the profit was worth the while. His suggestions only make me feel even more furious.

Angry that this bullshit is what people want to read and angry that he felt that I should stoke the fire by giving it more oxygen. Shows how little he knows me yet.

I have no intention of giving men from the papers lies, lies and more lies. They'll be wanting me to take my clothes off next. Losing a little bit of respect for Wes for even joking about it. He'd seen how upset it had made me.

I haven't an appetite and apologise for leaving the food that he'd insisted on buying. The haddock being beautiful but my belly shrinking to the size of a pea in my mood.

Being aware that I'm being stared at.

I've been stared at for the past twenty minutes.

A man in a suit at the table opposite.

Sitting on his own with an empty plate and a fresh pint of lager.

Tie loosened and nonchalant about making it obvious that he can't remove his eyes from me.

Pissed off and increasingly fed up at becoming the centre of attention.

I keep flicking a look at him and his eyes repeatedly pin me back in to my seat. Him sat a short way past Wes. Making it so only I can feel his violation. Picking the remains of his food from his teeth and taking large gulps from his glass.

Getting up, I go to the toilet to release myself from the grip of prying human beings.

Wanting to go home and plan to pack.

Waking up that morning and making up my mind to finally submit to Maurice's pleas. To pack my things at the weekend whilst my mother was out all day. Wouldn't take too long; just my clothes and personal possessions. A hop over the wall with it all in about fifteen minutes. Taking longer to box it all up than to actually deliver it. I'd wait until during the following week to break it to her. Her probably barely noticing in the first instant.

Not told Maurice of my intentions but I'd planned to do it this evening. Him having a nicely decorated spare room; always lovingly prepared with the chance of me making the switch in mind.

He'll be beside himself with the news. Him carrying less of an invisible burden in recent days. An appetite back and a swagger in his hobble. A face still a mess, an arm in plaster and a wince never far from his brow.

Promising to get to the bottom of what went off, even if it kills me. Though it seems to bother me more than it does that old man.

Leaving the Ladies toilets and abruptly confronted by that same staring man.

Tall, well built and blonde, with permanent malevolence to his eye. Making no secret that he wants something from me.

-'Where do I know you from?' He spits. Blocking my path with his looming shadow.

-'I beg your pardon?' I answer, taken aback by his intimidating tone.

-'I know you from somewhere. Where do I know you from?'

-'I've never met you before in my life.' I condemn. Thinking he must recognise me from my picture in the newspaper.

-'I know your face. I have a thing for faces.'

-'If you don't mind I'd like to get back to my boyfriend please.' I lie, hoping it intimidates him enough.

-'He's not your boyfriend. You're not even on a date.'

-'Pardon?'

-'There's no affection between you. You've not touched or talked in a way a couple would. There's little nervousness to suggest that you're getting to know one another, ruling out a fresh relationship. You're no more together than we are... I'd guess that your either distant relations or work together... He wants to fuck you. You can smell it. That corner reeks of it. Steaming off of him and steaming off of me... We both want to fuck you. I'm surprised that it's not set off the fire alarm.'

Left open mouthed by this noble arsehole. Barging past him with force. Returning to our table and asking to leave in haste.

Wes taken by surprise by the severity of my tone and the urgency of my wanting away.

Paying at the till and leaving me anxiously waiting. Moving away to the door for the car park.

In the dusk he follows us. Waiting for us to approach Wes's car before smashing a tail light with the whack of something hard. Wes hurtling around towards him and being pushed back by a stiff dominant hand.

My friend and I wondering what the hell is the problem.

Threatening to call the police.

Him flashing a card that tells us that they've already arrived. Me and Wes in disbelief.

-'I bet you thought that only happened in the movies didn't you lad?' The policeman asks.

Nobody else around as a witness.

Ignoring Wes and pointing straight at me -'You!.. I asked you who you were.'

Standing as tall as I could. Refusing to be intimidated by this man. Doing nothing wrong and refusing to be spoken to in a threatening manner. -'I don't need to tell you who I am.'

-'I'm the law and this is me asking you nicely.'

-'Why don't you tell me what I've done wrong?'

-'Because I've not decided yet. That's why.' He smirks unashamedly.

-'This is ridiculous. Are you even a real policeman? Let me see that identification.'

Detective Chief Inspector George Flaxman.

-'Have you ever been in trouble with the law Miss?'

-'No... Never... Not at all.'

-'So where have I seen your face?'

-'I've been spread across the newspapers in the last few days.'

-'Really? I don't read fucking newspapers... I know you from somewhere.'

-'Then I don't know.'

-'So just give me your name before I scatter this lads teeth across the car park.' He looks towards Wes. 'You'd have no hope of ripping her tights off then, would you son?'

-'Karin Nemeth... My name is Karin Nemeth.'

-'You see. That wasn't so hard was it?'

-'I'm going to make a complaint about you Mr Flaxman.'

-'You'll find the number for the IPC in the Yellow Pages. Their office is open Monday to Friday. 9am til 5pm. They have a big file under my name which they keep under the carpet.'

Staying silent. Letting him enjoy a speech that has regularity to it.

-'You kids have a pleasant evening.'

## Flaxman.

In a field of our own the fox, and the great big bull, and a host of lemmings have turned to wolves. Chasing the weak and hounding them from our field. Only room for the strong to survive.

Bob Dunphy, Member for Parliament for Mansfield, stammering with a mouthful of panicked cloth.

Arms held down.

Detective Inspector Brian Kenton on the left arm.

Detective Sergeant Graham Ryan on the right arm.

Detective Chief Inspector George Flaxman on his chest holding a half empty jug of water.

Griff Bradshaw and his brother Dale in the shadows. Letting me go about my work.

The Westminster toad choking on his gag reflex. Feeling as though he is drowning.

Trapped in a spiders web of his own doing.

Jumping in to bed with the wrong types of human being.

You? You're just getting warmed up here.

Tipping more water over that cloth. Dry drowning. Depriving the toad of oxygen. His head jerking. Searching for relief. Unable to breath.

-'Did you mention our names toad?'

-'Squealing our names will see those that you love executed.'

-'It won't be us that does the damage. Killing them in a nice way, like this.'

-'No. It'll be the bull's executioner that does it in the dark of the night.'

-'The assassin. Blowing in on a cold wind. Breaking down your door and skinning your family alive.'

-'Skinning you alive if you tell us a pack of lies, toad.'

-'Though, there's no reason why I shouldn't finish you off right here and now. Is there? Make sure you stay quiet.'

-'No chance of spilling the beans and betraying us all.'

-'Spitting in the face of that oath we all made.'

-'Knowing what we were all letting ourselves in for.'

-'Our boss. Walter Clarke MBE. A legend. Telling us you were a man we could trust.'

-'Are you a man we can trust, toad?'

-'Or are you a grass?'

In a field of our own there is no place for the weak. No place for rats. Catching them in our trap, with a SNAP!

Bob Dunphy, Member for Paliament for Mansfield, vomiting against that soaked cloth. Choking on his own puke. Unable to breath and certain to die.

Letting him get to his knees. Clawing at that cloth hood, made from a pillow case.

Beetroot head and gagging up sick on the cold concrete ground.

A bright lead lamp shining in his eyes in the pitch black drizzle of a Nottinghamshire night.

Snatched from his doorstep. His first night back in town.

Questioned by The Met. Uncharacteristically careless and naive.

Signing too many documents. Ticking too many boxes.

Highlighting a stupid fat toad. Jeopardising the great big bulls trafficking operations.

Operation Willow Tree breathing down the great big bulls neck.

The great big bull hiding in the dark. The coppers of The Met searching with their searchlights; their knuckles white clutching their thumping great big truncheons.

All roads leading from the toad will lead to the bull. All roads leading from the bull will not be leading to the fucking fox. You promise yourself that.

A wily fox turning in to a ravenous wolf.

Bob Dunphy, Member for Parliament for Mansfield, sat on his backside, against the cold concrete in the pitch black drizzle of a Nottinghamshire night. Tipping a jar of water down his throat to clear it.

His lungs burning through the intake of fresh life.

His brain burning from the agony of extended life.

A lead light highlighting him by being pointed directly at him.

Fear consuming him. Fear of you. Fear of the bull. Fear of the whole fucking field.

Pleading to be let out of the field. He has nothing left to give. Crying in a ball on the dirty floor.

Only a backbencher but a man with power and ability.

But a coward. And a coward with the potential to whistle.

The bull convinced that he hasn't squealed. Yourself convinced that he hasn't squealed too.

The threat of the assassin should be enough to convince him not to point the boys from The Met in our direction.

Too much blood already spilt just of late.

Ruining our potential for more earnings.

The bull pulling the plug on his current trafficking operations. The heat too hot for the time being.

Too many other important scams with more earning potential to fuck it up now.

The bull eager to leave. His head throbbing from this mess.

The toad escorted from our field. The field that you sculpt from the image of yourself. No room for the weak of will and the weak of mind.

Bob Dunphy, Member of Parliament for Mansfield, wanting to stay in your good books. Grabbing you by the arm. Pleading with you to believe that he is still onside. Warning you to be extra vigilant. The force getting twitchy about you.

The Westminster toad catching rumour just a few days ago.

Internal investigations. Hunting out bad coppers.

The ears of Kenton and Ryan pricking the air. Worries over faces.

Chief Constable Jim Garvey a man under pressure. Rumour of police corruption in the Nottinghamshire force. Going back years.

The toad asked if he knew of Jim Garvey and the former Divisional Commander, Walter Clarke, at a fundraiser in Portobello. Dunphy being a man of the county of Nottinghamshire. Catching whispers of rotten coppers.

Kenton grabbing the toad by the throat.

Demanding to know if names had been mentioned.

The toad shaking his head and gasping. Warning you to be on the lookout for change. To stay on your toes for unexpected movement.

You ask him if he has ever heard of a woman called Kate Tissard?

The Westminster toad denies ever recalling her name.

You drag him to the Mondeo. You bundle him in to the back. You throw him on to his yard once home. You tell him to destroy all contact between yourselves. You tell him to never call you again. You take off.

You have the distressed voices of Kenton and Ryan ringing in your ears.

You lose your temper and tell them to get a fucking grip. No time or place for panic.

To act normally and keep your heads down. Nobody knows fuck all and keep it from the bull as well.

You fear the bull's assassin as much as the toad does.

A man dripping from hair to heel in the blood of dozens.

A man to wake in a cold sweat to.

The covers glued to you and his razors edge to your throat.

A phantom in the night. A bogeyman to keep people in line. A cold hearted killer to erase foolish errors.

The bull mustn't know of any police investigation. Though the bull should know you better.

The same can't be said about Kenton and Ryan. Your faith in them wavering. Shitting themselves at the prospects of doing porridge.

Searching for their backbones. Looking at them in a different luminous. Sick of other people and their frailties letting you down.

Four fields side by side. A field for the law, a field for the villains, a field for lemmings with frailties and a field of your own. Your insularfield.

You need to stay calm. Your empire not burning yet, but pockets of fires starting to be lit.

Walter Clarke - gone.

Rebecca Stevenson - gone - with the flick of a knife.

Her and the boy - disappeared - to be with Paddy Murphy.

The Campbell's - missing and dangerous - informing mystery police investigations?

Joey Bryant - gone - an ongoing police enquiry.

The Flannery's - gone, gone and gone - flicks of an assassin's knife.

Your father suddenly back on the scene after all these years. Stirring up your emotions. Reminding you of those hidden demons and a dormant hatred. Vanished from your mind until now.

A man who abandoned you. -'Don't ever forget that' you were told.

A bummer who did a runner. Leaving you in the lurch and dismantling your early dreams.

Holding back the years.

In the public eyes. Carrying that name that you once wore. A local man who went on to be a world renowned bestselling author. Millions of book sales and a loyal following.

Where had he been hiding all of these years?

Counting his wealth and keeping it from his offspring. Denying you of sharing in his massive literacy success.

Pointing you towards a life of controlled crime, from afar.

Working your strings in the way that you've worked the strings of others.

Toying with you. Manipulating you. Crafting you in a way that you'd never realised before.

Him turning up out of the blue. At your lowest ebb. To mock you with his wealth and success.

Dripping with money. Coated in wealth. Positively reeking of it. The clothes. The watch. The rings on his fingers. The plum to his once local voice.

A man shafted by years of cock, returned to shaft you. To remind you of what you could have won.

Except you can't have that because he didn't want you. He wanted cock. Cock, cock and more dirty horrible cock.

That's what you were taught.

Your father substituted you for the filthy waste of other men.

You are lower than the wasted semen of other men.

Worth less than a dirty used cock being washed fresh in the bathroom sink.

A man with more money and wealth than you could ever earn through all your years of foul scams. By writing books about pirates and boats.

More money in tapping out letters on a typewriter, than tapping on heads of villains.

But sharing it with pufters and their vile ways rather than his own abandoned flesh and blood.

Your field never looking lonelier. Scanning the horizon for a friend. Only the bull by the fence, munching nervously and looking over his shoulder at you with doubt in his mind.

Station Road Police Station.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

MCMXCVI during the reign of Empress Tissard.

Divisional Commander Kate Tissard at her side of her desk. Ornate in her southern skin and a dark blue dress that clings to her. Suggesting to everyone that she is an untouchable masterpiece. Allowing you to take a good look at her finely executed brushstrokes, her delicate layers and consummate symmetrical lines; however, she is roped off, with a guard and a highly sophisticated alarm system.

You are on the opposite side in your week old suit and tie. Having less and less time for the hygiene of your clothes.

Timelines leaving town when she took the boy and moved in with Paddy Murphy.

Tissard wanting updates on the Campbell search. Wanting you to take full control of the case.

You with a mind full of hatred.

Hatred for the toad.

Hatred for your father.

Hatred for this woman sat opposite you.

Stealing your job. An untold agenda in a flawless disguise, sent to deceive you.

Making it your intention to find out everything you can about Divisional Commander Kate Tissard.

Her hopes and her dreams. Her mother's maiden name and her PIN numbers. Her inside leg measurement and the underwear she prefers. The address where she grew up and the lovers who she has cast aside. Her favourite food and the drinks she avoids. The shampoo she uses and the routine to get her waved hair so immaculate. What her fears are and what her fears really are. Who she reports back to and the width of the dossier she has on you.

You add Kate Tissard to the very top of your growing goals.

A new set of goals.

Wiping the walls of your war room clean.

Stripping it of photo's of The Flannery's.

Having no intentions of searching in vain attempts for The Campbell's, who are long gone.

You'll put that investigation in to the hands of DI Brain Kenton and DS Graham Ryan. The men meant to be at your right hand. Men losing their nerve.

Rabbits frozen to the asphalt of the quietest, darkest country lane, caught in Tissard's onrushing headlights; before she has even had chance to take the car out of the garage.

A field that needs a new fence. A higher fence. With a layer of barbed wire and a moat. Keeping out the weak of will and the weak of mind.

A new set of goals. Designed with George Flaxman in mind.

To get your own way and enforce your own rules.

That menacing place in your head being handed the set of keys.

Not giving a fuck anymore.

Everyone stalking you and questioning you.

Cutting off the strings that binds you to others.

Letting go of the fear. Creating your own fear.

Running amok with your state of mind.

Paranoia hanging around and baiting you.

A new set of rules for that wall of the war room.

The elimination of Tissard.

The elimination of your father.

He said it himself -'You are all that I have left in the world.'

Time to take back what is yours. To sweep him from this world and collect your rightful inheritance.

To get to work on unfinished business.

Kate Tissard and Martin Carruthers. Forget The fucking Campbell's. Leave that to spastics like Kenton and Ryan.

You have work to finish and places to move on from.

When you're done in here you'll make the relevant calls.

# Insularfield :  
no escaping a fox's den

## Maurice.

Young Griff had given him my address. He'd rung upfront to explain things and it had made me nervously confused. A policeman wanting to see me.

Visit me in my home.

To discuss business?

Griff saying that it was my prerogative if I wanted to tell him to go away. Which I fully intend to do.

I'm newly retired and don't need this rubbish anymore.

I'd not anticipated being faced with it again.

Griff telling me not to worry. This policeman was a friend. An associate of his. Someone I could trust.

He gave me his word, and Griff's word is good enough for me.

Agility being saved for putting my feet up. Waistline happy to comply.

He'd taken a double look when I'd answered the door.

Me wrapped in that plaster that had lost its freshness.

Telling me that he'd expected a younger man; a bigger man.

Someone with more ice about him, he chuckled.

Was I sure that I was Maurice Braithwaite?

-'What sort of a question is that?' I asked.

He's a cocky bugger. Serious and careful in the way that he talks.

I get the impression that every line is purposely thought through before he delivers it.

I get the impression that he values being listened to and is used to being heard.

He's just a policeman in a suit to me, but I'm respectful anyhow.

Tapping his teaspoon on the table. Not using it for any sugar; just for stirring and tapping.

Taking a good look around the room, like bobbies do.

Shook my hand as he came in to the house. Giving it an unnecessary squeeze; as if to let me know that he was a policeman and he was in charge.

I exchanged pleasantries with him. Why wouldn't I?

He's a friend of Griff's so he has to be alright I'd imagine?

My Joan in my head, confirming that the fella is okay. If he's been vetoed by her Griff and handed our address then it will have been given in the best intentions.

Retirement treating me well. One week in and living on easy street.

I'd asked Griff -'What does he want?'

Griff had said -'He's an odd character. More than a bit unhinged. Missus has left him and loosened the screws in his head a bit more than usual.'

I'd said -'I'm not doing any more jobs Griff. I'm retired... I'm certainly not messing about with any more women. That's not ethical.'

Griff had said -'Just listen to what he has to say Maurice. I've explained the situation to him and he's a reasonable enough bloke. He has a proposition for you, if you're not interested then politely tell him to go forth.'

I said -'It makes me nervous having the police here Griff.'

Griff had said -'He's only police by name Maurice. He's as bent as you and me. A CV as long as your arm. Don't be intimidated by him.'

This is a retirement home now. With flowers in the window. Coronation Street on the telly. Breakfast news every morning with toast and complaining about the young uns of today. A young lady about the place now to keep an eye on me. Things haven't been this good in a long time.

This bobby is cool and composed. He has no qualms about what it is he is asking me to do.

Just nonchalantly spitting it out as if he was going off on his holidays and would like me to check on his pets.

He's reminding me of the things that I have done. Telling me that I'm considered the best at it.

Someone who Griff - our mutual friend - swears by to do all of his dirty washing.

I'd never considered myself as a laundrette.

He's telling me that he'd investigated all of my recent crimes.

The bookmaker chap in Woodhouse.

The two ladies in Berry Hill, coming back from that funeral. Emphasising about the unborn child that died.

The three Irish lads over by Retford. Winking and confirming that one will remain a secret between everyone, in the best interests of the nation.

Him commenting about the damage I'd taken being a concern.

Perhaps I was right to retire?

Maybe I was getting too old?

He could be asking the wrong man afterall?

Griff's phantom being all too human.

The assassin an accident waiting to happen, he suggests.

Not being able to afford any slip ups with his own personal sideliner job.

Joan pacing about inside of my mind, telling me that I shouldn't be considered in that way. Telling me that it's embarrassing to be thought of as incapable.

Her asking me just what it is that I have become?

The bobby tells me that he has no interest in these crimes. Even the second one, to people who he knew personally.

Admitting that sometimes these things have to be necessary.

Retirement is a good place. A friendlier place. A place with few worries and cares; and a young lady around the house to keep an eye on me.

-'I noticed that there was a bit of bother next door a few weeks back.' He comments.

-'Yes. The chap there; he went a bit three sheets to the wind.'

-'Really?'

-'Yes.'

-'I spoke to one of my colleges before I came to visit you. DI Redmond. I believe you met?'

-'Yes we did. She sat on that exact same stool.'

-'And was she good with you Mr Braithwaite?'

-'Yes, of course. Very good. Very professional.'

-'Excellent.'

He sips on his tea. His quizzical accusing eyes never leaving me. Keeping me nervous and uncomfortable.

-'Did you realise that you were a suspect Mr Braithwaite?'

-'No. Not at all. Why would I be a suspect?'

-'You were on the scene. You'd been privy to the whole masquerade. You'd even cleaned up the mess.'

-'The neighbours are friends of mine. I've known the daughter all of my life.'

-'Karin Nemeth?'

-'That's right.'

-'Eighteen years old. Just returned from a holiday. A strained relationship with her parents. Happened to walk in as the incident had only just occurred?'

-'That's right. It was a coincidence.'

-'What's your relationship with Miss Nemeth, Mr Braithwaite?'

-'We're friends. Me and my wife helped bring her up.'

-'And your relationship with the Nemeth's?'

-'Just neighbours... Listen, is this a private chat, or am I being interviewed over something?'

-'I've said Maurice, we're friends.'

-'Well it feels like I'm under scrutiny here.'

-'You're not.'

-'Good.'

-'Do you have any sexual urges towards Miss Nemeth?'

-'Look. I think it's time for you to leave.'

-'You have to look at it from my point of view Maurice. This could have been a crime of passion.'

-'I beg your pardon?'

-'Pretty young neighbour. Father in the way. Can't imagine he'd be too happy at the old man next door perving over his daughter.'

-'Time to go Mr Flaxman.'

-'Mr Nemeth behaving unbalanced. A perfect opportunity for a violent man to stamp his authority and inflict a telling blow.'

-'I have somewhere to be Mr Flaxman. I'm not the man you need.'

-'I think you're a man that hears voices Maurice. You do as you are told and I believe you were told to get Mr Nemeth out of the way. Perhaps you have designs on both Nemeth women?'

-'Come on, let's have you gone.'

-'The place conveniently wiped clean by the time my officers got to the scene. Singling you out for special observation. The victim losing his marbles most advantageously.'

-'I didn't do that to that man.'

-'Then you won't mind doing this job that I ask then, will you Mr Braithwaite?'

He raises his eyebrows, awaiting my acceptance. Joan with her arms folded upstairs.

-'A small task for a friend Maurice... A friend that can make this suspicion go away. A small task that you will be rewarded with by me having the ability to completely wipe your name from the file.'

-'You're blackmailing me.'

-'Of course I'm blackmailing you. I want a job done really really badly and have nobody better to turn to.'

-'Do it yourself.'

-'I'm a policeman. We don't go around murdering folks. We go around catching the people who murder folks... People like you.'

-'You said that this would be a friendly chat.'

-'Has it not been friendly? Have I not been friendly with you Maurice?'

-'I think you're the worst kind of all wrong uns.'

-'No Maurice, you are the worst of all us wrong uns. People like me instruct. People like you get their hands covered in blood. Ultimately it is you that does the deed.'

-'Like this one?'

-'Like this one.'

Joan upstairs, tapping her toes, her arms folded. Daring me not to be spoken to like this without proving myself.

-'Who is it?'

-'A man called Carruthers. He lives in Portsmouth. You'd need to travel down and do the job there. He lives alone and is an old man. Even older and slower than you are. It should be a job that even you can complete unscathed.'

-'When?'

-'You'll leave as soon as you're capable. Sooner the better. Even in your current state you should be able to take care of a frail old man. I'll give you an address that I've got hold of. You just do that special thing that you do.'

-'Requests?'

-'Don't make mistakes, and don't get caught.'

-'I don't make mistakes, or get caught.'

-'I'd noticed. That's why we like you... The phantom.' He laughs.

-'I don't have transport.'

He reaches in to his wallet. Taking out a bunch of twenty pound notes. -'Let the train take the strain Maurice. Should even be enough there for a nice B&B by the seaside.'

He writes an address on a piece of paper and stands.

-'I expect to hear from you within the fortnight Maurice. Don't let me down. You might be retired now, but we've been partners for longer than you know. Remember, I hold the key to make this nasty business next door go away.'

-'I didn't do anything next door.'

He makes his way out.

-'I think I believe you. I have to believe you because we have this bond, me and you. But bonds can be broken and missing evidence can come to light. Even coppers have been known to be careless my friend.'

I'm properly stitched up. Wishing that Griff had never given him my address.

Wishing he'd kept me secret, after what we'd spoken about too.

It hadn't been easy just to tell him to go away, like Griff had suggested.

I'm sure Griff wouldn't have known that he was going to victimise me in this way.

Joan upstairs looking furious. Telling me to just get this business done and out of the way. Griff wouldn't have sent him here if he hadn't have trusted him.

Informing me that I'd been stupid going round there and getting involved in that business next door.

I'm trying to remind her that Karin had called me in a panic. Wanting my help.

Joan telling me that it wasn't my place to go tidying up. Making me look suspicious.

A daft mistake.

After all of the experience I have too.

Welcome to the 'Braithwaite Retirement Home For The Eternally Soft In The Head.'

-'You take care now Maurice. I look forward to hearing the good news from you.'

He opens the door, just as Karin steps up.

Home from work.

Her second full day living here.

A shock on her face.

-'We meet again.' The bobby says to her.

## Martin.

Normally I would celebrate on completing that final draft. A toast to a job well done with Champagne and a special meal out somewhere purposely selected. Somewhere where they liked me and appreciated my custom.

Slinging the drink back for a couple of days with a special friend or two.

It seems such a long time since I'd visited this once all too familiar place. Editing and revising that final draft and printing out the manuscript. Wide double margins. Normal spacing and Calibri font on the word processor. Wrapped in A4 card binding and posted next day delivery to my publisher Nigel at Fulham Palace Road, encased in thick brown paper.

Normally I'd have an excited gladness in my heart at such a completion of the process. Giving Nigel a hearty call with a heads up. Nigel becoming less enthusiastic as the years rolled by. Me remaining jolly with him in a professional manner, but Nigel realising that it was the same old formulated rubbish as always coming through the post and me off out on the sauce to celebrate.

Nigel seeing out my contractual obligations as if it were money for old rope. A tired character, in a tired world, told the same way in countless different guises. Benedict a model of perfection. Never a hair ruffled. Never a battle lost. Always getting the girl. Always loved by all. A world of smiling, charismatic heroes and zealous yet flawed, villainess foes.

After awhile anyone could write this nonsense with their eyes covered and their hands inserted up their behinds.

The money long since dried up. Back in to my overdraft. Jag-less and penniless. Coppering up the few pounds that it costs to send off my manuscript to Harper Collins from out of the change that I collect together from all four corners of the house.

The house dimly lit in the shadow of a grey and bleak morning. A walk to the Post Office and straight back home again. No quick slip in to an alehouse for slaps on the back and three cheers. No phone call to Nigel. No celebration for a job well done. Just a completion of my contractual obligations and to sit tight and wait for the inevitable.

For them to take everything away, including this house which is my pride and joy.

Portsmouth Battery House.

Old Portsmouth

12 Grand Parade

The spring of 1996.

The year that my flowers dried up, withered and died.

My thirtieth Benedict book completed. Edgar Benedict, a nation's hero, returning home and it being an unmitigated disaster. Him finding nothing but resentment, loathing and lingering fear. No place to tread for yesterdays heroes. Defending his honour against a blitzkrieg of defilement. Making him question his sanity and his nobility. Deciding not to kill off our hero after all. Refusing to put a dagger through the chest of my oldest and most loyal accomplice. Instead he rounded a turnpike in his life. Re-routing and changing his rational introspective. The novel closing with a new sinister, foreboding and delphian Benedict. Completely unrecognisable from the man his fans had grown to love. Storm clouds threatening and persecuting the land. The fate of Edgar Benedict and his deviant path left in the lap of the Gods which control his fragile wits.

It is the best Bendict novel I have ever written. I knew it once I began it. I knew it when I beat a path up to Nottinghamshire. I knew it when I was on my knees with grief. Locking myself away in my turmoil. I knew it was the best Benedict novel I had ever written throughout every waking minute of me arriving back home, of throwing my bag to one side and beginning to write. Immediately without removing my jacket. Long in to the night. Stopping only through fatigue. Three hours sleep and returning to the draft. Living on strong coffee for four days until it was completed. Sleeping in a whirl of nightmares for a whole day. Dreaming about the boy and the devil he had become. Clawing at my pillows and sobbing in to the sheets. Like I'd disrupted a life that I'd never held a part of. Contorted faces and vengeful tongues in a black dream where the only escape is to the waking world; where the real life nightmare of my sodomised life, inside and outside of the sheets, stares at me unblinking.

In a place where I only have myself and my rapidly advancing old age. A place where I will soon be made homeless through the misadventure and the mismanagement of a reckless life, picked apart by circumstance and the complicated wiring of my head.

Putting on hobnailed boots and heading north on a whim proving a foolhardy idea. The task of cultivating my brain with first hand concise research, proving a successful and responsive one.

The task of building bridges, turning back the clock and living happily ever after being swatted in its tracks and bludgeoned; left to die a slow and painful death in the side of a hedge bottom. Leaving me with the type of grief that one only gets through the loss of a loved one. Stripping my cupboard bare and throwing my possessions out on to the filthy wet cobblestones.

There is no more Benedict left to love. His tales concluded; my contract reaching its dissolution.

There will be no more 12 Grand Parade. My time here facing its epilogue.

There is no love. No new flesh left in the dish of the king of maritime novelists.

No salvation of lost loved family relations. The only hope remaining, slapping me across the face and spitting in my eye. Sliding his heel across the curb edging stones to remove me from his shoe.

A boy who forgot his father. The mists of time and the plague of grudged voices turning him against me. No future for hopes of new rekindling.

Alone in the lurid mirk of the houses misty morning shadows. A jar full of different varieties of anti-depressant, in their traffic light shades, and a large cold glass of water.

Thankful that the water has not yet been switched off. The warning letters at the bottom of the kitchen bin.

Wondering how much water it will take to send the entirety of the jar swimming to the bottom of my belly?

Preferring to go out with alcohol, but alcohol being off of the menu of my wallet.

Nobody remaining left to care enough to be found waiting for me in heaven; just like here on earth.

## Evan.

I'd pissed myself.

Most of it had soaked in to my jeans and left me to itch uncomfortably. But when he'd smelt it and seen the damp patch on the carpet that's when he'd decided to drag me in to here. Up the stairs to the next level of the flat.

After the first day.

In to the dark.

No need for a pillow case over my head in here cos I can barely pick things out in the black anyway.

I can hear him rustling about behind the closed door and down the stairway.

There's a musty smell to this room that I still can't get used to. Like a room that's never been lived in. As if from the moment that the building was thrown up its destiny was to just sit and stink of floorboards covered in carpet with no pile, a layer of dust thick enough to lodge in your nose.

A stale part of the world where nobody will ever tread again.

It's a room that makes me crave my sisters old box room. With its cheap and cheerless single bed and its walls that inch closer to squeezing the life from my mortal coil.

The hours of silence, sucking in the contaminated fragments of grime that float about this cool, dim place; filtering them inside myself and then breathing them out until next time.

Feeling that I'm using my body like a dehumidifier.

Sat tied to this chair that almost feels like an extension to my body now.

No longer sat in my waste. Long done shitting.

Stripped of my trousers and boxer shorts.

Held in the dark, bottom half naked, for nobody to see.

Finished shitting two days ago. Nothing left to shit.

My body the dehumidifier. Sucking in the stale air through my nasal passage. Keeping the crap inside of me and snorted out in a slightly more purified form.

A form that meets the whiff of my secreted smell of waste. Shat out days ago and staining my skin; clinging to the hair around my balls and arse.

Little ventilation to this space. My mouth bound to keep me from screaming; my whole jaw aching from the strain of not being able to move it. Hours on end I sit like this.

Unable to locate the time.

Only knowing whether it's day or night by the shade of grey through the thick of the curtains.

Dark grey for day.

Even darker grey for night.

Five times since I've been in this room it has got even greyer.

Another spent with a pillow case over my head, in a different part of the flat. A part with pictures on the walls with names attached. Picture taken through the sort of long lens that the paparazzi use.

A steel filing cabinet that is locked; and a desk with drawers that are locked.

A phone that I'd used to call Trevor on. Trevor not answering. Trevor never answering.

A man not being happy to come back and repeatedly find me sat in my own crap. Making me clean myself up whilst pointing a gun to my head.

The jeans and CK boxers going in to a black bin liner with the wet flannel he'd given me to wipe myself clean with.

Getting me to lay a plastic sheet on the floor of the musty room.

Getting me to place that wooden chair on top of it and sit down.

Tying my hands to it with thick tie wraps that dig in to my skin with his loathing menace.

Tying my ankles to it with thick tie wraps that dig in to my skin with his loathing menace.

Setting a bucket full of water on the floor beside me.

Putting a long plastic tube inside the bucket and wrapping a cloth around the other end.

Stuffing that cloth in to my extended mouth, the plastic tube resting inside, on my tongue.

Getting me to demonstrate that I could suck up the water.

Taping the cloth and tube to my face. Wrapping it tightly around my head in his loathing menace.

His eyes scalding me like he's branding cattle. A madness to him. An unbalance to how he breathes and talks. Though taking it in his stride that he's found an intruder and plans to keep him here. Like this is no big deal to him.

Having enough of beating the living daylights out of me after the first day.

Seeming to believe me when I tell him that I was just looking for somewhere to shelter.

Him finding it amusing and letting me know that I couldn't have chosen a worse time and a worse place.

Leaving me there. Alone for days at a time.

Black and blue. Broken and bruised.

In my skin with the hairs standing on end. The nights chilly and black.

That bucket steadily draining.

Making me piss more and more.

Only interested in staying alive.

Him telling me that he'll make me clean up my own mess before he kills me.

Him telling me that by the time he unties me I'll want to pull the trigger on myself.

The first night was spent sleeping on that cramped couch. Somewhere to hide out of the way.

Away from my domineering mother. Away from the Sweeney household and the flicking cameras; which I desire now as much as a good meal inside of me.

The man had come in and startled me whilst I was waking up. Waking up and contemplating on leaving, just in case anyone came.

The flat being about as homely as a damp box beneath a railway arch in the freeze of winter.

Someone was clearly using the place and against my lingering doubts I'd decided to stay the night.

A space of my own away from all the bullshit and the bullshitters.

Setting the alarm on my Motorola for 7.

I was already awake. The brightness of a naked window letting the whole world in.

I'd lay there for what seemed an eternity, thinking about moving.

Thinking about getting out whilst the coast was clear. My one night stay being as uncomfortable as that box room in The Warren, or five days shacked up with Tina.

My belly rumbling and fancying a breakfast at McDonalds whilst it was still early.

Someone did come.

I'd heard the key in the door. The scratch against the bristles of the draught excluders. The rapid sealing off of the vacuum to the outside world.

The moment that I went from being an uninvited guest to a prisoner.

The moment when I regretted buying that smoke and looking for a quiet spot to enjoy it.

The moment when the tongue of my mother wasn't so bad after all.

The moment when I wished that I'd swallowed my screwed up boredom and taken Tina for dinner.

The moment when I'd have traded the hot lights and a red carpet for a glum existence working in a fruit and veg store.

Like the fruit and veg store below this flat. Where occasionally I'll hear a member of my family bang a box, or slide a sack across the floor, or slam home the shutter at the end of the working day.

Trying to scream out loud through my blocked mouth.

Desperate to make Billy, or dad, aware of my hiding.

Wondering if the piss that I kept pissing would slide off the plastic sheeting that I'd put beneath the chair - that feels like an extension of my body now - and soak enough in to the carpet to make it drip through the ceiling of that shop below.

No food for seven days. Making me double up in agony. My body making all sorts of angry noises and arrangements to start feeding off my muscles and vital organs for energy. Taking away my bone marrow and threatening my existence.

Knowing this stuff after studying about Bobby Sands in the Maze when I was in sixth form.

Sixty-six days on hunger strike.

The general public knowing the exact whereabouts of Bobby Sands. Member for Parliament for Fermanagh & South Tyrone for twenty-six days, and convicted member of the Provisional IRA.

The general public have no idea of the whereabouts of Evan Speed.

I wonder if they are still looking. The paparazzi scratching their heads.

I wonder if Tina is still waiting. Just as hungry herself, for that dinner that I'd promised.

I wonder if Trevor has struck the deal and has been making the call. To a mobile phone with no battery life.

So many days out of the spotlight.

Damaging my career and meddling with my psyche.

So much tears and snot shed, along with the damp of my piss that splashes and drips around my bare feet. Making them itch and tingle.

The man forcing a salt tablet down me every time he comes. Wanting to keep me alive; to punishing me.

Making me suffer for invading his space.

Bringing closure to people invading his space, he'd said.

Too easy to have just let me go with a kicking, he'd said.

I could be his pet, he'd said.

His experiment, he'd said.

A pin cushion at the end of the day, he'd said.

To release his frustrations upon, he'd said.

And occasionally there is the sounds of other voices with him. At first they were crystal clear but as my body goes in to a mental exhaustion they've become more muffled.

Serious voices, out the door, across the tiny landing and down the bottom of the stairway.

Never any swapping of jollity.

Arguing and raised voices. The regular voice unhappy with two other voices.

Two other voices that never set foot in this eerily quiet room, with its thick wooden door closed tight.

A room that is completely empty but for me and my chair, the musk of the carpet and the plastic sheet covered in a thick film of piss. Grey dark and a trickle of breeze against my skin from a gap in a window, only just open.

Nobody ever comes in to this room. It is forgotten.

The world lost interest in this place a long time ago.

Happy to let it slip in to the ether.

I pray that the same doesn't apply to Evan Speed.

## Billy.

The flicker from the gas burn off flame at Immingham Power Station stood vivid on the darkening Saturday evening horizon. Day turning to night. The flame always burning. Like a beacon for the Humber as you race away from North-east Lincolnshire. Your father left behind with Melanie. Dave sat beside you in the van.

Your father never happier than when in the company of his only daughter. The real love of his life. Fortunes pulling her away from him but your father understanding and happy for her and her fulfilling life with Dave.

Dave having the school break up for half term. Happy and willing to accompany you back home for a few days; staying at his folk's place in Sutton. Eager to get on the ale and be the child that he spends the working week attempting to keep in check.

Your day had been soothing. Away from the madness.

You and your father had closed the shop at one. You'd noisily come through the front door a little before 3am, waking up the neighbourhood singing songs of defiance loudly with Jocky, Matt T and Rixy. Staying in Limited Editions until the lights came on and taking turns in being pushed home in a supermarket trolley. Your mother at the top of the stair asking if you'd seen anything of your brother. You shrugging your shoulders and convincing yourself that he'll be somebody else's burden now. Probably hidden away in the sprawling metropolis of the capital.

You'd woken four hours later to the usual stinging head and muffled ring in your ears. Your father fixing up a brew and packing himself a bag. Your mother furious that he intended to spend the week in Cleethorpes whilst his eldest son was missing. Mother wanting all hands on deck but nobody caring; happy to let Adrian drift off hanging on to driftwood.

Away from the henpecking of your mother. Breathing down your neck and suffocating you with her demands.

Your dad was like an excited kid going off on his first holiday. Closing up the shop at 1pm and heading to the coast via the long route: through Retford and Gainsborough. Your father always liking a pint at the Swallow Inn, at Swallow, just off the A46, outside of Caister, before reaching the outskirts of Grimsby. Only a pint of mild and a stretch of the legs but it was a ritual of his and you weren't going to deny it him. In fact you would positively encourage it. The suppressing half of your family left behind in your wake and the productive half within touching distance. The first pint of the day settling your now balanced head.

Staying on at Thrunscoe Road for a few hours. Von and Leon's house party to attend in the evening back at home. Two bedroomed upstairs maisonette, ninety seconds from door to bar at The Gun & Glasshouse. Twenty-three years old the pair of them. Their first home away from both of their mothers.

'Von and Leon's Shagging Pad'.

Everybody knowing that it'll be Von doing the vast majority of the shagging and Leon doing the bulk of the grumbling. The place being Von's vision, but only Leon being suckered in to renting with the first ladies man of The Warren. Not a partnership that had tickled your fancy, even when considering your own living conditions.

It only just hitting home that if your father didn't make it through this you'll be left alone in that house with your mother and the extended role that it would comprise of. Momentarily giving yourself a brief selfish thought again.

Needing room to breathe for your imprisoned paranoia.

The week had been dominated by your mother. Adrian missing. Never coming home from Tina's. Sending you off to search every nook and cranny of the town. The discomfort of having to knock on Tina's door. Her mother letting you in. Always having a soft spot for you; the same with the man of the house. Brewing you up some of their excellent Italian coffee and sharing their holiday snaps before Tina could even be bothered to emerge from upstairs. Back in the house of her parents. Her life on hold again. Dumped by the man she'd binned you off for. Used and abused by your brother. You getting it in the neck on his behalf. Taking one for the fragmented team. Telling you that your brother is a worthless piece of shit. Telling you nothing that you didn't know already. Warning you that she will go to the papers; make no mistake about that. Her father telling her to behave. Her telling her father that you'd shagged her work college Jess in that room where they were now; enjoying one of his strong espresso's. You colouring up. Her mother colouring up. Her father shying you a casual wink. Tina Dunkley scalding you for ruining her relationship with Jess. Jess being funny with her at work now. It's not been easy for her. Evan Speed making her promises that he hasn't fulfilled and you exacting your revenge by humiliating her with her new friend.

You drink up and explain that you have other places in which you have to check for him.

Your mother eventually calling the police. Them explaining that he is a grown adult who has reason for keeping a low profile. They can't be expected to use resources and man power looking for a man in hiding from the press. Your mother writing a letter of complaint to the Independent Police Complaints Commission. Saying he has to be found.

The BBC had given him a reprieve.

Wanting to slap his hand. Your mother being beside herself with relief. Blaming the heiress 98th in line for the throne for this whole sorry saga.

He needs to be found. Shooting begins in three weeks.

The thought of being alone with her in that house draining you of your remaining enthusiasm for life.

Parking the car in The Gun car park and walking the few metres to Von and Leon's shagging pad. Being surprised that there isn't already a sign up saying 'Von and Leon's Shagging Pad'. The party already in full swing and the downstairs neighbours already on their way out, giving you and Dave a filthy look as you pass them on the footpath, with a crate of Stella and a bottle of Lambrini in your hands.

Loud bass music and louder drunken laughing as you appear. Vitriolic claims against your parenting for being late. Dave straight in to the Artois and the eager arms of a few of the girls. Exchanging hugs as if he was a returning war hero. You downing a can in record time to help settle your head. The kitchen ceiling already wearing a stain of alcohol that'll probably last longer in this apartment than both Von, and especially, Leon.

Talk is rife of the disappearance of your brother. Always the talk returns to your brother. The girls disappointed with his no show; the lads more interested in deciding his fate. The majority in agreement that he'll be shacked up with some female somewhere; weaving his magic and lacing her drinks with the mystique of stardom. You really couldn't give a shit. The longer he can remain good at hide and seek the better.

Even in his sustained absence the crowds are more interested in your brother than they are of you.

You go outside to share a cigarette with Leon's sister Rachel. Home from university for an extended weekend. Loving life in Cardiff. Her spiralling hair blown across her face as she lights her cigarette. Remembering how you'd always fancied her since you were about nine years old. Her a couple of years younger and always out of your league even then. A brain inside of her head. A thirst for education successfully steering her well clear of any of Leon's friends. Her sexual persuasion being the other barrier. Her always liking you. You were different from the others. More thoughtful and considerate; if not a little too boring. Rachel always honest. Always blunt. Just reaffirming what you already knew and understood. The boys had always called you a drip; a soft touch. You were reliable and a firm friend but it was true, you were anonymous. Plain in looks and plain in personality. You'd tried to change it. Altered your game and inserted some freedom in to your thinking; but you didn't possess the imagination for it. You aren't the world's greatest talker, a trait inherited from your father, and you weren't the life and soul of the party either. You're a dreamer, who craves certain things; many unattainable, but they were simple dreams. Dreams of being loved and in love. Dreams of being happy and having a busy social schedule. Dreams of walking in to a party and the music wanting to stop to welcome you in; not the story being the return of your (almost) brother-in-law, Dave.

Rachel tells you that you'll never get what you want if you aren't prepared to take it for yourself.

You inform her that your dad had told you the exact same thing. She asks how your dad is. You tell her the news with a stammer to your voice. She takes you in an embrace of genuine feelings. You grip her tightly and smell her hair that fills your nostrils and your mouth. Her small slender frame being off limits to you, your mates and the whole male species. You wanting it to last forever, overcome with emotion and an old desire for her that had long left town to be forgotten; returning as quickly as the blood that rushes from your heart to your penis.

Boring. You've had confirmation handed to you in a glittering golden card. Signed by Rachel and your own lingering paranoia. You are boring xxx

Inside the drinking games are in full swing, whilst Von, Matt T and Stack are embraced and bouncing and yelling along to the layered jangle of The Stone Roses - 'Elephant Stone'. You stay well clear, not needing a very public show of stupidity. Being boring again. Draining another Artois and asking where the sandwiches are? Von reminding you that in this house the fridge is for alcohol only, and the bed is reserved on a first come first served basis. Rachel confirming that'll only be when he's asleep, dreaming.

Knoxy telling you that he bumped in to Tina at the Safeway deli aisle. She'd got a heap of steaming violence in her tone for your Adrian, yet she'd got even more for you. Knoxy wondering why you couldn't tell a best mate about shagging a Scottish bird back at your ex's? Must have been a boring lay for you to keep it so quiet?

It suddenly dawning on you that you'd found Jess boring. It wasn't that you'd not found her attractive. It was that she'd failed in stimulating your mind. It dawned on you that you'd probably created the exact same reaction for her in her own head. It was doomed from the minute that your brother had put his tongue inside your ex-girlfriends mouth on Valentino's dancefloor.

That and the ongoing presence of Karin in your head. Beating away at your subconscious with a tiny rubber mallet.

Remember me?

Remember me?

Remember me?

Remember me?

Hardly able to remember anything bloody else. Boring as ever.

Karin Nemeth. Your continuing open-ended opus. Forever intertwining her magical tune in to the fabric of your soul. As important as the blood in your veins and the air in your lungs. The words of your father stinging your ears. "You've not got long."

You search inside yourself to find the strength that had made you approach her initially. Which had made you put down your boring persona and take a chance. Such courage never rearing its unfamiliar head before, and never appearing again since. As if you'd stolen it from somebody else for the night.

Before you know it you have left that party. You have passed The Gun and The Warren Parade. Two streets down on the left. 19 Saint Matthews Close.

Stood under the orange of a streetlight. The house of the Nemeth's being in pitch dark. It being a touch past eleven on your watch. Packing your courage in to an old worn suitcase and sitting on it, as you lock it too. Alcohol pushing you through the gate and down the path. Alcohol lifting your fist to slap the living crap out of that front door of the Nemeth's. Knowing that her old man will probably still be receiving treatment in a hospital somewhere.

Nobody home.

No mother.

No Karin.

Probably out with her friend Joanne; or perhaps someone new in her life.

Your paranoia so badly wanting it to be the latter as you walk away, still clutching a half full can of beer and being relieved that you haven't managed to upset anyone. Your breath stinking of booze and your heart telling you that it would be best to get back to the party and drink some more; as you always did. You and your mates and your social circle. Work in the week; drinking at weekends. No boundaries ever crossed. Life is beer and beer is life. The only thing that matters being the now; being the craic. Being young and spreading your wings. The wings that take you all the way to The Gun & Glasshouse, all the way to the bright lights and noise of the town, and over to Cleethorpes; for more beer and the craic of the young social circle.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday, pissed out of your mind and confirming your lack of attraction to the opposite sex. Your mates loving you. The women largely avoiding you.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, priming for the weekend. A ten minute walk to The Gun & Glasshouse to talk about weekends past and weekends future. Life is beer and beer is life. The only thing that matters being the now; being the craic. The social successes and the social failures. Your mates loving you. The women finding you boring.

Boring and limited, just like the path that your linear small town life leads from one week to the next.

## Karin.

It was Saturday and I'd sat on it all week until I couldn't hold it any longer. Maurice had gone around to my mother's house a couple of evenings back and thrown a reporter off her doorstep on to the street. He'd been hanging around and asking questions about me whilst I'd been at work. Tired of seeing him hanging around he snapped and confronted him. Causing a scene and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. Whispering in to his ear and sending him away with some muted threat.

Completely out of character for that quiet gentle man that I know and love, and has opened up his house for me. Letting me settle in with a minimum fuss and allowing me my own space.

The annoyance of the press making me shelter behind closed doors more than I'd like or wish to in my first week here.

Out of the blue Maurice had revealed that he had to leave town for a couple of days. He'd heard from a cousin on the south coast after years without contact and they needed to see him about a family issue.

In all of my years of knowing Maurice he had never once mentioned family on the south coast.

In all of my years of knowing Maurice he had never once mentioned anything of any direct family whatsoever.

An eternally private man who gives the impression of knowing nobody. But who am I to doubt him?

Although he is lousy at fabricating the truth, and I knew that he is fabricating the truth again here.

I didn't pressure him with questions or query him with doubts. It's none of my business and if he has something private to keep from me then it is his right to.

I have plenty of issues that I never share with anyone either.

Before he'd left this morning I hadn't told him that I intended to confront Evan Speed about dragging me in to his affairs via the media. I fear that if I had then Maurice's protective arm would have gone round me again and not allowed me the chance.

I didn't want to stop him from going about his own business and his trip.

He left at 07:30 this morning.

I'd got up to see him off.

It had seemed unusual for him to leave that scooter of his behind. He went everywhere on it but admitted that the south coast was out of reach for an aging machine and an even older body; especially one with an arm in plaster.

I'd given drinking in town a miss on the Friday night. Letting Joanne down and leaving her in a huff. Trying to explain to her my situation. Joanne having the audacity to tell me that I must be mad. Telling me that if she had been in my shoes then Evan Speed wouldn't be able to pull himself out of bed from the exhaustion. Joanne actually believing the newspaper in thinking that I'd had a thing with him. I'm having to ask her when exactly did she think that I would have found the time to dedicate to this romance and why would I have kept it from the best friend who I tell almost everything?

She'd said -'I suppose so' in a way that still makes me think that she doubts me.

I walked in to town in the afternoon. Making my way over to the Sweeney's shop on West Gate; only to find that the shutters were down as I approached. Billy no doubt off somewhere drinking with his friends with it being a Saturday afternoon. I carried on walking towards the centre of town. Stopping frozen to the spot as a face emerged from the alleyway to the side of Sweeney's Fruit & Veg. Fortunately for me he didn't look in my direction. Detective Chief Inspector George Flaxman walking off towards Market Place. The third time this week that I had casually come across him and now I recalled where I had seen him before and where he had noticed me from. He had taken over that flat above Billy's shop when I'd first met him. God knows what the police would need a flat above a shop for.

Twice I'd come across him whilst I'd been drinking tea with Billy during my lunch breaks when working at China Doll. Billy telling me that nobody had been up there in years. Flaxman and another couple of men in suits. Leering at me as he crept around in that fashion that he has. That stride that is taking him through the Saturday afternoon crowds. A swagger to him. A prowl that makes him seem as if he is God's gift to us all. Flitting eyes deep in an observant head as I follow him. In to the Four Seasons Shopping Centre. Stopping. Watching. Waiting. Me falling in with the crowds twenty feet behind him. Watching him stare and hearing his brain evaluate things. Processing individuals. Ogling women with their men and teenage girls not much younger than myself. Off again with that stride. Punching the air with his strong kicks and purposeful arms. Falling in to the Next store where I stay outside, peering through the window. Watching him talk with an assistant. A woman in her mid to late thirties with arms bare that are taut and muscular and without an ounce of fat; a masculinity to her shoulders and upper torso. Clearly a lady that takes her working out to an obsession. She leads him away from the trickle of shoppers. In to a corner. Her almost a foot shorter than him; tiny in comparison. Nervously playing with her necklace with a look of concern across her face. Repeatedly scanning the shop, unable to hold the fix of his stare for long. Flaxman bending his neck down so he is within kissing distance of her face. His expression never changes, but hers is one of notable aggravation. He turns to leave her and I duck in to the shop next door, out of sight. Him passing in the same arrogant style that never leaves him.

Inside Next I pick a dress from a rail and approach the woman. I ask her if I could try it on. She says -'of course' with a smile. I ask her if she could give me some advice and she follows me to the changing rooms. I ask her who that man was that she had just been chatting with?

Her voice is as strong as she looks. Small but lean and dedicated.

-'Why do you ask?' She asks concerned.

-'It's none of my business but he seemed to be bothering you.'

-'You're right love. It is none of your business.'

She turns to leave me be with a sharp look to her eyes.

-'He's been harassing me, that's why I ask.' I tell her quickly before she's gone. Forcing her to turn back and move back within my space.

-'That's what he does sweetie. George Flaxman is a law on to himself. If he decides that he wants you, you can either give yourself to him or suffer the consequences.'

-'And have you given yourself to him?' I urge.

-'I don't see how that's your business.' She snaps with a nervous smile.

-'You don't look the sort of woman who would give in to even someone like him.'

She approached me and looked me over unblinking.

-'Flaxman is my brother-in-law. A nasty piece of work too. My sister is married to him; recently left him for another copper and the shit will hit the fan because of it. I told my sister to avoid him years ago. You could just tell even when he was in uniform that he wasn't the sort to be around. My sister was a sucker for a man in a uniform. Still is.'

-'So what does he want with you?' I ask, making her grin briefly before a scowl drops over her face.

-'The same as what any man in power wants sweetie. He wants me. Has done for years. You see, my husband Brian is a copper too. His right hand man and as crooked as he is. If he's begun to harass you love then sure as day follows night he wants you too.'

-'What do you suggest?'

-'I suggest that you leave town sweetie.'

And with that she was gone.

I'd returned to Sweeney's Fruit & Veg. I'd looked up and down the street to see if I could see him before I entered the alleyway. Creeping in to that back yard of the Sweeney's. Up the iron stairway without a sound. Unable to see in to the windows, due to the angle. My ear to the door. My fingers lifting the letterbox. A corridor quiet, with four doors closed shut.

Leaving before anyone could arrive; least of all George Flaxman. A man who had visited Maurice, in the house that I now shared. A man that Maurice had said that he didn't know. A friend of someone in Joan's family who had wanted to ask him a favour. Again I didn't pry. Maurice occasionally doing a little gardening on the side but usually for older people. Him unwilling to advance the conversation further. Spending the rest of the week in a deep thought. Much as I was myself. Trying to piece together the story behind this man Flaxman. A top police detective. Yet someone clearly feared and with something to hide. A man who knew where I lived now. By accident? A man that may well know that Maurice was leaving for the south coast. Leaving me home alone, with my questions and worries.

I drifted up to the Handley Arcade in a hurry, to Trax. Buying the double disc by Sasha & John Digweed 'Northern Exposure'. Listening to my Discman trudging home. Needing to see Billy or his father. Preferably Evan Speed. Diverting to their house. Knocking on their door. A woman in the window.

A stern face that abruptly asks me what I want? Tracing me with intelligent but judgemental eyes.

-'I was wondering if I could speak to Evan or Billy please?'

-'Who are you?... What do you know about Evan?... Where is he?' She sneers down her pointed bespectacled nose.

-'I'm a friend of Billy's... I'm Karin. I need to speak to one of them. Or your husband please.'

-'My husband?... Listen, I don't know who you are but nobody has ever spoken of a Karin in this house. Have the papers put you up to this?

-'It's the newspapers that I've come to talk about.' I reveal.

-'Wait there.' She orders and shuts the door. Making me anticipate that she is off inside to fetch someone, leaving me abruptly on the doorstep before she hares out with a mop in her hands. Shaking it about threateningly.

-'I don't know what they've put you up to, but I'll wrap this around your skinny little neck if you don't get off my property.'

I'm taken aback. I'd heard that this woman was a bit different, however I wasn't expecting to be threatened.

-'I don't know what you're talking about Mrs Sweeney. I'm not here for the papers. I'm a friend of Billy's. The newspapers have been following me around, making up rubbish about me and your son, Evan.'

-'You! It's you that's the trollop who's been hanging around him.'

She takes a swing with the mop. Swinging it like a bat. Catching me on the forearm with a weak waft. Making me leap forwards, taking it in both hands. Catching her by surprise. Her not used to having someone fight back. Her tongue normally being her most potent weapon. Billy mentioning how she's used to being a dictator. A mild tyrant in her own home.

I nudge her back against the plastic of her porch and rip the thing from her grasp.

-'You stupid woman!.. Don't threaten me. I'm not one of your sons, or your husband. I'm someone who's been caught in the middle of your precious boy's affairs and I want it stopping.'

-'How... How... How dare you. You jumped up little mare.'

-'No. How very dare you Mrs Sweeney. Tell your son that I'm getting hassle from newspaper men and it's his job to be a man about it and tell them that I have had nothing to do with him, and wouldn't have anything to do with him either.'

-'He wouldn't have anything to do with the likes of you. Don't kid yourself on.'

-'Good. Tell him to stay clear and get this mess sorted.'

-'How dare you come to my house and make demands. Threatening my son and threatening me. I ought to phone the police.'

-'Don't be stupid, you silly jumped up woman.'

-'Where have you come from?' She demands.

-'I told you I'm a friend of Billy's. I've been around before when you were out. I met your husband. You're a right piece of work and don't deserve either of them.' I clamour as I throw the mop to the ground and stomp off towards the street. The neighbour nosing through the window at the commotion. Mrs Sweeney having to have the last word.

-'If you come back around here again, I'll have your head off next time, you little madam. Coming here threatening me and my lad. A floozy for a bit of fame, that's what you are. '

I pop my headphones back on. Taking ten minutes to get to home. My own mother on her way out. The Warren Club calling her home. Ignoring me totally since I told her of my deception. Dropping her and her addiction to alcohol in the shit by abandoning her alone with the bills. Her giving me a round of yells not too dissimilar to Mrs Sweeney's. My mother not having the balls or the intelligence of Mrs Sweeney, but certainly the ability to make a similar racket.

I contemplated going out somewhere in the evening. Limited in where I could go. Joanne going out with another boy and me being left alone, contemplating feeling at the mercy of someone's scheming. George Flaxman making me feel nervous and vulnerable without Maurice around to watch over me.

Angry with myself at being such a wimp for once. It not being the usual me but he had unnerved me.

I'd got the doors locked by six in the evening. The curtains drawn before it was even dusk. Checking the windows. Unlocking the back door and slamming the bolt on the garden gate home. Locking the back door again. Questioning why I bothered with the garden gate when anyone could just creep up my mother's path and step over the shallow wall.

By eight in the evening I had lost my bottle. With no one else to turn to I gave Wes a call. He and my working week being more strained after our incident with DCI Flaxman earlier in the week. This mixed in with the newspapers hounding me had made him address me differently and treat me with caution.

That changed when I asked him if I could please come over and if I could please stay the night.

## Flaxman.

Rifling about in the draws.

Rifling about in the cupboards.

Rifling about in the loft.

Rifling about under the stairs.

Rifling about under the bed.

Rifling about in the garage.

Looking for something we might have missed.

Something to help locate potential lovers on the run.

The Campbell's

Ley Lane.

Mansfield Woodhouse.

Nottinghamshire.

Dix-nerf quatre-vingt-seize.

Taking Susan Redmond over there with me to go over the place with a fine toothcomb. Anything we could have passed over or misinterpreted.

Eleven weeks on the run now. Dug in somewhere well hidden.

Shit scared but surviving. I think.

The Joey Bryant link to the murder of Lisa Campbell's husband, Roger the dodger, not enough to entice her and her brother-in-law, Simon, out of their hole.

Wondering if they'd approached police complaints, or gone to another force?

A spectre of internal investigations hanging over you. Bob Dunphy MP with the heads up.

The Campbell's possibly in some safe house somewhere, whilst Kate Tissard snoops around under the cloak of leadership.

Enough assumptions and accusations floating around in my head to complete a land fill site.

You aren't to be upset and messed around with. You are the law. You set the boundaries and you grant permissions.

DS Susan Redmond making the tea from the Campbell's drinks cupboard.

You bringing her along to help because you wanted someone to look at; and to ask her about the incident that she investigated in The Warren.

The fruitloop who sliced off his own short and curlies

What were the intricacies? The ins and the outs?

Struggling to take your eyes off Redmond's tits and arse.

Rebecca in the ground. Taken with the flick of a knife.

Her gone with your boy. Away to Paddy Murphy. All together like a cosy modern day happy family, somewhere in Nottingham. Laughing and joshing with your boy, like he's a real dad to him.

The bull's whores failing to satisfy your growing needs. Deploring the way that they taste and the way that they smell.

The hard done to look in their eyes.

Their skin like sandpaper.

The fear in their eyes making you limp.

Wanting them to desire you like Rebecca had.

Nobody since her remotely satisfying your rampant hunger.

Never going to the bull's whorehouse again. Wanting it shut down, boarded up and burned to the foundations. Its guts being the kind of meat that the cops of The Met seek.

You need serving. To be treated like the king that you are. Instead you are fed small feed.

Redmond's curved arse on display through her trousers as she bends under the kitchen sink.

You? You're just about holding the urge to force yourself upon her right there and now on the kitchen cushion linoleum.

Brain for a split second daring you to do it.

To force her on to the ground and take her right here and now.

Her timid and weak. You strong and wicked. Losing your mind and not giving a fuck.

About to rush forward to grab her but stopping and holding yourself back at the last moment.

Asking her about the whereabouts of this cup of tea then?

Her looking at you as if it weren't her job. Pulling rank and ushering her towards the kettle.

Her scared of you like all of the others. A look in her eyes. A sense in her voice.

The discomfort that she felt when you took her to one side in the office and told her she was coming with you.

The looks that you received off of your best mate Brian Kenton and our partner Graham Ryan.

Your boys having sleepless nights on the back of the Westminster toads revelation.

The cold hand of the law searching for your collars in the dead of night.

They cannot touch you. You are in a field of your own. The only laws here being those that you decide. In this field you are king and slayer.

Still no trace of the Campbell's.

A sense that we are again wasting our time. Maybe even long gone somewhere overseas.

Overseas or in some piss smelling hovel where the bill have housed them whilst Tissard waits to make her move.

You exchange no words with DS Susan Redmond in the Mondeo.

No radio and no small talk.

Enjoying her unease at being closed away in that metal box with you. A hand on the gear stick, inches from her leg.

The swallow from her dry throat amplified in that air tight unit. A gulp to force a tidal wave of wreckages.

Your strength in your silence.

Dropping her off at Station Road nick. Contemplating heading over to the war room but deciding to give it a miss altogether today.

15:07 and you're down to The Portland. A pint of McEwan's and a double of the sharp stuff to chill a nipping head.

Loosening a tie and taking stock.

So much going off that it's easy to lose track of things.

Kenton through the door with a nod towards you. Getting you another pint without questions.

Him looking shifty and wild from too much thinking. Making him sweat and dampening his shirt.

A shirt filled with muscle enhanced by steroids. Affecting his ability to control himself.

Sat opposite with his squinting eyes stuck in his shaven crater head.

Permanent worried look.

Permanent worried questions.

Hoping you have the answers for him. Hoping you'd caught tales on the wind. Hoping you can offer him salvation and room to breathe.

Nothing gives you more pleasure than to make a humble foot soldier sit and ponder his future. A relation through marriage or not, you couldn't give a monkeys about his state of mind. Enough on your own plate as it is.

You tell him to carry on being vigilant. To keep his gob tight and worry about things if and when they arise. Our biggest enemy being the loss of our nerve. Keep his wits about him and be careful where he goes and who he goes with.

He tells you that he wants to take a couple of weeks leave so he and Jodie can fuck off abroad.

You tell him to go with a reassuring smile. You'll be happy to have the wearisome fuck out of your hair. An accident waiting to happen.

In a field of your own, you are king and slayer. The giver and the taker. Bringing strength to the weak and inflicting fragility on the robust. You allow exactly what you want to allow.

In the Mondeo in the quiet of the car park.

Sipping on something sharp to quell the demons.

Kate Tissard staying on til late, as usual.

A point to prove and an investigation to assemble.

Giving her a wide berth to play, but always keeping a close eye.

Leading the coppers by rings hooked through their Jap's eyes. Coppers being led by their cocks by a thief and a charlatan. Dressed to impress. Made to make them desire to be led.

Pinching the job that was always meant to be yours.

Twenty thousand pounds a year more salary than you.

A thirty-three year old woman. A career cop.

An outstanding candidate who you wait for and you follow.

A predictable silver BMW.

Following at a safe distance.

Falling in behind her at the lights.

Pretending to rummage about in the glove box to avoid nosy eyes in a rear view mirror.

Taking the turn for Ratcliffe Gate and then for Carter Lane at the top of Rock Hill.

The roads gentle for traffic in the mid-evening.

Sticking to a steady 35mph, letting her increase the gap between you.

Heading out through Forest Town, towards Clipstone, and a right-handed indicator for Poplar Grove.

Giving her ten seconds lead and manoeuvring on to the private road.

A private road for the new Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

A career cop. Married to the job. MISS Tissard. The one and only. An outstanding candidate.

A bungalow for one with a nice post code.

Twenty thousand pounds salary a year more than you. Inheriting the job that was meant to be yours.

The understudy to Walter Clarke MBE. The bentest cop on the Notts force.

You? You earn three times her salary before you even count taxable pay.

King in your own field but beneath her in a field for the law.

01:32

The Ravensdale

Sherwood Hall Road.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

unus novem novem sex

Waking in the Mondeo in the Ravensdale pub car park.

Rubbing your eyes and taking a sip on the sharp stuff.

A short intake of powder up your nose, awakening senses and sending blood rushing to all four corners.

Heading back out to Poplar Grove.

The road thin and tight and almost half a mile long. Room for single filed traffic going one way.

The street lighting limited to none in parts. Lined by an assortment of trees overhanging from fancy gardens.

The only vehicle on the world's roads.

Dumping the Mondeo at the bottom of the road, on the loose dirt and stones of unadopted ground.

Kate Tissard's place halfway up the hill.

The darkness of a bungalow for one with a nice post code.

A project for a woman with a healthy salary.

The shine of your torch looking for a weak spot.

Climbing the gate to gain access to the back yard.

A large, lengthily back garden. Bigger and longer than your own.

Her a single career cop. You a newly single career cop.

Her on a salary twenty thousand pounds more than yours. Earning almost four times what she does in the field of your own.

A project for a woman on a healthy salary bringing its own problems.

Old patio doors with old locks made from old metal that are easy to pick.

An essential job for Tissard to replace these decrepit vulnerable burglar friendly doors; years past there sell by date.

Picking the lock like taking candy from a baby and sticking it in its ear.

Sliding it open and slipping right in to the closed air of that house.

Kate Tissard immaculate from hair to toe in her easy on the eye office attire and alluring fragrance.

This old bungalow of hers wearing the look of someone who was rushed in; and in a hurry.

Boxes still unpacked and furniture not yet displayed.

The decor from the nineteen seventies with its flocks and its plaster artisans. Faded timbers that peel and split.

Enough work for a man around the house for a couple of years. Needing a good salary to make good.

The type of place and project where you either intend to stay and improve, or return a profit.

No need to worry about creaks to doors in a bungalow for one with a nice post code.

Kate Tissard likes to sleep with her bedroom door wide open.

On her belly with her shoulders bare and her slender back on display. The waves from her dark curled hair spread over the pillow.

You? You gently pull the covers down to expose the peach of her backside and pull up a nearby wooden chair. Taking your place beside her, to study her sleep.

Her delicate neck so inviting to snap.

Her pretty nose urging to be snared.

Dreaming of climbing that ladder and reaching the top before this bungalow has even felt the touch of a paintbrush.

Dreaming of counting that extra salary that belongs to George Flaxman. The intended Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

Rolling across the bed, closer towards you.

Exposing herself in the pitch dark where your eyes have become quickly accustomed.

The gravity flattening her southern skinned chest.

The poise of her face hidden in a cluster of hair.

Tugging at you from a ring hooked through your japs-eye. Making you drift in closer. Making you smell her up close. Her bedtime smell. The smell that she doesn't share with coppers in the corridors of Station Road.

Making your nostrils flair. Making your lips hover above hers. Taking you within millimetres of her soft Anglo-French flesh. The heat from her most intimate part, de-robed of sheets and making you want to taste.

Tugging at the ring hooked through your japs-eye.

Making you smell her. Absorbing her into you.

A madness filling your lungs.

A delirium summoning you to hold on to her throat and fill her cunt.

A mania to make her final breath absolute. Placing it in to your own mouth.

A dementia to make you the final thing she observes.

An insanity to make the hard of DCI George Flaxman the final thing she feels.

A lunacy to take a life and deny the coppers of Mansfield & Ashfield of their queen.

In two fields there hints a war between a strong king and a fair queen. The king wishing to defeat the queen. To take her with his hands and place her head upon a spike, for all the world to see.

# Insularfield :  
lucid dreams

## The Avenging Angel.

The hardest part of this whole issue had been the hours sat on a National Express coach from home to Portsmouth, The Hard, changing at London Victoria. Seven hours all told with just my mind, my 'Benedict's Advance' novel and my assorted bag of weaponry.

I say weaponry but it's a solitary KA-BAR military fighting knife. Lethal in the wrong hands; even more lethal in the right hands.

I prefer that method than simply going inside a place and taking someone out with a suppressed gunshot.

Doing a job in the most clinical and easy manner asks too many questions.

Making it look too professional and neat.

An obvious intended killing.

Whereas doing it with a knife, right first time, with only one stab and the fatal blow could have been achieved by any opportunist thief that the victim had unfortunately disturbed.

Griff's policeman friend had forwarded me an address with a grainy photograph attached.

A photocopy of a man in his sixties, who looks as though he's accepting an award from somewhere for something.

A receding hairline and tired looking eyes accompanying a large happy smile and a smart jacket.

Agility not being an issue. Mentality of a retired man being the issue.

All I knew about him was that his name was Carruthers and he lived in the waterfront part of Portsmouth. Old Portsmouth. The original part of the city that sat alongside the harbour, with its history and its sea power. Old buildings and cobbled roadways; centuries old defences and a busy waterway.

I'd bought a map and found the address quiet easily. Only a short hop from the bus station.

Griff's policeman friend informing me that the man lived alone.

He didn't tell me why he wanted or needed him out of the way and it's not something I ever ask. The way I've always looked at it, if Griff wanted a job completing then there would always be a valid reason.

Only this isn't Griff. This is his policeman friend. George.

It's safe to admit that I didn't take to the fellow right from the off. He spoke to me as if this task was a favour that he was doing for me.

Like he had a hold on me and wouldn't let go until I did myself a huge service and carried out this job.

I'd only been retired for a few very short weeks.

I was still patched up from the last one. A job that had taken its toll mentally and physically.

I knew that Griff had friends on the police force and that they were the sort that were best to be worked with than against.

Griff had long forged an alliance with a few men and they all trusted one another, though Griff had always kept a cautious eye on them all.

Relying on the fact that if he fell they'd all fall.

I'd always been kept in the background. My identity a secret.

Griff staying loyal to my family ties.

I was the man that cleaned up after them.

Funny thing is that jobs had always been fairly brief and stretched out.

I'd killed before, several times over, here and there and round and about. But this year there must have been something in the water. Big changes and lots of upheaval in his empire.

It had gone bloomin mad.

Fall outs that I'm not privy to, because I don't want to be

An internal war and wrangling that has little to do with me, other than my strict loyalty to the family.

-'You're a simple man of simple means. You don't need to clutter your life and your tiny brain by knowing too much my love.' That's what my Joan used to say. And she was right.

I'd usually get a call from Griff a couple of weeks in advance, or even longer.

Time to plan and get to know the ins and outs of my remit. But this year had been different.

The bookie fella? They wanted him done immediately. Just addresses and a name. I'd followed him from his shop as he closed up.

The policeman's wife? They'd given me about five minutes to plan for that one. The other lassie being there was regrettable but you can't legislate for that kind of thing.

Those Irish boys? I'd had longer to prepare for that, but even then I had to move quicker than I would have liked. So many mistakes made being in the result.

Now this chap. A seventh murder in about three months. It's unprecedented even for me.

So much blood letting harming my thinking. Just wanting to keep things simple.

The more that I think about it, the more I can imagine that this policeman fellow is having his say behind it all. You can tell by his manner.

Like he's in charge. Not Griff.

Talking differently to Griff.

A threatening, demanding sort. Not like Griff who seems at pains to ever issue a death warrant. Like he's reached a last resort. Hardly the gangster type that you'd see at the pictures.

Mentally switched off and shutting down. Rebooting for one last job. Not even a pay day.

Of course it always helps when not only does a target leave their front door unlocked, but they leave it ajar also. Bizarre behaviour.

I'd found him lying in bed. Just staring through the light of the window. He'd not even noticed me until I was right beside him. A sad and broken look to his eyes.

I'd put the combat knife away. I wasn't going to use it on this fellow. Not a chance.

This was Martin Carruthers and as I'd picked my way through his home looking for him it had gradually occurred to me who I'd been sent here to dispose of.

The walls covered in awards and certificates.

Wooden framed prints of his Benedict novel cover artwork.

Lots more photographs of him meeting and greeting influential figures from the writing world.

His place was an immaculate shrine to his work and his craft.

Filled too with naval bric-a-brac.

It had clearly taken him decades to accumulate all of this stuff and put his stamp on this beautiful ornament of a house.

There was no way that I was going to cover the place in blood; least alone the blood of a man that had brought Edgar Benedict and his adventures in to this world.

Why would anyone want to put an end to that?

I told him that I'd found his door open and anyone could just walk in off the street.

I told him that he had a house that was the most incredible monument that I had ever come across.

You could spend days discovering its wonders.

I told him that I had been sent to kill him, so we had better put the kettle on and get to the bottom of all this.

A knife put away. Not to be taken out and used again. A hot drink needed to ease that mentality.

Joan was up top frowning on me. A funny look across her face. But this wasn't a job for her nephew. This was a job for that policeman fella, and even Joan had difficulties with him.

Martin Carruthers had got dressed and taken me through to his large farmhouse style kitchen; littered with maritime artefacts, gifted and collected over the decades.

He made an excellent cup of tea. The green variety that Mae-ling had got me in to. Very pleasant and soothing.

Martin Carruthers could well be the most pleasant chap that I've ever met. Though traumatised and delicate; hardly even surprised by my appearance and my task at hand.

His own mentality as fragile as the bone china tea pot from which he pours.

I tell him that I am a huge fan.

I tell him that I'm a bad person. A proper wrong un.

I tell him that I was visited by a policeman, who shall remain nameless, and he wanted him dead.

Why would a policeman want a national treasure dead?

He reveals to me that it would have been his son that would want this deed done. Barely a shock to his voice. A detective from Nottinghamshire.

I didn't even know that Martin Carruthers had connections with Nottinghamshire. I just read his books.

He sits opposite me and tells him his story. Almost from the beginning. The whole tale of his life. Like he'd wanted to get it off his chest to someone. Nobody ever willing to listen.

Now I'm no Michael Parkinson. I'm a simple man. So I just let him talk.

It takes two whole cups of that tea for him to get it all out too. But it still doesn't tell me why the policeman - George - would want any harm to come to his old dad.

He should be proud of his old dad.

It shouldn't matter a single jot that he takes guard for the opposite side.

It doesn't bother me. On the contrary, when the old boy starts getting all tearful I'm round that other side of his bloomin great table and giving him a big reassuring hug. Pushing that paled balding head in to my chest with my ruddy great dinner plate.

Like a giant holding a new born bairn.

He thanked me for listening and understanding. For making him feel better in a surreal sort of way.

He tells me that he has lots of issues on his tray.

This business with his lad just being stacked on top of the others.

Him losing his book deal. Him being penniless. Not even any food in the house. A house that he is due to lose because he is stony cold broke.

He'd sent off his manuscript for his last Benedict novel and then that was it. His career would be finished. He'd not even had the chance to celebrate and suitably waved the character off.

I said that he needed a good meal inside of him. He needed an ale in his gut to properly appreciate his accomplishment. He needed to make merry and forget about his problems.

I offered to take him out somewhere in return for a bed for the night and a sneak peek at his latest novel.

Two mentalities that need the work of a good liquid mechanic.

He'd taken me to his favourite waterside pubs.

I'd paid for a couple of bloody good meals. Even ice cream.

After a few Sherry's the colour returned to his cheeks and the sorrowful brow had been replaced with an acceptable friendliness to his boat race that I suspect had always been there before.

As pleasant a chap as you could ever wish to meet.

I took it easy on the booze, as I always did now days. It had never been a good friend to me and had got me in to a few too many scrapes in my time to ever become a welcome bedfellow. But by the time that last orders were called, I was a shoulder for old Carruthers to rest upon as he gainfully attempted to walk and direct me back to his astonishingly decorated palace. Constantly repeating to me how grateful he was.

He found me a rough drafted copy of his manuscript, showed me a room where I could sleep and I tucked him in to his own bed for the night.

The chap just needed a friend, not a bloomin great knife in his belly.

A more pleasant a chap you would never meet.

I stayed up all night gripped by that book. After so many adventures it has completely passed me by that Edgar Benedict was a son of Nottinghamshire. So many seafaring stories that you'd mistake him for someone who had spent his entire life on the ocean. A man that was much more at ease on the high seas than on firm ground; as this latest book reveals.

The new book being a real test on anyone's mentality. A hard, though satisfying read.

By the time that Martin Carruthers had risen from his bed it was lunchtime.

He'd almost forgotten who I was. His head a blur from last night's merry making.

He thought I'd been a dream.

I joked that it must have been a nightmare if I was involved.

He said that I'd restored some needed faith inside of him.

I told him he must be off his rocker.

He pleaded with me to stay a few more days. To keep him company. He so badly needed the company.

I told him that I had to be getting off home, but I'd like to return in the future.

He said he'd like that but he feared that it wouldn't be at that grand house. He didn't know where it would be.

I told him not to worry. His book would be a great success and there'd be more to follow.

He said that I was from the converted and that unfortunately there were far too few of us left.

I told him to give his head a shake and pick his chin off the ground. He still had much to give us all and he had the bills to pay.

I told him that he was welcome at my house whenever he wanted to come. It isn't a palace like his place, but it was a roof where a door would always be happily opened for him.

There's few more pleasant chaps to be found, I swear it.

I left him a few quid to be getting along with. Money for food and to pay a few bills.

We all have to pay a few bills.

I had a young lass to get back to.

And an allotment to tend.

Bugger the policeman and his bugbear with his old dad. That wasn't my issue.

Why would anyone want a grand chap like that wiped from us?

The policeman would have to be told to do his own dirty work. I was retired and I intended to remain that way.

## Martin.

Death's sickle came to visit and I lived to tell the tale.

In fact I never even recognised it or feared its wrath.

Wielded by the sweetest of all avenging angels, who I wished to stay forever.

Death had never appeared so simple. Death had never seemed so appealing.

Now having me wonder whether his presence had been but a lucid apparition?

Nigel rang in the near dark of last evening. Nigel not sounding much like Nigel.

My publisher wanting me to get up to London.

I telling Nigel that I'd had to let the old Jag go. No room left in my life for such fancities any longer.

My publisher wanting me to catch the train up to London. I told him that he would have to pay for the tickets, as I didn't have two pieces of brass to rub together.

If Nigel wanted to shake my hand and send me off with his phoney best wishes and a sympathetic shrug of the shoulders, then he could pay for the privilege.

In truth the avenging angel had broken me to tears.

I'd pleaded for him to stay. Like an old friend. Absolutely the best company that I'd had around the place in years. Like the soul mate I had always craved. I'd never seen him with the sickle in his hand and I only had his word that he had arrived to pack my bag of fate. But never once had I felt afraid. Had my brain played another trick on me?

Had this person ever existed or was I trailing off in to an eternal madness?

A world in which I was losing my grip. Where the company of other human beings was being lost, yet it was the thing that I wanted most in my life.

I'd forgotten about the sensation of touching new flesh. My desire for it being replaced by a wanting need for conversation and companionship.

I need love, that is true. I'd hoped to find it and rekindle long lost love; but it had spat in my face.

Had my sub-conscious planted a seed in my tangled jungle of a brain. Filling it with the things that I desired and feared the most and sent a ghost to torment me?

To give me that orgasm of chat and the warmth of friendship, yet reminding me that my son now hated me and never wanted me to blacken his path again.

Did he really honestly want me dead?

Of course not. He might have been aggressive in his dismissing of me, but I know what is inside of him; I'd spent enough time with the boy to relinquish thoughts of evilness. Besides, he was a man of the law and had agreed an oath. To even consider that he would wish such extreme consequences for his old father was absurd. My mind plain and simply providing an illusion to a man that wanted to feel even more worthless.

Death and his sickle had been a cruel jibe.

I'd never seen the sickle and the avenging angel had only shown me respect, fondness and emotion.

He had never existed.

Yet how do I explain the envelope? Taken from my own pile, with the eleven numbered digits scrawled in the handwriting of an older hand and the stuffing of bank notes inside?

Placed on the shelf beside my hat stand, along with another short note.

Keep your door closed.

Was this message another modestly disguised threat?

I was struggling with just what was real and what was a game.

Two thousand pounds in crisp bank notes. As if printed that very morning.

I sucked in their scent through a large intake of inhalation.

They smelt fresh. They smelt real. Rubbing the ink of the Queen I expect her to smudge, however she remains firm.

Perhaps I was still dreaming? Maybe locked in to some lurid mischief under the frolicsome devilment of optimism; skipping nonchalantly along to the needy rhythm that jingles in my ears.

I'd got dressed and contemplated the best place to attempt to use this gift. To check that it really was real. The house and its environment never altering. It remaining exactly the same, whether asleep or awake.

I choose the nearest thing that I could recall which would ensure that I was alive and well, attentive and aware.

The cumbersomeness of the Isle of Wight ferry. Up on deck for the flight across the Solent. Feeling fresh salty air stinging my eyes, making them blur and water. The sea in my nose and in my head. The blast of fine spray against my skin. Confirming that I was very much in the land of the living. You could not dream the sensations that the ferry crossing brings.

The turn of my stomach and the green of my face. Three miles and forty minutes enough to make my sea sickness thankful for port.

Some of those crisp angelic notes departed. On a ticket to Ryde

There I took a walk along the beach. Paddled in the sea and stretched my legs along the town's pier. I booked myself in to a quaint English bed and breakfast and drank good quality tea, shared with a scone and jam and cream. I stayed the night on the Island and released more of those fresh smelling bank notes in to the economy of the Isle of Wight. Long viewed from my window, yet so seldom visited in recent years.

I was alive and the avenging angel's mythical scrawl was genuine. I would call that number once my business in London was complete.

Once my hands had been scrubbed clean of the dirty rotten fraud of the literary industry.

I would have to put that house of mine on the market and consider my future. It had plenty of worth, along with much of the rubbish that I'd collected over the years.

You can employ people these days to come around and tell you what something is worth. To pull a mechanics face and dismiss its actual value with a sigh, before then slicing off their own decisive cut.

I could free up a fair amount of worth from that collection of tat which I'd spent a lifetime of advances upon. Never previously wanting to dispense with a single object, yet now little of it meant anything to me.

I'd have to downsize of course, and drastically change location; maybe even relocate abroad somewhere. Somewhere where I couldn't be found by the array of people who weren't the least bit interested in finding me. To foreign climes with warmer sea in which to paddle, and to a friendlier environment to the sudden lack of wealth that I could now best accrue. Away from here. From a place where I was no longer wanted or seeked. My only real friend being a gruff sweet man with kindly eyes and a gentle manner; who I had only known for less than a day but who had invested a commitment in to me. Dressed in the ludicrous disguise of death which couldn't hide his charming good. A love and enthusiasm for my books that I had thought long diminished. Believing that I no longer had a supporter left in this world. Enthusiasm that had caressed my ears with paralysing foreplay.

Death being far more delicious than I'd ever expected it.

I could not stop thinking about him.

My mind was clearer. Swept clean of the fluff that had dominated my world for far too long.

The world wasn't a feathery comfortable place; I'd lost sight of that, even from the lessons in life that I should have learned from.

I'd become lost in a complacent existence, elevated and obscured by wealth and all of its snugness.

If the last few weeks had shown me something it was that life had moved on and left me behind in a void of my own making. I needed to mobilize and move on. To change my fake perspectives in life and become more hard-boiled in my antiquation.

I would face Nigel and accept that my time had passed. I was no longer en vogue with either the industry or the paying public; it was just a fact of life that I would now have to face. It had been a good knock and had afforded me a colourful life but now I felt more confident to replace it all with a simpler existence. One like I'd already lived previously. Like the one I'd had in the pales of my youth, when times were mentally tough; just like they were now. Only now I had the foresight to try and combat my sins and my ongoing frailties. It wouldn't erase the sadness that I feel but it would make me understand it better.

The avenging angel had provided me far from death; he had blown me the kiss of life. It was time to forgive my weakness and replace it with a tougher, more empathetic wit.

## Miss Speed.

An angel visited me today.

I'd seen her before. She was a friend of my brothers.

I've lost count of the length of time that I've been here. The days and hours have just melted in to one blended mess of hopelessness.

The man visits but he never speaks. He stalks and he broods and he squeezes his brow between his fingers.

My starvation is such that I no longer show signs of emotion when he calls by.

The other men I have not heard from for many alternate shades of grey.

Though perhaps they'd been here just five minutes ago?

My body is in its own mental shutdown.

I can't think straight and I've stopped tormenting myself with the remembrance of food. Its glorious sensations and its accepted company have just become another blur.

My loss of energy makes it difficult to lift my head.

I try and conserve it in a slump.

My limbs constantly screaming from their utter inactivity.

My wrists and ankles numb and belonging to someone else now.

The piss never ceases but my desire to keep sucking on that pipe wanes.

He has me dressed in a wig.

It is blonde. It is past shoulder length.

He has me clothed in a dress made of lycra.

It is a vivid pink. The sort of dress worn by girls on the town, hoping to impress. Only fitting a tight, impressive body. It is low cut and rides up to my waist.

Body is too thick for it, but it is constantly trying to become a fit.

It scares me in to thinking that he is draining me of all my energies to abuse me in a way that Helen Smart once did.

The worry doesn't linger for long. Elsewhere to pry.

I'm confused. But I'm too tired to be confused or panicked for too long.

I remember Helen Smart and I remember what we used to do together.

I remember Trevor Smart. A dear old friend. I wonder if I'll ever see him again?

Or any of my friends and relations?

I'm too tired and sapped of stamina to remain confused or panicked for long.

My mind has slipped in to snap recollections. A goldfish's memory. Never dwindling for long on any subject.

Sat in the constant cool of that room for so long that I'd spent all of my worry and my brain is bankrupt from pain.

I feel my limbs wasting away.

I expect to see myself slipping in to a pool of flesh and bones around my feet.

The walls of this room being different to the walls of my mother's house.

Here they keep their distance in the half-light.

Stretching the room. Taking a step or three backwards. Further in to the shadows.

Backing off from the contemplating wrath of the man?

The man and his undisclosed plans.

Dressing me up as a woman.

Evan Speed no longer concerned with looking foolish. The outside world taking no notice in the loneliest place on the planet.

A place that could be anywhere.

A place found by an angel. Coming to me in the dark of the darker grey.

Slipping through the wall opposite me in a radiant glow.

Her features so resplendent and striking against all else that I'd become to know.

An astonishing beauty that had floated right up to me and remained there for several minutes.

As close for me to count every freckle and study every small crease on her young naked body.

Her face showing no emotion and me finding no words to consider behind my gag.

Knowing that she was an angel from the very first moment that I'd seen her in my parents lounge. In conversation with my father.

Talking words about loss and of fear. Talking words about needing love and friendship.

Words that spoke to me now but were lost on me then.

Then I'd spent too much time simply admiring her. Unable to remove my eyes from her.

Scanning her image during a time of incarceration. Keeping it stored to enjoy at a later date.

Like learning a script for an important role.

An angel within the distance of a hair.

Longing to touch her but my body bound and my strength leaving me. Her lifting my spirits for only the time that she was here.

From out of the gloom she had appeared. Stark and mute and gone in the blink of an eye.

Leaving me alone in that cool dark place.

Alone with just my sobs and my craving for happier times and a life lost.

Needing the comfort of a hug and even the whisper of love. My will being crushed by my solitude.

Losing the want to suck on that pipe. Crudely planted inside of my mouth.

Wedged with the bulk of a rag.

Making my jaw yelp from idleness.

My jaw and my tongue being my livelihood. It being my greatest ally and weapon.

It being completely dormant in this cool and lonely place.

Dressed in a vivid pink lycra dress and a blonde wig, that is past shoulder length.

The man wanting me to be someone else.

To pull up a chair and to stare. Searching for somebody else.

Wanting him to remove the rag from my mouth so I can summon enough strength to call out for my mother; or the shuffle of my father or brother in the itch of the room below my feet.

I momentarily flash a thought of the angel, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of Trevor, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of his literary agent wife, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of Doctor Who, in his many changing faces, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of drama school, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of the Hollywood Hills, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of my West London apartment, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash thoughts of my conquests, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash thoughts of Calvin Klein, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of my mother, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of my father, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of my sister, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

I momentarily flash a thought of my brother, but as soon as it's here it is gone.

Round and round the same thoughts; mixed with events and adventures. Each time they visit me here their visit becomes more brief.

In and out of the slamming cell door of my head, like they've elsewhere to be and other people to visit.

My thoughts, my experiences, my places and my friends and family, leaving me. Wishing to be left alone.

Draining from my body in a similar practise to that of my energies.

Creeping out of the door after humming a soft lullaby.

Wanting me to drift off so they can sneak with a slink and get back to the rest of their lives.

Leaving me alone.

With just the dark of the room and a growing blackness in my head.

My body stripped of any remaining fat.

The gnawing of bones against my skin stretched tight.

No light in this place.

No nourishment in this place.

Memories slipping from this place.

A place of no hope.

A place of a chair and a bag of bones, wrapped in a wig and pink lycra; losing the desire to sip from a plastic pipe which keeps this shit ongoing.

## Billy.

Apparently Knoxy's game is all about power; forget the subtlety of the chipping game.

Smashing little white balls out of Stanton Hill Driving Range with a grunt; dressed in his golfing shoes, trousers and a Ping baseball cap. Hitting every ball with the venom of something that had just humiliated his mother.

His gun bigger than your gun.

You not being able to keep up with the Knox power game. Clipping balls towards the fifty metre marker. Your accuracy more impressive than your stronger friend's relentless mullering.

Your best friend stronger than you, more successful than you, an all round finer package than you.

He's enthusing about his new girl of his. Still going strong after three whole weeks. Something of a Knox record. He's informing you that she could be the one. Her being an all round fine package, just like him, you have no doubt.

You smile and play along with the caring less game. Though you do care. He's your best friend; since primary school. You love him like a brother.

You love him way more than your brother.

You want to see Pete Knox happy. Though, to be fair, he's always a happy individual. You just wish that you were slightly happier, or at last as happy as him.

You wish it was you that was the one gushing praise upon yourself and your new love interest, not having to listen once more to his.

Fortunately Knoxy is such a good mate that nothing would please him more than to see you contented with yourself; as long as you still pitched up on a weekend night out.

Seeing you contented didn't happen enough.

You miserable bastard.

He tells you that you need to have it out with this lass, Karin.

-'Get a yes or no, once and for all.'

-'Move in, or move on. It doesn't do your health good to linger.'

That's the Knox advice. And it's good advice. Though you inform him that you've already been knocked back. Asking too much of her at the wrong time.

Pete Knox tells you to hurry up and find the right time.

-'If she's not interested, you need to stop being a sad sack and move away. You're better than that Billy.'

He belts the bejesus out of another battered driving range ball.

Listen to your dad. Listen to your mate.

You decline his invitation for a wet down The Gun. It's Monday - the only day of the week that you don't divulge in the partaking of alcoholic beverage. Monday is the day when you give your body a break from the onslaught of abuse you put it through. Drinking on a Monday would be sacrilege.

Only an extra special occasion warrants an alteration to that particular formula and chipping balls and slicing drives hasn't built up any type of appetite to change it this week. Knoxy drops you at home instead.

A British racing green Aston Martin sits on the street alongside the Mercedes coupe that your brother has been using. The registration - 8IG 8UCKS.

A grossly overweight fat man bursting the arms off of your fathers favourite chair.

Your father more than happy to be out of the way over in Cleethorpes.

Your mother still fraught with worry.

You not concerned in the slightest in the welfare of your brother. Knowing full well that the selfish wanker will be holed up somewhere abusing the good nature of someone.

Your mother asks you where you've been? You tell her the truth. Pissed off that at twenty-four years old you still have to report your movements to her.

She introduces you to Trevor Smart of Smart, Smart & Ingle. Your brother's agent. Looking as concerned as she does. Him needing to sweat off a few pounds in worry you think.

She's repeating to Trevor Smart again that it was you who last took 'Evan' out. Into Mansfield on a Thursday night. How could you have been so stupid?

And then him stopping at that Tina's for five days. Blaming you for that too. You being the link between them both.

Repeating to Trevor Smart that she'd sent you out everywhere to look for him but wasn't sure that you were concerned enough. More interested in the pub and your mates: the bookies and the five-a-side and the golf, and shipping your dad off to Cleethorpes without anyone discussing it with her. The last thing of any concern being your brother, apparently. She couldn't be any nearer the truth if she'd used a truth detecting bleep machine.

Are you sure that you'd checked all of his friend's houses? Can't have gone far with that car still stuck outside the house.

You assuring her that he has no friends in his home town.

Her mentioning Knoxy and Jocky and Matt T and Von and Rixy.

You putting her straight that they are your mates, not his. Reminding her that he invented a story in a gossip column about his so called friends. Him not having any friends in his home town. Your friends presuming that he meant them as the criminal drug abusers that wanted to drag him with them down the plughole. They were hardly likely to ever want to put him up for a few nights.

She dismisses your comments as jealousy. Her attitude and her unwillingness to listen and learn being ludicrous. Her stubbornness even worse.

Now yelping about mouthy young bints turning up on her doorstep and shouting the odds, looking for you when you should be out searching for your brother.

You're asking her who she means? Her describing Karin Nemeth to a tee.

You're asking her when this was? Her telling you it doesn't matter. You telling her it matters more to you than a selfish prick like your brother.

Your mother getting off of the sofa to slap you around the face.

-'How dare you!.. How bloody dare you William!'

-'Behave yourself mum.'

-'This is your brother's career on the line here. The only good thing that has ever happened to this family. The only Sweeney in generations to make something of himself... I won't let this be ruined by our collective stupidity.'

-'Have you actually asked yourself just what Adrian is doing for himself mum?... Where's he whilst all this is going off?.. Why isn't he the one doing for himself?'

Trevor Smart takes in a large nasally intake of breath.

-'Will-eam you're cleerlee a real passionate goy, I appreciate that. But you ave to understand tha real importarnce of thees situation. Filming for the show starts in a capple of weeks san. Evaan needs to get his arse in to gear. I've worked my butt off to rescue tha situation ere. It's incredibly important for Evaan, and important for your whole family.'

You're sick of this torrent of spoon-fed bullshit. Fed up of having it forced down your neck what is important and what is not. All of your family's lives put on hold for one self-righteous prick.

-'Sorry mate, no offence and I appreciate what you've had to do to pull my brother from his own self-afflicted crap, but this stuff isn't important to our family. It's important to Adrian Sweeney and our mother. The most important thing in our family at the moment is the health of our dad... The dad that's fighting cancer.'

Shock falling over Trevor Smart's face. Unaware of this development in the family's lives.

Your mother turns her head and tuts a most theatrical of tuts.

-'Stop being so bloody dramatic William. Your father is a fighter, and certainly not a grumbler.'

-'So because he's beaten cancer before everything is going to be alright this time around is it mum?... Because he doesn't sit and whinge all day long about his illness he isn't hurting inside, is that right mum?.. Because he doesn't offer you what Adrian does he doesn't matter. Just a small voice sat in the corner, is that right mum?'

Her face etched in anger.

She's already stung your face with her hand. She'd already said -'How dare you?' She's already accused you of not caring enough. All she has left in her locker is to tell you to get out of her house.

You wanting to leave anyway. Wanting to get to Karin Nemeth as quickly as possible. To get out of that house and that mini conference as soon as you physically can.

To leave your mother to dismantle your character to someone who is a stranger to you. For the stranger to shrug his shoulders. For your mother to claim that it's pure jealousy from the untalented sibling. For the stranger to shrug his shoulders and maybe, just maybe, realise that you have a point.

You don't need any more reminding of your inadequacies.

The journey to the Nemeth's is a matter of minutes, but it's plenty of time for you to haul in as many answerless questions as your brain can mentally manage. None regarding the welfare of television's Evan Speed.

You cursing your mother's flippancy over the visit of Karin. Never feeling the need to let it be known to you. The events of her youngest child having little relevance on the grand Sweeney masterplan.

Pulling the van on to St Matthews Close and halting right outside of number 19. Not even giving yourself any time for what to say before you're smacking your fist politely against the door.

Nobody answers.

Nobody ever answers at 19 St Matthews Close.

A voice over the half-tidy front garden privet hedge telling you that you won't find anyone home there. A middle-aged gentleman in spectacles and broad shoulders. Karin's Uncle Maurice?

You introduce yourself and tell him that you're looking for Karin. He lets you know that you won't find her there; she's moved in with him and she isn't home.

You ask his permission to speak with him. Bemused he invites you in to his house.

Paranoia querying just what you're doing. This bloke not caring less about your infatuations.

Selecting a stool at his kitchen table for you. His speech as equally selective and his tones soft. A gentle, well-meaning type. Washing his hands in the sink and putting on the kettle. Hoping you like green tea. No place in his house for any of that coffee nonsense.

A man that matters more to Karin Nemeth than anyone else she has ever discussed with you. Who probably knows her better than anyone.

But he knows nothing about her visiting you at all.

He's been away for a couple of days. On business. Uncle Maurice not seeming the type to have any business, nor any real cares in the world.

She'd gone out to work in the morning and had told him to not wait up. Probably off somewhere with that boisterous Joanne lass that she knocks around with. A bonny sort she is. Does enough talking for the pair of them.

Maurice asking if you two are an item then? Her not telling him everything and understanding that we all need our secrets. Revealing that it had been his idea for her to get you to take her away for a couple of days after her dad's accident. A weird sort her dad. An even weirder sort her mother. He urges you to steer clear of that place. Just like she needed to after the events of that night.

You divulge in your feelings for her. Like you've known him for years. His persona is warm; especially for Karin and his protection of her. Him letting you know that she's an easy person to develop feelings for.

-'What can I do to win her over?' You ask.

-'Shouldn't you be able to think of that for yourself?' He answers.

-'You know her better than anyone. What could I do to win her round?' You ask.

-'I'm not going to give you any advice. I want to see my Karin with someone who can think for himself.' He answers. -'She's very precious to me, and she's very complicated. The girl hasn't had an easy life or upbringing, but she's as strong as they come and won't suffer any fools. If you can't woo her with your own imagination them I'm afraid it's a pointless adventure for you then young Billy.'

-'I can understand that. My imagination is quite limited. I know what I want but I always struggle to say it.' I shrug.

-'Then don't say it then.' He mutters with an ironic chuckle.

-'I don't get you.' You puzzle.

-'Well, my Joan; that was my wife, long gone now; she knew that I was a simple fella, and she taught me to read and write properly. Proper thick at school I was Billy. The sort at the back of the class in the dunce's hat. Picked on by all the other young uns. My brain not able to soak owt in you see. Too much information making me confused. Couldn't get out of there and down the pit quick enough. No need for reading and writing with a shovel in your hands.' His voice strangely lowering, as if keeping the story a secret from even the walls of the house. -'But when my Joan came along she learnt me the importance of reading and writing. The beauty of words and the doors they unlocked. Like a big complicated bunch of jangling keys. You had to choose the right key for owt to make sense, do you get me? A girl like my Karin is impressed by intelligence. That's what intellects are like you see. They want to be impressed. My Joan taught me to read and to write and I'd return the favour by showing her just what she'd shown me. I couldn't string a couple of decent sentences together for toffee, but she introduced me to books and writers that could turn words in to songs. I found it best to reveal my true feelings for her by using the words that she'd shown me how to use.'

-'What are you saying to me?' You ask.

-'Bloomin heck Billy, you're as thick as me kid. Listen to yourself and listen to me. It's hardly a meeting of minds is it? What I'm saying is, have you ever tried to put your feelings down on paper?'

You force a chuckle of your own -'I think you over estimate me Maurice. I can't write stuff to save my life.

-'Then you've no hope then have you?.. You tell me that you can't say what you want to say. You tell me that you can't write what you want to say.....Have you ever considered lowering your standards?' He bluntly asks.

-'All of the time... I just get infatuated by certain people and torture myself. Yet I'm aware of my limits.' You admit.

-'Well do yourself a favour son. Either listen to your limits, or reach outside of them to try and get what you want. Nobody else is going to help you.'

Listen to your dad. Listen to your mate. Listen to the old guy who you've only just met.

## Karin.

Wes is keeping his distance. He clearly thinks I'm a weirdo and who can blame him?

Choosing to work on a different plot entirely all day; away from me and my latest version of coaxing him in and then pulling down the blind.

He's not one for games and it would be understandable for him to think that I've been playing a cruel prank on him. Though I've never offered anything but a sign of friendship.

That was until Saturday night.

Phoning him out of the blue. Uncomfortable on my own with no Maurice around. My own company never something that had really bothered me before, but that policeman unnerves me. Something bizarrely sinister about him. Like he's not even a policeman at all. Having me spooked like nobody I've ever come across. Just his creepy presence in my company and the regularity of him springing up, as if he is stalking me. Though on Saturday it was as if it was me stalking him, stumbling across him and tailing him in town.

I'd been silly, obviously. Why would he have bothered to waste his Saturday evening by coming to my door, just because Maurice was away? A family to take up his time, no doubt. The woman in Next had called him her brother-in-law; though of course that doesn't mean he has a family of his own to sit in front of the television with on a Saturday night.

Wes hasn't and he was perfectly minding his own business watching the telly on Saturday night when I called him. Looking for the safety of company and walls that the policeman, Flaxman, didn't know.

I'd caught a taxi over to Blidworth and Wes had been thrilled to see me. A thirsty eagerness in his eye fresh from the shower, a clean shave and the rubbing of aftershave overpowering me. I'm not stupid; I knew how it looked, and that he lusted for me. I had no intention of just falling in to bed with him and carelessly handing over my virginity just because I was scared. I wasn't that scared.

I was honest with him. I'd told him that I'd seen DCI Flaxman for the third time and he creeped me out. I was at home alone and needed the comfort of a friend.

Wes had seen this as an invitation to get the beers in and to rescue a crude plastic party bong from out of his attic; calling in a favour for a small wrap of bud.

Suddenly he'd got company and company that he so blatantly wanted to shag that his tongue was almost licking the floor. I'd regretted going there almost instantly. Him inching closer across the settee so he could touch me. Him reassuring me that I'd be safe there and if Flaxman turned up he'd kick his arse for him; policeman or no policeman.

I repeatedly thanked him and wished that Billy had been at home instead. Shy and simplistically calming Billy. A lad that wants to touch but is too afraid to get his fingers burnt, like before.

Drinking a few cans of lager to relax me. The odd puff on the pipe to loosen me up and untangle the web from my head. The hour getting late and him 'kindly' offering me a place alongside him in his bed. Not like Billy, who would be terrified by the thought. A guy that would offer you his own bed and sleep on the couch all night cursing at not having the minerals to put it the way that someone like the confident Wes would.

Wes with his big rugby frame and his tenacity. Offering me a place in his bed, encouraged that the booze and the relaxing drug would have the desired effect of me; throwing off my clothes and demanding to be kept awake all night.

Wes doesn't know me. Doesn't know me half as well as he thinks he does. And yes I guess some blokes would call me a 'cock tease' and I'd be pushing my luck with the wrong guy; the sort who would see an invitation of me sharing their bed as an invitation to violate me and hold up hands of innocence in a court of law.

Wes wants to shag me, but he ain't no potential rapist.

And it's true; it's me that's in the wrong by leading him on and joining him; never ever intending to give myself to him. Fully clad in my silk champagne coloured pyjamas. Showing him the back of them. Giving out only frustration and a temptation to try it on.

Me only needing the comfort of an odd type of protection from a moment of weakness.

To lie in the dark with somebody to allow me to stop looking over my shoulder.

Over my shoulder had been Wes. His desires toiling in his head. Unable to figure me out.

Calling him on a whim. Sharing his bought in chemicals. Agreeing to his offer of a place in his bed. To all tense and purpose peeling myself open for him to devour. His big rugby playing hands and arms all over me. Coating me in his rough lips and his eager tongue. Several differing thoughts and urges spinning around in his mind. Never to come to fruition.

Fancying him, yes. But wanting him, no.

The same with Billy. Sweet and frustratingly timid Billy. Fancying him, yes in a strangely appealing way. His looks not instantly grabbing me but my eye seeing a rough beauty to him also. But wanting him, sadly not. My appeal for boozy nights with his mates, talk of sports and quiet laborious conversation setting a shallow bar. Me, needing my mind stimulating and not feeling that it's unfair to want it caressed.

It was a long night at Wes's. Never being able to sleep properly. Him putting too much effort in to begging to be touched. Placing his bare feet against mine, tickling my senses at the touch of unexplored flesh; which I could handle.

Eventually plucking up enough courage to place an arm around me in pretend slumber, to make me feel safe; I could handle.

That confidence slipping a big rugby playing hand on my breast and forcing me to push him away; to keep his distance in his own bed.

I'd had enough of that shit with my father. Helping me to evade men further than I probably wanted it to.

I'd left before breakfast was even offered. An awkwardness that must be what it feels like after a one night stand. Except that this was far from a one night stand and I'd have to face him again.

A really grave error of judgement on my part; and one that he clearly resented me for.

The enjoyment for my new job taking a knock because of it.

Spending the Monday night at Joanne's to let some light-heartedness back in to my life. Her driving us over to the pictures to watch Mission: Impossible.

Sharing a bed with Joanne bringing no fear of a stray hand. Joanne only having time for boys, and lots of them.

Me loving the diversity that is between us, keeping us fresh and together as friends. Me frowning and loving who she is. Her frowning and loving who I am. The best of friends for fourteen years.

Behaving like we always have, like big kids with separate missions in life.

Helping me forget about mistakes with Wes within a heartbeat of her infectious company.

Bringing us to today and to now.

Wes avoiding me. Like a sulking scorned child who can't have any sweets. Never asked of anything other than friendship and a place to stay for the night. Having a right lippy on. Maybe he imagined that I'd promised him something more? Maybe my actions had spoken words that were never spoken. If so they were misinterpreted.

Maurice letting me know that Billy Sweeney had paid me a visit on the previous evening, whilst I was with Joanne and Tom Cruise.

His fearsome mother probably growling about my intrusion on to their doorstep. Poor old Billy no doubt wanting to apologise. Thinking that his mother had only aided his humble and hesitant personality in ushering me away.

I probably did ought to seek him out and explain things. Poor soul probably another that's sulking; only in to his Mansfield Bitter.

The press idiots seemingly taking their focus away from me now, turning to somebody else for their next toxic non-story.

Just wanting to put this whole sorry couple of months behind me and move on. Hoping that the move in to Maurice's place will kick start it all.

The spectre of DCI George Flaxman looming large to unsettle me.

Taking my troubles out on to the streets. Pounding the grey footways in my running shoes, shorts and vest top. Needing the exercise brought with the puff and pant of a gasping for air. Working up a sweat and attracting unwanted glances and calls from men in the beer garden of The Gun & Glasshouse. My ponytail wisping against my damp bare neck as I'm by them in a flash.

The spectre of DCI George Flaxman following me on my run.

Past The Warren Parade and a gleaming executive model car pulling away from the shops. Past St Matthews school and slinking off the tarmac on to the rough track leading to The Common. Pounding up its grassy incline and to its secluded northern edge. In to the alley at the rear, to take the service track that loops back round to the estate. Only myself and the strewn rubbish of broken glass, empty cans and the fag ends of teenagers, of a loose tyre and an unforgivable amount of dog mess. Of an approaching car with a swinging door and a hand that pulls me inside.

The spectre of DCI George Flaxman catching up with me at the far end of The Common. Away from the houses and the busy road. At the end of The Common where youths hang out and casual dog walkers leave their shit. The end of The Common with just a rough service road for the council to gain access to tend to its plain expressionless grass.

The end with just me and DCI George Flaxman, with a smug satisfaction set in to his eyes.

Flaxman twice the size of me, with twice the strength. His intimidation and his heinousness adding to his power over me; making me mute with daunt. His fist with a tight grip on my vest top. Him lifting it up and being disappointed by a sports bra. His breathing tense and out of control, like he's possessed by an unseen demon. Unblinking and disturbed. Making me as terrified as I have ever felt in my life. Wanting to cry out for Maurice but the wind taken from my lungs.

DCI Flaxman, now central to my life, detached from his own. Foaming from the mouth and all orifices with wanton violence. Speaking with a voice that could be delivered from the devil himself.

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'The message that says I'm going to fuck you.'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'The message that tells you that I can take you and do things to you whenever I want.'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'I'm the law and I do what I want. To anybody or anything.'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'You have something that I want, and you're going to give it to me.'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'That man that you're living with. Are you fucking him?'

-'It wouldn't surprise me. You look like a whore.'

-'Did he help you do over your old man?'

-'Nudge him in to the loony bin for you?'

-'Did you fuck him for doing you that as a favour?'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'I asked the old cunt to do me a favour and he's not delivered.'

-'I bet you know exactly the type of man you're living with don't you?'

-'The type of man your fucking?'

-'The type of man and his history and just what he's capable of.'

-'The phantom.'

-'The bulls assassin.'

-'The type of man who has refused to do me a favour, but did one for you.'

-'Guess I can't fuck him as a thank you. Hey, you little fucking whore?'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'I want you to speak to him. To tell him to get his arse back down south and to finish that job.'

-'To tell him that you'll let him keep fucking you after it's done. Or you'll suffer because of it.'

-'Failure to do this will make me come and search for you.'

-'You don't want to be fucked by me girl.'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'There's a field for the good guys and a field for the bad guys.'

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'I plough my own field and I do what I want. Little girls with cock sucking lips will taste the barrel of my gun.'

He withdraws a revolver from his belt. Placing its steel to my teeth.

His voice trickled down to a whisper.

-'Have you got the message yet?'

-'Have a word with loverboy.'

-'Tell him he has a job to deliver on.'

-'Tell him to fear the consequences of my wrath. -'Or the last thing you will feel is my cock in your arse and my gun in your head.'

## Flaxman.

Anxious. On Edge. The hinges rattling and coming loose. Psycho. Hunters and their hounds trying to enter your field. Trying to round up the fox. To rip him to pieces.

Station Road Police Station.

Mansfield.

Nottinghamshire.

Turning the years back to zero.

A couple of suits over from the South Yorkshire force. Ongoing enquiry in to the death of Joey Bryant; here at Station Road. Swinging from a belt in a colourless cell.

Kate Tissard, Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield, mediating events.

You? You're up first in the hot seat. Kenton away on some foreign beach. Ryan nervously ringing in sick, like a frightened child. You needing to repeat to him the score here.

Coppers failing to follow procedure.

Coppers that had just arrested a killer of three local people and an unborn baby.

His muddy footprints in the victims house.

His DNA all over an abandoned cigarette end.

Notts Forensics turning the key on Joey Bryant.

A long long stretch to look forward to.

Tensions being high and coppers dropping their standards for a split second. It all being somewhat human nature to forget certain practise in the adrenalin rush of snaring a scumbag.

The station being in celebratory mood after being under the intense media and public spotlight.

The town wanting its own serial killer more than anything else.

The notoriety and need of its fix, but shitting it also; wanting this brute caught and off of the dangerous streets.

Bryant not discriminatory with his victims: men, women and unborn children. This monster would stop at nothing in his blind rage. Everyone being a target. Anyone could have been next. Nobody was safe.

The coppers of the town are fucking heroes. The town's folk were saying it.

Coppers never been so popular.

A slip and a major error in procedure; but an honest one.

Punishing the very men that had swept the floor of this wickedness would not go down well in the community. A community that held them in high regard. A community that formed an orderly queue to spit on the grave of the notorious local serial killer, Joey Bryant. Drug abusing, drug taking, thieving, murdering wastrel of society.

You? You're proud of the officers that tracked down and captured this animal. The hours of work and the sleepless nights to bag this germ polluting our town's streets.

The public can rightly be equally as proud as they sleep more comfortably in their beds at night.

Nobody will miss Joey Bryant.

Even his parents have distanced themselves from the cretin. -'Always been a wrong un... Don't know what we did wrong with him?.. Always tried to bring him up right... Got the devil inside of him.'

The local serial killer without a friend in the world.

Nabbed off of the quiet night time streets by hard working coppers that deserve congratulations, not investigations.

Rightfully labelled heroes by the grateful public.

Coppers never being so popular.

Huntsmen calling off their dogs for now. Offering handshakes and fucking off out of your field.

Straight in to The Portland for a much needed loosener.

13:56 on a Wednesday.

Nursing a pint of McEwan's for a couple of minutes before chucking it down my neck in one and ordering another.

Sitting in your usual seat by the window. Head burning hot inside with your own company.

A furnace inside of it.

A head that's stinging with thorns. Constantly jabbing against an under pressure brain.

A brain that throbs on autopilot, in a blurred tunnel. Thoughts becoming detached.

A dark and lonely tunnel.

Filled with rage and mischief.

Packed with a sadness and a curdling turmoil.

Voices in a tormented head that aren't all your own.

Spiky. Thorny. Barbed and judgemental. Hazing your decision making and arming you with wrong doing that you're struggling to combat.

Passing yourself over to your autopilot in a mad grief.

Feeling your grip on your strength gradually loosening.

Needing to build a shelter in your field to protect you from those who wish to harm you.

The pub door swinging open and the slight figure of Kate Tissard strolling to the bar, looking around and finding you with those shiny, pretty, white eyes of hers.

Ordering herself half a lager and joining you at your usual table.

Placing that sweet backside of hers on the stool opposite.

You can still smell that natural, unseen, Kate Tissard through the perfume.

-'Bit old school this is isn't it George?' She says with a certain irony.

-'Not breaking any laws ma'am.'

-'I wasn't accusing you of any.'

-'Everyone knows that this is a coppers pub Kate. I'm on my lunch break.'

-'I'm not knocking it. I think you deserve it after having to go through that interview.'

-'It's a bit of a misnomer, don't you think? Suits from South Yorkshire coming here to investigate coppers.'

-'I think they're reasonable people George.'

-'And we're good coppers. Coppers with a faultless history and a fucking outstanding collar.'

-'I agree. I'm not here to add to your troubles. I'm here as a friend.'

-'You clearly ask questions around the station Kate. You must do to find me in here. You'll realise that I don't have many friends.'

-'It doesn't mean that we aren't all on the same side.'

-'I've always worked fine as I am.'

-'But you always were very close with my predecessor. Mr Clarke was like a father figure to you wasn't he?'

-'I suppose he was in a way.'

-'Can't we work as closely? I think our relationship is a vital one. You're my senior cop around here.'

-'What are you suggesting?'

-'I can see the strain you are under. I know how hard Walter Clarke's death has hit you. You have the pressure of this enquiry to deal with... And I know that you've had problems at home.'

-'You don't know anything about me.' You sniff.

-'I know that policemen and women are just human beings and human beings gossip and can be cruel... I know that your wife has left you George. The whole station does. I want to be a good manager and help you. To be there for you and protect my senior policeman.'

-'Well why don't you fuck these Yorkie bastards back off to Sheffield then? Let me and my boys get on with our jobs?... We don't need the soft hand of Human Resources love; we need the strong arm of senior management.'

-'I'm already doing my best... I know what good people I have working with me and I'll stand shoulder to shoulder beside them all.

-'Well try harder Kate... And do it quickly.'

You finish your pint and stand up. Needing the energy of fresh air.

-'Perhaps you need to take a few days leave George; to rest yourself?'

-'And do what? Wash the car? Prune the fucking garden? Polish the wedding photo's?'

-'It's just a suggestion.'

-'No Miss Tissard, you need me here; at work. This force and this town need me at work. Not hiding away like some sad weak fuckwit with just his hard luck stories for company.'

-'Consider it anyway George. I'm here whenever you need me.'

-'Bye Miss Tissard.'

You're out of there and fast and away. Away to the only place you can get to quickly enough.

A place where you'll have peace to rest your throbbing skull.

Away from the politically correct bullshit of Divisional Commander Tissard and her softly, softly, let's not hurt ourselves now bollocks.

Up to your war room up on West Gate.

Up the iron staircase with clanking boots. Ignoring the vegetable boy and his hello.

Shutting the outside world behind you and sliding across each bolt and lock.

Ripping together the thin curtains to prevent further distress from the shine of the light from the windows.

Large gulps of tap water. Your mouth stooping below the tap.

Your war room. Your shelter from those who wish to harm you. Tank proof. Secluded. Private.

In to the disused bedroom at the back.

A body slumped forwards in a chair.

The splashing of piss puddles around your shoes.

Kneeling down amongst the piss. It barely registering as it soaks itself in to the cotton of your trousers.

You lift a blonde head. Her eyes closed to you.

You loosen the obstruction from her mouth and you tenderly kiss her lips.

Reaching in to your pocket you pull out a small leather box.

Opening it to reveal gold and diamonds.

-'I was going to give you this Rebecca.'

-'I was going to send her and the boy away.'

-'I was going to ask you to marry me. Once the dust had settled.'

-'To straighten it with your dad.'

-'I know that he'd have eventually seen the right in it.'

-'We were good for each other.'

-'Both of us had been what we'd always searched for in life.'

-'You were the only person that I'd ever loved.'

-'You'd given me back my worth in life. Abandoned at such a young age and made to feel so worthless.'

-'Since you left me, all I see is bad, and all I feel is bad.'

-'I'm struggling to get by without you babe.'

-'I have nothing left but my rage and my vengefulness.'

-'All the love left me with the flick of the that brutal knife.'

-'From a man that took you and won't even do the simplest of tasks as a repayment.'

-'I'm losing my mind here Rebecca.'

-'I miss you so much. It wakes me in the night with a knot in my heart.'

-'It's making me suffer Rebecca. I want everyone to pay for losing you.'

-'I want my revenge on everyone. Everyone who I come in to contact with.'

-'The only thing inside of me now is anger. Anger and your loss and a need to make everyone pay.'

-'I love you so much.'

-'I miss you so much.'

-'Everyone is going to pay.'

You take her in your arms. Her head slumped against your shoulder.

Heavy and lifeless and blonde.

Your tears in her hair.

Your sorrow in her ear.

# Insularfield :  
give me a story with a happy ending

## The Warren Allotments.

A profound day of soaring early June temperatures passing in to the small steps of evening. The grocery shopping done and that young fella, with a intensely keen interest in our Karin, had popped by with a crate of lovely fresh fruit and vegetables; far too much for a household of us two I'd told him. Slipping me a thank you for listening to him the other night.

Sent him away to concentrate on a plan for himself, rather than wasting time dropping off a bunch of goodies for me. Though it was greatly appreciated and he's a nice lad who I hope has got something better up his sleeve than he's previously shown me. Not filling me with any confidence about his abilities; with our Karin being a feisty little bugger too. I'm not totally sure what her demands are, but she's never given me the impression of ever being overly eager for a fella in her life just yet.

Agility no longer being something that I was going to worry about. Nor that expanding waistline. Happy to let it grow along with my satisfaction, and my little household.

I'd waited until the late afternoon to make a trip up to the allotments. Some watering to be done in the early evening once the steam of the day had passed.

I'd got a stock take to do beforehand.

In that shed which is more of a lean to.

After a word with young Griff.

One of his boys was going to pop by sometime tomorrow, before the council locks the gates. To get that dozy arsenal shifted from my space. Griff himself had taken that hidden stash of money a couple of weeks previous. Setting me up with some account somewhere. Not happy that I'd just left his hard earned cash lying around in somewhere he classed as "inappropriately unprotected".

I'd tried to argue that nobody would find it in its well hidden dugout, but he was having none of it.

Lads like Griff worrying too much about money in life.

Me craving for life when folk had it simpler.

Putting too much importance and value on money and losing sight of regular values. A simple chap such as myself manages to see the bigger picture on life, I reckon. One where there are far more important issues than money.

Happiness and contentment being the foundations of my life; and I reckon I might just have reached a good place with young Karin coming to stay. To have her intelligent conversation around the place has added a significance too.

Taken away some of them voices in my head.

Settling me and them odd urges I have.

Like having my Joan back around the place to be perfectly honest. A clever lass that can show me the error of my ways; just like my Vivien Leigh.

A satisfaction that has eased a burden and playfully willed me to relax more and be happy with my lot in life.

I'm waking up in the mornings with the song of the birds outside of my window and an ease to my mind.

Sniffing along with the best of em, as usual, and as blind as a newly born mouse without my buggering specs I grant you; but to hear her knocking around the place is fantastic.

Making me a lovely cuppa of that Chinaman tea in the mornings and to shout her 'see ya laters' as she leaves for work is magical.

After six years of having the place to myself, rattling around in the quiet, trying to find something to do, it's relaxing to have days like these.

Days where I can do my shopping and set out my business; knowing I'll have a face to see and a voice to hear at the end of the day.

Seeing off that daft elaborate haul of weapons, most of which have never been unloaded, will complete my happiness and my retirement.

I may even celebrate tonight by taking some of that lovely fruit to Mae-ling at Griff's place above the laundrette.

To cheer her up and put that lovely smile back on her face. It's been a while since I visited.

Stripped the guns down. Checked the working parts, and gave them a dust.

Unknowing why some had ever even come out of the bag.

A ridiculous amount of tools that I would never have realistically needed. Griff always wanted me to be prepared; like a tooled up boy scout.

Enjoying the comforts of the good people in my life. They're few but that's how I like it. Keeping it simple and unmessy.

I mashed some tea and took a cup to old Fred in the next plot before he headed off home to his missus.

The allotments living on borrowed time.

Young uns no longer interested in them as a past time.

Would sooner eat junk and sit in front of a telly these days.

Least Karin gets the importance of good exercise and the best form of nourishment. But then our Karin has her head screwed on, unlike so many other younger uns.

Use em or lose em I say.

In twenty years time these allotments will be concrete and houses. Making the most of that view across the town. Councillors and aspiring developers, like young Griff, wanting to make a fast buck on the back of its location; despite what the snobs say about this part of town.

As good as anywhere I'd want to live. You can keep your flashy new houses in the middle of the countryside; here I have it all. The benefits of town and country. So long as this allotments remains an allotment I have my exercise and much of my peace and entertainment.

Society losing site of the simple things in life during the nineties. A decade where old values are becoming increasingly lost. The young uns demanding more from life, for less work. More interested in having a good time and spending money that they've not yet earned.

Old Fred spitting out the green tea.

Telling me that I can keep my 'foreign muck'.

Fred preferring the English stuff the best; made with English milk and English sugar.

No place in Fred's simple life for this new fangled 'foreign muck'. Him heading off home chuntering to himself.

I'm filling my twelve litre watering can and soaking the cracked burned soil with moisture.

A wind picking up out of nowhere and blowing my sweat to dryness.

Thankful of its sudden breeze whistling through my hair and filling my ears.

Blowing in from some unseen place and making itself particularly known on this isolated hill; the sweep of The Warren and the town before us.

The watering can providing pleasure to the calmest part of my carefully nurtured world.

Whispering an Elvis ditty under my breath, my Joan up top helping me along with the words.

'Happy Ending' from the 1962 long player 'It Happened At The World's Fair'

'Happy ending, happy ending  
Give me a story with a happy ending  
When boy meets girl and then they never part again  
But live forever happily like you and me.'

A man climbing the path at the allotments edge. Dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. His tie loosened.

'Our love story gets me so upset  
Like Romeo and Juliet  
I'm not smart enough to figure why  
Some folks enjoy a real good cry'

Turning at Fred's plot. Wind whipping his flop of fair hair and gently pressing it back down as it dies again. A recent face which I know. Someone I'd been expecting.

'Happy ending, happy ending  
Give me a story with a happy ending  
When boy meets girl and then they never part again  
But live forever happily like you and me  
(You and me, you and me, you and me, you and me)'

He looks a mess. As if it's been days since he slept. His clothes tired and disheveled and him losing much of that air of invincibility that he'd previously shown me.

'Never thought that I would stand a chance  
That you'd give me a second glance  
But I think that you can play the part  
And give a guy a happy heart'

My watering can running dry, just as the gusts pick up again.

The bobby, DCI Flaxman stood ten yards from me, as if the elements have been an elaborate part of his introduction.

An expression blank and his lips immobile.

-'Can I help you Mr Flaxman?' I offer. Though clearly I'm not going to agree to his main objective; due to my retirement being absolute.

Motionless he weighs me up.

He's a big lad and I have no doubts that he can handle himself, however I'm ready.

I've had to be ready all of my life; even when I'm not too fused about being ready.

My life now dominated by simple things.

-'Shall we talk things through Mr Flaxman? I'll put a brew on if you'd like? Though it's only green tea that I drink now days. None of them toxins or caffeine, you see... Good for you... You should try it.'

He stinks of sweat and doesn't look as though he's washed or shaved for a couple of days.

I'm surprised at him. He's an important man n'all.

If this is Griff's top bobby then I should hate to see his bottom one.

-'Has the cat got your tongue Mr Flaxman?' I puzzle.

-'No cat's got my tongue Maurice. I speak when I want to speak and speak about what I want to speak about... I don't have time for your small talk.' He muses in an abrupt huff.

-'You'll be wanting to speak about your old man then?.. Sending me away to top a lovely old boy like that... Blimey, you should hang your head in shame lad. Martin Carruthers is a national treasure.'

-'I didn't ask you to go there and think for yourself Maurice. I asked you to complete a simple task. A task that it looks increasingly like I'll have to regrettably do myself.'

-'Well whatever your beef is with your father I can tell you now, he wishes to make it all up with you. He's a good man.'

-'You spoke to him?'

-'I stayed the night.'

-'You did what?'

-'I now consider him a friend. But if you have an issue between yourselves then it's between the pair of you... None of my business... I'm retired.'

-'Jesus Christ... So he knows what you went for?'

-'Of course.'

-'And he could have spoken to anyone about it?'

-'He could have, but he's hardly teeming with pals... He wants the company of his lad... You Mr Flaxman... We all need our family for company.'

Flaxman reaches inside his jacket and reveals a pistol.

My heart skipping a beat for a brief second before settling back in to its usual repeated rhythm.

-'You're an absolute fucking joke Maurice... The bull's assassin? I've never heard anything so remotely stupid in all my days... You're pathetic... Is Bradshaw pulling the wool over my eyes with you?'

-'What do you mean?'

-'Are you this bloody phantom that he speaks about... Or are you a hoax?... People being scared of you?... A knackered old twat with a screw loose?'

-'I don't know what you mean... But I reckon there's a few of us about with a screw loose.'

The policeman raises his voice to a shout on the wind. -'Do you fucking kill people for Griff Bradshaw?.. People like Roger Campbell?.. People like the Retford Irish?.. People like Jennifer Clarke and Rebecca Stevenson?'

I dab my brow with my hay fever handkerchief, though there's no sweat to dab away as I suck the breeze in to my lungs through my teeth. -'Aye lad, I can't deny any of that... I've been a bloody wrong un, that's true enough.'

He levels the barrel towards me. Targeting me in its sight.

"Crikey" I'm thinking to myself. It's the bloody end. Right here and now, on my allotment plot on the hottest day of the year so far. A relaxing day when I felt proper good about being alive.

Armed with just a plastic watering can to defend myself.

A wrong un copper with a gun on the quiet streets of 1996 England.

What has the country become?

-'You took away the thing that was most dear to me... It might have been an accident but nevertheless it was you that did it... With the flick of your knife... Now I see you and what a pathetic piece of shit you are it just makes me even madder about it.'

-'I've been upsetting folks for years Mr Flaxman. You're not the first lad, but it happens that you may just be the last... If you can aim straight.'

-'You've broken my life and the plans that we'd made together... Everyone is going to pay, I can tell you that... You. The bull. Tissard. Her and the boy and that Murphy cunt. And that father who left me to be a bastard.'

-'You're getting emotional Mr Flaxman. You can't let emotion come in to an execution. It narrows the odds... All down to the breathing you see.'

-'Shut the fuck up, you pitiful old clown... I'll be in heaven again with Rebecca, but I've work to do first; with you lot.'

-'Compose yourself then kid... Deep breaths and take the ruddy shot... Kill the unarmed man holding the watering can... I know I would... Never a better bloomin opportunity.'

A shot echoing out in to the valley.

Birds taking to flight.

The wind swirling the bang to all four corners of The Warren.

Covering of blood against the plastic which drapes over the tomatoes.

Smoke from a barrel at the side of the shed, which is more of a lean to.

The policeman, Flaxman, blown back several feet, his back against the earth.

A huge chunk of him ripped away from the shoulder and the neck.

Bleeding profusely and choking on final breathes.

His blood soaking in to my plot.

Eyes wide open; never blinking or shifting.

Blood pouring from his open mouth.

A shotgun that I'd mistakenly failed to put back in the steel box of the dugout.

The cartridges documented in my notepad and left beside it.

The last piece to go in the ground, ready for Griff's lad to collect.

My old age making me discover newer errors.

Joan tutting her doubts in my whistling bonnet.

A young lass holding the firearm.

Our Karin, with a look of complete horror at what she'd done.

Bringing me fish and chips for my tea.

Overhearing everything the policeman had said.

Seeing him produce the gun.

His behaviour unhinged and frightening. Snarling like a rabid dog.

One that she hadn't hesitated to put down.

That retirement?

She's on her knees. Her voice lost in some difficult place.

Shotgun dropped to the ground. Fingers of mortification to her mouth.

Holding her, my Karin. Having to think fast.

My Joan in my head, thinking faster, as usual.

Telling her to go.

To take the long way home.

Through the gap in the fence at the top of the allotments and through the bushes out on to the brow of The Common; there she can find the service road back to home.

Back to home.

To sit tight.

To act as if nothing had happened.

Joan telling me to tell Karin that I will take the blame for this.

She'd heard Flaxman say what he had and it was all true.

I would explain it to her properly when I had the time, but now we had to think straight.

She's beginning to sob in her shock.

Not wanting to leave me there.

Nobody else in the allotments, fortunately.

A siren on the drift of the wind. Could be for us. Could be any number of business that takes place in the muddle of The Warren.

Me and my Karin on our knees. Her crying head in my soup-dish hands.

Flaxman in a pool of cold blood and soil.

I tell her to get away from me.

To find the lad Billy.

He'll be a safe pair of hands for her amidst the crap that's about to hit the fan.

To act normally; Joan repeatedly telling me to remind her.

Joan reassuring us that her nephew will take care of her.

The time had arrived; most unexpectedly; for me to face the consequences of my sins.

All of the hell that I had unleashed over the years had landed to roost; amongst the greenery of The Warren Allotment.

A full ten minutes before I can persuade that girl to leave.

To take that long way around.

Her face a ruddy great mess for the world to see.

Sent away with a message that I love her and that everything the policeman had said was true.

It was time for me to face justice for my wrong doings.

Flaxman may as well be another one to add to the pile of sinful actions.

Seeing the back of my Karin slip through the gap in the fence and bushes; the last time as a free man.

Hoping I'll see her face before me again; but having to accept it if I don't.

Retirement?...As soon as it finds you, you become bloomin bored with it... On to the next adventure.

Moving the terracotta pots to one side and pulling across the rug. Lifting the concealed cover and in to the dugout. It's perfectly dry down here, six feet below the surface.

For the second time today the steel box is emptied.

The array of weapons placed on the ground beside the bench seat.

The shotgun and its fresh smell of cordite put on the table in front of me.

George Flaxman has puffed his last sorry breath. Martin Carruthers safe from his wrath.

I roll myself a fag with a sigh of disappointment at the cruel, yet typical timing.

Brewing yet another cup of that green tea. Mae-ling will miss me, and I will miss her.

Wondering if they serve 'foreign muck' on the inside?

## Fulham.

Hammersmith is the closest tube station to my publisher on Fulham Palace Road. I have no urgency to linger despite the adrenaline charge that being in London gives me. I'm no longer turned on by the crowds and the teeming ants nest of life.

It's not the town that I loved and left before and I no longer passionately desire it in the way that I once had. Far too hectic for a wary old man, aged a couple of decades in a couple of short months.

I realise that this will be my last stopover to this part of the capital and I hotfoot it with my head bowed low, unnoticed and as unknown as much as anyone else in the vicinity.

Having to wait in the reception like anyone else would have to. No red carpet. No trumpet fanfare. No dancing girls waving pompoms. Just a frail old man who has reached his terminal stop. Visiting here no longer a celebration for me. No longer having grand thoughts of stature that tell me that it was my books that helped build this place. No longer punching my chest out and throwing my chin high.

The fellow on the reception is young and fresh and so obviously gay. I don't know him and he doesn't know me, mores the pity, but I steal myself from embarrassment and just find a seat.

A TV plays the lunchtime news over in the corner.

A massive explosion rocking the Arndale Shopping Centre in Manchester. 200 people injured. A caller using a recognised IRA code. The seventh attack since breaking its ceasefire in February. Prime Minister John Major speaking to the press outside of Downing Street again, still blaming a handful of fanatics.

Euro 96 tournament venues put on high alert.

Four days on and the television still showing Gazza's goal against Scotland every time you look at a screen. It wanes my interest for the game even further. The whole country seeming to be wrapping themselves in a football blanket; leaving those of us with little interest exposed and feeling fraudulently unpatriotic.

A shooting in the Nottinghamshire town of Mansfield. A policeman shot dead in an allotments. The fourth killing in the town in three months. Nobody ruling out that this shooting could be linked. A man arrested and the police not looking for anyone else in connection. The policeman, a detective called George Flaxman, leaves a wife and a son. Described as a hero who had recently helped make an arrest for the other murders. Sounding like foul play to the untrained ear.

Emotionless I follow Nigel through to his office. Scarcely noticing the bear hug and the hand shake that he warmly greets me with. His face full with his eyes rapid and his lips quicker. His arm wrapped around my shoulders in the silence which follows white noise. Pulling up a chair to his desk for me, failing to file away a single word that has left his mouth as he plonks himself down and exaggeratingly scoops and dances his hands and arms wildly. Stopping. Waiting. Exploring me with his expectant eyes. Mouth open wanting reply. My editor Nigel Watkins.

-'Martin?.. Martin??.. Martin?'

-'Sorry Nigel... I was miles away.'

-'Are you okay?'

-'Yes!...Yes!...Fine. I'm sorry. I just heard news from a friend and it's knocked the wind from my sails, that's all.'

-'Anything I can do?'

-'No. I'll be fine thank you Nigel.'

-'Excellent... Now can I get you a drink?'

-'No Nigel, that'll be okay thank you. I don't want to waste too much of your time. Let's just get this out of the way and we can both move off in our separate directions.'

-'Really?' Nigel rocks back in to his chair. His own wind knocked from his own sails. 'Are you leaving us then?.. Are you speaking with another publisher?.. Is there anything that we can do to get you to change your mind?.. Perhaps you'd like Helen here to represent you?'

-'I beg your pardon?' I puzzle.

-'After such a long partnership between yourself and the company I was hoping that it would be just a question of trust and loyalty with a fresh deal.' He pleads.

-'You're offering me a new deal?'

-'Of course.. Like I said. We've not been so excited with a manuscript for years.'

-'You haven't?.. You like it?'

-'Have you not been listening Martin?.. It's a remarkable return to form... Undoubtedly the best thing that even you, with your illustrious back catalogue, has ever written.'

-'You think so?' I lean towards his desk. Placing my forearms upon it. Loosening up and fully opening my ears to his focus.

Nigel expelling a belly laugh.

-'Martin, you really are wonderfully eccentric my dear fellow. You haven't been listening to a single word that I've said.'

-'I've had certain things on my mind. I'm all ears now... I thought you'd hate it... I'd come expecting to collect my P45 Nigel.'

Again he issues the whole floor with an enormous bellyful of a laugh. Straight on to the intercom. -'Rufus... Champagne and a couple of glasses please.'

-What are your thoughts then?.. I have a few new ideas for projects.'

-'You're wanting to move away from Benedict?' Nigel gasps.

-'Of course... Isn't he stale now?'

-'Heavens no Martin...The new Benedict is an utter revelation. Everyone will love his transformation. He's, well, very nineties in an add sort of way. The public want grief. They want dark and brooding. A man on a bloodthirsty mission. Devastation and revenge in a thick gloop of a plot.'

-'You think so?'

-'I know so... We'd be most disappointed if you decided to move away from the Benedict novels. They're your trademark, "Martin Carruthers's Benedict", as English society as bangers and mash and punting on the River Cam old boy.'

-'So let me get this right...You want me to write more Benedict books and you want me to write them in this new style?'

-'Ha Ha Ha... Absolutely Martin... Abso-bloody-lutely... Edgar Benedict, a hero scorned and vanquished. A wanted man framed and on the run. Barely a friend left in the world but for his faithful old crew. A nation's hero fallen and exposed. Now a common criminal out to clear his name. Undercover and tottering on the edge of a mental hell. Deep, sorrowful, his soul despondently bleeding. It's absolutely fucking magnificent Martin. I bloody love it. The whole bloody office loves it.'

I fall back in to my chair and let out a sigh of desperate relief. No joy or the usual bravado; just an alleviation of a tremendous weight that had clamped me to the world. Lifting the fog from my brain. That boy still playing in my mind. The news of his death the latest in a line of jolts to my body. Only later will it all kick in properly; as I explore the story further. Unable to discipline my own sadness and grief and my abating appeasement. And thankful that I wouldn't be losing everything after all of my worry too. It not making me want to sway from my plans in any way.

The receptionist, Rufus, bringing through a tray. An ice filled bucket of champagne and a couple of sparkling flutes. His beautiful face carrying the hint of a polite admiration that I'd not noticed before. Watery, bottomless, delicious green eyes.

Nigel Watkins pouring and gifting me my glass. A toast to the new Edgar Benedict. A man rescued from the grave. A man that would see yet more battle in the darkness of his life.

-'I suppose I had better get Helen Smart on the blower to arrange another date, hadn't we Martin?... To talk figures.' He offers.

-'Good gracious... I think not.' I stutter. -'A hellish woman... I'm afraid that I can't deal with her. It was the old man that kept me with Smart, Smart & Ingle... Without the old man I won't be requiring their services any longer Nigel... I shall be conducting my own negotiations, and representing myself from now on.'

-'A wise move my friend... That woman has the air of the night about her.'

-'Quite.'

-'I was thinking a three book deal?'

-'That suits me perfectly.'

-'I was thinking an advance of half a million, with a five percent bonus to each sale after a million units.'

-'I will accept nothing shy of six-hundred and fifty and eight percent.'

-'A deal!' Smiles Nigel Watkins.

-'There's nothing to this negotiating malarkey is there?' I stand and offer my hand to my editor.

-'Of course I will need to get this rubber stamped from above, but it's a fair deal Martin.'

-'I think so.' I agree with a smile.

-'Take care Martin... Have a safe journey home... I shall keep you abreast and have the paperwork sent to you.'

-'I will be seeing you again in the coming weeks Nigel.'

-'Pleasure.' He grins as I make for the door. -'And thank you Martin.'

-'I'll show myself out... And Nigel?'

-'Yes.'

-'The young fellow at the desk? Pleasant enough chap is he?'

## The War Room.

Water run dry.

Dry for so long now.

Throat coated in a layer like concrete.

Breathing slowing.

Heart rate lessening to an occasional thump.

Unable to think.

Unable to make my body move.

Muscles spasm in shock.

Going in to shut down.

Eyelids sealed tight with a strong crust of sleep.

All moisture drying from me.

Alone.

Still afraid.

Afraid of what's next.

In the darkness.

In the silence.

In the final throes.

How did it come to this?

## Heathrow.

Karin,

I need to be honest with you. For my own sake and for the sake of my sanity, and I can't think of an easier way of expressing myself than in the way of a letter.

Call it a cop out.

You'll possibly squirm through embarrassment; but I think I know you enough now to realise that you're a fair minded person. Someone who will let me go against my usual rational thoughts to try something outside of my comfort zone and not consider me a lunatic. I hope.

All of my life I've felt afraid.

Afraid that I'll always be second best. Afraid that I'll always be average; and that I'll fail to get what I truly desire in my life, hindered by my lack of confidence. It being pathetically brittle.

I've always been too afraid to do for myself and help me out. Conscious of the embarrassment and the possible repercussions of making a mistake.

Too scared of looking foolish, rather than to do for myself.

Too content to go without, rather than to try and take what I want.

Too afraid to gamble and take a risk. A hunch being a thing to put a hand on my shoulder and urge me to re-think before I do something to regret.

Thinking being a major flaw to me. I do so much of it.

Only too aware of my limitations, my inadequacies; my averageness that I've been reminded of for my entire life.

Never needing just a mirror. Having plenty of people around me to point out the things that even a mirror misses.

I was going to write you a poem.

I tried to write you a poem for four days.

Dozens of failed attempts. Until I decided that poems really ought to be left for poets; not dreamers who sell fruit and vegetables for a living.

I struggle to address my feelings and put them in to words.

Words are not my friends. I know them and admire them. I can get by with just using a few of them. However, many don't choose to stick around when the going gets tough. Such as on the occasions when I'm around you. My nerves getting the better of me and the right choices of things to say making me look stupid.

I'm floored by you and your incredible beauty. It renders me an immobile wreckage.

Is that the real me?

No it isn't.

I'm not really the bumbling idiot that you've seen. Stuttering my words, my head blank from trying too hard to impress you.

Making me judge myself and those limitations. Being worse than any of my detractors have ever been able to be.

I want to be myself around you. I beat myself up for failing in the slightest task in front of you.

Every error taking my paddle-less boat away from you, despite the stillest waters.

In my dreams, you are stood on a grass banking in all of your incredible glowing splendour. I'm in a little wooden boat, which has long needed some care and attention. On a cold and foggy lake I'm so desperate to reach you. But for every inch I get closer something contrives to draw me away.

Making you smaller and your face dulling from the fog.

I want you and everything you are so badly that it breaks me inside.

Desiring you so much that my brain fractures and fights against me.

You take me higher than I've ever felt before.

Halting me in my tracks whenever I see you.

When you hold me, I'm alive.

Stopping my heart and wrapping it in a bow with your name branded on it.

I only have to turn my back for a second for my heart to miss you.

You've become my reason for breathing.

My every conscious moment has you in it. Every other moment is cursing having to think of something else.

When I close my eyes at night I fear that I will forget what you look like. That I'll awaken and you'll have just been the most perfect of dreams. A fabrication of my mind, searching for my hearts only desire. Plummeting me in to a sadness that you had only existed inside of my head.

Not like any other woman that I've ever met, and unlike any other woman that I'll ever meet again.

For me to give up on you and not do justice for myself would be my lifetime's regret.

I'd never be able to face that mirror again.

Meaning that I'm happy to stay in that little wooden boat and not try to swim across for you. Not being prepared to take the risk of jumping in and drowning in the cold waters.

To not try it and to see you walk away unchallenged would be like drowning anyway.

Making it seem as if I'm happy for you to blur in to the fog of my memories.

Needing to push myself in and to immerse myself. To gamble on you possibly turning and walking away at my stupidity and my struggle. But wanting you to know that at least I tried and I continually ached for you. That I wasn't too weak to express my feelings. Maybe a little stupid, but no longer afraid to experience failure for someone so important as you.

You have already been a most treasured gift to my humble life.

I will go to my grave, no matter how soon or how late, having you in it; an achievement that I am already grateful for. The short times spent in your company being the best times of my life.

For you to become a bigger part of that life is something that I would move mountains for, if you were to order it. I yearn for you so badly.

I realise that I've upset you before. My eagerness and its timing abandoning me in to nightmares. I can't apologise to you any more than I already have, without making myself look an even bigger idiot than I am doing right now.

But I'm asking you again for your forgiveness.

I'm asking you to reconsider taking a chance on me. An average lad, who I promise can make you happy and show you a side that has been hidden away, not wanting to break any more eggshells.

If I'm embarrassing you and me even further with this letter, then I'll understand your any silence towards me.

I don't need any apologises if you feel that you'll upset my feelings and I can live with any scorn or anger at wasting your time.

What I can't live with is not trying and letting myself down again.

I will no longer harass you or pursue you.

I will no longer bother or bug you. I will keep my distance if you wish it.

Though I'm happy to be a friend and would consider it an honourable second prize. If you can live with a friend that will forever be infatuated by you under your spell?

All I wish from this letter is for you to make this final paragraph and for me to have been allowed to portray the feelings that I struggle so much to say. With words that my mouth won't happily obey in my torment, and for you to ultimately judge for yourself, with that remarkable mind, behind that beautiful face which I hope will never leave me.

Someone who is deeply in love with you.

Billy x

## Hong Kong.

I'd stuffed it in my bag in a hurry, along with essentials; packing together a small case for an unexpected trip.

I had no idea how long I'd be and couldn't fathom what exactly was going on.

I'd not even had the strength to ring in to work for days; I hoped that they'd understood my situation. Living with a killer of a policeman.

Work left thinking that they'd employed a real basket case individual with a proper mess of a life, no doubt. Undoubtedly regretting their decision.

My world a dazed fortnight of confusion.

Racked with crushing grief for the palpable absurdity of the situation we've found ourselves in.

My only contact with Maurice being from a couple of very brief phone calls he'd been allowed, and messages from his legal representative.

Maurice holding an unnerving calmness; me being a head on oil tanker crash.

The police impossibly blind to my guilt beneath my obvious veil of grief.

Calling by and interviewing me just the once.

The police at our door once again.

Two policemen.

Perfectly polite.

Perfectly understanding.

Adamant that there is absolutely nothing to worry about.

Me wanting to just blurt out that I'd done it. Shot their colleague. In cold blood.

A man who was harassing and scaring me. Turning up at every turn and threatening me. Threatening me and Maurice.

Being completely oblivious to his motives. Behaving like a contriving crazed madman.

The two policemen - Detective Inspector Kenton and Detective Sergeant Ryan - spending more time convincing me that there was nothing to worry about than asking any relevant questions about my relationship with Maurice Braithwaite and the dubious goings on of the past couple of months.

Those two policemen in stark contrast to Flaxman. Helping me feel calm and assured. Making me feel that they were on my side; despite the secret that Maurice tells me not to blow.

As if there was nothing to worry about whatsoever.

-'We won't be troubling you again Miss Nemeth.'

From some cold, hard, featureless grim prison, that I could only imagine, he would call. In hushed tones. In the company of a supervisor. Spending most of his brief moment of telephone wire freedom with the outside world by calming me down. Telling me that much will come out in the wash. That he wasn't the innocent man that I've always considered. Telling me that there are many crimes that he wishes to confess; and the shooting of Flaxman will just be another one that he will put under his hat.

Through basic coded dialogue of his own, and his legal representative, he tells me that if I were to tell a soul of the truth then I would never hear from him again.

-'Please don't take away the only thing that'll make me cling on to my hopes, love.'

Bribing me to stay mute.

If I confessed to shooting Flaxman, it would end him.

He tells me that Flaxman was going to blackmail him. Maurice tells me that he was going to kill the policeman anyway; he'd decided it the moment he'd faced him in the allotments.

What did I think he had that gun for?

Only he'd taken him by surprise by pulling a gun himself. The policeman unhinged.

Someone had just bumped to the front of the queue before him, tis all.

Flaxman would have done for him that day for sure, he said.

-'My life had been saved', Maurice said.

-'Now you can give me reason for living', Maurice said.

Maurice Braithwaite's nephew would be in touch, the legal representative assured me.

Maurice is a fine judge of me. He tells me I sound awful and wilI probably look it. He told me to find some company for the difficult days ahead; though use my head and say nothing to nobody about being in the allotments.

He recommended Billy Sweeney.

I went and stayed with Joanne and her parents on Debdale Lane. Welcoming me in like royalty had come to visit.

I'd returned to the house on St Matthews Close to check on things. Not knowing what to do about the plants around the house. A house where you could feel that its soul had left through the cracks and vents; an emergency exit for a swift getaway.

It's owner unlikely to be home for many years; if at all.

What would become of it?

Where would I live?

I couldn't begin to face returning to my mother. Though she herself was finding the financial constraints biting down hard. Having to get her drunken backside in to gear.

The house now with a shiny new 'For Sale' sign embedded in the margins of the front garden.

My father was quickly evaporating in to a distant memory to us all. Like a ghost to me now. Lost in the mess of everything else that had gone off. A man locked away in solitary confinement. A risk to himself, and an increasing risk to others.

His head lost to the world; his sanity already in the next.

I'd been in the house just very briefly when there'd been a knock at the front door.

A large set man in his late twenties with a cleft lip, Fred Perry polo shirt and expensive jeans; attempting a sympathetic smile.

An employee of Maurice's nephew, who I'd invited inside.

-'Would you be willing to speak with your Uncle's nephew?'

I saw it as part of my duty to Maurice.

He drove me over to a rural part of the county, near to Bilsthorpe.

To a large, newly built house with a high wall and thick gates.

The nephew was warm but sorrowful. I'd seen him before, but couldn't remember where or when. A man not hard to recognise, but my memory escaping me. Of working class stock but of fresh wealth.

I'd never heard his name mentioned in all of these years. I'd thought that Maurice had nobody but me.

It had me wondering just how close they were? Or was Maurice even more private than I'd realised?

The nephew told me that he held Maurice in high regard and that Maurice had let it known to him that he held me in a similar fashion.

He told me that Maurice had never been a saint, despite his pleasant mannerisms. He knew that he hid a dark past that he'd never spoken of before, and we'd just have to wait and hold our breaths.

The nephew didn't seem nervous about it. Just saddened. Yet as calm as Maurice himself.

Making him sound like a Jekyll and Hyde character to me.

I thought we were talking about a different man for much of the conversation, but then over recent weeks I was learning quickly that much isn't always as it seems.

He knew that his uncle was going to prison for a very long time. Maurice had told him as much, and again I wanted to confess my guilt to someone.

The promise I'd made making my heart feel like a heavy weight that laboured on my lungs and made my breathing uncontrolled.

A promise I'd made to Maurice being just a bribe against himself; to keep the person he loved the most from facing the dock, despite her guilt.

Though my lips remained sealed.

Still a fear of what would become of me if I did actually confess. Any hopes I had being dashed. My life being a terrible mess right now anyway.

My strength of will put under severe test.

Watching one of the few people that I genuinely love slip from my weak grasp.

Maurice holding up in a fashion that would be impossible to me.

The nephew told that he dealt in Maurice Braithwaite's financial issues.

A promise he'd made to his Aunt Joan. Her telling him that her husband was a little too slow in the head to complicate himself with money.

Had me thinking that the judgement was more than a little bit unfair.

The nephew telling me that Maurice had something that he wanted me to have. Kept offshore. Something he'd been saving for me, which only I could collect, as it was in my name.

The nephew put a hand on my arm and told me with complete sincerity that

-'the old man considers you as good as one of his own.'

He asked if I had a passport?

He gave me a brown Jiffy bag.

He got me a lift back home.

He wished me luck and gave me his phone number should I need anything in the future. -'Someone who is important to Maurice is important to me too.'

A plane ticket to Hong Kong; dated for three days later.

A HSBC banking card in my name, from God knows where - wrapped in a piece of lined notepaper quoting - 'For Hong Kong'.

A HSBC credit card in my name, from God knows where - wrapped in a piece of lined notepaper quoting a £10,000 limit and a PIN number - '1996'.

A thousand pounds in cash.

An address: HSBC, 1 Queen's Road, Central, Hong Kong Island.

A note urging to visit the address and hand over the card. A safety deposit box is there in my name.

The final call from Maurice had insisted that I take the flight, use the money and go to the address. Pleading with me to do it for him. A hundred questions from me that he couldn't, or wouldn't answer. He left all of that business up to his nephew.

A further decoy?

He told me to be careful.

He told me that he loved me.

He told me to write to him through his legal representative.

At Joanne's I sat and I pondered.

I embraced the love and warmth and incredible generosity of her parents. And I pondered some more.

Repeatedly I looked at that Jiffy bag and that plane ticket.

Keeping them private. Keeping them hidden. Even from an old friend like Joanne.

Concerned Joanne; a tower of strength, made from damp cotton wool and flimsy stories about men.

Happy Joanne; the other big love of my life. Going nowhere.

I returned to Maurice's house.

I packed my bag and my case.

I called for a taxi to London; to Heathrow airport.

I stuffed the letter that lay on the front door mat - labelled 'Karin' \- in to my bag in my haste. So much built up nervousness inside of me.

When eventually I remembered it and read it in the departures lounge of Terminal 3, I re-read it and fetched myself a strong coffee.

I read it again.

I cried for the thousandth time that month.

I immediately sought out the British Airways counter and cancelled my flight.

Luckily for me they could retrieve my luggage.

I booked myself in to an airport hotel and called Billy Sweeney at his father's shop.

Quiet and thoughtful Billy. Shy and timid Billy. Trying his very best to fight off the cobwebs of anonymity.

Thankfully he answered.

Thankfully he was thrilled to hear from me.

I thanked him in a barely audible sob.

Thankfully he was more than willing to drop everything and leave straight away.

His father demanding it.

Thankfully he had a passport.

The conversation veering in to a gradual silence where neither of us could make sense of the situation.

It ending when I said that he'd better get a bag and a taxi then.

I needed a friend.

I needed support.

I needed the love of someone willing to stand by me and look after me.

I felt as fragile as a house of cards. Needing a personal touch.

I was afraid of a journey in to the unknown. Wanting a hand to hold.

He held me tight after taking an eternity to get to me. Fresh tears to my tender face.

Neither of us eager to let go.

A hotel room with a non too exotic view of a busy terminus and its traffic; being handed over to the night.

The credit card used to book two fresh flights for the morning.

Billy politely wondering what is going off? Me unable to give him a straight answer. The only words I'm able to offer being -'An adventure?'

Him holding me all night in his arms. Never once letting go. Wrapping me in a safe package. Telling me that he loves me. Me offering to -'let's see.'

Losing my innocence in that soft hotel bed in the least romantic place in the world. Wishing I'd held on until Hong Kong, but wanting it now and wanting to give Billy Sweeney the reward of my thanks.

Heathrow to Hong Kong. A stopover in Seoul prolonging the journey, but allowing me a brief, though unsatisfactory, first taste of the East.

Hong Kong surpassing all of my hopes and dreams. Exactly one year until it's handed back to the Chinese.

The hustle indescribable.

The bustle indescribable.

Lan Kwai Fong Hotel in downtown Central. Luxury never afforded me, or Billy, before. Stylish oriental decor and a comfortable ambience. East so blatantly meeting West. Making me desire the Eastern end even more.

Unable to both believe where we are. The lights and the noise of the night being strangely hypnotic to my peace of mind.

Wishing Maurice was here with me to witness this. Though knowing that he preferred the simple, less aggravating aspects of life.

The street food.

The polite people.

The forest of buildings.

The stark vivid visuals.

Living the famous images that I'd seen so many times.

Hong Kong's shiniest lights coming from the eyes of Billy Sweeney.

The appointment made with HSBC on Queen's Road.

An Englishman with an Oxbridge accent. Welcoming us to Hong Kong and to HSBC with a loose handshake.

Not paid to ask questions or to pry. Unable to give me a hint of my being there.

Ushering me towards the privacy cubicals deeper in to the bank.

Billy choosing to stay in the foyer. Telling me that -'It's your business.'

Leaving me with the nervous uncertainty of the moment.

No more wishing to intrude in a personal issue than the bank manager.

Sending me away in to the buildings bowels with a cute sympathetic smile.

The Englishman with the Oxbridge accent delivering a safety deposit box to my privacy cubicle, along with a key. Encouraging me to take as much time as I needed.

Wasting no time in opening it from behind the curtain.

Figuring that I'd already been patient enough.

Just a sealed envelope with my name on it.

Tearing it open.

A simple piece of paper - 'Your HSBC bank account PIN number is - 1996'

A larger piece of paper, folded in to three, which I unravel.

My dearest Karin,

For too long I've hidden behind a mask to make myself look simple and innocent to you, and to everyone.

Perhaps the simple me is the real me, but not totally.

Never having the wits about me on how to approach you about certain things that I find difficult to talk about. Facts of our lives that should mean a great deal to the both of us.

I'm a cowardly man Karin. A cowardly man that has had time to reflect.

Would someone who isn't cowardly really send you halfway around the world to pick up a blooming letter?

It's time for me to be honest with you. I've been keeping enough from you over the years to write you a hundred of these letters, but I'm hoping a brief one like this will be enough to get the ball rolling,.

To allow me to be more candid with you. To let out the secrets and kick out some demons.

I should be saying all of this too you face to face, however, I think the situation is delicate enough at the moment as it is.

I hope that we can do that at some date in the future. I already miss you terribly. Though once you've read this, you might never want to speak, or hear from me again.

I would understand that. Yet it would break my heart.

Karin, there's no easy way to say this and I take no pride in not having the guts to say it to your face. But I believe that I might just be your dad.

I've never been able to say it before, but I'm certain that it's true. I've been denying it for years because I never wanted to upset your Auntie Joan. Even when she'd blooming left us I wanted to keep it from her.

The fact is I had a moment of weakness with your mother and she's been taunting me that you were mine for years. Since my moment of weakness in 1977.

I'd wanted to deny it because it had shown me up as weak and disloyal.

And although I can't prove it right now, I've always known it, deep inside my heart, that it is true.

I've always loved you like a father should love a daughter. I've always needed you like a father would. I've felt you inside of me for all of these years. Like you're meant to be there, as part of me.

I'm just too dim witted to have known how to approach you without upsetting everything in our lives. I apologise unreservedly for that, and obviously nothing is proven until we could do a test of some sort.

Though after my trial, that will be the last thing that you will want to encourage.

So why Hong Kong?

It's obvious really. The Far East has been your dream for years. The books you have shown me; the pictures you have filled my head with in your enthusiasm. You've never stopped banging on about China and Vietnam and Cambodia and the likes.

I want you to be happy. I want you to follow your dreams. Away from the nastiness and the evil.

I would very much like you to help my time inside by telling me of your journeys and showing me the photos of your travels. To help make me live through your eyes, experiences and words.

There's nothing you can do for me here, but so much you can do for me with a trip. A long, extensive trip, with many stories. Out of the way of the mess of home. Hong Kong being your doorway in to the Orient!

Would you do that for me, after all of the crazy things I have told you and put you through?

I dare to dream that I can live life through you. My daughter.

In the bank account there is half a million pounds. It is money I have earned over the years and have put by for you. The account is yours and the money is yours. That money the legacy of my work. The fruits of my labour which I intend for my only child to enjoy, as a sorry for neglecting my responsibilities.

Hoping that I can make everything up to you with the exploitation of money to take the place of a hug and a kiss.

I will have my solicitor have the house put it to your name, though please feel free to sell it and buy yourself somewhere new, if you wish. I won't be returning and my memories are all safely in my head.

I eternally hope to see you again.

Take care my love. You are always in my thoughts,

Your Dad (Uncle Maurice)

## The Flat Above 50 West Gate.

Boots and shoes on iron stairs.

The clunk of a spare key inside a lock.

The shuffling of several pairs of feet inside of an unloved place.

DI Brian Kenton and DS Graham Ryan sifting through filing cabinet draws and tearing photographs from the walls.

Filling black bin liners with obsessive information.

The bull going through the rooms with the Westminster toad; searching for evidence that could incriminate them all.

Looting the place and returning it back to the shell that it once was. Back to square one for a forgotten flat, in a nowhere town, above an anonymous Fruit & Veg store.

The war room closing down.

Out of business and the boards going up.

A different strategy requiring cut backs and a change of management approach.

A rethink to the business model.

The field of their own exchanging hands.

To another leader.

In 1996. The year of the rat.

She is of dark brown curled shoulder length hair and southern European skin. French ancestry. She is 33 years old. She is 5 feet 5 inches and 120 pounds. Dressed in cream blouse, pencil skirt and natural tights. Classy, sassy and intelligent. A career cop. Moving back up home after spending eight years on the Berkshire force.

Mansfield born and bred.

Kate Tissard. The new Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield.

The new Walter Clarke.

Smaller.

Fairer.

Sexier.

More charismatic.

And so obviously so much cleaner.

Or perhaps not.

-'What the hell?!' Bob Dunphy MP - The Westminster Toad - holding a hand to his nose. Switching on a light.

The pungent smell of human waste filling the air in a room forgotten by the world.

A human shell strapped to a chair in the most bizarre of ill-fitting clothes.

Slumped far forwards. Blonde hair covering a face. Caked in the onset of a creeping death.

Griff Bradshaw at the toad's side. Puzzled and annoyed.

This meant to just be a simple tidy up. Trimming loose threads and wiping the prints of George Flaxman from their palms.

-'Who the fuck is that?' Chunters the bull.

-'I have no idea.' Answers the toad.

Brian Kenton quickly up the stairs and behind them.

-'What has Flaxman been doing in here?' Furthers the bull towards Kenton.

-'We never used this room, or this floor. I have no idea who that is.' Kenton shrugs.

The bull moving further in to the room. Splashing in puddles of urine coated on top of thick plastic sheeting.

Attempting to lift the head by the hair.

The hair coming away in his hand. Synthetic. A wig. Thrown to the sodden floor.

A bearded head slunk as low as it could physically reach. Shoulders hunched back in to an arch.

The bull lifting a lifeless hairy chin.

-'Who the fuck is that?' He repeats.

The room shaking their collective heads in unison.

The fifth person making her way to the front of the crowded doorway.

-'That's Evan Speed.' Reveals Kate Tissard.

-'Who the heaven's is Evan Speed?' Continues an even more bemused Westminster toad.

-'The Doctor Who chap?' Questions DS Graham Ryan.

Kate Tissard striding out in to the room. The bull ripping the curtains open. Tissard holding the head of Evan Speed. Feeling for a pulse.

The final throes of breath from the actors nose, on to the back of her delicate hand.

-'He's been missing... It's everywhere in the national press... Why has Flaxman got Evan Speed tied up in the back of this flat?' She turns to ask Kenton and Ryan.

-'Don't look at us.' Kenton defends. -'I've never seen the bloke in my life.'

-'Why's he dressed in a woman's dress and a wig?' Ryan confuses further.

-'I had an identical dress to this.' Adds a baffled Kate Tissard. -'Oddly, it's been missing for a while.'

-'Is it yours?' The toad questions in a quizzical face.

-'Just a coincidence.' Tissard dismisses.

Brian Kenton jumping in -'I told you. Flaxman had gone loco...Tying up blokes in dresses?.. Fucking dangerous. Bloke had a burst pipe in his head. Who knows what he could have been up to... He was capable of owt... Not the bloke that I used to know... I mean, he was still a first class knob-socket, but any rational meaning inside him had left town along with his missus and Clarke's daughter...Bastard was even trying it on with my own missus.'

-'We saw it every day with our own eyes. He was unhinged and losing the plot... Was bloody cuckcoo.' Furthers Ryan.

The two junior detectives distancing themselves from their deceased leader.

In 1996. The year when the field of their own was evacuated. The ground contaminated.

-'That's why plans were in place... Flaxman was becoming a danger to us all. Losing his grip on control and reality. That girl saved us the headache of getting rid of him ourselves.' The bull says. -'Though a little less public focus would have been nice... And saved us from needing a fall guy.'

-'Your phantom sounds just as psychotic Griff.' Says the toad.

The bull striking the toad with a glance. -'He's a good man. An absolute fucking bona fide fruitloop, but a good man to have on our side.'

-'And you don't think he'll say anything?' The toad asks anxiously.

-'My uncle is a man of honour and integrity. I'd trust him with my life...You and your Westminster bleeding friends could learn a thing or two from the likes of him... He has a lot to get off of his chest, but you can sleep easy Bob. Maurice Braithwaite will not be incriminating a single one of us.'

-'And the girl?'

-'The girl will be looked after. She's as good as family. In on it as much as the rest of us now; with too much to lose. As long as she keeps low and keeps stum, we have nothing to worry about with her. Maurice is taking the jump for this whole mess. God bless him... A legend.'

-'You didn't tell me that she was family?' Kate Tissard remarks.

-'Not in the immediate sense Katie... Don't worry, she's not a long lost cousin of yours. Just some waif and stray that the phantom took in.' Answers the bull.

-'Oh, I don't mind cousins so much. I get on well enough with you don't I?' Tissard smiles.

-'True enough.' The bull gleams back. -'It'll be good to have family in charge of the law side of things from now on; instead of that trumped up striding twat Flaxman.'

-'Good fuckin riddance.' Kenton spits. -'Liberty taking wanker.'

-'I hope you're not going to show our Kate any petulant outbursts Brian.' The bull jokes.

Kenton looking towards Kate Tissard. Desiring her; just like the rest of the room. Unable to be in her presence without wishful thoughts overpowering him.

A new fox to keep the hen house in order, in a new field.

A more organised field; with less need for the recklessness of slaughter.

Kate Tissard. The cousin of Griff Bradshaw. Not the same side of the family as the homicidal lunatic Maurice Braithwate.

The new Divisional Commander for Mansfield & Ashfield police.

Keeping it in the family, as always planned.

Flaxman keeping her seat warm.

A rose amongst thorns.

The changing face of law enforcement in 1996 Nottinghamshire.

The changing face of the criminal underworld in 1996 Nottinghamshire.

Pinching the nose of Evan Speed. Her palm tight against his mouth. Turning off his gas by cutting short the supply. Just as Adrian Sweeney used to do to his brother, when they were children.

The weak man in the chair with the life drained from him.

His misery being ended in a humanitarian way, by the trusting fair hand of the law.

The face of 1996 vanishing from this evolving earth. Leaving a space for the next white hope.

Tissard turning to Kenton. -'You'll need to come back later; when it's dark. Bag the body up and take it away... And let's have that window open wider. It smells of death in here.'

-Okay ma'am.' Kenton nods. -'What we doing with him?'

-'Take him over to the site at Caunton.' Answers the bull in a heartbeat. -'Give Dale a ring... He'll stick him in the same hole as he has those two Campbell fuckers; Simon and Lisa... In that suitcase together... Concrete goes in on Thursday... And not a moment too soon after what my sadistic bastard of a brother made that pair do to one another...Even a sick piece of work like Flaxman wouldn't have considered that.'

-'You need to rein him in Griff.' Says Tissard. -'We can't afford to remain as reckless as this has all been allowed to get... Our luck will run out if we just carry on haphazardly cutting everyone down.'

She straightens up. Releasing Evan Speed - another dead body on the streets of 1996.

A sparkle in her eyes; holding all of their hearts in the palms of her small, immaculately manicured hands.

Bad men wanting to be led, every bit as much as the straight coppers of this part of Nottinghamshire.

-'When you chop so much wood, you create so many splinters. When you create so many splinters, some are bound to wound. We can't afford that gentlemen.' She tells them in the stately, dignified manner of her training. -'Now I'm on board they'll be less chopping and more pruning. I won't tolerate letting this business become exposed to risk and danger, like George Flaxman did. We need to look after our own people and be more vigilant against outsiders. Behaviour like Flaxman's won't be tolerated; not even by Griff.' She runs her eyes over the four of them, before stopping at the admiring bull. 'Leave the restructuring of the local police to me. Brian will be made DCI and we'll keep the situation a closed shop. We start with a clean slate and you run every future development past me. A failure to do this and I'll chop off your balls.'

The nodding worship of purring men, tugged by ropes hooked through their Jap's eyes.

In 1996. The year of a new pack leader; tearing down the fences that divides us all. Wanting the control of every field; not just the paranoia of Flaxman's Insularfield.
