 
CHASING RAINBOWS

By

ANTHONY J BERRY

Copyright © 2013 by Anthony J Berry

Smashwords edition

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Prologue

At 8.30 in the evening the black Citroen turned onto the bridge from the left bank and stopped in the middle by the central arch. The car had false plates, which had been stolen from a vehicle in Picardy earlier in the day. It really didn't matter as there were no cameras on the bridge and the light was beginning to fade so it would not have been easy to pick out detail from a distance. Besides, the Parisians and tourists were all having their evening meals and the workers from the city were already settled with their aperitifs in the hundreds of restaurants and bars which shared the embankment with the book sellers, artist galleries and the mime artists.

The Pont Neuf spans the river Seine at one of its wider points as it meanders its way through Paris. The name translates as New Bridge, which seems rather inappropriate these days as it is one of the oldest bridges and was originally constructed in 1607. It was the first bridge in Paris which had been built without houses and commercial premises on it. The Parisii tribe of the time chose to build the crossing solely with the intention of connecting the Ĭle de la Cité with the artistic and creative Rive Gauch (left bank) rather than provide accommodation for the increasing Parisian population.

It was quite an achievement for its time, with twelve full arches, and over the centuries it has become a rather romantic Mecca for lovers, tourists, artists and the numerous river craft which pass under it every day.

The driver parked the car partly on the pavement; the passenger got out and went to the rear of the vehicle and opened the boot. The driver and passenger both wore dark suits, and had anyone been close to them it would have been obvious that the passenger by the boot was wearing a false beard and the driver a false moustache with oversized black glasses with no lenses. They would have seemed rather comical had there been any passers-by.

A naked and bound male was dragged rather unceremoniously from the boot of the car. His hands were tied behind his back with rope and his feet bound together tightly with what appeared to be masking tape. The tape had also been used across the man's mouth and wound tightly around his head so he could not make a sound. The bound male seemed a great deal smaller and lighter than the driver and passenger, who had no trouble dragging him from the boot and pushing him to the ground of the bridge. The bound man was sweating, frightened and struggling to get to his feet but the passenger kicked him down again then pinned him to the ground with his strong knees.

From the boot of the car the driver took out a black bag. It was a soft bag, not leather but the type a labourer might carry containing tools. He opened the bag and removed what looked like a kitchen knife with a partly serrated edge. The bound man saw this and tried to struggle but was pinned tighter to the ground by the passenger, who pressed the man's head to the hard concrete. The driver took hold of the bound man's right ear and sliced it free from the frightened man's body using the serrated edge. Blood ran across the pavement. The pain was horrific and the naked man screamed inside but no sounds came out.

The ear was wiped with a tissue to take away some of the warm blood, then placed in a small clear plastic bag the driver took from his pocket. He then placed the bag into a small leather pouch and put it back into the boot. The driver then pulled out the three-metre piece of chain from the tool-bag which would be used to snap the frightened man's neck.

Their instructions from the man in charge were quite clear. The frightened man was to be hanged from the central arch of the bridge and one of his ears was to be removed; this would be sent to his ten year old daughter as a reminder that her beloved father had been "dispatched" by a man of considerable power. It was a message not only to the family but the whole of the Paris police department. It would be handed to the girl when she arrived at school the following morning. The man in charge needed to make an example. The man in charge was currently hosting a cocktail party in an apartment on the fashionable Rue Foch for some of the quarter's most influential businessmen and artisans. The man in charge paid attention to detail and had a reputation to protect.

One end of the chain was wrapped around the frightened and naked man's neck and the other around the base of the old gas-light column. His pleas for mercy, which sounded like the squeal of a pig, fell on deaf ears as the passenger lifted the bound man onto the wall of the bridge and tossed him over the side without a moment's hesitation.

His neck snapped and he no longer squealed.

Ellie May Watson from Weaver, Kentucky, sat on the top deck of the glass-topped Seine cruiser and looked around at the magnificent sights of Paris. She could hardly believe how lucky she was; if only her friends back home could see her now. Ellie and her husband Gerald Watson the third glided slowly along the river on one of the magical Bateaux Mouches, the famous Parisian tourist boats, and were about to enjoy real French wine and real French food. The boat was lit up by the hundreds of garland lights along its side and reflecting in the river. From the speakers came the distinct sound of Edith Piaf. Ellie had heard the woman's voice before and made a mental note to ask the captain who was singing. She would get a CD of the women – real French music played on American stereo systems. How her friends would be impressed.

"Could life get any better, honey?" she said to Gerald and looked up through the glass ceiling as they approached the central arch of the famous Pont Neuf bridge.

It took only a few confused seconds to recognise that it was a body hanging from the bridge that the glass top of the boat had hit, and, as she let out the scream, the dead man's bowels opened up.

Ellie May Watson from Weaver, Kentucky, never returned to Europe.

CHAPTER ONE

Part One: Nick

Every year it never fails to surprise and comfort me.

It's how the effect of the warm sun beating down on you can make you forget life's little problems. Sitting here in the garden, my own garden, surrounded by brightly coloured azaleas and rhododendrons, with that always-welcome smell of a very early jasmine in the air, allows your worries and fears to sink into insignificance.

But only for a while.

The spring has always been my favourite time of year, probably for the promise it holds for the coming months. I know then that the summer is merely a breath away when lifestyles and attitudes change and the inhibitions of winter are folded away like old clothes. It's that crucial time of year when one is surrounded by a myriad of fresh new colours and tanned faces. When conversation, laughter and young wine erupt like a dormant and stopped fountain that's been corked for far too long.

Do you see what I mean?

The warmer weather suddenly makes even the language I use more lyrical, encapsulating and decadent.

It's the sunshine and light which make all the difference here – they were, after all, the main reasons we chose to live in the south-west corner of France. We had all loved French culture and (most importantly) French cuisine. At the beginning I was rather apprehensive about packing my bags and family and buying what started out to be a holiday home across the Channel. But then everything about our "normal" lives had changed so the move then became no big deal. It's times like this, though, sitting in the garden and just being at peace with the whole world, that make it all worthwhile and dispel those little niggling doubts that perhaps it was all a big mistake.

When I return to England, people interested in moving or buying a second home abroad often ask me for advice. Whether or not it was easy to move lock, stock and barrel across La Manche and is property really that cheap and how much do I pay for wine? I often reply that it's a dreadful place to live, that jobs are hard to come by and it's only cheap because the place is falling to bits, the French can't be bothered with it and getting people to work for you is a nightmare. I tell them that most of the wine is third rate because Marks and Spencer's and Waitrose have bought all the best stock and that the French are the hardest people to live with. I attempt to baffle them with the restrictions laid down by the European Parliament and tell them if they believe the Common Market has made things difficult in the UK then it's about one hundred times worse across the Channel.

And why shouldn't I?

Here, then, just outside Perpignan, in the shadow of the Pyrenees and only a few minutes' drive to some of Europe's best beaches and the smoothest skiing, I've found my little piece of heaven. The last thing I want is this beautiful and unspoiled region to be full of ex-pats and Germans buying property on every corner and propping up every bar and taking over restaurants, as they have done in Brittany.

"If you want my advice," I sincerely point out, "learn by my mistakes and if you must live in France then choose Brittany or Peter Mayle country in Provence, as they have more to offer."

I wonder how many innocents over the years I have deterred from living here in the Lanquedoc-Rousillon region.

When we bought the old mill house it had already been derelict for about fifteen years that we knew about, and none of us had any idea how much work would be involved in restoring it. The neglected plot was such a wreck when we first drove up, and we frankly had no idea of what type of building it was – had it not said on the agent's details that it was a mill then it would have remained a mystery. It was initially romantic of course. It always is when you view a property. The potential always stands out and your imagination runs riot. But, then, that's the easy part. After all, very little physical energy is used sitting out on a terrace that has not yet been built or sipping crisp, dry wine under a warm sun. Our estimates of time involved in creating rather than uncovering our dream home ranged from three to six months. But then we were naive and that was English time. It's turned out to be a good few years and still we haven't got around to fixing up a couple of the smaller outbuildings. But I am now happy to accept Sally's view that some buildings should remain lifeless shells as a tribute to the past.

Good old Sally – always full of bright ideas.

We did get our priorities right with the garden, though, and it was the first area we started working on. In my experience most English people tend to fix the house up first and then after about a year they start to pay attention to the garden. We did it the other way around, though. It was the reason for living part of the year in a better climate and we had hoped that a great deal of our time was going to be spent outside so it felt more important. Besides we knew nothing about plastering, damp-coursing, septic tanks or woodworm so the garden was relatively easy for city dwellers like us.

And the rewards of doing the garden first have now paid off.

I'm sitting here at an old wicker table we found and rescued from one of the barns, sipping Normandy cider with the daily newspapers in English and French spread out before me and contemplating whether or not today, this beautiful fresh April day, is a day for working or relaxation. The sky really is a crystal blue and the gentle breeze is stopping the sun from making me too uncomfortable. I think I'll have another glass and sit here a little longer. After all, next week Eamon and I will be working on the next issue of the magazine so I'll need to recharge my batteries. Besides it's all written down on the notepad in the back of my brain and the laptop he insisted I learnt how to handle. I do have a tablet and an android device to make notes with but the keyboards tend to be too small for my fingers so I like to rely on my brain. Needless to say, I forget most things but have been known to remember important points at the last minute.

The house is just a twenty-minute drive from where Eamon works, L'Institute des Langues du Monde in the centre of Perpignan. He's a teacher of English as a second language and, according to his students, the best. It was his job and the early eighties that brought us here. It was then that the British and Germans had only just discovered how cheap property was in France. For about a quarter of the price of a reasonable house in the UK you could buy a mansion in the French countryside. All run-down of course but, with a little imagination, some hard work and a basic understanding of French bureaucracy you could end up with a stunning house in beautiful and unspoiled country. The upkeep and the bottomless pit of money you needed to keep it going were just a silly notion and really nothing whatsoever to do with us. At the time we moved here I worked for an English estate agent and though the commission was not really enough to make a living, I built up a good working relationship with a number of the local tradesmen. Eamon's earnings were very good for the area but I've never been the type of person to sit around all day and do very little. He suggested that I give up work as he was earning enough to keep both of us but that was not for me. For years I had harboured thoughts of becoming a police officer and that desire to join the force became a bit of a continuous theme in my life; I still believe that one day it will happen.

Before long, and with my French getting better every day, I became project manager for many of the British who bought second homes in the region.

There was a great buzz then surrounding the whole of the property scene in France and there really were some fantastic bargains that offered genuine opportunities for buying into an alternative lifestyle. They Brits surprised me when they turned up not even knowing how to ask for a beer – well perhaps just a beer – and simply expected the local Maries to speak English. But that was to my advantage and I suddenly found myself going from wondering what to do all day to finding myself very much in demand. The downfall, however, was that the mill was put on the back-burner for a few years, but I was able to learn my trade at the expense of others so that when I did eventually get around to doing our own home I already had the advantage of dealing with French property and building regulations, which I would advise anyone to steer clear of.

But the idea of starting an English and German magazine for the new influx of home-owners surprised all of us with its popularity. We didn't have the benefit of the internet then so hours had to be spent proofreading and cutting and pasting in every sense of the words. I have to say, though, that it was not all down to me. I had the best illustrator and artist on hand and absolutely free of charge – well, my daughter Sally could hardly charge me for her work and nor could my lover for his translating skills. Obviously it was going to succeed. There was such a demand for the communication skills then, and the French are a rather nepotistic bunch, so I already had the upper hand.

Sally really was a great help when we set the magazine up. She has a magic eye for detail and colour, and did some really fabulous illustrations, which I have to admit I have shamefully reaped the rewards for. But she is my daughter and one day what's mine and Eamon's will be hers.

Okay, so it makes me seem insincere and selfish but I do consider myself to be very lucky indeed and it's a long way from when we lived in London and I worked for one of the large clearing banks. Life was so very different then – I sometimes wonder whether or not it was just a dream. Or worse, that one day I'll wake up and find that this is the dream. I really do not want to and probably could not cope again with the frustration and degradation of driving through crowded, dirty streets. I still love London and enjoy the architecture and the arts and the history. But there are just too many people now – much more than a few years ago – and I find it a total obstacle course simply walking along the pavement.

But for the moment I am in France and all is well. It's eighteen years since Eamon and I began to share home, life and love together, and our beautiful daughter is Sally.

I refer to her as our daughter – not through any genetic miracle or a complicated arrangement with a surrogate mother. She is my flesh and blood but over the years Eamon has proved himself to be the perfect parent and we constantly correct people if they refer to us as Sally's father and his friend. Eamon is as proud of her as I am.

She's now twenty-two years old and at university in La Rochelle on the beautiful east coast and training to be an art teacher. Eamon and I were aware she was gifted at drawing and painting when she was eight years old and we encouraged her as much as possible. We were not the type of parents who would force a child into doing something they did not want or mould them into someone they had not decided to be for themselves. An easy and common mistake to make which I believe many parents make. We still have many of the paintings and drawings dotted about the house she did as a child. We refer to them as our insurance and pension that will look after us in our twilight years. Many boozy evenings have been spent telling her what must be done with the vast fortune the paintings will fetch and how Eamon and I will need to be looked after, preferably by an expensive and handsome male nurse. Sally would have to recite the instructions in both French and English so there could be no mistake. She would often have a friend with her and I think some of them were unsure as to whether or not we really meant it or we were just nuts. The sight of two fully grown gay men, a little plastered and making fools of themselves, was possibly a worrying sight for some of them.

We always looked forward to those evenings.

I think it's the cheaper wine and cheeses which caused many of these slightly embarrassing evenings.

Every few months we return to England to see the respective families but mainly to freshen up Maggie's grave.

Maggie, my precious, darling Maggie was my wife and Sally's natural mother. She still is my wife and always will be but she died when Sally was only two years old. My biggest regret is that Sally never knew her mother though we have spent many, many hours talking about her. I think there can be nothing about Maggie that Sally does not know. But I still wish that she was available, not only now but particularly when Sally became a teenager and all the problems that brought.

Maggie was my childhood sweetheart – an old-fashioned saying I like to use and find really rather warming. We'd known each other since we were twelve years old and from the first day at secondary school. I was in love with her from the moment I saw her in the corridor of Blue House, our home school team. To me she was a woman at that age and my heart started skipping beats from the moment she walked into the classroom. She appeared much more mature than the other girls though we didn't really get to know each other well until we were thirteen. Our non-descript uniform looked stunning on her – always sharp and well fitted. She had dark, curly hair which sat neatly on her shoulders and a few little freckles that were quite dark and appealing. All I wanted to do was look at her all day but I couldn't – my classmates would have seen me as a sad loser, nutter, screwball, wanker or tosser, so I pretended to ignore her presence.

To her, I was just a spotty, snotty-nosed little boy just into long trousers, and, though I was a full eight months older than her, I often acted as if I was just eight years old. It wasn't really surprising that she thought of me that way as I gave her every reason to. On one occasion in a biology class, we covered menstruation. Not a good topic for a class of nine girls and fourteen boys who had just discovered puberty. I sat at the back of the class with some friends and we were splitting our sides at some of the things the teacher was saying. It was when the word "period" was mentioned that the uproar started and from then on everything else that was said was meant for our sole amusement and laughter. After the class, Maggie and some of her friends confronted us boys in the corridor and informed us that we were juvenile, delinquent shits and it was time we grew up.

That was a major turning point in my life. I was devastated that the icon of my dreams, the woman that the word love was invented for, thought of me as another mindless moron in a boys' playgroup. I felt torn, abandoned, my life in ruins. At that moment I needed to throw my arms around her and declare my undying love.

But I didn't.

I greeted her outburst with lavatorial abuse like the other boys but, inside, I died. She was right of course and it was after that incident that I decided I needed to grow up and act like the fully mature thirteen year old that, not in a million years, could I ever have been. But I was one of the first boys in my group to start growing hair around my genitals so I considered myself destined to come of age much sooner than the others. A clear message from the gods, no doubt.

With my new-found maturity Maggie and I ended up playing the lead roles in our school play and it was soon after that we started dating, if that is a term you can use for two thirteen year olds. I had the usual feelings for her – wanting to cup her breasts, fondle her thighs and rub the inside of her legs, though she never seemed to be interested in doing the same for me. Still, we fiddled about with each other at the back of cinemas, snogged, French kissed, drank cider, etc. And the fights and the rows? My God, they were intense and earth shattering. "But exactly how much do you love me?" and always "I saw you looking at her like that." We never did get to the bottom of exactly what "that" really was. She could never grasp that I had to maintain a reputation with my peers.

We staggered through our teens from crisis to crisis but we discovered the New Seekers and then found a new vocation. They were quickly to become our idols – we followed them everywhere, had all their records, knew every word of every one of their songs and began to dress like them. It somehow seemed to stop us arguing. We just wanted to teach the world to sing.

It was immaturity that made us get married at nineteen and it somehow just seemed inevitable. Our respective parents had, by that time, become accustomed to each other and, for the most part, got along well. They did not live near each other or socialise but they met occasionally at a school function or spoke on the phone. That was before we announced we were to be wed and it was then that the feuds started. It was perfectly acceptable for me to have a teenage relationship with their only daughter. But I was not a possible candidate for a future son-in-law even though I did manage to get a job in a bank with a great deal of potential. Maggie's mother was a typing-pool supervisor and her father a shipping manager for an export firm. They also owned their own house and that immediately set the cat among the pigeons with my family as anyone who owned their house was obviously posh and we could never be in their league.

As for my family, Maggie was not good enough and her family clearly had misguided political views as well as the posh gene. I lived in a council house and had two sisters and two brothers. My parents were confirmed Catholic hypocrites who drank out of Party Seven cans and cheap sherry bottles. They smoked Embassy Number Six or Number Ten cigarettes and collected Green Shield Stamps. All the neighbours around us owned their own houses and our front garden was full of cast-off bikes and pushchairs so we were clearly the family from hell. We were seen as quite undesirable and unlikely to amount to much. We also had that dreadful affliction that the family originally came from Ireland so there was no hope.

However, and as in all the best love stories, their views were ignored and we were married in a registry office in Richmond. They disapproved and pointed out how we were being selfish and thinking of nobody but ourselves. Wasn't that the whole idea? My father suggested about a hundred times that we were only doing it because Maggie was pregnant, which certainly was not the case. They dug their heels in and swore they would not attend the ceremony but appeared on the day in all the glitz and shoulder pads they could muster or hire and pretended to be happy. Maggie and I had asked a school friend if we could hire the function room above her father's pub. They agreed and let us have it for free as a wedding gift. The respective families were then asked to contribute the same amount to the festivities, which they did but you would not have thought so with the underlying bitchiness. With the families split down the room, Maggie and I sat in the middle and played the role of arbitrator for each camp. We enjoyed it though – and even though some would say there were too many New Seekers' records, we simply didn't care.

Luck was on our side then.

We moved into a larger than average flat in Stoke Newington, which had three bedrooms, a huge high-ceilinged living room which led into a galley kitchen, and a garden. It was the basement and ground floor of a large Victorian house close to Clissold Park and much bigger than we needed. The rent was ridiculously cheap and owned by the old woman that lived above us. Mrs Brown was rather eccentric and turned out to be a bit of an alcoholic. We never understood why she had not taken the ground floor for herself but said she needed the exercise of walking up and down the stairs. She always seemed to have a glass of Guinness on the go. She also had a cat called Mingo and constantly referred to her as the pussy, so the Mrs Slocombe jokes became well worn. She was lovely and genuine and a perfect landlady who really only wanted us there for company and to stop her very eighties and Filofax-wielding daughter from getting her hands on the house. We got along with Mrs Brown very well.

Soon after we married the bank moved me to their foreign exchange department and began grooming me for better things, though it was not reflected in the salary, which was reasonable but not excessive. Maggie was working as a laboratory technician for the health service and though both of us were not earning a fortune, her careful budgeting ensured we did not get into any debt. We had a good social life and a wide circle of friends, most of whom were single.

Our daughter Sally was born eighteen months after we married. The respective parents were delighted. She was to be the only grandchild on Maggie's side and the first of many on mine, thanks to the gallant efforts of my brothers and sisters. Like most couples we had not intended to have children so soon but it happened and there she was.

We were so proud.

They were happy days and often quite a struggle financially, as we soon learnt that babies are everything except cheap. Maggie and I had the usual ups and downs as do all relationships and though we argued over just about everything, the one thing we never argued over was sex. She could take it or leave it and it never seemed to give her the type of pleasure it appeared to give some of her friends. She found the rituals a little tiresome but enjoyed the closeness of two bodies lying next to each other. I also was not too concerned about the sex and when I look back now and analyse it to any extent I think I may have been missing something in the physiological department but was not sure what it was. I think I may have simply put it down to lack of experience.

When I was sixteen years old and during one of the many, many incidents of "trial separation" that seemed to resolve the various rows, I went to visit my uncle in the West Country. On my way back I had a brief sexual encounter with a twenty-two-year-old student named Matthew. He picked me up while I was hitch-hiking and I (innocently) thought he was just a nice, friendly guy. He took me to his flat in Muswell Hill where we had sex together, though I use that term rather loosely. It was different, exciting and a little dangerous and "on the edge", as I thought of it, but not really what I wanted. The episode was quite harmless and only really consisted of some mutual masturbation which I had either done on my own or while watching a porn film with a friend. I didn't feel guilty and I think it was because there was no kissing involved. Had there been then I don't think I would have been mature enough to handle it because the subject of sexuality would have had to be considered and that was where I certainly was not.

I told Maggie about the incident after we had got back together again for the umpteenth time. She was surprised at first, rather than shocked, and even a little jealous. We talked about it in depth after a bottle of Chianti and she then confessed that she had a fantasy of being swept off her feet by Mrs Russell, our gym teacher, and would not have considered it twice. Of course she swore me to secrecy and we never mentioned the episodes again.

Looking back I think Maggie and I had a very mature attitude to sex and I suspect it all stemmed from the fact that at school we had spent a few months working on a special project about the persecution of Jews, homosexuals and other minorities during the Second World War. We both agreed that persecution and discrimination could not be tolerated in any community and those views turned us into perfect socialists, though our morals were often ditched when it came to dealing with the local authorities and how they were spending our money.

But, my dear reader, I'm rambling on now. It's the effect of the early sun and I do have an important and frightening story to tell which is not glamorous and shows just how quickly your life can be turned upside down. It shows how one day, without knowing it, you step out of your ordered, organised and predictable lives and find yourself in one of those very dark places. We all occupy different worlds and, generally, or for the most part, we get along and go about our business. But sometimes those worlds collide, as in my case, and I went from a middle-class bank worker in North London with a young child to a world of pornography, drugs, embezzlement, violence and (sadly) murder. Even now I find it hard to believe – was it really part of my life?

I'll just pour another glass of cider and move into the shade.
Part Two: Nick

Sally was a year old and it was difficult to believe that something so small and lovely could demand the vast amounts of attention she craved and received. And attention was what she got as any parent will bear witness to. Maggie had taken redundancy from her job then and had been paid off quite well but the strain of the sleepless nights and pressure I was under at work was beginning to show.

When I got home I was exhausted and Maggie was asking me to do so much for our daughter. She was always on the go and I didn't believe she was sitting around all day watching TV – that's just impossible with a small child. I caught myself thinking things like "what the hell was she (Maggie) doing all the time?" But of course she was attempting to bring up a very small but integral addition to our family and all parents can understand how mentally and physically draining that can be.

It was the second half of the year that Sally was born when Maggie started getting the chest pains and vomiting. There had been occasions when she brought up blood but she never told me until toward the end. She always seemed out of breath and pale, very yellowish, and we just put it down to her charging around such a large flat, looking after the baby and carrying out the numerous domestic chores that go hand in hand with a child. It didn't seem to worry Maggie too much, though I had noticed that she would often be clutching her chest with her fist. I questioned her and she said that it was actually her back that was a problem and it was causing discomfort all over her body. I was not aware at the time that she was taking up to fifteen aspirins a day to relieve the pain and had also asked the chemist for stronger pain relief. He suggested she go to the doctor and she agreed. But she didn't do it.

She was constantly tired and I had to get up at four or five in the morning to comfort Sally while her mother slept. Maggie was in distress and pain from doing the simplest of tasks but I was far too young and blind to the symptoms. It was her mother that mentioned that the burden of looking after the baby was being equally shared so Maggie should not have been as tired as she was. She had also lost a noticeable amount of weight and, after the usual arguments, she eventually agreed to make an appointment to see the local GP. She expected to be given a tonic charged with multi-vitamins and a lecture on parenting skills.

I visited the doctor with her as I needed a break from her mother, who was staying with us for a few (but far too many) days. That's the problem when you have too many bedrooms – people tend to come and stay.

The doctor listened to all we said and then gave Maggie a brief examination while I waited in the reception with our daughter. He was concerned about her lack of energy and lethargy and wanted us to see a specialist at St Bartholomew's hospital. It was then that Maggie became worried because he wanted the appointment to be done urgently – over the next couple of days.

Because of Maggie's work in the NHS she was not surprised about the referral, but the urgency of it was rare – especially as the consultant's receptionist called us the following morning and asked if we would be available the following day. At the time I did not drive and Maggie's mother was (fortunately) still with us. I took the day off work and arranged for a taxi to take us. We still had no real idea and knew that the day would be spent having tests and answering numerous questions. In the taxi Maggie began to cry and I put my arms around her, not really knowing what I should say. "I know it's not good. This is not the standard procedure; something is wrong," was all she could say.

I felt rather helpless and hopeless then, but just held her. I knew full well there were enormous waiting lists to see specialists and only in extreme circumstances could you see one with just a few hours' notice. But I also knew that our doctor was a personal friend of the specialist and the medical world often revolved around people doing favours for each other. My life up to that stage had been relatively hospital and doctor free and, besides, Maggie and I were far too young and the young just did not get ill – or at least not seriously.

It was not until three weeks after that first visit that the final results of the various tests and examinations were known. We had talked about the possible outcomes during the waiting period and Maggie seemed much better. She had been prescribed stronger painkillers and there was that hope that whatever was wrong it had a name that wasn't too frightening and, obviously, a cure. We needed to know what it was so we could get the right treatment and get on with the difficult task of being parents.

There was no mistake and it had a name, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

My beautiful young wife had lung cancer and it was too advanced to be stopped.

The specialist had discussed this outcome with us along with many other possibilities but there was nothing anyone could have done to prepare us for the confirmed news. Maggie looked well composed as he told us, but as I held her, she was shaking. I thought if there was anything at all I could have done to swap places with her at that moment then I would have chosen it.

"And just how long do you think I have, Doctor?" she asked without any trace of fear in her voice.

"It's very difficult to say," he started, "but a rough estimate would be between six and nine months. But I must stress that you can only use that as a rough guide." He sighed, hesitated and continued, "However, much of that time you may need to be hospitalised because the disease is so far advanced."

With that the pair of us then broke down and she screamed at me, "I want my baby, I want my child. Why didn't you let me bring her with me? Why didn't you?"

Words alone cannot describe the emotions of the months which followed.

It was everything from the heartache, the pain, the rejection of any religious beliefs and the constant battle simply to be alive. Cancer in any form is a cruel and wicked disease which does not discriminate. My adorable wife had never even smoked a cigarette yet she was dying before me and there was nothing in the world that I could do about it. I felt helpless. I cried so much I really thought that I could not shed another tear. But I was wrong.

While she was having the treatment I would visit the small chapel in the hospital and pray with all the passion and conviction I could muster that the cancer would leave her body and enter mine. I called upon our so-called loving and compassionate God and shouted at him about how unfair he was being. But he didn't listen – for some reason, I believed, he wanted to make us suffer.

The families were both told and they all took it badly. But Maggie, for one so young, had become strong and wise and was not prepared to put up with the intense emotions around her. There were enough of those inside her already and, as predicted, she became practical and gave us all instructions on how to cope with her death.

Where would we have been without her?

Yet in the middle of all this was our innocent child. A child who was healthy and had a full life ahead of her; except her mother was about to be cruelly taken away.

It was a full six months after the cancer was confirmed that it became too much for both of us to cope with and my wife was admitted to the hospice. The painkillers only lasted a short while and it didn't help that she was now half the weight she had been a year previous. Her strength was running out. Sally was still under two years old and a bigger handful than she was as a small baby. But everyone was very good to us. The staff and management at the bank were all sympathetic and practical, and the respective families gave us as much time and help as we needed. It was only near to the end that Maggie accepted all the help. She loved Sally more than life itself and looked after our child until she physically could take no more.

I brought Sally in to see her every day. The nuns adored her and Maggie put on a brave face even though she was wasting away. Sometimes she was so heavily drugged that I could not allow our daughter to sit on the bed. Every hour of every single day it broke my heart to watch my wife in pain and discomfort and trying to smile for that part of life she loved so dearly.

It was in the early hours of the morning that she drew her last breath. I was with her; she had earlier refused medication and we both knew that her time was up. We talked about stupid little things that really didn't matter and for the hundredth time she reminded me of the promise we'd made that Sally would know how much her mother loved her and her father. Maggie did not want to be forgotten.

My wife died in my arms.

Sally and I were alone.

CHAPTER TWO

Part One: Nick

It wasn't until two or even three months after the funeral that I began to feel helpless and empty. At that time, I was still only twenty-two years old and had to grow up quickly. My responsibilities for the next fourteen or fifteen years were clearly defined and I started to feel that I had very little in common with friends and relatives. They meant well and were reliable but all I really wanted to think about was bringing up my daughter because I had an over-riding fear that she would be taken away from me. I'd already lost one love and could not cope with losing another. Had Sally not been there for me and given me the reason for living then I would have gone to pieces. Besides, I'd never been interested in clubbing or "partying", which was what everyone around me wanted to see me doing. They thought it was what I needed. They were wrong and so their attention soon drifted.

The parents on both sides then became rather tiresome. Baby-sitters were always available and you could rely on them to help out in any crisis as you knew they would be there.

That was the problem – they were always there. Under my feet, criticising, attempting (and succeeding) to make little changes and forever putting things away where I was unlikely to look. They were changing the style of Sally's clothing, shifting furniture when I was at work and buying silly little things like tea-towels and bed linen and ridiculous toilet-roll covers which Maggie and I would never have chosen. My time with my daughter was not my own and though they thought they were only helping, they didn't understand that it was important to me to simply get on with it myself. Besides, I had not had the private mourning time I needed before I put my life in order and that had to be just with my daughter. It had to be my way and not what they thought was best for Sally and me.

Inevitably, on a couple of occasions I did explode and told them all to leave, which resulted in rows. Sally found this all rather amusing rather than worrying but I did not want my daughter to be brought up in an atmosphere of bad feeling, especially when I knew they all loved her.

I think I hadn't really considered the trauma that Maggie's parents had gone through in losing their daughter – their only child. They sat me down one evening and told me how they could relieve me of the biggest burden in my life. They suggested that they would be prepared to take Sally off my hands and bring her up as their own daughter. They "advised" me that someone of my age did not want the responsibility of bringing up a child alone and that I should have been out there – somewhere – making a life for myself. They had even worked out a plan, which had been put to paper, of how I could visit her once or even twice a week and take her out to zoos and parks or anywhere else she wanted to go. They said I did not have to worry about her welfare as they had experience and the proof was in the woman I had married.

I was ready to pick them both up and hurl them out of the window and out of our lives for good.

But I didn't.

I kept my cool and explained that Sally was my child and I was her father and they had no legal rights while I was alive. I made it clear that I would be the one to bring her up. To their disappointment I closed the subject and insisted it was never to be mentioned again. But I added that as grandparents they could take her once or twice a week, which I would be grateful for, and even take her for occasional weekends.

My job then became much easier or at least less stressful. I no longer had the juvenile view that it was all a waste of time – on the contrary, it was simply the means to support, clothe and feed my child. I was viewing it all through adult eyes for the first time. The bank had been very good and considerate in allowing me so much time off when Maggie was in the hospice. They were also very compassionate, and I get angry with the notion that all bankers are heartless. My colleagues were a tower of strength during the far too many and emotional episodes when it all became too much and I broke down at work in front of them. They literally held me, they cried with me, and every single one of them became a trusted friend.

Good things were beginning to happen again in my life.

Our neighbour Mrs Brown had also been a great deal of help throughout the illness and it was about then that she offered to sell me the flat at what can only be called a give-away price. I jumped at the chance and soon fixed up a low-interest loan with my employers. They were only too keen to lend me the money and it was not too long after that when they promoted me to department supervisor. I was now being seen as a responsible father, employee and a house owner.

Of course Sally was oblivious to changes and the problems which had been surrounding us. She was over two years old then and, boy, was she growing up fast. All of my spare time, my whole direction, was centred on her and that was good for me because she was a happy child. At last I was in control of our lives and was not allowing other people, especially the families, to smother us with sympathy. The changes and the way I was handling the responsibilities seemed to satisfy both sets of parents and they soon tired of heaping attention on us. But I still needed help and to their absolute horror I took on an au pair.

She was a very polite and caring girl from Germany named Imogen who was recommended to me by a colleague at the bank. She got along with Sally from the moment they met. She was the first au pair I had seen though I had started using a child minder a couple of streets away but always felt uncomfortable about it. Sally was perfectly safe and looked forward to seeing the other kids but I felt uncomfortable when she was away from our home environment. A child minder that was not related was a good idea because it meant I did not have to make a choice about which family members to choose.

But when Imogen arrived it all changed.

I knew Sally was being looked after well and Imogen was planning on staying in England for another three years. It was perfect as Sally would be going to school by the time her contract was up.

She was very easy to get along with, and even share the flat with, as her room was at the back of the house, a little away from us at the front and large enough to have part of it as a seating area, which meant she also had some privacy. She was also eager to please and though her English at that time was not too good, there were no barriers with Sally and her. I think Sally also needed more female company then so it seemed to work out well. Maggie's parents were unsure about the arrangement and that I had chosen a "German" over another nationality but I presumed that stemmed from the war. Sally loved Imogen and that was all that mattered. They may even have thought I was having an affair with her which really was the last thing on my mind.

Everything was going well now and I was so preoccupied with the mammoth task of bringing up a child that I had very little time to dwell on the loss of Maggie and have the mourning time which I'd felt I needed. Maggie was always in my thoughts though – I did cry at night and I suspect that is normal. In the darkness I asked my wife if I was performing well and was she proud of the way I was bring up our daughter. I was confident she approved.

A year after Maggie's death and Sally was just over three years old and talking to me. I didn't want her to stop. When I arrived home from work in the evenings she would meet me at the door and tell me everything she had done that day – that sometimes took forever and I was happy to listen. It was soon after she found her voice that I got to know some of the neighbours. In some ways I think it must be like having a dog. Everybody initially speaks to your child or your pet and then eventually to you. There were a number of young kids around and Sally got to know them from the park and always wanted to play. A couple of doors away lived Chrissie and Peter and they had a charming young daughter named Annette. Sally and her were the same age and so became good friends and still are.

Within a few months we all became great pals. I was regularly invited around for parties and barbecues which (fortunately) always expected kids. Some evenings I would visit on my own while Imogen baby-sat. It was easy to talk to them about Maggie as they were not over-sympathetic, which I had found a little tiresome from other friends. Having a child themselves they were aware of the practicalities and responsibilities. For a while though they did attempt to match-make me with some of their single female friends. I was still not ready for anything like that and certainly was not looking for a replacement wife. Besides, nobody would have been able to replace Maggie. I explained to them how I felt and before long we were able to crack jokes about their little scheme.

There is no doubt in my mind that my great passion for wine was initially influenced with the help of Chrissie and Peter. I would buy the occasional bottle of Italian red or German medium white. But after a little patience my taste-buds became alive when they introduced me to crisp Sauvignons, the Macons, Chablis and fine Bordeaux. I haven't looked back since.

I have to say I felt a little jealous of them because they got along together so well. I felt it most at Christmas, birthdays and Valentine's. Maggie and I had never been great card senders or gift givers but there were times when I needed somebody close to be as cynical as me and believe it. Peter often bought Chrissie a small trinket of Victorian jewellery, a book or some flowers and it would remind me that I had nobody to do that for except my daughter. I started to want those little impulsive moments even though they were never really a part of my life with my wife.

Little did I know at that time that my whole life was about to change.
Part Two: Nick

Eamon is Chrissie's younger brother. She rarely mentioned him when we got to know each other but she had shown me some photographs of the pair of them as kids. He was a teacher of English as a second language in Versailles and had planned on spending the summer with Chrissie and Peter in England. They had not seen him for two or three years and they would have a lot of catching up to do. He also wanted the time to get to know his niece Annette before she got too old to remember him.

I remember it very well and very clearly.

It was a Saturday afternoon that we met. Sally and I had finished the supermarket shopping and anyone with young children knows full well that the event is often the most taxing of the week but also the most bonding because there is a great deal of intellectual engagement with your child. It allows the parent a wonderful opportunity to teach them the benefits of compromise and offers them an out-of-the-home pedestal for discussion and debate. That's the theory anyway. Besides, Sally knew her way around the aisles well and the only problem she had at that time was that she could not reach the higher shelves, which, from a father's point of view, is a blessing. We'd got up earlier than usual that Saturday morning and Imogen was away. The shopping was done and we'd just finished lunch of macaroni and pesto sauce (as usual) and I had expected her to want a lie-down. But she was getting that little bit older now and did not need as much sleep. She asked if she could go next door and play with Annette for a while. I was unsure whether or not Chrissie and Peter were at home. They too had their regular Saturday morning shopping ritual. I told her that she could not go next door as they were probably busy but by that age she had learnt to manipulate me so I agreed and hoped that they would be out.

We went next door and I hadn't noticed whether or not Peter's car was there but I rang the doorbell and really wasn't expecting an answer.

After a few seconds the door was opened by Eamon and Annette. I had forgotten that he was arriving that weekend and was initially a little surprised to find a stranger standing there.

He said hello and smiled. Sally and Annette were pleased to see each other and Annette pulled her into the hallway and the pair ran off to the kitchen.

"Sorry, I was expecting to see Chrissie or Peter," I started. "I'm Nick Wallace and the little one Annette dragged in is my daughter Sally. I live next door but one."

He smiled. "Ah, yes, Chrissie has told me about you – I gather you are now one of their drinking buddies. I'm Eamon. No doubt she has told you about me."

We shook hands.

"She has done, though I forgot you were coming. She mentioned it the other night though that was after a couple of bottles of the new Chardonnay she seems to have fallen in love with."

He smiled at my remarks and I remember thinking how tanned and healthy he looked.

"Well, a poor teacher like me must never refuse the offer of free board and lodging for a while."

I laughed and he looked along the hallway where he could see the two girls at the table.

"Well, they seem happy enough. Fancy a coffee Nick? I really was just making one."

"Ah ... uhm ... if you're sure."

"Yes of course, no problem. Besides I wouldn't mind some adult company. I love kids and adore my niece. But they tend to test my patience after a few hours. Come on in."

Eamon is about two inches taller than me, broader shouldered and at that time he had short, dark, tightly cropped hair. I would not have immediately taken him for Chrissie's brother; if anything he reminded me of Peter even though they are not related by blood. Sometimes when he laughs now, I can see the resemblance with his sister.

It was that laugh and the rather cute smile that attracted me to him.

The girls wandered into the garden and threw a few toys around.

"I'm really glad that someone has turned up and taken Annette's attention away from me. She's a good kid and I love her dearly but playing Disney characters for hours on end is just a little tiring. Besides its years since I saw _The Jungle Book_."

I agreed, as we sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

We chatted casually and surprisingly very easily for some time. Eamon has always been one of those fortunate individuals who can start a conversation with total strangers and make them feel relaxed. It's one of his best qualities, the one I've always admired and envied the most. I would be surprised if anyone ever found him threatening. The opposite would be more appropriate.

Before long, he was telling me about his job and some of the antics of the students in Versailles. It sounded so remote and such a long way from my job and working environment, which was really rather boring. What makes his story telling so interesting is the fact the Eamon is very expressive with his hands and face. It was soon after our first meeting that I realised I had not laughed so much for a very long time.

We talked for about an hour while the girls played in the garden. He made up some orange squash and brought it out to them. On the way, he handed me a bottle of wine which he'd bought in one of the hypermarkets on his way over from Paris and told me to open it. He didn't ask if I wanted any but had probably heard from Chrissie and Peter that I rarely refused a glass.

Soon afterwards, his sister and brother-in-law appeared, laden with plastic bags; they soon helped us to finish off the bottle. They suggested that Sally and I stay for dinner but Maggie's parents had planned on coming over that evening and I declined. Besides, I knew that Sally would be tired and was due for her afternoon nap so we left. I said that we would drop over on Sunday.

It turned out that Maggie's parents could not make it that evening, much to the disappointment of Sally. They didn't call me until 6 p.m. but I felt it was too late to take up the dinner invitation. I'm sure that it would not have been a problem with Chrissie but it was not in my nature to change plans at the last minute. Instead, I spent a lovely evening playing games with my daughter and kept her up far too late, but I did wonder about Eamon and how his stories would be entertaining the others.

I should make it quite clear here that I had no sexual desire for Eamon but he had made an impression on me because he was so easy to listen to and talk with. I found him appealing. Sitting in the kitchen with him that day allowed me to forget the usual topics of conversation which dominated my life in those days. There was no talk of children or schools, au pairs or mortgages, or being a perfect father. Not a mention of the lack of choice on kiddies' menus in restaurants, potty training, teething troubles or the stigma of being a single parent. We talked of travel and holidays and films that I had not seen, and music and France. It was a great escape for me and it reminded me that there were many things in my brain that I'd stored in the recesses of my memory and it was time to give them an airing.

The following morning there was a knock on the front door. It was Eamon and Annette and I was pleased to see them.

"Hi. What are you up to this wonderful day?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing very much," I replied. "I was going to drop around to your place later so the girls could play."

"Good. Then how about a walk over Hampstead Heath? I told Chrissie she could have some time to herself today and Peter wants to do some gardening. How about it?"

I didn't even answer as Sally did that for me. Within the hour we were on our way.

It was a beautiful day and I found it so rewarding and relaxing. Eamon is an excellent listener and though I got rather carried away talking about the problems of being a single father in the society we live in, he seemed to understand it all so well. He pointed out the importance of spending as much time as possible with children in their formative years and agreed that I was right in putting my foot down when Maggie's parents tried to split us up. He spoke as if he had first-hand experience of bringing up a child. We talked of many things. He spoke passionately about French politics and of his childhood with Chrissie. For some reason, he didn't get on too well with Peter but hadn't really got to know him yet. However, he was working on it.

The girls had a marvellous time and played hide and seek. They took great delight in watching Eamon and I run up and down the hills.

Then something quite wonderful happened.

Something so special in Sally's life that we'll always remember it and I'll always be grateful to Eamon for.

The day had started quite sunny with a cool breeze but there were some rain clouds about and they moved directly in front of the sun. It started spitting as we stood on top of the hill closest to Kenwood House and got heavier as the four of us ran towards the shelter of the trees. The rain then poured down so heavily for a few minutes that we all got soaked through. Then the clouds parted and within moments the sun was beating down again and, to Sally's amazement, the sky was filled with a brilliant, sharp rainbow. I remember it so well – it was such a brilliant myriad of intense colours. It was perfect and you could pick every single colour out with accuracy.

Sally's eyes opened wide and her jaw fell open as she looked up at the multi-coloured sky.

"Daddy ... what is it?" she asked without taking her eyes away for a second.

I will never forget the sight of my daughter standing there with such innocent wonderment on her face at such a magical sight. I wished Maggie was with me.

"It's a rainbow, darling," I told her and put my arm around her shoulder.

"Come on, let's chase it!" Eamon shouted.

Without thinking, the four of us took flight and ran down the hill at full speed, chasing what we could never reach and slipping all over the still-wet grass.

"Where does it go, Daddy? Where does it go?" she shouted.

"To a pot of gold," Eamon called back. "Hurry up before it goes."

We charged along at full speed and Sally had the most glorious smile I had ever seen.

It was not long before the rainbow faded and the four of us fell onto our backs into the wet grass.

We were exhausted

It was simply a magical event for Sally and to share the moment with her made me feel so proud.

As the two of us had our evening meal, I thought about the day out and the rainbow. I had only known Eamon for two days then and we had talked about many personal things, yet he had not mentioned anything about romance in his life. I didn't think that a young man as good looking as him would be without a girlfriend. When we got back to the flat, I invited him and Annette in for a drink but he declined and said that he had to go to Bournemouth that evening for a few days to see some friends. I presumed he was off to see someone special and I thought how lucky they would be to be spending time in his company.

I thanked him for the day out and said that I hoped to see him again when he returned.

"That's okay. It was fun, wasn't it?" he asked.

As I put Sally to bed that night, she asked me what exactly a rainbow was.

That was a difficult one but I made up some old story about knights and maidens and castles and kings. I then confused her as I mentioned leprechauns.

"Can we chase rainbows again, Daddy?" she asked.

"I hope so, darling. I sincerely hope so."

The following week at work was uneventful but, as usual, very hectic. I still had a number of projects to finish but in my new role as supervisor, it was difficult to concentrate with interruptions every few minutes. I was more relaxed than usual. The evenings were warm or mild and I took Sally for a walk each night in the park. It had a small, convenient free mini zoo and she adored watching the fallow deer and rabbits, and feeding the squirrels. In between the visits, she was drawing pictures of rainbows and four people running down a hill chasing one.

During the week, I found myself thinking of Eamon a few times though no more so than I would think about anybody else. Though we both had very different lives, I felt we shared so much in common and I was looking forward to seeing him again. We were both about the same age and, unlike with most new people I met, I wouldn't have to go through the formality of explaining why I was a single parent and tell them about Maggie. While I would then usually get loads of sympathy, I was long past that. With Eamon that wasn't necessary. Chrissie and Peter had obviously told him about Sally and I, and what he did not know, he asked affectionately and tactfully.

Saturday arrived at last but then there was never any possibility of a lie-in with Sally. She'd be on my bed the moment she opened her eyes but I didn't mind. I always wanted her to be with me and, besides, it was easier for me to relax and not have to get fully dressed.

Imogen came shopping with us which was carried out in the usual regimental style that Sally insisted on. She sat in the trolley and directed us with hand signals and shouted, "Wrong, Daddy, wrong!" if I turned the opposite way. I often did it on purpose and pretended not to hear. After we had finished, Imogen prepared lunch, macaroni as usual, before going out to visit her friends. Our agreement was that the weekends were hers to do whatever she wanted especially as I demanded or rather expected so much of her during the week. She was often around on a Saturday or Sunday which was a great help. No doubt a number of the neighbours and shop-keepers presumed we were a couple and that was not a problem.

Chrissie, Annette and Eamon dropped around in the afternoon. I was pleased to see them but, more so, to see my new buddy. He looked well and had clearly spent a few days in the sun. His beaming, innocent smile was brighter than usual. He shook my hand and said he was pleased to see me again.

British men, in my opinion, tend only to shake hands in a business context. European men (I don't include British males in that category) always shake hands or kiss each other on all meetings. I prefer the latter. It helps to break down barriers.

Chrissie and I used the Saturday afternoon play sessions as an excuse to share a bottle of wine and there was no difference just because Eamon was there. Most people got together in the evenings to have a drink but having a young child means that convention sometimes goes out the window and you take the company of your friends whenever there's a quiet moment. Eamon was very knowledgeable about the various regions and grape types and insisted he could tell one from the other. We put him to the test as I had a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge from Australia and, sure enough, he guessed it.

The girls were getting bored in the garden and returned to the kitchen just as Chrissie was suggesting we all go on a picnic the following day. They leaped at the idea but I had already intended to use the time to finish some urgent time-planning work which I'd brought home. When I said this, the disappointment oozed from Sally's face and I was guilty of causing it. However, I agreed that she could go while I got on with my work.

"But Daddy, we can chase rainbows again!" she exclaimed.

I sighed.

"I don't think there'll be any rainbows tomorrow, darling. But Annette and you will have a good time anyway."

The smile returned.

Soon afterward they left and I kissed Chrissie and Annette, who said they would pick Sally up the following morning at 11 a.m. Eamon said nothing.

Sally was still excited but she slept for a couple of hours while I showered and prepared dinner. I was sorry that I had not agreed to go but the work I had brought home needed attention. In my new role, it was necessary for me to arrange cover in my department while a number of staff had to be released for training. I must admit that I have never been very good at people management, probably because I never enjoyed asking them to do what they didn't want to do. I was beginning to realise that the role in my working life was not what I wanted either and again the thought of becoming a police officer seemed more appealing.

Later that evening I made a start on it but really could not and did not want to concentrate. I was sorry that my day was not to be spent with my daughter and sorry that I would not be seeing Eamon.

CHAPTER THREE

Part One: Nick

The following morning I prepared some sandwiches and a salad for Sally to take on the picnic. It still beats me how anyone can eat peanut butter between two slices of bread but she loved it. She was so excited and every five minutes asked if it was time to go yet. I put a video tape of _Sesame Street_ on to take her mind off it.

Chrissie and Peter called to collect her on time and I carried her small hamper out to their car.

"You shouldn't have bothered to make anything, Nick," Chrissie said. "We've more than enough for both of them."

Nevertheless I passed it through the window.

The girls sat in the back of Peter's Volvo estate giggling and putting on their seat belts.

"Isn't Eamon going as well?" I asked.

"Fraid not," Chrissie replied. "When I called him, he said he wanted to have a lazy day. I think he wants some time away from the kids and who can blame him?"

"Never mind, have a nice time without both of us," I said and leaned through the window to kiss Sally goodbye.

She plonked a very wet kiss on my lips; I could still taste the peanut butter from the small sandwich she insisted on having earlier. As usual she said, "See you later, alligator."

"Not for a while, crocodile," I replied and waved them goodbye.

I set up a table in the middle of the garden and for a couple of hours attempted to complete the schedule I had only looked at the night before. I never really minded doing bank work in the evenings or at weekends but the day was so warm that I began day-dreaming. I had thought about putting it all away and reading the papers for another hour or so but even that was too much effort. Besides, it was nearly lunchtime and I was peckish.

My thoughts were wandering and I remembered what Chrissie had said about Eamon wanting a lie-in. I'd rather be spending time with him; the topics of conversation were certain to be more interesting than plotting a training schedule. I wondered if he was still in bed, dreaming perhaps. I thought of what he might be wearing, if anything, and imagined the sheets partly off the bed. I was certain that he would have the type of physique I only dreamt of having. My thoughts were beginning to worry me now so I wandered into the kitchen to prepare some lunch. As I perused the delights of the fridge, the doorbell rang.

"Christ, it's my mother," I thought to myself.

I opened the door to find Eamon standing there with a bottle of wine. He was wearing shorts and a dark, blue tee shirt with the word "Liberté" in yellow stretched across it. I immediately felt embarrassed at the fact that I had just been thinking about him lying in bed, naked, and those thoughts, I was sure, were written all over my face.

"Hi Nick. I thought you need a break. I've been watching you in the garden and, I have to say, you looked totally bored," he said as he held up the bottle of wine.

"Now that's a good idea," I said nervously and beckoned him into the house. "I was just about to prepare some lunch. Would you like some?"

"Oh, yes please. I'm starving. Let's call it brunch for me as I haven't had any breakfast yet."

"Good. You go and prepare some space on the table in the garden and I'll get the food and a corkscrew," I said and went into the kitchen.

It seems rather childish and naive to say it now but my hands were actually shaking while I prepared the tray of salami, hummus and some cheese. My mind was racing as well. He had been thinking of me and watching me at the same time he was on my mind. I wondered what he might have been thinking. I tried picturing the scene in my mind of his standing there in his bedroom looking at me from the open window, maybe half-dressed or even naked. I imagined and felt a slight breeze running over his body and through his tight hair.

He put his hand onto my shoulder and I dropped the knife.

"Oh, I am sorry," he said. "I wondered if you needed some help."

He could see that I was embarrassed.

"No, no. It's quite all right. I can manage."

My face must have been the deepest shade of red imaginable.

"Okay then, I'll wait outside," and he returned to the garden.

The tray was prepared. I composed myself and carried it out but why the hell had I put the wine glasses so close together? My hand was still shaking slightly and was naturally reflected in the clanging of the glass.

A beaming smile greeted me as I approached the table with the food. After I set the tray down, I became more relaxed and we enjoyed a pleasant lunch together. The bottle of wine soon disappeared and I got another from the fridge. I was now much more comfortable in his presence.

That was until he took his tee shirt off.

He was beautifully tanned and his chest was well defined with very little body hair. I imagined that many men would have been very envious of his physique; I know I certainly was. I've never had a flabby or even unattractive chest and stomach but had always been very self-conscious when I would walk around with Maggie in the summer with my shirt off.

"That was a lovely lunch, Nick. Thank you very much," he said.

"You're welcome," I replied. "But it really was only a matter of a few bits and pieces from the fridge."

"So, what has my sister been telling you about me, then?" he asked.

I was relieved he hadn't chosen to talk about me.

"Funny as it may seem, she rarely mentions you. She told me you were a teacher of English in France but that was about all."

"Ah, so she does not talk about me then?" he said with a rather good _'Allo 'Allo_ German accent and sipped his wine. "That's probably because I am the black sheep of the family," he added.

"Why do you say that?" I asked, knowing full well what he was about to say next.

"You mean she hasn't mentioned to you that I'm gay, a bender boy, and friend of Dorothy?"

"She hadn't mentioned it," I lied and sipped my wine.

Chrissie had mentioned it to me a few months earlier but at the time I hadn't remembered exactly who it was she was talking about. I'd only been feeling uneasy because I remembered it the previous day.

I was rather relieved when he brought the subject up and I'm sure he realised that I was not shying away from it. He then spoke quite frankly about his gay life and filled in some of the gaps from his previous conversations. Yes, there had been romances in his life. Did I really think there had not been? He told his parents when he was sixteen and they found it hard to accept. His mother broke down and cried and his father could not believe that his seed had produced such a deformity in a child. Chrissie accepted it without giving the announcement a second thought but he left home soon after that even though he was still a student and commuting from home to college.

He told me of a nine month affair he'd had with a teacher at college and how he found him in bed with another student. It was partly because of that he'd decided to leave England and work abroad. He'd had a few flings with Frenchmen but it wasn't what he really wanted.

I remember thinking how mature he was during that conversation. It is my experience that gay men and women tend to grow up earlier than other people. I feel sympathetic in general to heterosexual men as they have much stronger stereotypes they believe they have to live up to and don't want to be seen as being weak. Gay men and women have many other icons and tend to be more independent, which is possibly learnt at a much earlier age.

As we spoke I told him of the time I was hitch-hiking and had been partly seduced by young male driver who gave me a lift. He was not surprised and had heard many accounts of so-called straight men having homosexual encounters. I had only ever told Maggie of my little secret, which turned out to be an anti-climax.

We talked for about an hour and a half, not solely about being gay but the problems that all people face in finding partners and not really knowing which direction to push their lives. I then carried the remains of the lunch back into the kitchen. Eamon followed me with the glasses and stood behind me at the sink. He rested his hand on my shoulder and said, "Thanks for listening to me. Believe me, I don't usually dwell or go on about sexuality."

"That's no problem," I said as I turned around. He had not taken his hand away from my shoulder and I put my hand on his probably to pull his hand away. I was feeling uneasy as I raised my eyes and he was staring directly into my face.

It was me who made the next move.

I pushed my head closer to his and, as our lips met, I gave him a gentle kiss, the sort I would give my daughter. I withdrew and stared into his eyes. I needed to say something but I didn't know what. We both smiled, me rather nervously as he took my face in his hands and drew me to him.

He kissed me so passionately yet tenderly, like I'd never been kissed before, not even by my wife. His arms wrapped tightly around me as he pressed his body tighter against mine. I'd forgotten that passionate, ecstatic feel of another body so close. My hands could feel the smoothness of his bare back and the press of his chest against mine. I was oblivious to our surroundings and the world we lived in and, yes, in a corny way, the earth was moving.

But did I care?

His hands slid under my tee shirt, which gave me that slight euphoric chill. But I didn't want him to stop; I wanted to be consumed. I had not had such closeness for a long time. The feel of those beautiful strong hands running up and down my back and his tongue in my mouth were almost turning my legs to jelly. But I knew I was not about to fall; I was protected. It was inevitable that before long we both stood there by the kitchen sink naked, our bodies pressed tightly together.

Neither of us had said anything; there was no need. I pushed him toward my bedroom door, which was next to the kitchen, and within moments we were writhing on the bed. I had been to bed with a man before and never gave it a second thought but never had I been kissed so passionately by either a man or a woman.

I was in seventh heaven as he kissed my whole body from head to toe then I did the same with him. To this day I think it was probably the best couple of hours of my life and such a new experience. A rather novel experience. Admittedly I was rather vulnerable and having spent so much time on getting my life together after Maggie's death, the closeness of another human being was needed. And on this level it was what I was looking for though I had not known it nor could never have expressed it. Had I met a woman at that time who treated me on the same level as Eamon and had many of his character traits, then things may have been quite different.

Still as exciting but just different.

We lay on the bed wrapped in each other's arms with the sun casting a light shadow across our legs. Nothing was said for quite some time until Eamon broke the silence.

"Come on, let's take a shower."

I smiled and looked down at him. The sweat was still all over his shoulders.

We showered together, another new experience for me. The barriers were down and there were no polite apologies for touching each other. Never before had I felt so relaxed in the company of another man or unembarrassed to touch him. We kissed as we dressed, an experience I found exciting and very comforting. It felt tantalizingly naughty.

I look back on that incident now and I have to admit that even that act was very innocent. We did not actually have sex or gay sex in people's view. We were both excited but did not feel it necessary to reach a climax. The excitement was simply being close together, another naked body pressed tightly against you. Safe and protected. Even straight men having erections together is not such an unusual experience and wanting to hold a close friend is what many "straight" men would be really like to do. But these overpowering stereotypes come into play again.

Soon after the shower we were dressed and were sitting in the garden with a cigarette and a couple of cokes and my thoughts turned to the consequences of what had just taken place. My mind was racing; was I now gay? If this was what gays did then I liked it, but would I only be gay with Eamon? I had no desires for other men and what would the parents say if they found out? Would Chrissie find out and, if she did, how would she take it? More to the point, though, did she need to know? Did I need to tell Imogen and how would it go down at the bank?

I was left pondering the consequences to myself – far too many questions.

Eamon had to leave for a while as it was nearly 5 p.m. He had arranged to meet the parents of a student he would be teaching in Versailles for the autumn term. He'd arranged to see them at 6 p.m. and had no phone number to contact them and make alternative arrangements. He was very apologetic about it, knowing full well that I really needed to talk about what had happened. He said he had no other plans for the evening and would be back later. I invited him for dinner.

I saw him out and returned to the garden to finish my drink. I needed a little time to myself but within a few minutes the jubilant picnickers returned from their outing. Sally, as expected, had had a wonderful day and could hardly stop talking about it. She gave me some wild flowers which Annette and she had picked. I was touched even though most of them were already beginning to wilt. We put them in a vase on the kitchen table and I knew I should have explained to her why she should not have been picking flowers from the wild but there was too much on my mind.

"What's for dinner, Daddy?" she asked, which rather surprised me as her ramblings were mostly about the food she had eaten that day. I explained that we had a visitor coming and told her we would be eating one of her favourite meals of spaghetti bolognaise. Her face beamed on hearing this, after all, there's nothing nicer than sucking a long piece of spaghetti into your mouth with the sauce flying all over the table when you're not the one that has to clean it up.

My daughter has always loved pasta.

Eamon arrived back at 8 p.m. and Sally was already in her pyjamas. He winked at me and gave her a peck on the nose. He asked if she'd had a nice day out and she advised him that she had and did he want to see the flowers she picked. Before answering she had already led him to the kitchen table. She then recited the whole day's events and, as they were in my way, I asked them to leave and sit in the living room.

As I prepared the meal I heard them both laughing. The sound of her voice told me that she had fully accepted Uncle Eamon. If she liked him then he couldn't be all that bad, could he?

It was a little late for Sally to eat but I liked breaking some of the conventional rules with her. The meal turned into a messy farce and I don't know whether it was Sally or Eamon who acted the biggest kid. But I loved watching Sally when she was happy and I just loved watching Eamon. He asked her if she wanted to hear a story and they both went to sit in the armchair. She sat on his lap and I cleared away the dishes. Eamon told me not to bother and said he would do it later but I knew from experience that anyone who said that had no intention. When I had finished, Eamon had just got to the part where the mummy bear says, "and someone has been eating my porridge," and she looked very tired. It was actually monumental because, on one of the very rare occasions in her short life, she said "yes, please" when I asked if she wanted to go to bed.

I took her to her room and covered her with the spider-man quilt. She dropped off immediately.

When I returned to the living room, I began to feel slightly uneasy and nervous with my daughter only a few feet away. One of those stupid slogans was running through my mind for Tia Maria or some other liquor: "The meal has ended and the evening has only just begun." I always tried to stop myself from thinking those things. I hated the idea that an advertising firm had planted subliminal messages in my brain. In my mind, the slogan should have read: "The meal is over and Sally is in bed. Now what?"

Eamon stood up as I walked into the living room and walked toward me with that beaming, now sexy smile. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pushed his lips toward mine.

"Come on, Daddy. Sit down. You've had a difficult day," he said as he pulled me down to the sofa. His arm was still around my shoulder and he kissed me tenderly on my lips.

We sat for a while just looking at each other.

"That was a lovely meal, Nick," he started. "Are all the meals in this house so messy?"

"Not all," I replied. "Breakfast tends to be marginally cleaner."

"Well I look forward to seeing it."

Breakfast ... something else for me to think about.

"Sally is such a lovely girl and so pretty. Does she take after her mother?" he asked.

Though we had only known each other a short while and had spoken of many things, I had only mentioned Maggie in passing and was surprised and unprepared for the question. However, I had learnt not to shy away from talking about her and spent some time reliving our lives to Eamon. I was a great deal more relaxed now and he asked about what Maggie might feel about the day's events and the scene on the sofa. I was not accustomed to being asked questions like that about my wife and didn't really know how to answer. I fumbled through what she might have thought and suggested that she would be happy to see her daughter and husband so happy and settled and, above all, together.

"And what do you think your sister would say if she knew what happened today?" I asked.

He scratched the back of his head with his free hand and thought for a moment.

"I really don't know. She'd probably blame me for leading you astray. She really does have the greatest admiration for you, you know, bringing up a child on your own and appearing to cope so well with a great loss. No doubt she'd have me banished from the land and send you to see a shrink, aversion therapy or something like that."

We both laughed at this.

"You know, this doesn't mean that you are now a gay man," he continued. "As you probably know, many straight or so-called straight men have gay affairs but they rarely talk about them openly. Well, certainly not to their straight male friends."

I was not too sure what to think about that but put it to the back of my mind to recall and ponder on at a later date. I was more content at that moment to sit back and just relax.

A few minutes later the evening was over.

I heard the front door slam as Imogen returned home and instinctively pushed Eamon away from me. As she came into the room, we were sitting apart on the sofa sipping our wine. She had not met Eamon before so I introduced them and asked if she'd had a good day. She had but was now very tired and said she needed to go to bed.

"And I must be going as well," Eamon said much to my disappointment. It would have been impractical for him to stay any longer. Imogen said goodnight and went to her room. I kissed Eamon when she left the living room and he thanked me again for a great meal and wonderful day.

"Look, tomorrow I have to go over my contract for the coming year," he said, "and discuss the new syllabus with the college here. It will probably go on quite late, and again on Tuesday morning, but it will be settled by the evening and if Imogen can baby-sit, I'd like to take you out to dinner."

I was flattered. Someone asking me out to dinner? A man asking me out to dinner?

This had to go in the "ponder later" file.

"Oh, yes. I'd like that very much," I replied. "It's years since I've been to a restaurant. I mean a proper restaurant without kids and kiddie menus and high-chairs and nuggets."

"Good. Then it's settled. I'll pick you up here at 7 p.m. and whisk you away."

We kissed each other again as he left and I crept off to my bed to think about the story so far.

For the next couple of days I was consumed with guilt.

All the events and possible consequences of what had happened were racing through my mind and I was picturing the confrontations in my small circle if anyone found out. On one hand, I wanted to shout about it and let everyone know how happy I was. I deserved it for Christ's sake. On the other, I was afraid. Afraid of being thought of as some sort of pervert or freak, while all I was doing was loving another human being and society was telling me it was wrong.

I said "loving" there and wondered if that was what had taken hold of me. But that was nonsense. I'd only known Eamon a short while but the feeling was lifting me. On the Monday evening I brought Sally over to play with Annette and it occurred to me when I was having coffee with Chrissie that Eamon might have mentioned things to her. She was aware that he had spent Sunday afternoon and evening with me but had it occurred to her that we were in bed together? I thought it better not to confront her with it all then, though when it eventually did come out, she had no idea.

Tuesday evening arrived and I was excited at the thought of seeing Eamon again. It had been so long since I'd been out that I was unsure of what to wear. I decided to play safe and wear a shirt and tie with a black jacket and the best pressed jeans I could find. I had my haircut at lunchtime and paid special attention to my teeth in the bathroom mirror.

Imogen was happy to baby-sit. She was pleased to see that I was doing something other than devoting all my hours to my child. It was on that occasion that Imogen realised there was more to my friendship with Eamon, but she didn't mention it.

He arrived at 7 p.m. sharp and Sally ran to the door to meet him.

"Daddy, Daddy, Eamon's here," she called at me.

She was also now very fond of him.

My choice of clothes was perfect. He was wearing virtually the same.

"Hello Sally," he said as he bent down and picked her up. "And here's a big kiss for Sally," as he pulled her face to his, "and a little kiss for Daddy," as he pecked me on the nose.

"Do you want to play with my new twenty-six piece jigsaw?" she asked.

"I haven't got the time at the moment, darling, as Daddy and I have to be getting off," he told her, "but I promise I'll play with it tomorrow."

I had not realised that Imogen was also in the hallway and she would have seen Eamon kiss me. She said nothing as she took Sally from Eamon's arms.

I kissed Sally goodnight and she waved frantically from the doorstep.

"See you later, alligator," she called.

"Not for a while, crocodile."

Eamon had borrowed Peter's car and, as we got in, he said that the whole evening was on him.

"So how have you been the last couple of days?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," I started. "On cloud nine."

"Well, what do you know? So have I," he said as he turned to me and smiled. He rested his hand on my knee.

"It's great to see you again," he added.

"And it's even better to see you," I said as we drove off.

It turned out to be a very educational and interesting evening for me as I had never been to a gay restaurant before. Had I known the place was gay before going, I think I might have asked Eamon to take me somewhere else but I had preconceived ideas of what it would be like and I really had the wrong impression even though I thought I knew a thing or two about how gay men and women behave. The place was fairly grand and in Chelsea. Eamon had reserved a table. The waiter, who introduced himself as Dermot, showed us to our table and Eamon knew him. Dermot was very friendly with ginger hair and a slightly rounded stomach, which Eamon patted.

"I know, don't remind me. I haven't been able to shift that since Hong Kong but I promise to get the exercise video out," he told us.

I smiled and Eamon explained that Dermot had been working in a five-star hotel in Hong Kong but had recently returned to the UK to live with his partner in Fulham. Eamon had used the term "boyfriend" but for some reason this didn't sit comfortably with me so the more appropriate term of partner was a welcome alternative.

Reminder to brain to consider later.

The place was packed for a Tuesday night and the whole atmosphere was relaxed and welcoming; any unsuspecting customer would not have realised the place was gay except for a few snippets of conversation.

A very camp waiter served us and he introduced himself as Jasper. He too was very pleasant though I was unsure how to take his jokes, which he cracked at every available opportunity. I don't think I'd ever heard so many double entendres. When we finished our meal and asked for the bill, he said he'd see if he was available. When he brought it he said, "Sorry but Bill's got his chopper out in the kitchen but will this do?" as he handed us the cheque.

I was rather surprised at that sort of humour though it had Eamon in stitches. I laughed politely though I was not amused. I had always thought that this stereotype, mincing queen was the image that gays were trying to get away from and I didn't want to be associated with it. He was not like Eamon and most certainly not like me. I was never too happy with innuendo and especially from comedians, so from gay men it just seemed inappropriate.

"Don't you find that sort of campness annoying?" I asked.

"On the contrary," Eamon replied. "Jasper is not really camp, just relaxed, and it is okay for gays to laugh and take the piss out of each other. It's a different matter when straights do it because it often tends to be vindictive."

"Yes, but surely this type of behaviour does nothing for the gay cause," I said. "I always thought that people like you, well, I mean like us, would want to get away from all that."

Eamon smiled broadly.

"Nick, forget all you think you know about gay men and women in society. It may not be acceptable in the so-called straight majority circles but gays have learnt to accept that, even with us, there are enormous differences. But we stick together because we have a bond, a common denominator, and we instinctively accept each other. If we discriminated against each other the way that the rest of society does, then we would be no better and have no reason to fight for gay rights. The gay community is made up of all walks of life, from drag queens and bishops to aborigines and Argentinean gaucho. We all accept each other readily and appreciate that everyone is different. Believe me, it helps. Any anyway, we are not on a cause or crusade tonight."

That was something else I needed to think about later. The food was excellent and I offered to pay my share but Eamon insisted the treat was on him. He said he wanted to thank me and when I asked why, he just replied, "For being you, of course."

Who was feeling like a dizzy, camp queen then?

It was nearly 10 p.m. and he suggested we stop off at a pub he knew in Islington on the way back. This too was a new experience for me. The pub was busy with a much younger crowd than the restaurant and though Eamon didn't know the bar staff they greeted us warmly. There was a small dance floor on one side and a much larger bar at the far end. What struck me as soon as we settled ourselves was that there was not a hint of campness in any of the people there. It seemed perfectly natural for one or two of them to be holding hands or drinking pints with their arms around each other. There was no threat.

The music was far too loud, even for me in my early twenties, and when we got our drinks, we stood away from the bar area in a corner where there was a spare shelf. Eamon pushed me against the wall and landed a huge smacker of a kiss on my lips. I was initially uncertain about being in such a public place but nobody seemed to be bothered. We then talked for a while about nothing in particular and then he whispered in my ear, "Can I spend the night with you, Nick?"

This I was certainly not prepared for and took a while to answer. I had become totally infatuated with him but had not given a thought to the practicalities of times and questions like these. How could I explain to Imogen that Eamon was staying the night with me when he had a room only a couple of doors away? Sally might also be upset if she came into my bedroom in the morning and found her part of the bed occupied by somebody else, even if she did like him. Chrissie and Peter would not be alarmed if he didn't go home but before long they'd find out what had happened.

The last thing I needed was confrontations like these and I still needed time to think things out. I realised that these were many of the problems that gay people must face each day. Everybody would be pleased had I found a girl and brought her back. Perhaps not pleased but it would have been more acceptable.

"Eamon, I would love nothing more than for us to spend the night together," I started, "but I'm not ready for all the questions just yet."

Eamon was clearly upset but regained his smile.

"It's okay, Nick. I really do understand," he said. "I feel bad asking you now without thinking things through but just being with you at this moment is good enough for me."

He held me tighter and we chatted about the gay scene until it was time to go. The evening had not been ruined by Eamon's question but it certainly had put a slight damper on things.
Part Two: Nick

The following day I felt uneasy about the whole situation but also quite euphoric. It was a fairly quiet day at work and it allowed me a little time to think things over. There was no doubt that after all I had been through over the past couple of years I was ready for a relationship in my life as the basic fabric of responsibility for Sally and a mortgage were all organised. But did I want it and did I expect it with another man? And was Eamon what I was looking for? After all, he would shortly be returning to France and our commitment to each other had not yet been defined. And then there was the introduction to the gay scene, this world that I had no idea existed. Eamon told me of many bars, pubs, restaurants, cafes and clubs all run by and for gay men and women and it fascinated me. It was like going through a familiar door and finding a whole new universe on the other side that you were not aware of but would be welcomed into.

But whether I was going to have a relationship with a man or a woman, the real tangle was did I want or need a relationship with anyone? After all, things were going well at work, and Sally was adorable and gave me most of what I needed. My domestic arrangements were all working well and I was still pining for Maggie.

There seemed to be way too much to consider but just riding it for the time being seemed to be the most positive option. I played it by ear and decided to take it all as it came rather than dwell on it. After all, we had still only known each other a matter of days and I was possibly jumping on a fictitious bandwagon.

He came around to the flat on Wednesday and Thursday evenings after we had eaten. The more I saw of him, the more I wanted him and we'd sneak a quick kiss or caress in the kitchen before Sally or Imogen came rushing in. Maggie's parents also came over on the Thursday. It was Sally's birthday the following week and they asked if they could take her out for the day and buy her a tracksuit as she'd said she wanted one. Normally I would not have been too happy about this. A young child with a tracksuit? Was it really necessary? However, it was the perfect opportunity to spend some time with Eamon and especially as Imogen was going to be away. I agreed that they could take her out and rather bravely suggested how they might take it a stage further.

"Why not take her out and then let her stay the night at your place?" I said.

Their eyes lit up and they were taken aback. I would not have suggested something like that before. I lied and said that I wouldn't mind a little time on my own or even have a few work colleagues over for a meal.

It was settled.

They asked if I was sure and I explained that everything was okay and that I was a great deal more settled and confident now.

They would be over on Saturday morning to collect her. Sally was overjoyed and ran off to pack her new rucksack even though it was only Thursday.

Eamon dropped by on Friday evening. He'd arranged to see some friends that evening and wanted to know if we could spend some time together over the weekend. I told him the good news and he said he'd be over on Saturday afternoon when Imogen had gone out with her friends. I was uncertain about her plans but decided to worry about that later.

We kissed goodnight and I watched him walk down the street. I was jealous of the fact that his company was being granted to others. I wondered what his friends were like and if I would ever meet them.

It was soon after that I did meet them and the last thing they could be called were friends.

They say that all of us have a dark side, a closet with one, two or even full of skeletons. I was shortly to find out what Eamon's were.

CHAPTER FOUR

Part One

Eamon smiled as he walked up the street. It was great news that he would be able to spend most of the weekend with Nick without having to be too careful. Perhaps this time it really was love. If that's a feeling that makes you go weak, and your skin glows and you have a ferocious appetite, then yes, that was it.

He turned the corner and then the smile, the then sexy smile, dropped from his face. There it was right on cue, the silver blue Mercedes which had come to meet him. He felt physically sick in his gut whenever he saw that distinct shade of blue on any vehicle. It brought back memories of the sadistic bastard that controlled his life.

When Eamon was just seventeen, and soon after starting college, he left home. There was a blazing row when he told his parents that their little prince had grown into a princess and they told him they wanted nothing to do with him and meant it. He had worked hard academically to get the placing at the Crawley Teacher Training College and was determined that it was the right vocation for him. Having left home, he shared a flat with a fellow student named Mark. It was just single bedroom accommodation and for a while it went well. Eamon immersed himself in his studies and managed to find a part-time job in a restaurant in the centre of Crawley which allowed him to pay his share of the rent.

He and Mark got along well even though they held different views on almost every topic. It was the first time that Mark had been away from home, which is often the case with students. He was from Lanarkshire and for a while the excitement of being a student and not having to spend time with his parents was a novelty. Mark had few friends and was not gay but Eamon never found it necessary to tell him, which would have caused other problems. Very soon after Eamon moved in, Mark noticed all the female students and having his own pad, a phrase Eamon hated, meant that he could have a whole host of girls in his room whenever he wanted.

Eamon often went home in the early evening or later after the restaurant closed to find the room occupied. They had agreed a code that when the metallic numbers of the flat door were turned upside down, he was with a woman and Eamon was not to disturb them. It got to the stage that almost every evening Eamon would be sitting in a coffee bar going over his essays. This didn't last long as the owner of the cafe, along with a number of similar establishments would ask him to leave.

Then the restaurant he worked in part-time closed down. The arrogant Greek bastard who owned it lined all the staff up one night just before they were leaving and told them that they should find other jobs because from that moment on they were unemployed. Eamon didn't want to believe this bad luck as it was in the middle of term time and there would be no way that a student could walk into another job where there wasn't already a waiting list; but there was worse to come. He returned to the flat after that and the code was not set. He interrupted Mark lying on top of a girl he'd picked up at the station earlier.

"Get out, for fuck's sake. What's the matter with you?" he shouted at Eamon from the bed.

Eamon stood staring. He was annoyed, exhausted and that was the last thing he needed.

"For Christ sake, Mark, you agreed that there would be nobody back here tonight," he said.

"So I lied," Mark shouted.

The girl on the bed was embarrassed, especially in the position Eamon could see her. She pulled the covers over herself and reached down onto the floor to pull her jeans over. She began to pull them on.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Mark demanded.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," she quickly replied. "Where the hell do you think I'm going? I'm not staying here to be watched by your friend."

"Don't go," Mark replied as he jumped up and pulled on his boxer shorts, which also lay on the floor.

"Do me a favour," she replied as she pulled on her sweatshirt. "I don't know why I agreed to come to this pigsty and anyway. You're useless."

"What do you mean, you slag?" Mark snapped.

The row became more lavatorial until she stormed out.

Mark was livid when he turned to Eamon.

"You see that? you see what you've fucking done now?" he shouted.

"But you said that you wouldn't tonight," Eamon replied, "and you didn't turn the flat numbers up. How was I supposed to know?"

Mark was not listening and pulled the rest of his clothes on.

"I want you out of here. You're screwing up my social life," he screamed and turned to go out. "By the end of the week," he added then slammed the door.

That was all Eamon needed.

He was jobless, almost penniless and soon to be homeless.

"Great," he said to himself as he threw his books on the bed.

The following day he searched for another part-time job but with no luck. He checked all the small ads in the local paper, the job-shop, and went into as many restaurants and shops as there were in Crawley, but they were not hiring. The town had already had its influx of students for that year and all the positions were gone.

He checked the postcard advertisements in newsagents' windows, hoping to find free accommodation for domestic work, but there were none. It was while reading these that he noticed a card that read:

STUDENTS

Student loans available up to £5000

Borrow now and pay much later

No strings and low commission

Phone Crawley 55108

Eamon read the advert a couple of times. He could do with some available cash to pay for accommodation. He wrote the number down in a book he was carrying, intending only to use it as a last resort or in extreme emergency. He spent the rest of that day, and missed a lecture, in the search for something and by 5.30 pm it was becoming an emergency. He found a public call box and dialled the number on the card.

A pleasant sounding older man answered and confirmed that loans were available but only to the right people, and asked a couple of questions about the course he was doing. Eamon replied and he seemed to fit the criteria.

"That's fine," said the man at the other end. "You need to make an appointment to discuss the loan with the proprietor Mr Joseph Bulmer. Would this evening be okay for you, sir?"

Eamon was surprised.

"Uhm, yes. That would be perfect," he replied.

"Excellent. Shall we say 8.30 p.m. then?" came the response and he gave Eamon the address.

Eamon went back to the flat to change, believing it would be proper to put on a shirt and tie. Mark was out but had clearly been in earlier as there were the remains of a doner kebab on a plate left by the side of the bed along with an empty can of lager. The room was a total mess, all made by Mark. How either of them found anything was short of a miracle.

Eamon surveyed the room.

"Jesus, I have to get out of here," he thought.

He made his way to the address that he was given. The office was not too far from the room he shared and situated above a taxi firm in a rather shabby building in the high street. The old building had seen better days but the red brickwork above the doors and windows gave it an "arts and crafts" style. There was an entry phone and a bell marked "BULMERS". He pressed the buzzer.

"Hello," said a muffled voice through the receiver, which Eamon recognised as the old man he had arranged the appointment with.

"Hello, I'm Eamon Hargreaves and phoned earlier."

"Ah, yes," came the reply, "come on up to the top floor." The door buzzed. Eamon pushed it open and went up the stairs directly in front of him.

The carpet on the steps was threadbare and there was a distinct smell of stale cat urine. The stairs creaked and Eamon realised that this was going to be a waste of time and considered turning back. An old man then appeared on the landing at the top of what was a very straight staircase.

"Come on, Mr Hargreaves," he called down. "Mr Bulmer is waiting for you."

"Right," Eamon replied and quickened his pace.

The old man led him into a fairly dated office then immediately through another door into a larger, much brighter room.

Eamon was surprised.

The inner office was quite unexpected and had a thick, light blue carpet which his feet sank into. By the window was a pine chest of drawers, well polished with a fax machine on top that was delivering a message. Few people had faxes in those days. A drinks cabinet was in one corner, well stocked and not as tacky as some. Next to this was a silver pin-ball machine. In the centre of the room was a leather chesterfield sofa with an armchair to match and a glass coffee table. At the far end was an oak desk strewn with papers and three different phones. Holding one of these was presumably Mr Bulmer seated on a high-backed leather chair.

"If you just take a seat, Mr Hargreaves, Mr Bulmer will be with you in a minute."

"Thank you," Eamon replied as the old man nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.

Eamon sat on the sofa as instructed and waited for Bulmer to finish his phone conversation. From where he sat, and with the man seated in front of the window, it was difficult for Eamon to see clearly what he looked like but he had a typical east-end cockney accent that you'd expect from a car salesman. It was clear the he was none too pleased with the person on the other end of the line.

"Look," he almost shouted into the receiver, "if you don't get the soddin' proofs to me by Saturday at the latest, you can take the deal and shove it. I really don't need this."

He slammed the phone down and fiddled on his desk for a packet of Marlboro cigarettes. He took one out of the packet and lit it.

"Printers, bloody printers," he called over to Eamon.

Eamon smiled and nodded. He considered just walking straight out and not looking back. Might have been a blessing in disguised had he done just that.

Bulmer stood up and walked over to the sofa away from the light.

"Sorry about that, son," he said as he extended a large hand for Eamon to shake.

There was a gold ring on almost every finger.

He was about five feet, eight inches tall with receding dark hair and wore what Eamon presumed was a rather expensive navy blue suit with black brogue shoes, a white shirt with cufflinks and bright, patterned tie. He had an oval tanned face and Eamon presumed him to be in his mid-thirties. Not particularly handsome and slightly overweight but rugged. He could easily have been taken as an insurance salesman or a city dealer. Eamon at that time had no inkling of what a money lender might look like.

He sat down in the armchair and pulled the ashtray on the coffee table slightly closer to him.

"People let you down all the bleeding time in this business," he started and smiled.

"Yes," Eamon smiled back a little nervously.

"Now then, it's Hargreaves innit? What's your first name?" he asked.

"Eamon, Eamon Hargreaves."

"Well then, Eamon. You don't mind if I call ya that, do ya? I like to keep everything on first name terms. Makes it all much easier in my opinion."

"No, that's fine."

"So, I gather you're up shit street and need a loan?"

"Uhm ... well yes," he started. "I saw your advert in a shop window and things are not going too well for me at the moment so ..."

"And what do you wanna be," Bulmer cut in, "when you finished like?"

"A teacher. I'm studying European languages and teaching."

"Good idea, son. You stick at it; we need good teachers these days."

Bulmer stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.

"So tell me," he continued, "you ever had a loan before, Eamon?"

"No, sir, never."

"And what about debts? I know you're only nineteen but have you got any?"

"No I haven't," he replied immediately.

"So tell me about yourself then."

"What do you need to know?"

It seemed an odd and rather personal thing to ask and was not the type of interview that Eamon expected, but this must be how you got a loan.

"Just about you. You know, where you live now, who you live with, what your parents do and all that."

Eamon sighed, hesitated and began.

He told Bulmer a little about his parents, where they lived and that he had worked hard to get a place at the college. He explained that the family had a disagreement and he needed accommodation closer to the college. He was originally going to commute to Crawley each day but that had not worked too well. He confessed the problem of sharing the bedsit and the fact that he had just lost his job, and lied that there were some interviews lined up for some other part-time work. He told Bulmer he needed a loan of at least £500.

Bulmer nodded and lit another cigarette. He sat back in his armchair and stared at Eamon, who felt more uncomfortable now.

"I like you son and I'll tell you what I'll do," he announced. "I'll sort you out a loan to get you back on your feet. You sort out a flat and forget about those job interviews you got lined up. It's staggering how the companies round here exploit you lot. Paying you peanuts no doubt, so sod all that. Now I know you won't be able to pay me back until you start work full-time but you've come 'ere at a fortunate time as I need a bloke like you. Do you drive?"

"Yes I do," Eamon replied. "I've only just passed my test."

"Good, then here's the deal. I need someone to help me as a delivery man. I've got another couple of little businesses going – got me hand in everything some say." He laughed. "Anyway, I run a small hi-fi business in the High Road and a photographic studio in the town centre. Just bought this new equipment from Germany, you know, passport photos, portfolios and that. Loads of money to be made there if you got the right equipment, know what I mean? If you work for me a couple of evenings a week, I'll defer the payments of your loan. And it isn't worth my while dealing in small change like five hundred quid. The minimum loan is three grand."

Eamon's mind was not taking it all in but the figure shook him.

"No, I really don't need that much," he said. "£500 will be plenty."

Bulmer drew on his fag.

"No, no, Eamon, I don't deal in that anymore. I use to and I've still got loads of people on my books paying in fiddling amounts each week. It's not worth the paper it's written on. Besides, do you know how much flats are around here these days? Landlords are all sharks and crooks. Daylight robbery it is. Three grand is the deal and a little part-time work. And a good-looking kid like you, I might even be able to put some other work your way."

Eamon thought quickly.

"Look, I can't do anything illegal," he announced.

"Illegal. Christ do I look like a crook?"

Eamon thought he did.

"And what about interest on the loan?" Eamon asked.

"Between two and three per cent above the bank base rate. None of this old crap you here about loan sharks with exorbitant interest rates that go on for years. Now I can't be fairer than that, can I? And besides, I expect work from you; think about the risk I'll be taking." He laughed. "I don't even know you from Adam so the pair of us are taking a risk."

Eamon realised he had started sweating and wiped his forehead. It was a great deal of money he was being offered, much more than he needed but the deal would fit in well with his studies and he could forget about financial problems and finding a job for a while. He pictured the bedsit and Mark and the remains of the doner kebab on the floor.

"Okay, but what do you mean about putting other work my way?" he asked.

"You're a good-looking boy, Eamon, very Christian and sensible looking. I'm doing well round here and might before long need a chauffeur if all goes according to my plans. I don't want someone driving me about who looks like a nutter. You'll do all right, especially if my old Mum needs someone to take her out to that new shopping centre or bingo. What do you reckon?"

Eamon was slightly relieved.

"Yes, okay, that's fine."

"Good, then. You've made the right decision. THOMAS," he shouted, "bring us in a contract and three big ones."

Bulmer lit yet another cigarette.

"This saves me a lot of hassle," Bulmer continued. "I was going to advertise for a delivery bloke-cum-assistant and now the problem's sorted. I asked Thomas to keep a lookout for someone suitable and he's done me proud with you, well I hope so, and I am usually a good judge of character. Everyone does well when you just cut out all the crap, know what I mean?"

Eamon nodded.

Thomas, the old man, appeared after just a few seconds, carrying a single sheet of paper and a wad of notes, which he handed to Bulmer.

"All you got to do now, me old son, is sign our contract. But make sure you read it first; I'm not in the habit of getting you kids to sign your lives away."

Eamon read the paper, which only took a few seconds. It was just a piece of headed note-paper with Bulmer's name and address at the top and an affidavit which said that he was Eamon Hargreaves and attended Crawley Teacher Training College. The amount of the loan, £3000, was to be paid on completion of the course when full-time employment was taken up at a fixed mutually agreed monthly amount no more than three per cent above the current Bank of England base rate. All he had to do was sign and date it along with Bulmer's signature and the signature of the accountant, who was Thomas.

It seemed easy enough.

"But Mr Bulmer," Eamon said, "you haven't even asked for my date of birth or proof of home address. I would have thought that was standard procedure."

"Yes it is standard procedure matey, but this is also a private deal for me and I don't need all that nonsense. Besides, in this business I take everyone on face value. Before you got here though, Thomas gave the college a ring to make sure you did attend there and to check if there was there any reason I should avoid you. There wasn't any. Now, all you have to do is sign it and there's the money."

He dropped the wad of notes on the coffee table.

Eamon signed the agreement.

Bulmer also did and stood up.

"There you go, Thomas," he said as he handed the paper to him. "You get that signed and filed." He turned back to Eamon. "Now you be careful with that dosh and get yourself sorted with accommodation. And make certain you've got a phone. If there isn't one there, get one installed and as soon as you do that, let Thomas know your number so I can contact you about the work."

"Thank you, thank you very much," Eamon said as he picked the notes up and put the wad in his pocket.

"Don't thank me, Eamon, old son. After all, you're doing me a favour as well and saving me a few bob."

Eamon left the premises and he thought Bulmer looked quite pleased with the outcome and the meeting. There was something about Bulmer that Eamon could not put his finger on but he liked him – he liked the sound of his voice and his manner of dealing with him. He even thought he looked trustworthy but then it was their first meeting and looks can be deceiving.

Within a week, Eamon had rented a fully furnished, one bedroom apartment in a new development overlooking the park. The location was perfect and only a mile and half from the college. His £1000 deposit and month's rent in advance meant there was plenty left over. He bought a number of books and some quality stationary that the grant would not stretch to, a new wardrobe suitable for a student and a second-hand bicycle. He would still need to find a job that paid a bit more regularly as he had no idea how much work Bulmer would be able to give him. But there would be a couple of months before he needed to find to find additional money to meet the rent. A phone had already been connected. The balance of the money went into a building society account though he toyed with the idea of returning it to Bulmer but thought better of it.

He contacted Thomas, Bulmer's assistant, when he was settled and for a while all went well. The evening job that Bulmer fixed up was ideal and more regular than he initially believed. This only involved driving a small white van to a warehouse near Gatwick airport and taking some boxes of hi-fi to some of the local Indian traders in the area. It could not be simpler and only took a couple of hours three times per week. Bulmer explained that things would be much busier around the Christmas period, which was perfect as he would be paid for any additional work. Bulmer explained that the hi-fi was a little specialised and was advertised in technical sound and vision magazines.

To Eamon's surprise, Bulmer visited him at his flat one evening.

"Just to see how my boy was doing," he said and added that he didn't like seeing students being ripped off.

Eamon was just nineteen years old then.

Bulmer had a good look around the flat and made a couple of criticisms about furniture placement. Eamon said that it felt like his father was visiting and there was something quite comforting and homely about having Bulmer in the flat.

Oh how naïve the young can sometimes be.

His studies were going well and he had plenty of time on his hands. He tried contacting his parents and attempting to patch things up but they had already decided he was not to be part of their life though he spoke regularly to his sister Chrissie, who kept him informed of family business.

The problems then began when Bulmer asked him to run deliveries of photographic paper to and from his studio. This was not part of the original agreement and Bulmer said he would pay him for the runs, which was perfect. He had a few studios and one was a converted barn near Langley but just outside the town; Bulmer appeared to employ a couple of photographers who lived in the small farmhouse attached. Bulmer had said that the space was used for designing portfolios but on the few occasions Eamon went there, the place was almost deserted and a little too remote for the type of business that Eamon would expect.

They certainly got through plenty of paper and developing chemicals but he was blind to what was really going on as he fell for one of the photographers.

He took a shine to Gregg, who was twenty-seven years old, about the same build as Eamon, with short, dark hair and a smooth, well defined chest with muscular legs.

It was not long before Gregg and he were rolling naked on one of the couches in the studio. There was no commitment there, just satisfaction of a primeval need for release. Their sessions became a regular event every couple of weeks and suited Eamon just fine.

Eamon regularly asked about Gregg's work and he showed him some of the photos he'd taken. They were very good. Some were very arty and not altogether Eamon's taste while others were merely family shots taken in the studio.

Gregg asked Eamon if he could take photos of him in various states of undress for personal keeping – something he could look at while waiting for the next visit.

Eamon saw no harm in that and agreed. He posed at least three times for Gregg and found they enhanced their afternoon romps.

That was the first big mistake.

Gregg and him became closer and he confessed that he also did other work for Bulmer, who did a rather specialist service in taking photos of couples having sex together for their own enjoyment. It appeared to be quite lucrative. There was nothing illegal about it and people, especially married couples, paid good money for their personal entertainment.

All seemed fine – a little distasteful perhaps but not exactly breaking the law. Some of the couples were perhaps a little seedy looking and part of the "swingers" scene in the home counties of England. Gregg showed him some of the personal photos and quite frankly they were mostly laughable and not in the least bit titillating. But it takes all sorts, as they say.

After a year he was getting good results and showed much promise as a student teacher. Bulmer had also been paying him for additional trips he was doing and, on a few occasions, he acted as chauffeur. This meant that his grant was covering the rent with a fair bit left over. There were only a few months to go on his course.

One evening, he received a visit from Thomas, Bulmer's accountant, who asked if he would call into the office the following day as the boss wanted a word with him. Eamon thought little of it though wondered why Thomas had not simply phoned. He was not prepared for what Bulmer was about to confront him with.

On arriving at the office, Bulmer greeted him and handed him a copy of a magazine entitled _Spielkart_. It was a German publication and Eamon flicked through it. It was full of pictures of naked or partly dressed men, some with erections and some not. It was a gay magazine and Eamon blushed.

Bulmer sat in his armchair sucking on a Marlboro.

"Have a look at page nineteen," Bulmer said.

Eamon turned to the right page and then got the shock of his young life. There he was in all his glory lying across the couch in the studio with his enlarged cock in his hand and a wide, relaxed grin across his face.

Eamon felt rather sick.

"Jesus Christ," he blurted, "what the hell is this? That's a private photo."

"I think it's obvious what that is, sunshine," Bulmer casually said.

"But how the hell did they get these?"

"They did. An also see pages twenty and twenty-one. Oh, and if I'm not mistaken, twenty-two as well."

Bulmer stood up and walked over to Eamon.

"Funny, you know," he said and puffed on his fag, "I thought they'd publish all of them. You've certainly got the type of attributes the punters want."

Eamon was confused and his head was spinning.

"What is going on?" he demanded as he slapped the magazine shut and threw it onto the coffee table.

"Oh relax – just a little bit of insurance, son. Don't look so worried. Anyway your family or the college don't need to know. Well, not at the moment anyway."

Eamon was speechless and picked the magazine up again. Sure enough he was splashed over the other pages as well.

"But Gregg took these. He said that ..."

"Yeah, I know what Gregg said but he works for me and does just what I tell him."

Eamon could think of nothing to say.

"Now then," Bulmer continued, "what I'm doing, son, is just lettin' you know what it's all about. By the way, I got a good price for those and if you could do a few more for me, then both of us could do well out of it. There's a good market in Europe for all that and I can make a star out of you. A star in this private little world that very few venture into." He drew on his cigarette and continued. "Don't look so worried. Okay, so I'm a businessman and look at as many options for making money as I can. Don't shoot me over that, young Eamie. Nobody's died and no animals were hurt in the making of it. Just take it as a new experience."

"You must be joking," Eamon said. He was getting angry and it was all fitting into place.

"I knew you'd say that but let's just work this out for a few moments. You've been a good boy to me and all I want to do is develop your, what can I say, talents as it were. Don't let it all go to waste. You'll thank me for this one day. And I told you before – I'm a businessman and always on the lookout for any opportunity. I'm not being judgemental or anything of that shite. I like you, Eamon, my boy, and would be proud to have you as my son. This is a way for you to make a heap of dosh and, quite frankly, the type of people who buy this stuff are not exactly going to make things difficult for you." He smiled and added, "You should be proud."

"I don't know what you think you're doing ... I'm going to the police about this."

Bulmer laughed.

"Eamon, take it easy sunshine. You need the full picture first and if you did do anything stupid like that, your family and college would have a copy of that flick-mag before you even reach the local nick and you don't want that, do you? Now listen carefully, I've got a number of business deals going down at the moment. Okay, so some are a little dodgy, knocked off hi-fi, hand-made specialist videos, photo sessions and the loan agency. And I'm getting a little tired of it. I need to branch out, develop my true potential as it were. So I'm jacking parts of it in and moving back to London to concentrate on the art side of things.

"You mean the porn business?" Eamon cut in.

"No, it's not porn. Art I prefer to call it."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Eamon added.

Bulmer sucked on his fag.

"And I had you down as a bright boy. Oh Eamon, son, don't disappoint me. You've done all right by me and one day, very soon, you'll be doing what you really enjoy, teaching, and from what I've heard, you're gonna be very good at it. But can't you see, I had to have these pictures published cos, first, well, I'm a businessman and couldn't let an opportunity like that pass and, secondly, in case you clear out of here when you have your degree and forget about me, I've got something to remember you by."

"You're twisted. Bloody mad. You can't get away with this," Eamon replied, starting to sweat.

"Eamon, Eamon, my son," he said and put his arm around his shoulder. Eamon shrugged it off.

"I just want you to know where we all stand, son. This is such a pity you know, a real waste of talent. There were two ways you could take this. The best one, the most lucrative one, would have been for you to listen to the plans I had for you and a few other young boys, and girls I've got on my books. Think about it. You should see some of the others I've got in line for great things. All you would have to do is have a good time with them and allow some of my guys to take a few measly photos. That way you have a good time and get paid, get well paid for it. I could have made a star of you know." He sighed. "But I suppose, I really didn't expect you to agree. I've got to know you well over the past year and you certainly have not disappointed me."

He pointed at Eamon.

"But you have now, sunshine. Yeah, you have now."

Eamon was sweating more profusely and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

Bulmer sat down in the armchair.

"Now, I'm off to London in a few days and I'll contact you in about eight months. Don't worry about leaving Thomas an address. I've got my own way of finding people. Especially my friends, and I do put you in that category Eamon. Then you can start paying me back for all the help I've given you. Oh, and there's no more runs of that old knock-off hi-fi. I'm finished with that. Got much bigger deals to get on with." He pulled yet another Marlboro from the box on his desk. "You can see how ambitious I am son, can't you?" he continued. "And I expect to really be going places in the next few years. I know this must seem callous and uncalled for but I have to look after my future interests. There may be times when I have to call in favours. Having something on you is really just a little insurance, know what I mean?"

Bulmer walked over to Eamon and extended a hand, which he didn't take.

"Now you get off. You've got loads to think about and if you do change your mind about, well, your talents as it were, I'll be here for another few days. If not, well good luck and you work hard. I've got money on you and I know you'll come in a winner. If, by any chance you do change your mind and want to become one of my 'models', then just let me know. You could make a lot of easy money in the sex world."

This was like a scene from a play. A particularly poor play.

The worst part was that Bulmer looked sincere, like he meant what he was saying and genuinely wished him well.

He was not just crazy but probably very dangerous.

Eamon looked at Bulmer's extended hand and then the magazine.

"BASTARD," he shouted and stormed out of the office.

"Eamon," Bulmer called after him. "Thomas has a few quid for you out there and it's for the driving work. All legal, of course, so don't get stroppy about it. Pick it up from his desk on your way out."

Eamon headed for the closest pub to calm down.

He thought about what had happened. Bulmer was right; there was little he could do. He was annoyed at Gregg for leading him on and wondered how many other young people would be innocently involved. He was already connected if the deliveries of the hi-fi were stolen and that would not look good for a potential teacher regardless of his version of events. He could not deny that he had posed for the photo shoots – a teacher involved in pornography would not go down well with any educational establishment.

How could he be so stupid?

But the damage was already done and the best action to take was to put it at the back of his mind. If it really was just insurance for the future as Bulmer had said then everything may still be fine. Hopefully he would wake up any minute and find it was all a nightmare.

But it was no dream.

That was the last he heard from Bulmer for eighteen months and his time was devoted to his studies. The loan office closed along with the mini-cab business and a betting shop in the same parade of shops. Bulmer had no doubt moved to greener pastures but was sure to show up again.

Perhaps there was a chance – a very slim chance – that the whole incident would go away and never come up again.

Not a likely scenario.
Part Two

The driver of the blue Mercedes saw him turn the corner and got out of the car to meet him.

"Hello, lover boy," he said. "You got a little present for us then have you?"

"Piss off, cretin," Eamon snapped. "Just get me there and get it over with."

Eamon opened the passenger door and got in.

"Oh dear," the driver said with a sadistic gin on his face. "Has he given you the push then?"

"Mind your own fucking business, arsehole," Eamon snapped as they drove away.

The driver was the messenger, chauffeur and general dogsbody for Bulmer. He was about forty years old, moustached, weathered skin and always wore an oversized Crombie coat no matter what the weather. Eamon detested him and all he stood for. He was the sort of man you would not trust if he was your son and you had to leave him in the same room as a young child for a few minutes.

He detested all of them and regretted the day he had ever got involved in their sordid and pathetic world.

He lit a cigarette. He was beginning to feel nervous as they got closer to their destination. It wasn't long before they turned into Whitechapel High Road and pulled up on the double yellow lines outside the Gala Tandoori Restaurant opposite the hospital. They both got out of the car and Jacky, the chauffeur, walked ahead of Eamon into the restaurant. Just inside the door was another marked "private". Jacky punched the intercom twice and the door opened.

Ensuring that the door was fully closed, Jacky and he walked up the staircase to the top where there was yet another door. This led into a large, bright room overlooking the High Road.

It was not the first time that Eamon had been there.

On one side of the room was a large Victorian marble fireplace with brightly coloured tiles. In the centre was a white leather sofa with matching armchairs and in front of this an extremely kitsch and tacky smoked glass coffee table supported by three tiny porcelain elephants. Eamon thought Bulmer must have bought it on Brick Lane from a blind dealer. On one wall was a magnificent oak sideboard with drinks trays on its polished top and some of the most beautiful crystal decanters he'd seen. By the window was the familiar oak desk, and sitting at it was Bulmer.

Bulmer had come a long way since his days in Crawley when he was merely a small-time crook and money lender with enormous ambitions. Eamon was still not sure what he was into and really did not want to know. He was still in the loan business despite everything but this time with more contacts and bigger "contracts", as he referred to them. People, mainly small businesses in the area, borrowed from him when they were desperate or needed protection and he got "nasty" if they didn't comply with the terms and conditions.

Nasty was the word that Bulmer used quite liberally but Eamon was never entirely sure what was meant by it. It just became a term he thought he knew but never wanted to go into detail. He just knew he didn't want to see the "nasty side" of Bulmer, who didn't frighten Eamon but simply angered him.

Even then Eamon still had a fondness for Bulmer – an almost paternal view. And though he made various threats, Eamon often thought that his bark might have been worse than his bite. It had never been put to the test but it was there.

In the short time he'd been back in his "manor", as he referred to it, he'd managed to buy a number of properties locally and was taking advantage of the boom in property prices. A shrewd investor maybe and most of it was legal. He had a couple of pubs and restaurants, three hotels and a block of run-down flats. How he acquired them initially, Eamon didn't want to know but he had seen a number of his so-called "staff" who were all ex-military and must have shared just one inferior brain between them.

In some ways, Eamon quite admired Bulmer. He was without a doubt a hard worker and a little too ambitious but there was something in his manner that was likeable. He didn't suffer fools gladly even though he had a number of them working for him. That was where the admiration stopped. His hair was now receding even more and very grey around the edges. He was now wearing more expensive suits and he dressed well. The gold Rolex did not look like an imitation. To Eamon it was all just bling but it went with the image or the aura Bulmer was trying to project. The "manor" or territory that Bulmer controlled had originally been the carnage grounds of the Kray twins so, in a way, Bulmer was to be admired.

"Ah, Eamon, there you are. Come on in and make yourself comfortable."

He beckoned Eamon to the sofa and seemed genuinely happy to see him. Again Eamon found himself wondering whether or not to like him or just to laugh at him.

Bulmer sat on one of the armchairs.

"You look very well, son," Bulmer said as he looked Eamon up and down. "You know I can still find a part for you in my art ventures. People who buy those videos are just begging, no, gagging for a star like you. The offer's still open, you know, though bear in mind, lad, you're not getting younger."

Eamon sat opposite and did not reply.

"And how are things going with you in France?" he asked as he took a file from the small cabinet underneath the coffee table. It had Eamon's name on it and was full of documents, the balance sheet of the loan, the contract and a couple of magazines.

Eamon wondered why Bulmer was so interested in recouping the money he had lent him. After all, he didn't need the money and it was such a small amount. Besides, one of his staff would be able to deal with the administration. But Bulmer genuinely did like Eamon. It wasn't that he was gay but he genuinely saw great potential in Eamon.

"It's none of your sodding business how things are going in France," Eamon said as he pulled an envelope from the top pocket of his jacket.

"There it is. That's £500 and I've only got two more payments to make."

"Thanks, son. I can always rely on you to meet your obligation, the financial ones that is." Bulmer laughed. "Now, let's have a look at the file," he added.

Eamon watched him slip on his glasses and peruse the documents in the folder.

"Yes, yes, you're quite right. Just two more instalments and your debt is all cleared up with interest as well."

The initial debt had increased with interest but Bulmer in many ways was quite fair when it came to lending and doing favours and he only requested payments every five or six months. Eamon was not sure if he treated all his punters in that manner but realised that it was in Bulmer's interest to keep many of his clients hanging on because they could often be useful for other things. But Eamon had also noticed that when he had done any odd jobs for Bulmer he was always very grateful and would say, "Thanks for that, matey. I won't forget it."

And it was true – he never did.

But then the admiration stopped as Bulmer pulled out one of the magazines and sighed as he flicked through it.

"Are you sure you're not interested in doing any more of this work? There's big money to be made in videos if you just put your mind to it. I know and you know that I can't force you to do it or you'll never get it up and that won't do, not for my discerning punters anyway. Go on, give it a go, son. What have you got to lose?"

Bulmer smiled and, as usual, he meant it.

"Don't make me laugh," Eamon snapped.

Eamon no longer felt nervous in Bulmer's presence. He probably did like him more than he thought and knew that most people would not have got away with some of the things he said.

"Such a pity, son. A boy like you could do all right. Certainly a lot better than you're doing in that job on France. I reckon with your skills the way they are now and your education, you'd make a good director and financial whiz kid in the industry. Those people who run clubs and strip joints in Soho and the seedier parts of New York all must have started doing the sort of thing you were doing in the magazines." Bulmer looked quite serious. "You should reconsider Eamon. This could be the start of a very lucrative and extravagant future. Now let me see ... an academic pension or a private sector pension? Uhm, I think I know which one I'd choose." Bulmer left the remark in the air.

He closed the magazine and placed it in the file with the others then removed his glasses. He stood up and put his hands in his pockets as he walked over to the window and lit another Marlboro.

"You know what, son?" he started and turned back to Eamon. "I do like you. I think of you sometimes as the son I'll probably never have. And I'm gonna write off the balance you owe me as I don't want to see you struggling. God knows, it's difficult enough for teachers these days and I'll be the first to say that you lot don't get paid for the marvellous job you do." He Smiled. "You know, if I had my way, I'd double your salaries."

This was quite unexpected and confusing.

Eamon was not as puzzled as he perhaps should have been. But worried.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Exactly what I said, son. I'm gonna wipe the slate clean. I know, I know. I shouldn't. After all, I am supposed to be a businessman, and a very good one, mind you. But I like you and I think you know that, so from now on, the debt's finished."

Eamon was now very worried.

This was not the man he knew and he had heard stories that if he didn't get his payments, he'd send one of the nutcases he employed on a "visit".

He was up to something. Even though Eamon went from liking to positively detesting the man he still didn't know what he was capable of.

"You mean that you are going to forget the rest of the money I apparently owe and I'm not going to have anything to do with you ever again?"

"Well, I didn't actually say that but, yes, I'm gonna clear that balance ... though in return, there's a little favour I'd like you to do for me, that is, if you don't mind."

"Look, you can forget about any more magazines or videos. I never wanted to be involved in that in the first place."

"No, son. It's not that," he began and walked back to the sofa and sat down. "There's plenty of young men and women I can find for that. In the world we live in these days, there's plenty that like nothing more than lying on their backs or bellies and getting paid for it. No, no ... it's time I branched out more. Jacky ... get me and Eamon here a scotch."

Eamon had not realised that his minder was still in the room by the door. Jacky walked over to the drinks trays.

"Ambition is a powerful thing, you know. It drives you on and on so you always want more. Nature of the beast, I suppose. But I've decided to branch out even more. Oh sure, I do all right here with the premises and the 'art' business. But I need to broaden my horizons. I'm gonna open up a little business network in Paris."

Eamon's jaw fell open. His mind was racing.

"Well, we're all one big family now in Europe," he continued, "and the barriers are all down. The government goes to great lengths to tell us all to look further afield than just these shores."

Eamon wasn't really sure whether or not to laugh or just ignore this little man with ambitions higher than his status in life. He certainly had dreams and aspirations and in his little world that most of us brushed past he was becoming a big shot. His motivation and determination were certainly admirable.

"Now, I've actually got a couple of contacts there. Imagine that, eh?" He smiled. "Little old me from Canning Town. Who'd have thought in a million years that I would have dealings with men, and powerful men in Paris? How times change."

He drew on his Marlboro.

"And that, my son, is where you come into it," he said to Eamon.

Jacky handed them their drinks.

"Now, hang on," Eamon began. "If you think that I am going to work for you in Paris or anywhere, then you need to think again."

"No, no, no. I wouldn't dream of it. Well, I know for a fact that's probably all I could do. No son. Oh, I know you love your job and don't have the time to help the likes of me, though thanks for putting the idea in my mind."

"Then what are you talking about?" he asked hesitantly.

"Well, let's put it like this. When you go back to France in a few weeks' time, I'm gonna have one of my associates meet you at the airport. He knows what you look like; I've already forwarded a photo, one of your better shots. And you merely have to hand him the package I'll be preparing for you."

"A package containing what?" he asked, rather innocently.

"Well, basically a few papers and a little concoction to make some people's lives just that little more bearable."

"Concoction?" and then he realised. "You mean drugs. Christ that's what you mean. Cocaine?"

"Well, something like that. It only has a number at the moment – a new type of recreational drug to give it it's full title. There's something a little special about this though. It's still in the prototype stage and comes all the way from Argentina." He smiled at Eamon and looked like a small child with a new toy. "Who'd of thought that, then, eh? Me doing business with the Argies? Blimey how the world picks itself up and just moves on. That's right, son. See I told you that you were a bright boy." He leaned forward and looked directly into Eamon's face, something he rarely did. "In return for me writing off your bill, all you have to do is be my courier for one trip. I have to be honest, it wasn't exactly my idea or my way of doing things. But my counterpart in Paris wants it done this way and as I am joining his world then I have agreed. I would have just got Jacky here to bring it over – probably would have blown it but ... there you go."

Bulmer drew on his Marlboro before continuing.

"You see, son, this is right on the frontier of a new type of deal. If this all goes to plan then we can forget couriers and mules and even plantations from now on. You see, what this is all about is merely passing on a recipe. A recipe for – what shall we call it? – ingredients, I think is best. Yeah, these ingredients are reasonably readily available in most parts of the world. Well, to pharmacists anyway. And they will be the market for future supplies. You see, son, everybody wants to get rich quick and this new type of – what is it? – concoction is good for everyone concerned, even the user, because it's sort of harmless. Well, that's the theory. Anyway, my son, I wanna piece of the action here and you will help me make my mark."

Eamon was angry and stood up.

"Now look," he demanded, "I've taken just about as much of this as I can from you. There's no way that you are going to involve me again in your dirty work."

Eamon turned and walked toward the doorway, which was being blocked by Jacky.

"Oh, Eamon. What is the matter with you? It's not as if it's the first time you've delivered stuff for me."

It took a few confused moments for that comment to sink in.

"What?"

Bulmer laughed.

"Christ, son, you really are not a man of the world, are you? You did many a trip for me in Crawley and hundreds, if not thousands, of people were very grateful. Now come on ... do I look like a dodgy hi-fi dealer? But I think you will help me, sunshine, and I'm going to show you why."

Eamon paced up and down the room.

"Jesus Christ, you really are a fucking mad man," he started. "You want me to carry drugs for you yet there must be hundreds of people in that seedy, backstreet world you live in who would do the job without blinking an eye. Why do you want me to do it? Why do you need me to get involved?"

"Well, it's obvious, Eamon, my boy. Firstly, you speak the lingo, secondly, you look respectable, thirdly, nobody will be following you and, finally, and fourthly, I want to do you a favour. Get you on the success ladder. You don't want to put all your eggs in one basket, you know. These days you have to be multi-talented and flexible."

Eamon shouted at him. "What the hell are you talking about? There isn't a chance in hell that I am going to get involved in your sordid little scheme."

Bulmer drew on yet another fag.

"Oh, I think you will help me, sonny, when you see this."

Bulmer went over to his desk and from the bottom of a tray he pulled out what appeared to be a pile of photographs and admired them.

Eamon was angry.

"So publish the rest of them, you sad bastard," he shouted. "I don't care who sees them. Oh, and don't forget a copy for my parents. I really don't give a toss anymore."

Bulmer laughed loudly.

"Oh, no, no, old son, these are not more of you. Christ, no, I've already bled that lot dry. No, these are much better. Look at this one, for example," as he held one up. "Such a lovely little girl. And that's her father in the background, isn't it?"

Eamon could see the photo from where he was standing and was horrified. It was a picture of him walking on the heath with Annette, Sally and Nick. His jaw fell open again as he looked over the others that Bulmer handed him. There was another of Sally walking along the street with Imogen and another of Nick and Sally leaving the supermarket.

Eamon sat down.

"You see, son," Bulmer continued, "I think you will help me because you don't want their lives to be miserable." He picked up a photo of Sally and leaned closer to Eamon.

"What a lovely face she has. Let's hope she keeps it."

Eamon jumped on top of Bulmer and pushed his fist toward his face but Jacky had already anticipated this. He grabbed Eamon's arm and hit him on the side of the chin so hard that Eamon was knocked across the floor.

Bulmer stood over him.

"I do hate violence. Sometimes it can be so messy," he said. "But now and then it's necessary and we often have to hurt the ones we love to get what we need. Fact of life, sunshine."

He kicked Eamon in the side of his cheek and there was a taste of blood in his mouth.

"You bastard," Eamon shouted from the floor. "I always knew you were sick and twisted but this really tops the lot. I'm going to the police."

"You could, son. Of course you could," Bulmer casually replied. "But what would you say and what proof of anything do you have? All they would see is the file and the magazines. Oh, yes, that would go down very well especially you, a teacher. And as for me, well, all I am is a money lender and even if I did have to leave in a hurry, all my boys have strict instructions that all my debts are to be collected in any way they can. You see, the portfolio gets sold to them and they do what is needed. So you see, old son," Bulmer walked over to Eamon, "you can either offer me your assistance ... or not. The choice, as they say, is up to you."

Eamon stood and stared at Bulmer, who handed him the glass of scotch.

"Anyway, Eamon, you think about for a while and I'll be in touch over the next few days."

He hesitated and looked closely at Eamon, who saw the face of a concerned parent looking closely at him.

"Listen, son, I've done well with the businesses I run and, yeah, I've made a few bob along the way and put something aside for me old age. But you know what?" He sat on the corner of the desk. "There's so much going on out there and, you know, the more you have the more you want. These streets were once run by the Krays, you know. Sadistic bastards they were but they had something I strive for. And that's ambition. Okay, the violence that came with them is not my cup of tea. But let me make something clear. I will get what I want in any way I can and if some of the ways to get there don't sit too comfortably with me, then I'll just harden myself. If violence is what it takes then so be it. And don't you ever forget that."

Bulmer sipped his scotch and Eamon saw in his eyes that all he was saying now he truly meant.

"All I want to do is have a small part of the market out there. Every day I see people as thick as shit raking in millions from so-called illegal activities. And you know what? I can do it better than most of them because I have a little more of what they think they have, and that's talent. And you, Eamon, are going to help me make it because I know that you have little choice and you won't let me down. We all want to get bigger and better things in life – all I'm doing is what any entrepreneur wants and that's to grow. Now the way I see it is that I've been given a great opportunity here to get in with the big boys in Europe. The outfit you'll be delivering to has been at the top for years and I want a piece of it. Don't screw it up for me or I'll fuck your life up so much you'll be gagging for me to pull the trigger."

He walked over to the window and looked out.

"The outfit in Paris is the big time for me. This drug may or may not be the next big thing but the indications suggest that it is. Thousands of drugs come up every day and most are carried around the world by mules. This one is called Angel Mist and sounds promising. The Paris network knows that they are always being watched and the officials are probably aware of some of their schemes. So they want to be careful and they know how to be. I'm the one here that's being tested, you know. Not you or London but me, and I want to show them just how professional I can be. It's not really your future that concerns me. I'm the one who's going places. You're just along for the ride."

He turned to Eamon.

"This is all about me sunshine and not a fucking little scab like you. You screw my future up and yours is over. Now piss off out of here and think about it."

He turned back to the window.

"Jacky," he shouted. "Get him out of here."

CHAPTER FIVE

Nick

Sally was excited about staying over with her grandparents, knowing full well that they would allow her to do anything her little heart desired. I woke to her jumping up and down on my bed shouting, "Get up, Daddy, get up now." I pretended I was still asleep; after all, I too was excited about the day and needed my rest.

We got up at 7 a.m. though she woke me almost an hour before that.

She was dressed in the large dungarees I really disliked and though they didn't suit her, she loved them. I was looking forward to the day I could get rid of them, and at the rate she was growing I wouldn't need to wait too long.

She rushed down her cereal far too quickly and I had to make her slow down. You don't just "make" a small, excited child do what you want; you must slowly take them through it. Imogen was still in bed and how she ever slept through the noise Sally made I'll never know.

Her overnight rucksack was already packed and her grandparents arrived on cue at 10.30 a.m. to collect her. They, too, were excited about the day and Edith, Maggie's mother, even kissed me when I opened the door.

"Oh, Nick, it is good of you to let her stay with us," she said. "She won't come to any harm with Tom and me looking out for her."

"I know." I smiled.

I asked if they would have her back around midday on Sunday as we were going to Maggie's grave. They agreed and sped off to the West End. Their intention was to spare no expense on her until Sunday morning.

Imogen then got up and we spent at least forty-five minutes looking for the bath for her contact lenses which she'd put somewhere "safe" the previous evening. I had already suggested that she get accustomed to leaving them only in one place and she always agreed and then did the opposite. We found it in her bag.

I showered, shaved, washed my hair and thought I looked particularly good, all things considered. I was finishing off as Imogen's friends arrived to pick her up. They were a couple of very attractive and stylish Spanish au pairs who also lived in the area and who did not speak very good English, nor a word of German. I never knew how they made themselves understand each other and presumed they had very long, dull, polite, slow conversations.

At last I was by myself. It was nearly 1 p.m. and Eamon would soon be over. I wandered from mirror to mirror checking hair, face, shape, etc. I was like a schoolgirl on a first date.

Eamon stood there on the doorstop with a beaming smile, though looking rather tired, and handed me a bunch of mixed flowers, something a man had never before given me.

"Well, do I have to stand here all day?" he asked.

I apologised and told him to come in. He closed the front door then pinned me to the wall and kissed me.

"God, I've missed you since yesterday," was all he said.

I was back on cloud nine.

I don't know why I didn't mention it then but I noticed the bruise on the side of his chin, which was so obvious, and the fact that he looked tired, as if he had been watching television all night. I later asked him and he told me he'd hit his face on the door of the bathroom cabinet at Chrissie's. I knew full well that the cupboard had a slide door as I'd helped her put it up. But I wasn't thinking too well and it swept over me.

Within ten minutes we were romping on the bed like there was no tomorrow. It was just what I needed. The feel of another person's hands holding me and caressing my skin. This time we did reach a climax and it was terrific.

Afterwards we lay on the bed naked, warmed only from our bodies. It occurred to me then that the neighbours might have been able to see into the room if they were watching closely. I didn't really care though; I was in a different world altogether.

It was Eamon who suggested that we eat at home that evening as he wanted to cook me a meal. I had not been shopping yet and needed to go to the supermarket. I'd already intended to go there anyway and I was pleased that Eamon had again borrowed Peter's car. At that time I still had not passed my driving test though I was confident that I would. Even though I was in seventh heaven, I was still in contact with reality and provisions had to be got for my daughter.

Doing the supermarket grab on Saturday mornings normally meant spending a great deal of time putting things back on the shelves which Sally dropped into the trolley, but with another man, an adult, it was a different thing. Anyone who might, if they have nothing better to do, carry out a survey of Saturday shopping will notice that the customers who get there in the mornings are completely different from those who visit later in the day. There was a distinct lack of small kids running up and down the aisles and I made a mental note to start shopping later in the day. The afternoon crowd was much younger. I wondered what, if anything, our fellow shoppers thought about us. Did it occur to them that we might be lovers or just two guys sharing a flat? I noticed for the first time ever that there were many other male couples and female couples and I hoped that they were also possible relationships.

Eamon noticed I was looking at these people and said, "Oh, yes. They are," or "No, they definitely are not; queens would never wear something like that," or "uhm ... not sure about them. Oh, wait a minute, there's a can of Mister Dog in the trolley. Yes they are." His comments were amusing and cheered up what was usually a rather boring chore.

We bought a couple of fillet steaks on offer and some mushrooms, cream and onions for a sauce. I led him around the usual route and gathered my regular provisions. We splashed out on a couple of rather expensive bottles of wine and I learnt that Eamon had a passion for chocolate. I bought him a slab of Cadbury's, which he demolished in the car on the way back.

It was early evening when we returned to the flat after buying some new trousers which he needed for work, and he set about preparing the meal immediately. I offered to help but was instantly dismissed from the kitchen the same way I usually sent Sally packing, with a little pat on the bum.

I really needed to and should have used the time to prepare some reports for work, as I knew there would be no time on Sunday, but I was incapable of thinking as Eamon was singing in Spanish from the kitchen. He found his way around the units very easily, which made me comfortable. I liked it. I imagined the three of us all sharing a home together. Sally certainly enjoyed having him around and I just didn't want him to leave. The problem was still the world outside. The parents, Chrissie and Peter, the authorities and the media in general. All the people we could happily live without but who had it in their power to destroy us all if they wanted to. I could see the headlines in the Sunday papers of the gay orgies of eight or ten in a bed, with my daughter in her room, listening and crying. And how the Church might view the domestic arrangement – like any of it had anything to do with them.

At that time, I knew nothing of Bulmer or what had taken place the evening before. It's in Eamon's character to brush things aside temporarily and just enjoy life and live for the moment. I'm quite envious of that. If there's something that I have to do and I know I won't enjoy it, say next week, then I'll spend every waking hour thinking about it or dwelling on it.

There was still going to be a problem when Imogen came home and found him there in the morning. What the hell I was going to say to explain his presence, I was unsure of. I had already decided to test the water with her and planned on telling her first to see the reaction. I wanted Eamon to be there as well so that he could explain in German if things were difficult. If she took it well, it would make things easier for me. Could she be trusted though? It wouldn't matter if she told her friends as she would have a devil of a job just getting them to understand.

The meal was marvellous and the attention to detail made it something rather special. Eamon laid the table properly with a table-cloth that had rarely seen the light of day, napkins and candles. He used the best crockery, which I would never have put on the table with Sally around, for good reason, of course.

When it was over, I put the washing up in the sink to soak and we listened to some music. He lay across the sofa with his head cushioned in my lap. I stroked his hair, something I had never done with Maggie.

Eamon asked if I had any holiday plans.

I hadn't given it a thought. For the past couple of years my time had been taken up with Maggie and bringing Sally up. The last time I had been on holiday was five years prior to that when Maggie and I took a package tour to Crete. It hadn't been a success as I'd had a raging toothache for the whole two weeks and Maggie had been gnawed to pieces by mosquitoes.

"How about a week away on the coast?" he suggested. "We could rent a cottage and bring Sally and Imogen. We'd all love it."

"That sounds like a great idea," I said, "but I don't know how things will turn out with Imogen and your sister will put things together."

"Yes, but the important thing is how we feel, it doesn't matter about them."

He was right, of course, but I had got into the habit of being very careful about how I was being judged as a father. I still wanted no threat to that relationship.

"Well, let's see how we get on with Imogen," I said. "I know that Sally would be ecstatic about the idea but please don't mention it to her until it's settled."

"Okay. I do understand that this is different for you and your fear of losing Sally."

Eamon suggested we go to bed and then tackle it in the morning. It was only 9.30 p.m. and I agreed but wanted to phone Sally first and make sure all was okay. Perhaps she would be in bed already.

Of course she wasn't.

"Daddy, look what I've got," she said, obviously trying to show me through the receiver. I later learnt that it was not only a tracksuit she had but almost a whole new wardrobe. Her grandparents had bought her two tee shirts, some underwear, a very brightly coloured bobble-hat (even though it was summer), a pair of training shoes and a rather hideous looking cuddly toy, which she adored.

I got the impression it would be quite some time before she went to bed but she was happy and that was all that mattered. I blew her a big kiss and told her I loved her. She did the same and said goodnight.

Eamon was in the shower. I undressed and joined him. We washed each other then got into bed. He asked if he could listen to the BBC World Service in the dark. It took me ages to find it on the radio and we lay listening with our arms wrapped around each other. I remember the piece well – it was about the massacre of a whole village in Sierra Leone by uneducated rebels and military dictators. The message was that these types of incident were becoming an everyday occurrence in that part of Africa but now the news wasn't even making the top stories. People being decapitated with machetes or maimed and babies being burnt alive. I feel sick now just thinking about it but it certainly put my "perceived" problems into perspective.

My thoughts were somewhere else.

The idea of a week away sounded perfect and there would be no problem with getting the time off work. I was more concerned with confronting Imogen, though at the time I had no idea that my fears were unfounded.

Sleeping together was as good as just being together awake. It is uncomfortable to lie locked in someone's arms all night and I had to turn around. It was comforting and reassuring when Eamon lay with his arm wrapped around my chest and his head resting on my shoulders. I was happy though it took me ages to fall asleep as he snores rather loudly.

I woke up at 8.30 a.m., which was late for me, and Eamon was not there. I presumed he had gone to the bathroom but there was a smell of fresh coffee and I heard sounds from the kitchen.

Sounds of two people talking.

Shit.

He was up and talking to Imogen but I could not make out what they were saying.

My heart started beating fast; she now must have realised where he had slept. I got up quickly and slipped on my jogging pants and a tee shirt. I'd made up my mind to tell her but, Christ, not at that minute. I had not even considered the words to use.

I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen.

"Ah ha. The prince has woken up and I didn't even have to kiss him," Eamon said as my face turned bright red. He came over to me and cradled my face in his hands and kissed me.

"Good morning, my little beauty," he said.

My jaw fell open and he closed it.

"You better sit down and have a cup of coffee." He laughed. "You're in for a bit of a shock."

Indeed I was.

Imogen was a lesbian.

CHAPTER SIX

Part One: Nick

Just two weeks after that night and we were on our way to Keswick in the beautiful Lake District. It's undoubtedly an area of outstanding beauty and I would be happy to live there had I not chosen to live in Rousillon and, initially, Stoke Newington in London. I found us a little cottage from the small ads in the small village of Troutbeck, which was very reasonable for that time of year, and was situated with easy access to all the lakes. The cottage was not exactly picture postcard with a thatched roof and roses around the door but it was clean, comfortable and very well equipped, including a bloody huge satellite dish in the garden which rather spoiled the view.

During the two weeks prior to that, I passed my driving test. The date had gone clean out of my mind; like many people, I keep a diary but never refer to it. There was a rush the week before to book up some extra lessons. I was fairly confident and Eamon suggested I get myself a car immediately to take the test in rather than the driving school vehicle. He knew of an auction in North London and we attended. With the help of a mechanic from the Automobile Association, I purchased a dark blue, three-year-old Sierra and Eamon was the named driver.

I passed with flying colours and we shared the driving to the lakes. We had not been able to rent a house at the seaside but the lakes were the next best thing. Sally was also very excited about me driving and thought she had better keep shouting instructions to me just in case I forgot.

The cottage had two bedrooms, one with a double bed for Eamon and me, and a twin-bedded room for the girls. Over the two weeks prior to that, Eamon had stayed the night a number of times and Sally now accepted him as part of her world. They were getting along exceptionally well and Eamon never seemed to tire of her.

I now saw Imogen in a totally different light. It had not occurred to me that she could be a lesbian but, then, why should it have done? It certainly made things much simpler and we were able to talk about things more openly, like relationships and expectations of life. Her English improved considerably because of the effort I was then making, though I must confess I was rather guilty of previously only looking on her as a child minder for Sally.

That week away from London was the best thing for all of us, especially for Eamon, though at that time I had no idea about Bulmer. We had reasonably good weather and managed quite a bit of walking each day. That meant that Sally was tired by the early evening and went to bed early. She was a little disappointed that there were no rainbows to chase.

Eamon speaks reasonably good German and assisted Imogen when she was unsure of the word or term to use. On the second evening, after Sally had been tucked in by all three of us, Imogen told us about her childhood in Stuttgart. She had been having a relationship with one of the girls in her school who was a year older, and their respective parents found out. Christina, her lover, came from a strict Methodist family and her father was a part-time preacher. They believed that the relationship their daughter was having was down to the fact that the devil was paying them back for conceiving her the week before they were married. Christina was immediately taken on a camping trip to Bavaria so that her soul could be cleansed in the spa waters. That meant cold baths twice a day and prayer sessions every evening for three weeks. Imogen was almost in tears as she told us.

Her parents, on the other hand, took it slightly better but, to avoid a public scandal – in other words, the neighbours finding out – she was packed off to England as an au pair in the hope it would all be forgotten. It turned out not to be the case as they wrote to each other through one of the teachers who was also gay. She told us that when she eventually returned to Germany, they would both be old enough to ignore the parents and set up home together in Frankfurt or Dusseldorf.

Eamon suggested that she ask Christina to come and stay with us in London. It seemed like a good idea but Imogen did not think it would be allowed, though she said she would write and see if anything could be arranged.

Eamon and I slept together for the whole week and Sally would come into our room in the morning and sleep with us for at least half an hour. Every day there was something exciting for her, especially as it was her first holiday. Initially I was uneasy about her seeing Eamon and me together and so close, but to her it was perfectly natural and I became more relaxed when Eamon touched me in her presence. It's only adults who find the idea of two men or women sleeping together disgusting, which is rather odd as the majority of time that's all gay people do.

Toward the end of the week I wondered what things would be like when we returned to London. If the grandparents questioned Sally carefully, she would innocently spill the beans on our little set-up and then, I presumed, all hell would be let loose. However, I was becoming much stronger and the closer I got to Eamon, the less I cared about other people's reactions.

I woke early on the Thursday morning after a fairly mixed alcoholic evening to find Eamon staring down at me in the bed. It was still too early for Sally to be awake.

"You know I love you ... don't you?" he asked.

I smiled.

"It makes things rather awkward for me now though," he continued. "How can I go back to France and leave you here?"

I'd been avoiding that for some time.

"How do you think it makes me feel?" I asked. "I suppose you do have to go back, do you?"

"Yes. I'm still tied to a contract for another two years; there's no way I can be released from it. But I'll be able to return to London at the end of each term. That is, of course, if you still want me."

I snuggled closer.

"What do you think?"

"Besides, there are other things I need to do in Paris so I need to return."

"And what are the other things to be done?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing really." He turned away. "Just deliver some documents and write a few reports."

"But that sort of thing can be done from here."

"No, it ... they can't be. Anyway I'll tell you all about it some other time. It's very boring."

"But I don't find anything you do boring."

He became slightly anxious.

"Nick, I'm not quite as innocent as you think I might be. There are some skeletons in my closet, you know, and before long I'll tell you all about them. But not now."

I pulled myself up on my elbows.

"Ah, so I don't really know the real you?" I asked

"Something like that. But let's drop the subject. I can hear the girls."

He stepped out of bed and slipped on some jogging shorts. His backside was beautiful, lightly tanned and very small. I loved resting my hand on it. But then I loved him.

He was being slightly evasive here, which was out of character. However, he was entitled to a little privacy and I knew that whatever had happened in his past would be acceptable to me.

We returned to London on the Friday and he agreed to tackle Chrissie and Peter about our relationship. We agreed that he would handle it and I was relieved. He went straight in to see them when we got back to the flat and said he would come over later. I knew there would be many questions to answer and did not expect to see him for quite some time.

It was me who was more surprised that anyone. At 8 p.m. that evening the doorbell rang and all four of them were standing on the step with smiles all over their faces. I was embarrassed. Annette and Sally went off to the bedroom to play and I got the glasses out as they had brought some wine. Imogen was in her room writing to her girlfriend.

Eamon had sat them both down to tell them but it had not been any great shock. Peter had already realised and had mentioned it to Chrissie. She was initially uncertain but, having spoken about it for over an hour, she found the whole situation acceptable and rather amusing.

They hadn't really known Maggie when she was alive. They saw her in the street a couple of times on her way to the shops or taking Sally as a baby out in the pram but I didn't get to know them until after her death. I point this out as I think it was probably why they accepted our relationship so readily. Things might have been different had they known her.

During that period, I was so wrapped up in my own life that I hadn't given a second thought to others. Chrissie and Peter were going through a very rough period then and had their own problems to think about rather than ours. The signs were there, but I either ignored them or perhaps I didn't want to get involved.

From then on things were much easier or at least for the next three weeks before Eamon had to leave. He had virtually moved in and it took some of the weight of looking after Sally from Imogen and me. I trusted him with her totally.

During those weeks, we went out to various gay establishments and a couple of dinner parties with other gay couples whom Eamon knew. Things became a little more difficult when the parents visited and Eamon would have to disappear. On one occasion, Maggie's parents turned up unexpectedly when he was staying for supper. I think they must have thought he was after Imogen and we didn't tell them otherwise.

I tried hard to put the idea that he was leaving out of my mind. It was nearly September and all we had agreed on was that he would spend the Christmas holiday with Sally and me. Imogen would be returning to Germany for the festivities and Sally could be shared between the parents, allowing us some time together.

But how the hell was I going to get through the next three months?
Part Two

Eamon received the phone call a week before he was due to leave.

It was early Thursday evening and I had not yet returned from work. He hesitated in answering it as it might have been Maggie's parents but he picked it up after the caller persisted.

"Hello?" he said.

"Ah, Eamon, son. Glad I've caught you."

It was Bulmer himself. Eamon had never spoken to him on the phone before.

"No doubt you've been waiting for me to get in contact with you."

Beads of sweat appeared on Eamon's forehead and his pulse increased.

"Yes," he said slowly.

"Well, it's time we had our meeting. It's only a few days before you go so I'll be sending the car to pick you up tomorrow evening in the usual place at 7 p.m. I do hope you haven't been discussing our little arrangement with anyone. I really don't have the stomach for all that nasty business."

Eamon thought he knew all too well what he meant. He said a flat "goodbye" then put the phone down.

The call spoiled the whole evening.

He was distant and found himself losing patience with both Sally and me and I knew there was something wrong. But he couldn't explain it even though it was tearing him apart inside. When it was all over, he planned on telling me everything but he didn't want to alarm me at the time.

The car was waiting when he turned the corner. As he approached, Jacky got out of the vehicle to meet him.

"Hello Eamon. And are we looking forward to the last meeting with Mr Bulmer?" he asked.

"Go to hell, creep," was all he said as he got into the car and slammed the door behind him.

Jacky sniggered to himself then got into the driver's seat and pulled off.

Eamon realised they were not going toward Whitechapel but the opposite direction. He leaned over and asked Jacky where he was being taken.

"You'll find out soon enough, my boy. We're nearly there."

A few minutes later they were in Soho and Jacky turned down a small alleyway at the back of a restaurant and into a garage. It was a communal area and used by all residents but he drove to the far end where there was a locked mesh door. Jacky stopped the car just in front of the gate and waved a rather large remote control unit at it; the door slid rather noisily back. When he drove through the door closed behind him. This led into an inner garage which was large for Soho standards as there was room for about ten or fifteen vehicles. He parked the car in a bay and led Eamon to a wooden staircase at the top of which was a solid door marked "STRICTLY PRIVATE. RESTAURANT DELIVERY ONLY".

Jacky entered and Eamon followed behind without saying a word.

The entrance led into a large warehouse, part of which appeared to be an office. There were a couple of rather dated desks and a few stacks of orange plastic chairs. It was lit by some rather large, possibly old Victorian light shades suspended from a ceiling covered in polystyrene tiles. There was a distinct damp smell which made him catch his breath. It was the smell of fish, rotting fish to be precise.

In the centre of the office room were three men. One of them was Bulmer, who stood directly under one of the lights wearing a light, cotton suit holding a cigarette in one hand and what looked like a calculator in the other. The opalescent smoke gave the scene a much seedier atmosphere. There were two other men with him whom Eamon had not seen before.

"Ah, Eamon," Bulmer said when he saw him, and walked across the room to shake his hand. "Come on in, lad. We've been waiting for you."

He put an arm around Eamon's shoulders and led him to a desk in one corner by a large metal storage rack.

Eamon had already started feeling frightened and insecure.

"Now, Eamon, allow me to introduce you to my new business associates," he started. "This is Monsieur Maurice Henri Fabrier, what you might call my brother in arms from Paris." He chuckled.

Fabrier stared at Eamon. There was a worrying silence before he spoke.

He was a tall man, much leaner and healthier looking than Bulmer, though possibly about the same age. He wore a dark suit and was well groomed. He looked down at Eamon through rather thick but clearly expensive rimmed glasses. He was tanned.

He spoke to Eamon in French and had an accent that Eamon knew was from the south of France, Provence, perhaps.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr Hargreaves," he started. "My new friend Mr Bulmer tells me that you have offered your services. Welcome to one of the new European families."

He extended a hand to Eamon, who simply looked at it. Not quite as tacky as Bulmer's with a ring on every finger, though very well manicured. However, Eamon didn't shake it. He was too disgusted with these people.

Eamon spoke to Bulmer in French.

"What do you mean 'offered'?" he said. "I don't have a choice in this matter."

"Ah, yes. My colleague Mr Bulmer has advised me that you are paying back a debt and of your circumstances."

He sat down on the side of the desk and took out a gold cigarette case and matching lighter. Did people still use these things?

"Cigarette, Eamon?" he said as he offered the case. Eamon took one.

"And what a lovely little girl your friend has. I do hope you will all be very happy together soon. These unorthodox relationships can be an issue for some people. I have no problem – after all, diversity makes the world go around. But some people live in a different time frame, so tread carefully," he added.

The memory of the last meeting with Bulmer flashed through his mind and made him feel sick to the stomach.

"Anyway, down to business," Bulmer said as he pulled up a chair and sat down.

The third man then approached from the other side of the office area. He was much younger, of Mediterranean Latin appearance, slightly olive coloured, very tanned and wearing a beige suit. He was without a doubt a very handsome man.

Fabrier continued to speak to Eamon in French.

"Allow me to introduce you to Jean-Gerrard. He will be your contact in Paris. Jean-Gerrard will meet you at an hotel where you will stay the day you arrive, at my expense, of course. Everything has been taken care of for you and all you have to do is carry the case."

The third man smiled then winked at Eamon.

Bulmer was looking worried.

"Look gentleman, would you mind if we continue our meeting in English?" he asked. "I am learning the lingo but so far I've only had a couple of lessons, know what I mean?"

"Of course, Mr Bulmer. Anything to oblige," Fabrier replied.

Eamon noticed the look on Fabrier's face when he spoke to Bulmer. It was clear there was little respect here but then that was probably something you had to earn. And like Bulmer had said – he too was being tested here.

Jean-Gerrard placed the briefcase he was carrying on the desk and took a small set of keys from his pocket which he laid on top of the soft leather case.

"Well, go on, son. Don't be shy," Bulmer said to Eamon as he pushed the case toward him.

"I don't want to see that disgusting stuff," Eamon snapped in French.

Bulmer was not amused.

"Look, I already said speak in English. Now, what the fuck was that?"

Eamon repeated the sentence again in French but before he finished Jacky's fist had already met the side of his chin.

"Listen, Eamon, son. I'm in charge here and there's plenty more of that if you want it," Bulmer said, referring to Jacky's action.

Eamon was nervous and not in the mood for playing games as he rubbed the side of his face.

"I said," Eamon replied in English, "that I do not want to see any of that stuff."

"Surely you don't think it's sitting on top, do you?" Bulmer asked as he opened the case.

It was empty. Or appeared to be, at least.

Eamon was nervous and not in the mood for playing games.

"Look, I just want to get out of here. Where's the stuff?" he asked.

"You see, son? I told you that we were not going to put you at risk. It's all there but you can't see it," Bulmer offered.

Eamon pulled the case closer to him. It was lined with dark blue silk. The stuff was obviously underneath it.

"What did I tell you?" said Bulmer. "You won't even know it's there. All you have to do is pack a few papers on top. A man like you must have loads of papers he needs to carry. Now you've got something to put them in."

Fabrier spoke in English.

"We suggest that you carry your passport and travel documents in there. The douanier in Paris will request that you show them and will not suspect anything when you open it up. His attention will be drawn to your other luggage."

He paused.

"It's all very simple," he continued. "In the evening when you have arrived and checked into your hotel, Jean-Gerrard will meet you and take the case away with him, leaving you a replacement, exactly the same. Except of course, without a concealed compartment."

Eamon detested everything about this meeting and found it difficult to look at any of them in the eye.

"Then if it's all so easy," he said, "why don't you take the stuff yourself?"

Fabrier smiled.

"Young man, I have what is known as a reputation in France. I will not run the risk. Just a glimpse of me in the custom's hall and they have their rubber gloves on and ready."

"And what happens when I get caught?" Eamon asked.

"Eamon, there is no reason at all to suspect or stop you."

"Oh, Eamon. Please son, don't be so negative," Bulmer cut in. "There's no way any of it will be found. Of course, if you do balls it up, you'll only have yourself to blame. And if you did think of telling then ... you know the consequences, don't you?"

Eamon stared at him.

"You bastard, Bulmer."

"So, it's all settled," Fabrier said and stood up. "A room has been reserved for you at the Hotel Severin, rue de Severin. A charming little hotel I bought a couple of years ago just off Boulevard San Michel. Naturally I keep a number of pretty, young staff there to serve, well, people's needs. The girls are pretty but the boys, well, I'm told they are excellent. Enjoy them on me."

He nodded to Jean-Gerrard.

"I don't understand why you want me to do this," Eamon almost shouted. "Surely you must do this sort of thing all the time and have many people, mules you call them. What is so special about this?"

Fabrier smiled at him before answering. "Yes you are correct. Drug trafficking, or 'moving' as I like to call it, is a major part of the business for me and you are correct that there are many people involved and it all goes very well. But what you have here is not just a couple of ounces of cocaine. In actual fact, the amount of cocaine in here is minimal and if you were caught, then it might even just be thrown away because a 'bust', I think you call it, would not be worthwhile."

Fabrier stood over Eamon and smiled again.

"What we have here, my friend, is very special. This is the next generation of a drug which is like cocaine but has been modified to make it cheap to produce and enhance the effects. This is where science comes to life, my friend. This has taken many years to create and is my passport to an unbelievable power base. You see, this drug is only going to be for special people. Politicians, barristers, high-ranking military personnel and people of a high calibre. That means a great deal of available cash in your terms. And when they need it – they will have to come to me." He smiled again. "Clever, don't you think? So you see this is my future you are carrying and a mighty price has already been paid simply getting this from South America. People have died and killing a few more won't matter to me. There, I don't need to tell you all this but ... you seem a pleasant chappie."

He laughed and so did Jean-Gerrard. Fabrier stood up.

"The type of component that the new drug is made of will not show up on a scanner. The packing has taken a while to perfect and the product is a concoction of everyday ingredients that even a tracking dog cannot detect. But in the wrong hands it can be like finding the golden ticket or – how do you say? – the chicken that lays the golden egg."

Fabrier leaned closer to Eamon and smiled.

"This is my future you are carrying. You have my balls in your hands and I'm not going to allow you to crush them. Understand?"

Eamon nodded.

"Well, it was pleasant meeting you, Eamon. I will never see you again but thank you for all the help you are about to give me and I wish you well for the future."

He and Jean-Gerrard turned and walked toward the door leading back to the garage.

"What a charming man he is," Bulmer said. "Now, I have to be getting off myself so off you go now, Eamon, and take the case with you."

Eamon stood up and Bulmer picked up the case.

"Now, remember, matey," he warned. "This is a new venture for me and I don't like people putting obstacles in my way. I'm usually good at getting what I want and I'll tell you again, son – fuck this up and you'll regret it."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Part One: Peter's Story

When I married Chrissie, I did say that I would love, cherish and honour her and that belief still applies now. What I did not say was that I would want sex solely with her for the rest of my natural life so I fail to see how I might have broken the so-called marriage vows. I do still love her, though not in the way I did before, and I cherish her, but relationships are much more complex and that's not enough.

Everything was so different when we first got together and I genuinely believed that I would want her and only her for the years to come. I suppose we all believe that and make the mistake until we realise that there is more, so much more to life and love than being with just one person. Then things start to go wrong. I don't blame myself for it, though. Relationships can be a constant struggle and need a great deal of time and effort. They don't just happen or evolve in the way we would want them to be. You have to be constantly aware that you should not take your partner for granted and just a simple slip of the tongue can be the catalyst for throwing away twenty, thirty, even forty years of your life. I kept the pretence up for as long as possible but then one day, when I least expected it or was prepared for it, it hit me like a brick wall and I realised that still inside me were untapped desires and emotions I was not accustomed to feeling.

Before I get into the details of how it all came about, let me just explain my scenario as perhaps it bears some similarity to your own. Before I met Chrissie, there were few girlfriends in my life, or rather girls that I'd had sex with. You would not have believed that from the conversations I'd had then with some of my drinking buddies, stories about three or four conquests per night, multiple orgasms, three or four in a bed. Forget it. Mostly it was bullshit or pure fantasy and, though I was not a virgin when Chrissie and I married, I was relatively inexperienced and did believe that I would only ever want to have sex with Chrissie for the rest of my days.

Is that naïve?

Of course it is yet we still believe in this rubbish these days and expect that our normal desires and instincts will suddenly leave us after we have that piece of paper that says we are now joined together in wedlock. Never again will we fantasise about a person's breasts or thighs or how thick and long their cock might be or how we might like to caress their naked buttocks or suck their nipples. Please, come on. I defy anybody married who can say, hand on heart, that they only have those thoughts for their husband or wife.

Getting back to events, I was more concerned and practical when Chrissie announced one morning that she was pregnant.

"Peter, I'm pregnant. Pass the toast please."

That was how I learnt that I was soon to be a father. There was none of this "Peter, darling. Sit down, I have some important news to tell you. Oh isn't it wonderful, you're going to be a daddy. I'm so happy."

No, none of that at all. I just stared at her after the announcement with a mouthful of toast and whiskey marmalade.

"Close your mouth," she said, "and don't stare at me like that. It's one of those things that happen and we have to deal with it."

Should I have been happy, sad, overjoyed, angry, afraid etc.?

I was none of those.

"You're pregnant?" I asked, as if I had never used the word before.

"Yes, it's due in September. I don't know the exact date but it's going to be a bloody uncomfortable summer for me and that's for sure."

And that was it talked about.

From then on it became a way of life.

Being pregnant really did not suit Chrissie in the least. To me, she was not the type of woman that should have a child. Her outgoing personality was totally disconnected from

motherhood right up to the day she gave birth to Annette. Up to that point, the pregnancy was merely a biological function.

But then it all changed and it was then I realised that our marriage, as I knew it, was over. I was no longer the one she had pledged those vows to. I was merely the support, a crutch, a way of making things a little easier. Chrissie only had room for one type of love then and overnight she became a mother, not a lover. Not my wife and not the fun-loving, swinging, self-opinionated, strong individual that I married but a run-of-the-mill mother. The type that campaigned for mothers to unite and get their tits out in every public scenario and feed their life and existence-consuming bundles on everything natural, organic and free range.

I knew sex from then on would be a problem. It was already becoming fairly mechanical then but it had played an important and integral role in our relationship previously and I was surprised at how easily she dismissed it. There was no more passion in the kitchen, in the hall, pinned up against the freezer or on the landing. She no longer unzipped my flies or undid my belt while I was getting ready for work or crept into the shower next to me. Gone were the games, the role-playing and the dressing up. Instead I was given a "seeing to" every few weeks and only after I made it clear that I was being denied one of the joys of a marital relationship.

Stale, lifeless and very much non-existent.

And then the inevitable happened.

I met Lisa on a work training course in Brighton. The course was about time management and if you've ever been on one of these, you'll know there is a tremendous bonding with the other students, and topics of a very personal nature are discussed in the conference room and the bar in the evenings. Of course, you wouldn't believe that at the beginning of the course. At the "introduction ceremony" when embarrassingly we all introduce ourselves and set what they call the "ground rules" for the duration of the week, you see most of the group as a set of losers. The type of people the company can afford to lose for the week and won't be missed. Or the staff who just want to skip most of the week and be handed the leather binder which can be left on the top of the cabinet next to the telly to gather dust. But you get a certificate which you can impress your friends with or hang in your loo. Or you can just bin it the moment you get home.

There was a spark there the second I saw her. An almost animal instinct in many ways and there should have been – she was beautiful. The students in the group were from various companies and she was a recruitment consultant for one of the major employment agency chains. It seemed destined that we were to spend the nights together; our rooms were on the same landing. She was confident when she introduced herself and stood up while all the rest of us lowered our eyes and prayed the introduction moment would pass in the blink of an eye.

Lisa "picked me up" the second evening of the four-day course. We had all been taken out to an Italian restaurant and returned to the hotel at 11 p.m. A number of the others were already yawning and when she collected her key, she asked if I wanted a drink with her in the bar before going to bed. I agreed and got us a couple of large brandies.

She told me a little more about herself. I already knew that she was single, twenty-six years old and had recently mortgaged a flat in Wandsworth. She'd then worked for the company for three years and went to university in Durham. I told her about myself and it was surprisingly easy to speak with her. The alcohol obviously helped. We both knew that we should not have been there and that we both needed someone, anyone, just a total stranger to talk to. I explained my relationship with Chrissie and she confessed a number of problems with her recently dumped boyfriend, namely his bad habits.

Then she just smiled and invited me up to her room.

I should have been surprised or shocked but I wasn't.

Things like that simply did not happen to me or had never happened before. True, it was a fantasy I often had and there I was, a healthy man in his late twenties or possibly early thirties with a wife who was indifferent to me, an under-used libido and a long way from home. The woman I sat with was beautiful, tanned, smooth skinned and had offered herself to me for sex, to satisfy both our needs with no strings attached.

What was I to do?

What would any man do in that situation?

Within minutes we were writhing on her bed, our clothes having been pulled off and lying in a heap on the floor. Her tender body lay on top of me and she forced her thighs against mine. The passion was too intense; I ejaculated the moment I entered her but she did not stop forcing herself onto me and using her fingertips. She needed a climax as much as I did.

It happened. But it was not over then.

After a short rest, she stepped off the bed and bent over unashamedly and lifted my tie from the heap of clothes on the floor. She turned and smiled at me with the tie in her hand and knelt on the bed and wrapped it around my neck. As she pulled me up from the bed I became excited again and she drew me toward the bathroom and the generous sized shower cubicle.

"We need a shower," she said as we both stepped under the tepid force, "and I'll shower you," she added.

And shower me she certainly did.

Her hands covered every square centimetre of my naked body, parts that Chrissie had never felt. I put my hands out to cup her breasts but she pulled them away.

"No, not yet," she said. "It will be your turn shortly."

I stood fully erect as she knelt before me and soaped my thighs and genitals.

She stopped for a few seconds and stood up to delay my near climax. I was almost ready to burst. She pushed her lower half closer, tighter against me as I cupped her breasts, ejaculated onto her stomach then continued soaping her until she came as well.

Later I returned to my room consumed with guilt but I hadn't regretted what happened. We both needed the release. She told me the following day that nothing could come of our brief encounter and we could only be memories or ships that pass in the night.

It was a perfect agreement for me and, frankly, what every married man wanted to hear after a dangerous liaison of such magnitude.

So perfect that the following evening she invited me to her room again and forced me to strip slowly in front of her as she sat sipping a cocktail. I obliged and then instructed her on what items of clothing to remove as I watched. We then masturbated each other before having penetrative sex.

When I returned to London, I was pleased to be back with Chrissie and my daughter but now I had a new passion. Lisa and I made love without inhibitions and it was exactly how I would have liked it with my wife but she was a changed person. Before Annette was born we had, in my view, great sex together but it was not as intense and basic as it had been with Lisa. Talking dirty had always been a turn on for me but Chrissie never really liked it and she found it put her off. My encounter had given me a greater longing for passion I had, for far too long, been without.

I was still guilty of course but I attempted to overcome that by buying Chrissie more of the small gifts she, at one time, enjoyed receiving.

But now she was different.

After a few months and a few failed attempts at spicing up our limited sex life, I told her about Lisa. The time seemed right and it just slipped out.

I don't know what the hell I was thinking. What an idiot I had become.

It had been a few weeks since my last "seeing to" and I just wanted her to be more like Lisa in the bedroom. Just for one night, a few hours maybe. I asked her to undress me and rub some oil on my back and masturbate me. She was disgusted with me and told me so, which only angered me.

"I don't believe you," she said. "This is just part of your fantasy. Go and take a shower."

But I continued with the truth even though I knew it would not help and she soon realised I was not lying.

At first, she just stared at me in disgust. I thought she might break down and hit me, which I deserved.

But she didn't.

"So what do we do now then?" she asked.

This was not the reaction I was expecting and I was thrown.

"What?" I replied. "Chrissie, do you understand what I've just told you?"

"Yes," was all she said calmly.

"Jesus Christ. Have you lost all your emotions?" I asked.

"You've just told me that you had an affair with someone younger and more exciting than me. It's happened and there's nothing I can do about it, so what's the next step? Do you leave me and the child and go shack up with her?"

"Stop it!" I demanded and got up and walked around the room.

"My God," I started. "You really have lost it all, haven't you? Why are you not screaming and throwing things at me or at least telling me to get out?"

"What good would that do? Now let's be logical about this. But why have you told me? I never suspected anything."

I thought.

Why had I told her?

"I had hoped that for one thing it might anger you, so that I could see that there's still a spark left in you. Some passion, some emotion, just something left of the girl I married."

"Look," she cut in, "if you want to go off and have sex with any old trollop that throws themselves at you, go on and do it. But don't expect me to say well done, what a good boy you are."

She threw her hairbrush onto the bed.

"Jesus, I'll never understand men's sexual needs," she added and walked to her side of the bed. I pulled her back.

"Then try. Just for once, try and understand mine."

"Ah, so it's my fault, is it?"

"Yes ... no. Well, I don't know."

"Now, you look. I don't want to discuss this now. I need to go to bed. Have you any idea how difficult it is to bring up a child? I just don't need this right now. It's the last thing I want to deal with."

I went downstairs to get myself a drink. It was a good idea to sleep on it and I spent the night on the couch. However, the following day I needed to talk about it and Chrissie was not interested. As far as she was concerned, the matter was over. She asked again if it was my intention to split up and was relieved when I said no. That was the last thing on my mind. When she was satisfied, she conceded that we had a problem and it needed discussing but not at that time as her brother was coming in a few days and she did not want to create an uncomfortable atmosphere.

Thinking logically, I agreed. However, she had accepted that we had a problem and that was one hurdle out of the way. So we went along as usual, putting up a pretence for the sake of Annette and Eamon. But the seeds of doubt had already been planted and I did think sometimes that it might have been better had we split up then. Perhaps when Annette goes to school in a couple of years we may just do that. After all, they say that one in three marriages break down. As for having an affair, I'm not too sure it's what I really want. I'd rather Chrissie and I sorted it out and start again. But I doubt that she would be prepared to do that. Our sex life to her is not a problem but how can I get her to see things from my point of view?

I rather envy Eamon in some ways. Being gay must make life much easier. He can go off and satisfy his needs without the problem of being tied down to one person and feelings of love probably don't come into it. I've heard these stories of gay men having sex together with a number of partners or one night stands every week or so and then just getting on with their lives. I really don't understand it all when he tells me that it causes emotional problems. As far as I am concerned, there can only be one sort of passionate love and that must be between a man and a woman. Though I don't in general find homosexual relationships unacceptable, I can't believe that they are as intense as heterosexual couplings. How can they be? Gays simply cannot understand the problems that come with it.

What does surprise me though is the friendship he's struck up with Nick. Never in a million years would I have imagined that. Nick has always appeared to me to be a respectable parent. I just can't see why he would want to have sex with another man. But I suppose he is fairly vulnerable at the moment; after all, it was not that long ago that his wife died. He's just a little confused and I can understand that. Not that it would ever occur to me to sleep with another man but I do sympathise with him and I'm confident that as soon as his daughter is a little older, he'll find the right girl and all will be back to normal.

However, that's not my problem and unless things change in my relationship, I fear that we will be going our separate ways sooner rather than later.
Part Two: Nick

The following week was one of the hardest.

There was a great deal of tension and for me it was because Eamon was leaving and I didn't want the life I had come to know that summer to suddenly end. For Eamon, it was much worse. At that time I knew nothing of Bulmer or the contents of the briefcase. I think that was just as well.

He came over that Friday evening, the week before he was due to leave, and it was clear that something was wrong. He didn't even want to play with Sally and she was rather hurt when he was blunt with her. I asked him what was wrong but as usual he became evasive. I could almost read Sally's mind clicking over. She was desperately trying to figure out what it was that she'd done wrong. I was often blunt with her and regretted it but it was the first time from Eamon. He went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

I didn't want to put pressure on him, and certainly not in the last few days of our time together, so I shrugged it off. I remember feeling rather hurt and left out as he appeared unable to confide in me, but it was still early days in our relationship and I respected his privacy.

He'd been in the bedroom on his own for about an hour and I couldn't stand it any longer. I asked Imogen if she would put Sally, who was by then tired, to bed. I took a bottle of what was then our favourite claret from the wine rack, made up a small tray of Chinese crackers and nuts, and took them into him, closing the door behind me.

"Come on, let's have a glass of wine," I said as I set the tray down on the floor by the side of the bed.

He was lying on top of the quilt. Initially I though he was asleep as his eyes were closed, but he wasn't.

As he opened them to look at me, he burst into tears. I moved closer to him and he locked his arms around me.

"Hey, what's all this?" I asked. "What's happened?"

"Oh ... it's nothing really ... it's nothing," he replied.

"Look, the person I've come to know wouldn't burst into tears for no reason," I said reassuringly. "Just tell me, Eamon, what's the matter with you? Is it because you are leaving?"

He stopped crying and composed himself as he sat up.

"Look, Nick. I love you dearly but I can't tell you. Well, not at the moment, anyway."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Please. You must trust me. There's something I have to do and simply cannot discuss it with you just now. Believe me, I would not do anything to hurt you or Sally or destroy our relationship."

"Is our relationship under threat?"

"No, no. It's nothing like that."

"I know that you wouldn't want to cause us harm, but I can't understand what you're saying unless you confide in me. How can I help if you don't tell me?"

"Look, you'll understand shortly and I know what it must seem like. There are some things – some mistakes – I've made in my life, and a few things I'm not proud of. I have to get rid of them and I will shortly."

He leaned his head against my chest.

"But for the moment, just hold me."

I kicked off my shoes and made myself more comfortable on the bed. I hadn't seen him like this before and didn't really know how to cope with it. I thought it better just to lie there a few minutes.

It's something I'd become accustomed to when Maggie was either in pain or despair over the future. It wasn't always necessary to have long, drawn out conversations; sitting in silence was very often the best tactic.

"Well, come on then, open the wine," he said and released me from his grip.

I opened the bottle and the first few sips were in silence before he spoke.

"I know this seems odd and it really is out of character for me. But please trust me on this one."

Various thoughts had been running through my mind and I didn't want to voice them for fear they might be true.

"Look, Eamon," I started, "you're not trying to tell me that you have someone else in France and it's curtains for us two?"

"I promise you, it's nothing like that. Besides," he added and cupped my chin in his hand, "where else would I find a cute, young chick like you?"

He winked at me and I was relieved that I was not directly the cause of the grief.

Soon after that, we got undressed and slipped into bed to make passionate love. Afterwards, we watched an old Japanese monster movie on the telly before going to sleep. The sheets were soaked with sweat and we changed them. We didn't shower.

All was relatively back to normal; the following morning, Eamon tried hard to please Sally as he felt guilty for being so sharp with her. She had almost forgotten the incident the previous evening but I knew that whatever it was that had upset him was still playing on his mind. I spoke to Imogen about it during the day. She and I were much closer by then and we both agreed that he was upset about leaving, that all love stories were not written by Barbara Cartland and the rough always had to be taken with the smooth.

That evening was very special for me as I met a couple of Eamon's friends and they became very close. Chrissie phoned him from next door and said that Declan and Vince had called and she was unsure whether or not to give them my phone number and would Eamon call them.

He did and they invited us over for dinner that evening. I heard Eamon on the phone and he was frantically trying to find an excuse not to go but they insisted.

"How do you fancy meeting a couple I've known for a while?" he said. "They want us to come over for dinner this evening but I'm not really in the mood."

"Yeah, why not?" I knew he was still troubled and an evening out would do us good. "Imogen is here all day and won't mind looking after Sally. It's a good idea."

He was not convinced but agreed anyway.

Declan and Vince are a couple that Eamon had met in Paris and they have the most wonderful flat in Islington, just a short walk from the Angel. The flat, a maisonette, is on two floors of an enormous Georgian house overlooking a private square. Declan is a travel consultant, thirty-four years old, Australian and has settled in London having seen most of the world. Vince, or Vincenzo, is Italian and works as a steward for a major airline, a trolley dolly as he introduces himself, and is very handsome as many Italians are, both male and female.

They were very welcoming and greeted me with a kiss when I was introduced.

"Hi, Nick, and welcome," Vince said. At that time he was thirty years old, slightly taller than me and well built for cabin crew.

"It's about time we met you," he continued. "Eamon should have visited us sooner but he's been so engrossed with you."

"That's right, Nick," Declan cut in. "I suppose he hasn't mentioned us to you, has he?"

"Well, not really," I replied, "but we have been very busy."

"Bullshit. I know what he's doing," said Vince. "Keeping you all to himself. What can I get you to drink?"

I was impressed with the flat, which must have been obvious as Declan then showed me around and Eamon went into the kitchen with Vince. It was enormous. Three bedrooms with two en-suite bath and shower rooms, one of which I would have been happy to walk into. The shower "room" was covered in some very old and beautiful, hand-painted Portuguese tiles and the water fell as a fountain from a marble lion's head. Now, this all sounds rather kitsch and over the top when I describe it but it was just so tasteful. Each bedroom had a pine sleigh bed with delightful duvet covers and all the painting on the walls were original and individually spotlit. It was clearly all very expensive and if that was how queens lived then I definitely wanted to be a part of it. I still knew little about gay relationships then, or all relationships for that matter, but they both had reasonable salaries with high disposable incomes. Don't ever allow anyone who might make you believe that the pink pound buys little. On the contrary – it goes a great deal further than you might imagine.

Eamon had cheered up a little over dinner, especially when the meal was so excellent. To start with we had quails eggs in tarragon aspic followed by fresh tuna steaks with baby roast vegetables along with a sauce of garlic and parsley. The dessert was a light chocolate trifle with morello cherries soaked in rum. Not an everyday meal for a man with a child and accustomed to fish fingers or chicken nuggets with everything. I was very, very impressed.

"So, Nick," Declan started as we sat with our coffee on one of the most luxurious sofas I had ever parked my bum on. It was cream coloured and would not have remained so with Sally and her favourite drink, Ribena.

"Tell us about yourself, you know, where you work, where you live, how you met, your inside leg measurement and all the rest."

Eamon smiled.

That was good.

"Declan, don't be so nosy. Nick may not want to tell you," he said.

He was wrong.

Declan and Vince were very welcoming, as gays in a stable relationship tend to be, and they appeared genuine. I had no problem telling them all about Maggie and Sally and how I met Eamon. They were very understanding and interested.

"You know," Declan said when I had finished, "things can get very difficult for you if you're not the sort of person that can cope with it. Putting aside the good times that Eamon and you can have together, not to mention the long distance relationship, you'll have to cope with outside influences and the elements will be against you."

"What do you mean?" Eamon asked.

"Well, first of all, society is all set for gays to become straight and see the so-called error of their ways. But it's quite different when an 'apparent' straight person becomes a friend of Dorothy. People do not accept that so easily and particularly when a child is involved. I presume that your parents and Maggie's are not aware of all this."

"You're right," I replied.

"Then I predict rocky times for you. Possibly not on your side but on Maggie's. Don't be surprised if they at least find out about separating Sally and you legally."

"No. I can't believe they would try and do something like that," I said rather naively.

"All I'm saying, Nick, is be warned. Gay relationships are as special and rewarding as any other. But you can get carried away and forget that there are many individuals and organisations out there that can easily destroy them."

"Is that a warning?" Eamon asked.

"Possibly, but I don't mean it to sound that way. You see, Nick, I too was married, very happily and we had a child. And then one day, it happened. I met Vince on a trip and the rest is history."

I was fascinated.

"And what happened?" I asked.

"Well, I told Katy one evening as I simply couldn't cope with the double identity any longer. Our relationship had started to go downhill by then anyway. We married far too young and had a child. Victoria, my daughter, is fourteen now but she was only nine at that time. Katy was very ambitious then with her job as a financial advisor and she was very good at giving advice but dreadful at receiving it herself. She was constantly away on courses or meeting clients in different parts of the country. I hardly ever saw her and Victoria and I had always been close but became much closer when her mother was not there for her. It all came to an almighty row one weekend. I told her I was gay and would be leaving her and taking my daughter with me." He sighed. "That was just the start of it all. She immediately got in contact with her parents, who advised her to move back home with them and take Vicky with her. They moved very quickly indeed. The following day I received a solicitor's letter. A close friend of the family called me and stated that my wife wanted a divorce and custody of the child as I was an unstable parent and the house. There was a great deal more involved and an enormous, complicated and expensive battle in the court. To this day, I don't know how she did it but she was given the best advice and she won. There's justice for you."

He sat back and breathed deeply.

"Christ. That must have been dreadful. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose Sally. But I don't see that anything like that could happen in my case," I said.

"Don't be too sure. Most people still look at same-sex relationships as un-natural. Things are changing, sure, but acceptance takes time. All I'm saying is beware and prepared for it. Take it all a stage at a time and don't become too complacent. Oh, and take all the blows like a man and not a drippy drag queen. The shit they can throw at you just for being you is unbelievable so always expect the unexpected."

I was silent for a few seconds.

"And how are things at the moment?" I asked.

"These days, fine. Vicky is much older and aware of the situation. She adores Vince and we get on very peacefully indeed. Vicky spends most weekends with us and Katy is much more accepting of it. I think if she had not received what I consider to be bad advice from her parents, most of the turmoil could have been avoided. But it's all water under the bridge now."

"Good advice, Dec, but don't frighten Nick off. You have no reason to think that he might make the same mistakes," Vince said and clearly wanted to change the subject. "Eamon, what about you these days? I know you had some money problems before you went to France."

Eamon was not pleased with this and his jaw fell open.

"Whoops, sorry," said Vince. "Should I not have mentioned that?"

Eamon hesitated before replying, "Well, yes I did have some problems. But they have been sorted now."

I was intrigued.

"You, Eamon?" I started. "Money problems? I find that hard to believe."

He sipped his wine.

"Yes, I did have a couple of years ago but it's all in the past now. Forget it."

"Okay. But you know I like to hear about your past."

He quickly finished his wine.

"That was long ago. Let's drop the subject." He stood up. "Anyway, it's time to go now." He turned to Declan. "Thank you for a very special meal. Perhaps you can keep an eye on this one when I'm not here," he said referring to me.

"Delighted to," Declan responded.

"An absolute must, lovey," said Vince. "You're one of the girls now and on the gossip list you have to go."

I thanked them again for a great meal, promised to stay in touch and left my phone number. We returned to the flat and though Eamon had become slightly agitated by what they had said, I was more comfortable about changing the subject.

So Eamon had some financial problems a few years back. Is that a problem? As far as I know, it's still not a crime to be poor and if he made some errors of judgement financially, so be it. I was certainly not in any position to judge and if I was beginning to see a darker side of him then good. It made me want him even more.

Before I knew it, that fateful Saturday had arrived and Eamon was leaving.

I was glad that he had spent the whole week with me even though he'd not slept well. I woke a couple of times in the middle of the night during the week and found him in the kitchen drinking coffee. We'd then spend maybe half an hour discussing minor plans for the future, which made me very tired for work. It was a short working week though as I had arranged to take the Thursday and Friday off to spend a little more time with Sally and him.

The night before he left we had Chrissie and Peter over for a meal. It became a rather boozy occasion but that was fine. The flight the following day was not until the afternoon so we could have a lazy morning. Imogen had offered to take Sally shopping and he had already collected the remainder of his belongings from Chrissie and Peter's house. Most of these had been moved into my room where he finished his packing. Chrissie had offered to drive him to the airport but I insisted that I would do it. I think she was quite relieved. Though I was not aware at that time of the problems they had, the cracks were beginning to show.

He had a small case, a fold-up travel bag and the briefcase. He left the main luggage in the hallway except for the briefcase, which he brought with him into the living room.

It was time to say goodbye.

We could only do this properly at home rather than the airport.

He was nervous.

"I detest moments like these," he said.

I knew exactly what he meant as he locked his arms around me. I felt like an innocent child again.

Sally and Imogen came bounding into the room and broke the awkwardness. They both kissed and hugged him goodbye.

We arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare. After checking the luggage into the Air France desk we decided to have a coffee at the over-priced restaurant in the lounge. He kept the briefcase with him and was clearly nervous, but then he had every reason to be. I put it down to the fact that he didn't really want to leave.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked as we drank the warm coffee.

"I'm thinking about you," he replied, "and how you have totally upset my life. How will I ever be the same as I was again?"

I kicked his foot and smiled at him. It seemed sufficient.

"I've had a word with some of the lecturers here at the Institute in London. There is a chance that I could get a placing at a college here. Maybe not in London, but if it works out I could be back here permanently and soon after Christmas."

"Really? That's wonderful but why did you not tell me that before?"

"Because it's still only a slim chance and I didn't want to build your hopes up and then disappoint you if it failed."

"Nothing you do disappoints me," I replied.

He smiled. "There is still a contractual obligation I have in Paris, not only to the college but also to the students. I'll have to see what I can do."

The flight was then called and it was time to leave.

I walked him to the departure gate. He clutched the briefcase tightly to his chest, which I noticed.

"Well, this is it," he said.

"Yes," I muttered. The tears were beginning to well up.

"Look, I'll call you tonight as agreed," he said.

He put his arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek.

I didn't want to let him go.

He walked through the gates and waved back as I took a deep breath. When he was out of sight, I walked back to the short-term car park and rested my head on the steering wheel. I allowed what was first a trickle and then a torrent of tears to roll down my cheeks. I had not cried like that since Maggie's death.

I felt empty again but I had no idea of the mental torture that he was going through.
Part Three

Eamon could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead as he walked away from passport control. His shaking fingers had opened the briefcase at the gate and he was sure the officer had noticed. Of course, he hadn't and was still holding a conversation with his colleague.

He put the passport back in the case and walked toward the X-ray machine. If he was to be caught, he'd rather it was here in London. He looked around as he joined the short queue to put his bag on the conveyor belt. There were a number of male and female uniformed guards in the area and he noticed the security camera's on the walls. He was certain they were watching him and he felt hot and sweaty.

There were two X-ray machines in operation and he looked at the guards at each. One was a rather butch looking woman and the other, a young man with a moustache and a belly that spilled over the top of his trousers.

He chose the butch woman.

He laid the briefcase and the small travel bag on the belt and walked through the arch. Momentarily he was relieved when the case was not in his hand. He could have left it there on the belt and swear he was only carrying the travel bag.

No ... that wouldn't work.

His bags were mixed with some other hand luggage and Eamon bent over to pick them up.

"Can you open this up, please, sir?" said one of the officials.

A wave of panic rushed over him. He could feel the sweat on his back.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"The travel bag, sir. Would you open it up for me?" the guard asked.

Eamon nervously unzipped the bag. It was sticking.

"I'm sorry. The zip always sticks," he said.

"No problem, sir," said the guard as he rummaged around the bag.

Eamon picked up the briefcase and put it on the floor between his legs. The guard pulled out Eamon's personal stereo and asked if he would open the battery compartment.

Eamon thought this a strange request. His hands only appeared to be shaking slightly but his face felt like it was on fire. The guard was happy that the small compartment only contained batteries and was clearly not that interested. He then turned his attention to the woman next to him.

He walked into the departure lounge feeling relieved though faint. He followed the sign for the men's toilet without looking behind him and went straight into a lock-up. He sat on the bowl with the briefcase on his lap, pulled some tissue from the dispenser and patted his face dry. The tissue was soaked.

A few deep breaths afterward and it then felt safe to leave the relative security of the toilets. He wondered whether or not they had security cameras in them.

Eamon made his way to the bar feeling slightly more relaxed and bought an over-priced brandy and a pint of lager. He downed the brandy in one and settled back on the seat. He took a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lit it and drew deeply. Eamon rarely smoked but always liked to carry them. His imagination was running wild. Had he been caught, he would explain it to the authorities without mentioning Nick and Sally. What would the penalty be? So many years in prison, perhaps? He'd lose his job and would possibly never be allowed to teach again but the worse thing was that the one person he had ever loved would be lost. Besides, if Fabrier was right, they may not have been aware of exactly what the drug was and he might just have to suffer a lecture. That was really just a pipe dream.

He breathed deeply. It was just impossible to relax. Nick's image flashed through his mind and he remembered how nervous and clumsy he was on the first day they had been alone together. He recalled that day, how he had stood at his bedroom window overlooking Nick's garden watching him work. He wanted Nick then and he wanted him now.

The flight flashed onto the monitor advising the departure gate but Eamon was still lost in thought. He tried rationalising the dilemma he found himself in and tried to make himself agree that he was doing the right thing in the circumstances. It sickened him to think that anything could happen to Nick and Sally as a result of his actions. He still doubted Bulmer. Would he really somehow hurt Nick and an innocent child? No, it was unlikely but he was not prepared to take that risk and if he could just get through this it would soon be over.

Eventually a tannoy message asked for the remaining passengers for the flight to proceed to the departure gate. He took a couple of deep breaths and made his way to the place. He needed to use the toilet again but there was not enough time. He had to open the case again and take out his boarding card but he was not quite as nervous. The hardest part would be customs at Charles de Gaulle in Paris.

He was one of the last passengers on the plane and had no intention of letting the briefcase out of his sight. The stewardess insisted that both items of hand luggage be put in the overhead compartments yet most of these were already full. The small travel bag and case were both put in the compartment on the opposite aisle. Eamon imagined that the cocaine or whatever it was would spill out during the flight and cover the plane and passengers. Though that was impossible it worried him. After the plane had taken off, he took the briefcase out and slipped it down by his feet. He was more comfortable when he could see it.

Air France flight AF1034 was on time when it touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport. The passengers were relieved when it came to a standstill. Eamon started sweating.

He retrieved his travel bag and joined the queue to get off the aircraft. He wanted the majority of the other passengers to go ahead of him in the hope that the customs officers would be occupied when it came to his turn to pass through customs control.

"Votre passeport, s'il vous plait," said the officer.

Eamon opened the briefcase and handed the official the document. His hands were shaking again.

"Merci, monsieur."

He made his way to the customs hall and stood by the carousel, awaiting his case. The customs officers were standing around waiting in the various channels. He was now very nervous and wanted his case to be last.

"Shit," he thought when he saw that his case was the first to come out.

He retrieved the case and got a trolley which was close by. He loaded this with the briefcase on top.

The air-conditioning did not seem to be working as all the passengers were hot. This was fortunate but Eamon did not want to remove his jacket as the sweat on his back might have drawn unwanted attention. He pushed the trolley toward the customs channel.

Most of the douaniers were occupied except for the one who appeared to be staring straight at him. He was now sweating profusely.

"I'm caught," he thought and considered running.

"Excuse-moi, madame. Votre valise, s'il vous plait."

The officer was talking to the woman beside him.

He shivered as he walked away from the customs hall. The panic was over. That was the hardest part.

The plain clothes officer spoke to him in English as he put his hand on Eamon's shoulder.

"Good evening, sir. Would you mind coming with me, please?" he asked.

The second officer was beside them and they led Eamon and the trolley into a side room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Part One

Lucien Sablon woke up on cue to the sound of the bells from the unsteady tower of St Bernadine de Lourdes a few blocks away. For as long as he had lived in Paris, the bells faithfully woke the quarter every day, brought the streets to life and announced to all that the hour for stirring was upon them, no matter what the weather.

In all the years he'd lived there, not once had he needed an alarm clock or even a radio. It was 7 a.m. and as it was Saturday morning, he could take things a little easier. He turned and looked at Louisa sleeping peacefully next to him; her smooth breasts raised then lowered themselves gently. She lay on her back with her head pushed deeply into the feather pillow which supported it. In the years they had been married, she rarely heard the bells, her sub-conscious mind only stirring from slumber when she could smell the fresh coffee from the kitchen stove.

He breathed deeply. There was little breeze from the open window. He detested Paris in the summer and longed for the fresh, cool breezes he woke up to in Brittany. One day, Louisa and he would return there and it would not be very long before the final decision had to be made. At fifty-four years old, he was ready to retire from the bureau and any day now he would be called into the chief inspector's office and would be asked again if he was ready to accept the early retirement terms. This time, they would be better than those offered a year ago and after requesting a week to think about them, he would accept.

Louisa would be happy.

She had never been comfortable in Paris and longed to live permanently in the house in Savenay rather than just for the month of July. She always had ambitious plans for the garden and her retirement would be spent devoting her daylight hours to working the soil. She had wanted Lucien to accept the early retirement option the previous year but understood his reasons for declining.

He slipped out of bed silently, not wanting to disturb her, slid his feet into the moccasin slippers, pulled the light summer dressing gown around himself and crept out of the room. Instinctively, he lit the kitchen stove then filled the pot with fresh water before attaching the top container filled with the decaffeinated coffee that Louisa prepared before going to bed. He put it on to boil then went to use the bathroom.

He sat there in the peace and quiet of the early morning and smiled as he recounted the events of the previous day. Saturday was not normally a working day and over the years, when it was called for, he'd resented going into the bureau to finish his reports. When he was much younger, just out of gendarme uniform and into plain clothes, he was full of drive, ambition and enthusiasm for the job. These days he was bored. Bored with the fact that he was getting older, and that there were too many younger chief inspectors and detectives with grander ideas, bottomless reserves of energy and infinite enthusiasm. He was bored with all the faces, the petty criminals and their lies, their swindling, their double-dealing, their treachery and their cheating. Bored with that petty bureaucracy the French police are renowned for. Bored with Paris.

But not bored with life.

Today, however, would be different. Already there was a spark which was slowly igniting. A spark in the fading embers which was filling him with enthusiasm. The old passion and adrenaline were there again and he had not felt them for so long.

Men dream of untold wealth, of yachts, of racing cars, of horses, of beating the Bank of Monte Carlo or winning the Lotto. Of beautiful young, firm women, of passion, lust and immortal youth.

Lucien Sablon had a different dream.

Lucien Sablon dreamt of justice, retribution, satisfaction, vengeance and compensation.

Men follow the lives of film stars, the rich and famous, models and sex goddesses. Lucien Sablon followed the life of a thief, embezzler, pimp, swindler, crook, racketeer and murderer. He was getting closer now to seeing his ambition achieved. Before he left the department, Maurice Henri Fabrier would be behind bars for a very, very long time or – preferably – dead.

Sablon had first come into contact with him over fifteen years ago. At that time, he was just a pimp working his girls around the tourist traps of Montmartre and St Germain des Pres. Sablon and his partner Daniel Bastrou busted him a few times but he got away with a few minor fines. But Fabrier was ambitious and he soon became the supplier of many new girls and boys for some of the best establishments in Paris. He was providing the excitement for rich Arabs, barristers and cabinet ministers, and soon earned enough to rent himself a very large apartment on Rue Foch. Corporate entertainment was how he referred to it but that was not enough. He diversified into protection rackets, embezzlement and drugs, an area that Sablon had been long interested in. It was many years now since his sister Yvette had died from the overdose of cocaine that had the bleaching particles added to it to make some Algerian baron even richer. The scene of her lying dead in the squalid bedsit in Bordeaux would never leave him, and anyone who supplied drugs was responsible for her undignified and pitiful death.

The problem was getting the proof.

It was all going on under their noses but there was never the evidence to convict him. Fabrier was mixing in the correct circles and being accused of victimising law abiding citizens would not go down well in the bureau. Bastrou and Sablon headed a personal campaign against the man who caused so much suffering but Fabrier grew stronger and was able to afford the best lawyers and barristers, no doubt customers, and the thousands upon thousands of francs were no object.

Officers Bastrou and Sablon made no secret of their vendetta against Fabrier and were sure that, one day, they would catch him out. Then one evening Sablon received a call, a warning from one of Fabrier's employees, that he was to stay away if he knew what was good for him and that a little surprise had been arranged for his partner.

The following morning, Bastrou was found hanging from the Pont Neuf. His neck had been broken.

There was no proof that Fabrier was connected and he even made a public announcement about the loss and offered a reward to find the murderer of the man in the police force he greatly admired.

Nobody claimed the reward.

But Sablon knew and swore that one day in his lifetime he would avenge his partner's death. He also knew that Fabrier was becoming even more powerful and if he could have Bastrou removed then he could do the same for Louisa.

Sablon spent years compiling his files on the man who had no right whatsoever to walk freely on this earth. Many interviews, press cuttings, tapes of interviews and hearsay conversations were held in that file and would soon be used to finish Fabrier once and for all. But it was not enough for Lucien Sablon to see him go to prison for a couple of years. No. Sablon wanted him to go down for a very long time, preferably the way Bastrou had.

And it was nearly time.

The previous day he had received information from one of his most reliable informers about the connection Fabrier had with a new type of drug that was arriving in Paris shortly from South America. Sablon's department already had a great deal of evidence from informers in Marseilles and the Dutch police about this very special shipment but a link had been broken and the final parts needed to be pieced together. All Sablon needed was the final connection in the jigsaw, which was probably in London. Then all the work he had put into his files could be brought into the open. Fabrier would be tried for the drugs first and then Sablon would request that all the other cases be taken into account. There would still be a great deal of work today if the mule was co-operative but Sablon was relying on the sheer weight of evidence, mostly verbal, to enable a jury to say, without a shadow of doubt, that Fabrier was guilty of something. Sablon was certain than once Fabrier was off the streets his staff would start talking.

Sablon smiled as he imagined the judge throwing the book at Fabrier.

His book.

Louisa was now up and sipping her coffee at the kitchen table when he came out of the bathroom. She was reading a gardening magazine and looked up at him as he kissed the top of her head.

The years had been kind to her. Her long red hair was still thick and wavy, and from the back she could easily have been mistaken for the twenty-four-year-old Breton beauty that he married so long ago. Her skin was still fresh and peachy, though a few lines around her eyes and mouth gave her age away. Sablon, on the other hand, was victim to a middle-age spread that took hold of him when, at the age of fifty, gravity took over. It seemed that he had been on a diet forever but with little result.

He sat at the table beside her, his coffee already poured with his Breton Kerniles biscuits which he had breakfasted on through over twenty-five years of marriage.

"Good morning, Sablon," she announced without looking up from her magazine. She always called him by his surname.

He grunted.

"Oh. Look at this," she said pointing out a photo of a field of lavender in the magazine. "As soon as we get home," she continued, "we'll plant row after row of it. It attracts dozens of insects and some rarely seen butterflies."

Louisa never referred to Paris as home but her village in southern Brittany.

"For you, my dear, I'll plant a whole meadow of the stuff," he said.

She looked at him closely.

"Uhm ... can I have that in writing, please?" she asked. "And what are you up to today?"

Sablon sighed.

"I'll hopefully be making an arrest at the airport. We had a good tip and Bisson has agreed to allow me to make the drop myself. A drug dealer, well, no probably not. Just a courier I should think."

She looked up from the journal.

"Oh Sablon, not Fabrier again?" she asked.

"Maybe. And maybe not," he replied.

She put the magazine down on the table and took his hand.

"Darling, this has to stop. I understand your reasons, of course I do. But you must drop this scheme, this passion of yours soon. Most men of your age become infatuated with younger women. That I could possibly understand. But this campaign, this crusade against that man, is taking you nowhere."

Sablon sipped his coffee.

"You're right, my love. Yes, you are right. But this is my final shot. I swear. I owe it to Bastrou. Besides, I have all the feminine charm I need in you. I don't need an affair with a younger woman."

She smiled.

"How about Valerie, the new assistant in the library? I could probably set up an illicit affair for you with her," she joked.

He pondered this.

"Yes. Okay then. It's a good idea. Hold her in reserve and if I get nowhere today, send her over."

"We'll take a rain check on that one," she replied in her apparently flawless New York accent.
Part Two: Declan and Vince's view

At the time, we knew absolutely nothing about what Eamon had been blackmailed into doing and tried to offer as much support as we could to Nick though it was obviously limited. Eamon had mentioned to us one evening that when he was a student there was a problem with the loan he had taken out and he referred to the Bulmer character. As it happened, we knew about the photographs as we had bought a magazine in Amsterdam which included them. It was clearly a difficult time for Eamon and we decided it would be better not to mention it.

There really is nothing new for men with a liking for other men to be blackmailed. If you look closely, history is littered with it but Eamon was and still is a good friend and he didn't deserve that. But as for Nick, what a terrible introduction he had. It all happened so fast and it just went from bad to worse. A total nightmare, as some have said, and it seemed that everyone had a view about what had happened.

When Eamon attempted to smuggle the drugs to France, he had no idea of the importance of the shipment. Anyone can be a smuggler – just a mule – and there's no doubt it happens in and out of every major city in the world, but if he had not been caught, that junk would have found its way onto the streets and killed many thousands of people. Bulmer was merely an innocent as far as it all went. The Arthur Daly link, who was never going to achieve the heights of someone as powerful as Fabrier, had his uses. Bulmer was not aware of the breakdown of the actual cocaine compound either. To him it was just another way of making a few hundred pounds.

It wasn't really cocaine anyway but something quite new which hadn't been given a true "street" name yet. It was never destined to be the sort of thing you might buy on street corners. On the contrary, it was the next generation of the drug that everyone in that world who was making money out of it wanted to get their hands on. It had been designed with the power classes in mind. Not the student on the street but the professionals with more money than sense. A designer drug of the highest calibre. It was refined but had gone through a rather different process in Argentina, with a couple of ingredients added. We have no idea what they were though there have been rumours that it contained a type of lichen. Its little secret was worth many millions of dollars. The powder Eamon carried was powerful. I suppose one way of describing it was rather like a ginger beer plant – simply add a little more liquid and watch it grow and grow. When it was mixed with purified water, it formed a fungus on the edges which when scraped away and dried out was as pure as the original few kilos. The cocaine, or whatever you chose to call it, just doubled with the additive. No more International shipments or couriers concealing it about their bodies. No more setting fire to poppy fields or third-world country drug refineries. A self-perpetuating additive which was found merely by chance by the Argentine farmers who could not even see that simply by selling this magic potion, it would ruin their lives and bring the whole drug trade to a standstill if it was widely available.

But the best part was that it was so addictive that the user had no idea they were becoming hooked until it was too late.

But Eamon had no idea about all that until it was too late. The climate was changing then and being blackmailed because of your sexuality was something which was dying out. Even the newspapers were no longer interested in what people got up to in their private lives, and the laws were changing. But threats to loved ones will always be one of those crimes that no amount of legislation will remove.

CHAPTER NINE

Part One: Nick

The drive back to the flat from the airport was tiring and seemed to last forever. The traffic was madness and yet another reason for leaving London. But it gave me time to think.

I was rather embarrassed about the way I had handled the farewells. Simple things like saying goodbye and making up after arguments were still alien to me when it was with another man. It would have been much more comfortable with a woman. I found it difficult in those situations to express myself then when face to face with a person of my own sex and it was inevitably clumsy.

It was about 5.30 p.m. when I arrived home and Imogen was still in the park with Sally. I was pleased to have some time to myself even though the place seemed rather empty without her and Eamon, who had almost become part of the furniture in those few weeks we were together. I took a shower as the afternoon and the drive back had been rather warm, and then sat with a can of beer and listened to some music.

I wondered what Eamon would be doing. I calculated that he had already arrived and would be on his way to the hotel. I though it odd that he was not going straight to Versailles where the college was; after all, it was only just outside Paris and very easy to get to. I had questioned him on that point and, as usual, he was evasive. He eventually said that there were a couple of excellent student shops in Paris that he needed to go to. At that time, I accepted what he said but soon realised that he would not have the time to go to those shops on Saturday afternoon when he arrived and it was unlikely that they would be open on a Sunday. That was in the not so distant past when seven-day trading was a "thing" of the future along with mobile phones. I said nothing but presumed he wanted to see a friend or even an old lover. I believed him totally when he said that there was nobody else.

I was missing him already but was happy to believe he would be phoning me soon.

Sally and Imogen arrived back from the park, full of beans. The small zoo had some new young fallow deer which were on show after having been kept inside for a couple of weeks and she referred to them all as Bambi. She was very excited and asked if I would like to go back to the park and meet them.

I declined her offer and explained that we had to stay in as Uncle Eamon would be calling soon and that excited her sufficiently. She played with one of her jigsaws as I prepared our evening meal. I didn't know what time Eamon would call but I made sure the television was turned down low. I didn't want to miss him.

At nearly 10 p.m. she was still awake and excited about Eamon calling. She kept asking me when and all I could say was "soon". She was tired so I took her to bed and read to her for a while, expecting the phone to ring any minute.

Eventually she dropped off and I went back into the living room. Imogen had made some coffee – she knew I was anxious and a little worried that he hadn't called.

"Stop worrying, Nick," she said. "He probably can't get to a phone or find one that works. You know what it's like in London and I suspect it's the same or even worse in Paris."

"Yes, but he did say he would call when he got there and surely he must be there by now."

"Then maybe he's asleep after the journey or he has forgotten."

"No ... he definitely would not have forgotten," I said. "Perhaps there is another reason."

"No doubt you'll hear soon enough, possibly tomorrow."

"Yes," I agreed, "but already I miss him. It's only been a few hours but it seems like weeks."

She put her arms around me.

"Don't worry."

After we had coffee, Imogen went to bed and I sat up listening to some music. By then I was very concerned that he had not called and began to think that something terrible had happened. A plane crash, or the wrong flight and he was en route to Bombay? Or even worse, did his evasiveness mean that he was already involved in an affair and that I was just a holiday romance, a ship that passes in the night?

No, I was being irrational. Maybe he did forget or he was tired but there was no way I could find out. He had mentioned in passing the name of the hotel in Paris but I hadn't written it down. He left the name and number of a colleague in Versailles but he would not be going there until Sunday so that was no use.

I went to bed alone for the first time in a number of weeks and woke very hour or so.

The bed was empty without him.

The following morning, Sally woke me at some disgustingly early time for a Sunday and all was normal. Imogen was already preparing breakfast and Sally and I were to go to Maggie's grave that day. I didn't want to go out until he had called and was sure he would.

Sally occupied my time now and she didn't mention Eamon. I was pleased she had forgotten – I didn't want to lie to her or say that I had no idea.

We wandered up to the shops to get the Sunday papers and rushed back but there was no call.

It was about 11.30 a.m. when Chrissie came over. She was out of breath and her face was flushed.

"Chrissie, what's the matter?" I asked when I opened the door.

"Oh Nick," she sighed, "I don't know where to start. Something quite unbelievable has happened to Eamon."

I froze.

"Oh God, you don't mean ...?"

"No, no. He's all right. At least, I think he is."

"Then what is it?"

"I think you better sit down before I tell you," she said as she closed the front door and led me into the living room.

She told me what she knew.

"Arrested for smuggling drugs?" I asked. "No, I can't believe it."

"I can't believe it myself," she added. "He's always been totally against that sort of thing but that's what his solicitor said."

"What solicitor?"

"Apparently," she continued, "he was allowed to make a call and chose to call a friend in Paris. His name is Pierre Rousseau and he's the solicitor. He called me a short while ago with instructions that you had to be told as, somehow, it involves you."

"Involves me? I've never had anything to do with drugs in my life. I swear, Chrissie, I knew nothing about this."

I stood up and walked over to the dresser drawer, took out a cigarette and lit it.

"So what happens now?"

She sighed deeply; the hardest part was over.

"Well, at the moment he's being held in a detention centre until the case comes up in a local court on Tuesday morning."

All I could do was stare at her; I had no idea what to say. My life for the previous month had been full of surprise after surprise but this was a real shock and not an enjoyable one. How the hell could Eamon allow himself to become involved in something so seedy? I knew something was wrong but not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that. I knew that it was not in his character even though at that time I'd only known him a short while but I needed to get the facts from him.

"So what's the next step?" I asked.

"Well, this is the odd part. His friend asked if both you and I could go over there, to Paris, and to tell you to send Sally away for a few days. He probably forgot you had Imogen here. But I don't expect you to come and I'm going over there tomorrow to find out exactly what's happening. I'll call you when I have the facts."

"You won't have to do that. I'm coming as well," I announced and stubbed out the cigarette. "Imogen can look after Sally. I need to find out in my own way exactly what this is about."

Chrissie insisted that I need not get involved and that she was quite capable of handling it but I was already involved very deeply with her brother and needed an explanation. After Chrissie had left, I told Imogen, who was as baffled as me.

Later that day I phoned Air France and made the reservations for our flight the following morning at 10 a.m. and Chrissie called Pierre Rousseau. He agreed to meet us at the airport and take us to the detention centre. He was not sure if we would be allowed to see Eamon but he suggested that I say I was Chrissie's husband and Eamon's brother-in-law which could make things easier. Pierre was an old friend of Eamon's and well respected in his profession.

I think I must have smoked a whole packet of cigarettes that day as my mind was racing. I imagined Eamon in a cell and tried to empathise with what he might be going through. Clearly, somebody had planted drugs on him and it was all a terrible mistake.

I got little sleep that night.
Part Two

Eamon was taken into a small partly glazed side room in the customs hall. It contained a small table and three chairs. He sat and watched as a young customs opened the briefcase and found the concealed compartment which contained the four small packets of the pure, powdered drug and some papers regarding the treatment of the compound. There were two other men in the room and they were not surprised when these were found. The packets were held up to a camera suspended from the ceiling for a good clear view.

Another man came into the interview room and introduced himself to the camera. He wore a lab coat and looked like a doctor or pharmacist. He checked the packets and smelt the contents. He looked a little confused and explained to his colleague that there was no smell and that the colour of the powder didn't resemble the drugs they were accustomed to dealing with. He explained that the analysis would give a full breakdown and mentioned a fungus which was not apparent to Eamon. He did say that there appeared to be nothing that would show up on an X-ray machine and Eamon thought he heard him say angel dust.

The briefcase and its contents, except the passport, were then placed in a large, clear, plastic bag then sealed and tagged. One of the plain clothes officers signed the tag and the uniformed customs officer took it away. The two other officers remained in the room with Eamon.

He was now much more relaxed, surprisingly, and almost glad that it had been found. He was no longer sweating or shaking. They had known exactly where to look and disregarded the rest of his luggage from the trolley, which was in the corner of the small room. It occurred to Eamon that he should have shown surprise when they had uncovered the powder but it was too late now. He had been given plenty of opportunity to be shocked but he closed his mind temporarily to his surroundings and thought only of Nick and Sally. They had been watching since he boarded the flight in London.

The officials sat on chairs opposite him and one of them took a notebook and pen from a similar briefcase which he was carrying. The other man, larger, took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket.

"Cigarette, Mr Hargreaves?" he asked and offered the packet.

They already knew his name.

Eamon took a cigarette from the packet, lit it and breathed deeply. The official did the same before he spoke.

"Good evening, Mr Hargreaves, and welcome to Paris," he said in English. "Though in your case I should say welcome back. My name is Chief Inspector Olivier Bisson and I am employed by the European Customs Police. My colleague here is Inspector Lucien Sablon from the Bois de Boulogne arrondissement and I must formally point out that you are under arrest for the smuggling and transportation of illegal narcotics. This interview is currently being recorded and can and probably will be used in formal proceedings if the charge is levied and taken to a court of law under the jurisdiction of French and EEC regulations. Do you understand?"

Eamon nodded and said nothing.

He drew on his cigarette and listened intently, not quite knowing how to react. The officer spoke excellent English and there was a welcome underlying kindness in his voice which Eamon would not have expected from someone in his position of authority.

"The formality of officially charging you," he continued, "will be carried out later by Inspector Sablon here as I do not have that authority. But, for the moment, this location falls under the terms laid down in the Geneva Convention and we want to talk to you initially about your attempt to smuggle these albeit small amounts of drugs so that there can be no doubt why you are being held here." A uniformed officer then entered the interview room with a tray of coffee in paper cups. He handed one to each of them and left.

"Now, Mr Hargreaves," Bisson continued, "allow me to bring you up to date on what we already know. We received information from a source here in Paris that you would be arriving on flight AF1034 from London. The information was received at the gendarmerie of my colleague, Mr Sablon, but I am not at liberty to reveal the source of the record, though you would not know the person concerned."

He shuffled in his chair and looked at some papers before him.

"My records show that your name is Eamon Philip Hargreaves and you are currently employed as a teacher at the European Language School in Versailles. You are twenty-three years old and live in an apartment on the college campus."

He sipped his coffee.

"We already know for whom the drug was intended and, with your help, we will find out the details. We are fully aware that your role in this is merely as a courier and that you are possibly being blackmailed or have previously been blackmailed into doing this, which is so often the case. However, you are the one who has committed the crime, one which carries a severe penalty. But we do have it in our power to make things much simpler for you. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr Hargreaves?"

Eamon had settled back in his chair.

Though he had heard and understood all that Bisson had said, he was worried now about Nick and Sally. London seemed so far away and the threats that Bulmer had made against their lives were paramount in his thoughts.

"I understand," he started, "but ... at the moment, I have nothing to say."

Bisson continued.

"I am sure that a man of your education ... well, I do not need to tell you what the penalty is for this crime. But you should consider making things easier for yourself when you are formally charged by telling us the name of the contact in London. I'm sure that you probably do not know the importance of this shipment you were carrying. It is not just a mix of cocaine; it goes much deeper than that. But it was being monitored in various countries. It is originally from South America but the link broke down in Amsterdam. Though we know it left Schiphol Airport, we were uncertain of where it went from there."

"But I don't know anything like that," Eamon said. He was becoming uncomfortably nervous. "I don't want to know any of that. I was just carrying the bloody stuff."

He was rather embarrassed by his outburst.

"Yes, that's what I believe," said Bisson, "and all I need to know is who the contacts in London were. Who employed you?"

"I wasn't employed to do this. I was blackmailed. I didn't want to get involved, please believe me. It has very little to do with me."

"Yes, I understand that. But, Mr Hargreaves, who blackmailed you?"

Eamon could not answer.

He realised they did not know the London link and if he told them, Sally and Nick could be at risk.

"I ... I can't say. I really can't say."

He began to sob as the consequences began to cloud his mind. He needed time to think.

"Well, Mr Hargreaves," Bisson added, "if you choose not to tell us, then you will have to face the full consequences yourself and pay the penalty. It is true to say that we know very little about how this drug works or the procedure for 'curing' it, which I believe the process is called. But I can assure you that by the time this goes to court then we will have fully analysed all the components and established how the fungus is made. We simply have to piece the threads together and will have the evidence. Why not make it easier and give us the details we need? We can help, you know."

"But you don't understand," Eamon started, and was now crying. "I can't tell you. There are innocent people involved ... I really can't help you."

Bisson sighed slowly.

"Very well then." He thought for a moment. "What were the instructions upon arrival here in Paris?"

Eamon thought it safe to tell the truth at this point and explained that he was instructed to go to the Hotel Severin and the case would be collected by an accomplice of a man known as Fabrier.

And for Lucien Sablon that was the key word – the name he needed. The connection he wanted to hear. His instincts, and this time his contacts, had been correct.

He spoke for the first time in the interview.

"Ah now, our old friend Mr Fabrier," he said.

He fumbled in his briefcase and pulled out a small notebook with an elastic band wrapped around it. The book was old. He flicked through the pad and pulled out a photo, which he handed to Eamon.

"Is this the man you know as Mr Fabrier?"

"Yes," Eamon said as he wiped his eyes. "That's him. He's the man I saw in London – perhaps a little heavier and healthier than when that picture was taken, but it's him."

"Excellent, Mr Hargreaves," Sablon said and smiled. "Now we are getting somewhere."

He put the photo back into the notepad and slipped it back into his case.

"Mr Hargreaves," Sablon asked, "would you be prepared to stand up in a court of law and swear that the contents of the briefcase are the property of Fabrier and that he is the one who is blackmailing you?"

"No," Eamon said. "I mean ... well, Fabrier is not the only one involved and he is not blackmailing me directly. There are others involved and I don't really know that he was the owner of the drugs."

"But I am only concerned here about Fabrier," Sablon said.

"No, you don't understand. Oh Christ, I don't know what to do," Eamon replied and ran his fingers through his hair.

Bisson looked at Sablon, who nodded. They decided at that stage there was no point in questioning him further and he needed to be formally charged to satisfy the detention conditions.

"The gendarme outside and Inspector Sablon will now take you to a detention centre near here," Bisson advised him. "You will be officially charged and will then have the time to reflect on this. It is true that there is only a small amount of what is believed to be cocaine in the powder and that is sufficient to make the arrest. Tomorrow, you may have decided to speak to Inspector Sablon and myself further. All you need do is ask for one of us."

With that he left the room and the gendarme entered.

Eamon was taken to the detention centre, where he was formally charged in French and advised that he would be remanded to appear in court on Tuesday morning. He was allowed to make one phone call and desperately needed to speak with Nick. However, he knew he needed professional help and chose to call one of his best friends in Paris, Jean-Pierre Rousseau, who was a solicitor. Jean-Pierre was not accustomed to dealing with this type of case, especially since the detention laws were constantly being amended by the European Parliament but Eamon knew he could be relied upon.

Fortunately, Jean-Pierre was at home that evening when Eamon called and immediately agreed to help. Eamon gave him details of where he was but did not say what the charge was. After three or maybe four hours, Jean-Pierre was allowed into the cell to see his client.

Eamon was glad to see a familiar face. They both sat on the bed and Eamon explained the whole story, though he did not mention Bulmer's name. Jean-Pierre listened, without interrupting, as his friend spoke.

When Eamon had finished, Jean-Pierre did not give any indication of his feelings but stood up and walked around the small cell with his hands in his pockets. He was deep in thought.

"Well, Eamon, this is a terrible situation," he started. "Admittedly this is new territory for me and also the police. The drug you are carrying is not just cocaine but what appears to be a form of it that can easily be concealed and may or may not be more powerful than what is currently available on the market. Drug trafficking is one of the most serious offences in Europe now and the penalties are very severe. However, on compassionate grounds, the outcome could go very well in your favour. But only if you co-operate with the police and tell them what they need to know."

"But how can I put their lives at risk?" Eamon asked, referring to Nick and Sally. "This whole situation is my fault and if I tell the police everything, it might make things easier for me, but what about them? God only knows what might happen. They are total innocents in this unbelievable scenario."

"I fully understand that, my friend, but the British police could put some sort of surveillance on Nick and Sally until this is all over."

"But that would be no use," Eamon cut in. "I have no proof that Bull ... that the people involved are blackmailing me. It would not hold up. The only evidence is that damned stuff in the bloody briefcase."

Jean-Pierre thought for a moment.

"Okay then, this is what I suggest. Say nothing more to the police about the contacts and I will telephone your sister and Nick and tell them what has happened. Under European Law I need to notify your sister as your next of kin. When you appear in court on Tuesday, plead not guilty. The local court here cannot deal with this type of case and I am surprised this has now become a local matter. It appears that this Fabrier man is very much wanted by the police. The hearing will be just a formality and it may be adjourned and passed onto the equivalent of a crown court. Or there is another agenda here and the police have a timetable which they are not making obvious. I suspect Inspectors Sablon and Bisson have reached some arrangement over how to handle this, which is unusual. The procedure and guidelines for smuggling offences are laid down and adhered to every day. However, I think there is more to this, and especially this connection with Fabrier, than you and I know. I suspect someone may be calling in some favours here. In the meantime, that will give me the opportunity to consult a lawyer familiar with this field and then we can decide what the best course of action will be."

He sat back down on the bed with Eamon, who said nothing.

"No doubt the people blackmailing you in London will be worried and they will not know what you have told the police. I will suggest that Nick comes over here with your sister and that his daughter should be sent away for a few days. I will make the necessary arrangements for you to see them, which may be difficult, and I recommend that you tell them everything. After then, we can decide how your plea will go. It's very hard to say if this man Fabrier, his employees and your connection in London are aware yet of what has happened."

Eamon thanked Jean-Pierre as he left the cell. He felt better, almost relived, that he had told the truth.

The cell was hot and spartan and it was the early hours of Sunday morning. He knew that Nick would be worried that he had not called. He was lonely and frightened for his lover.

For the first time in his life, he prayed and meant it.

CHAPTER TEN

Part One: Nick

Chrissie and I had begun our adventure and arrived in Paris just after midday on the Monday. Jean-Pierre had agreed to meet us at the airport. Chrissie pointed out that he was probably not aware of our surnames or what we looked like, but it was not a problem. He stood behind the barrier with a sign marked "Chrissie and Nick".

Jean-Pierre is of Latin appearance and could not have been mistaken for anything other than French, Italian or Spanish. He was five feet ten inches tall and as I was not brought up on metric measurements, I have no idea what that is in metres. At that time he had tight, dark curly hair and an olive, healthy complexion. He's always been a good dresser, taking his time to prepare, and on that occasion he was wearing beige trousers with a short-sleeved, light blue shirt and patterned tie. He greeted us with a welcoming smile.

"Jean-Pierre Rousseau?" Chrissie asked.

"Yes," he said, "and welcome to Paris." He shook our hands.

"I am sorry that the circumstances cannot be different," he continued. "I have heard all about you."

"Thank you," I said.

"Well then," he continued, "I have arranged accommodation for you close to the detention centre. My car is in the garage. Let's go to a bar now, get a little more comfortable and I will tell you all the details."

"Yes," I replied. "This I want to hear."

Within an hour, the three of us were sitting in the bar below the hotel where Jean-Pierre had booked us a couple of rooms. He knew the hotel owner and, for September, was able to get us a healthy discount. He ordered some light toasted sandwiches and a bottle of Muscadet. I also took a glass of beer, a small glass as is the custom.

He then explained the charges and offence under which Eamon was being held and advised us that we would not be able to see him that day but that it would be possible after the court appearance the following morning. He told us the details he had – about the fact that Eamon was being blackmailed and that he was put in that position of carrying the drugs rather than choosing it. I was not entirely convinced that Eamon had no choice but I was soon to learn the exact details. He also explained that the there was some dispute about whether or not the drug was actually banned. The small amount of cocaine would not have been detected easily and if it had been then he probably would have only been given a caution. But customs in Europe already had already been made aware that a new drug was being developed and, though their information was sketchy and unconfirmed, it was unfortunate that Eamon had inadvertently become a courier for something with enormous potential. Coupled with the fact that Fabrier was involved and being watched by the Paris police – it was unlucky and the odds were against him.

"But I don't understand," I said. "Surely all Eamon has to do is co-operate with the police and tell them all they need to know. Starting with the names of these people or person in London will help. Why doesn't Eamon just do that?"

Jean-Pierre hesitated.

Well, Nick," he started, "this is the whole problem. The man in charge of this has threatened Eamon. Not only with the magazine photos but ... he has also said that he will harm the people Eamon loves if he goes to the police."

I was not sure I wanted to hear this.

"Who?" I asked

Jean-Pierre took deep breath.

"Unfortunately, you and your daughter, Nick."

"Sally!" I shouted as the other customers in the bar looked around. I was oblivious to their attention.

Chrissie sat forward on her chair with her mouth open.

"Yes, it's true," he continued. "Apparently Eamon and you have been watched for the past few weeks. If he was caught, he was told that if he was to give the name of the London contact, then something might happen to Sally and yourself."

"Jesus Christ," I started, "my daughter and me involved in something like this and we knew nothing about it?"

"I realise that," Jean-Pierre continued, "but I believe that for the moment there is no problem. The connection in London, I doubt, is aware that Eamon has been arrested but even if so, they have probably gone out of their way to destroy any documents or proof there might be to connect them. I suspect they will have solid alibis for the meetings they had, if they know what has happened. Believe me, I am accustomed to many things like this and it is unlikely that they will run the risk of implicating themselves when they are not aware of the facts."

I was oblivious to what Jean-Pierre was saying. Chrissie was as white as a sheet and just stared at me, waiting for an answer. My daughter's safety was all I wanted to focus on but she was miles away from me in London and just then I needed to hold her close.

"I need a phone," I announced and stood up almost knocking the drinks over. "I need to call Imogen and tell her to take Sally somewhere safe other than the flat."

"But, Chrissie," said Jean-Pierre, "I told you on the phone to tell Nick to send his daughter away for a while."

"Yes," said Chrissie, "but your message was vague. I presumed that you were not aware that Nick had an au pair. I was not aware that Sally could be in any danger."

"I don't believe she is in danger, but I thought it would have been safer," he said.

"Jesus, I can hardly believe any of this," I said and stood up. "Things like this just don't happen to people like me."

Jean-Pierre stood as well.

"Come with me," he said. "There's a public phone over here."

We crossed the bar and the phone was in a small booth by the door. He took a phone card from his wallet and handed it to me.

"I am sure that all will be as usual at home," he said, "as the people Eamon has become involved with have no reason to involve you. But go ahead and check anyway. The code for England is nineteen, then the London code and your number."

I punched the number in so quickly it failed. The second attempt did as well and I started sweating. On the third attempt I got through and Imogen answered.

"Hello," she said.

"Imogen, it's me. It's Nick."

"Ah, hello Nick. How are things in Paris?"

"Listen Imogen, I haven't got time to tell you everything but listen carefully."

"Nick, please speak slower or I will not understand."

"Listen, Eamon is involved with some ... some people in London and they have threatened some harm to Sally. It's important that you both leave the flat and go somewhere safe."

Imogen understood the message but it was clear she was becoming frightened.

"My God. You mean somebody wants to hurt her. But who?"

"Never mind that now," I said rather too abruptly, "but you must do as I say."

"Yes okay, okay. But where will we go? To your parents-in-law?"

I had to think quickly and carefully about this. I did not want too many people involved in what was turning into a frightening experience. One that I could do without. I had not given a second thought to any of the parents and everything would have to come out, though I was confident that Sally and Imogen would be safe with them and was prepared to suggest it.

Chrissie was now standing by the phone booth and tugging at my arm. I asked Imogen to hold a moment.

"Listen, Nick, Peter will be at the house with Annette," she said, "and I can call him and explain what has happened. I'll tell him to take the girls to the cottage in Suffolk. It's empty at the moment and they will all be safe there."

"Great idea," I quickly said. "Imogen, pack some food and clothes now and go over to Peter's house. He'll take you both away for a few days and I'll call later and explain. Have you understood all this?"

"Yes," she said, "but, Nick, now I am worried. I wish I knew what this was all about. I wish my English was better – I need to ask many more questions."

"Don't worry, Imogen. I promise I will explain later. Is Sally with you now?"

"Yes. She's watching television with Annette."

"Good. Then whatever you do, don't frighten them. Tell them that I said it's okay for you all to go away on a short holiday and I'll call her later tonight."

"Yes okay, Nick. We will all go over to Peter's soon and I will speak to you later. Bye."

She put the phone down.

I was feeling slightly better now and gave the card to Chrissie so she could phone Peter.

"Come on," said Jean-Pierre, "you need a drink."

We returned to the table and finished the wine.

"Nick, I really do not know what to say to you," he started with sincerity. "I realise that this is a big shock but please believe me when I say that the last thing that Eamon wants is for any harm to come to Sally or you. He loves you very much and I have known him long enough to judge when he is being truthful. He has never been a good liar."

I didn't want to say anything even though Jean-Pierre was being very sympathetic and understanding. My thoughts turned to Eamon and I was unsure whether to love him or hate him for what was happening. I blamed him for the fact that Sally could possibly have been in danger though I was not concerned about myself. Had I not got involved with him in the first place, none of this would be happening. I knew full well that, on the other hand, he was as much an innocent in the affair as I was and must have been living a nightmare. I thought of him in his cell alone, yet stilled blamed him.

Chrissie returned to the table with a troubled expression on her face.

"I've told Peter all we know. He is getting some things together now and will drive to the cottage later. I'm confident they will all be safe."

"I hope you're right," I said as I downed the wine. "I just hope you are."

Jean-Pierre then filled us in on some of the other details and what the probable outcome would be in court the following morning. Though he would not normally handle a case like this, he was aware of the legal system and knew that he would have time to decide on what the next move would be. One thing puzzled him though. In a matter like this, it was normally the customs police who took control and set the charges. However, Eamon had already been handed over to Inspector Sablon of the local gendarmerie. That seemed odd and not the usual protocol if they wanted or intended to get a conviction. But he suggested that it might have been a new EEC ruling simply to satisfy the jurisdiction of the area it happened in. Or the local police were advising.

By then, I was slightly more relaxed, if that is the correct term for someone in my situation. Jean-Pierre then suggested that as there was nothing more to be done until after the hearing, we should go over to his apartment near the hotel for a meal after we had taken a short rest.

Chrissie was definitely not in a sociable mood. Her face told the strain of the day and it was clear she needed time to take it all in. She declined his offer but I wanted company. I accepted and wanted to shower anyway even though it was only late afternoon. That was fine as Jean-Pierre needed to go over to his office and collect some papers for the hearing and reschedule his appointments. We agreed to meet at the hotel reception in two hours.

I got Chrissie to write down the number and address of the cottage before we went to our respective rooms. She looked tired and I suggested she take a long bath then raid the mini-bar in her room.

She smiled.

"That was just what I was thinking," she said.

I showered, had a rest then went down to the bar in the reception to wait for Jean-Pierre.
Part Two: Chrissie

I really don't need all this at the moment.

As if I haven't got enough problems with Peter and Annette but now my brother as well. I really only wanted him to stay with us so that Peter and I had some breathing space to allow me to think where our relationship had gone so very wrong. What the hell has he got himself into and, more to the point, why am I involved? If he wants to ruin his life let him but not by dragging me into it. And what about Nick? Christ, I bet he regrets the day he ever set eyes on my family. I regret allowing him and Eamon to become so friendly but then I didn't throw them into the sheets together, did I?

Everything is just such a mess at the moment – my life is in a real shambles. I sometimes wish, rather selfishly, that all of them would disappear. Just for a while. Just enough time to allow me to sit back and put it all into some sort of order.

I'd be lying if I said that I had not known for the past couple of years that things had not been going well for Peter and me but I did genuinely think I could handle it. I do still love him but I'm not "in love" with him. The usual cliché but it's true. He's a good father and a good, no, generous provider but he's not the man he was when I married him. Things were so different then before Annette was born. He was my hero. It's odd to remember him that way now but he provided the strength I needed. I loved him because he was so unpredictable. At the drop of a hat, he would whisk me away for a wild, romantic weekend or change the car if I said one of the windows was sticking.

He was so different to the other men I dated. His clothes were always very stylish and immaculate and at that time he had a moustache which was always neatly trimmed. He was dashing, I can't deny it, and he helped me forget the problems I was having with my parents and Eamon.

It was in the grounds of Leeds Castle in Kent that he proposed to me. It was so magical, a real fairy-tale setting. He spared no expense on the occasion and bought a hamper from Fortnum & Mason and pulled up in a Bentley he'd hired for the day. It was wonderful driving through the Kent countryside with a welcome breeze in the air and everyone was staring at us. How could a girl refuse that? I agreed and we made endless, passionate love that night.

But soon after we married all the magic was gone. Peter quickly fell into the role of suburban husband. Loyal at the beginning but ultimately boring. The passionate, impulsive weekends soon stopped and the romantic meals in all those select restaurants went out the window. We were then in our early twenties but we became an apparently happy, middle aged couple. And the most annoying part of it all was that he then agreed with everything I said without putting up any argument. I'm the first to admit that I do sometimes need a little slapping down. I don't mean literally but occasionally we all need and want to be dominated. If I was in two minds whether or not to have sex, he would say, "Oh, all right then, dear." I knew it was not what he really wanted or needed.

We were getting into a rut. There was already too much routine and repetition in our lives.

And then I became pregnant.

It was simply an accident. Sure, we had talked about having children but I wasn't ready yet. There were still too many things I needed to achieve and I had to give up my job.

The pregnancy was not easy for me. The whole of my body seemed to swell out and I was constantly sore and uncomfortable, and then I got those bloody piles. They were horrendous. I was so embarrassed at the clinic when I asked the doctor to take a look. It just seemed so undignified. I really can't understand what makes women want to have child after child. It's an experience, there's no question of that, but an experience that you only need once in your life. And definitely not over the summer months.

And then, after Annette was born, the problems increased. Each day I would stand in front of the mirror, naked, and look at myself. I was appalled. My breasts looked like I'd been trying to lift weights with them and my thighs remained big and round. The worst part was that my stomach had not flattened and I still looked like I was four or five months pregnant.

I really didn't like myself; in fact, I positively detested me, which did not help our sex life. It really didn't come as a shock to find out that Peter was having an affair. No, that's not quite correct. It was not an affair, merely a couple of nights' passion. One thing that Peter has never been good at is lying and I believed him when he told me. It was just a fling, a few moments of weakness when he succumbed to the offer of sex with no strings. But he didn't need to tell me; there was no reason to and no way that I would have found out.

But he did tell me and all it's achieved is to make matters worse. I want our relationship back the way it was a few years ago. That sparkle, that magic. Of course, I know only too well that I must shoulder the blame for things going wrong but I've never been good at talking about emotional problems. Had I been, not only would my marriage be in a healthier state than it is but Eamon might not be in the predicament he is at the moment.

I could have helped him when he left home but I didn't know how to. He was going through a terrible traumatic period and my parents virtually threw him out the door when he told them he was gay. He needed their help and I should have supported him but, as usual, I ignored it because I couldn't handle it. I'm consumed with guilt now. "If only" is not good enough.

When I get back to London, the problems will have to be confronted. I don't want to lose Peter and if I don't do something about it, I fear I will. Perhaps a marriage counsellor will be a good idea. I'll suggest it.

Right now though, here I am in Paris and my brother's in prison. I'll do whatever I can but poor Nick. This is a dreadful situation for him. If there was ever any threat that something terrible would happen to Annette, I don't think I could handle it. What an unbelievable predicament.

If things could be different or we just changed the way we look at life then it could be wonderful. Why are we so afraid to say what we really feel?

Right now I want to be part of the scene. I want to be part of the Marianne Faithful song and be Lucy Jordan driving through Paris with the wind in my hair or lounging back in a boat along the Seine with my fingers in the water and sipping wine or even slurping a bloody flake. There was no reason for this relationship to go wrong; we had what we wanted and the two of us against the world made a great team.

Did I suddenly become so hard and so confident in my dealings with life that I dismissed the good times and the advantages to be strong and independent? I stopped laughing, I stopped being cynical, and I stopped telling my husband what he meant to me.

The best thing that happened to us was Annette and yet I've used her as an excuse, a crutch to stop me from facing the reality of life. For some reason I saw her as mine and as my burden, my penance for not being a good mother, sister, daughter and any other bloody thing I can blame myself for.

But to do something about it is undoubtedly the easiest and most honest thing to do. "Peter, forgive me. I don't want this and I'm sorry it's all gone sour. Relationships are not easy and I clearly didn't read the manual. But let's learn from this and from this moment on have a new outlook, change our ways, love life and love our daughter. I want you and if I can't have you the way you were then I'll still take you the way you are now. How about it?"

He'd agree and it's the simple solution and the most honest way forward. But something is stopping me from just doing it and if I don't confront all this then everything will come crashing down.

If Peter will just see me through this, I promise that things will change.

They must.
Part Three: Nick

Jean-Pierre was already waiting for me in reception and greeted me warmly. His apartment was only a couple of blocks away from the hotel but we drove there. He shared the flat with his lover Henri. It had not occurred to me that Jean-Pierre was gay as our initial meeting was under different and difficult circumstances. At that time, Jean-Pierre and Henri had their flat on the outskirts of the city but now they live in a small, but very chic house in Aix-en-Provence. The Paris flat was tastefully decorated and occupied the third floor of a converted house and overlooked a small courtyard full of potted geraniums.

Jean-Pierre had already told Henri the details of the case as Eamon had been a good friend of theirs for quite some time and they were both as concerned for him as I was.

Henri is four years older than Jean-Pierre, slightly taller and stockier with a bald patch on the back of his thin hair that he has never tried to hide. He too speaks perfect English, which really puts my French to shame.

When I met them, they had only been together for three years and I remember thinking that evening how lucky Eamon was to have such good friends. Henri worked for Radio France as a researcher and Jean-Pierre had only just become a freelance solicitor.

The evening was very pleasant and, for a while, I actually forgot the reason I was in Paris. The meal was vegetarian and excellent. At 8 p.m. I asked if it was okay for me to phone England ad they suggested I use the phone in the bedroom.

I called the cottage and it was Imogen who answered.

"Hello."

"Hello, Imogen, it's me."

"Nick. I was expecting you. Everything is fine here. We arrived just nearly one hour past and Peter is preparing something to eat."

"Good. And how are the girls?"

"The girls? My God, they are having a wonderful time. This is a real adventure for them. Do you want to speak to Sally? She's waiting just here."

"Yes, please."

"Daddy, Daddy, hello!" she shouted down the receiver.

"Hello, darling. Are you all right?"

"Yes. We are all here with Peter in a big house in the country and there's horses in a big field next door and Peter said we can go and feed them tomorrow."

I was relieved she was happy, which was not too difficult, but above all, safe.

"Are you coming here tomorrow?" she asked.

"Not for a couple of days, darling, but you will be careful with those horses and make sure Annette and you don't go wandering away by yourselves. You must promise me that. It's very important."

"Okay, boss. Can we have a horse? Is Eamon coming with you as well? Can I speak to him?"

"Sorry, darling, he's not here with me at the moment ... and he may not be able to come with me."

"Well, give him a kiss for me," she said, "and can we have a horse? Do they eat frogs' legs in France?"

I chuckled.

"Sometimes they do and I don't think a horse will fit in the flat."

"Urgh," she said.

"Listen, darling, I have to go now."

"Will you call me again tomorrow?"

"Of course I will. Now go and get something to eat. Goodnight crocodile."

"Night, night, Daddy," and she blew a kiss down the phone.

Imogen came back on the line.

"So, Nick. What happens now?"

"Well, in the morning Eamon's case comes up in court but the details are complicated and I really cannot give you them now as I'm not so sure myself. I'll call again tomorrow evening but, in the meantime, don't let Sally out of your sight."

"Don't worry, Nick. Peter and I will not let either of them come to any harm. Now you look after yourself and I'll speak again tomorrow. Good night."

I bid her goodnight and put the phone down.

For a moment I sat back on the bed and looked around the room. It was clean and tidy and, as I expected, very tastefully furnished. Not too clinical with a definite lived-in feel. One entire wall was devoted to black and white photos of Henri and Jean-Pierre and many of them were clearly taken on holidays. They looked very happy in them and from what I had already seen they were well suited. It was what I would have wanted for Eamon and me but at that time I was still confused whether I should love or hate him.

When I returned to the living room, I explained that Sally was safe and we sat on the sofa to take coffee. I asked them how they had got together and the sort of things they enjoyed doing. They had met at a dinner party and Henri had offered Jean-Pierre a lift home at the end of the evening. They ended up spending the night together and Henri pointed out that it was downhill from then on.

They enjoyed doing much the same as Eamon and I like cooking, entertaining, holidays etc. It was clear they both gained a great deal of support from each other. It was all still part of the learning process for me and I was still under the illusion in those days that all gays spent the nights clubbing, pubbing, pulling tricks and sticking liquids up their noses that smelt like dirty old socks to keep them high. I know better now. The majority of gay affairs are as boring as the next person's. How anyone can perceive them as a possible threat really rather defies belief.

For a while, we spoke about my background and I explained all about Maggie and Sally and how I got to know Eamon. They were both easy to talk to and at least appeared to be interested.

"So now you find yourself in this very odd situation. I can understand it must be very difficult for you."

"Yes it is. Though I must confess that I am still not totally sure exactly what it is I am involved in."

"Well," Jean-Pierre started, "you must remember that Eamon is a good friend of ours and now you are too, so if there is anything you need, you must not be embarrassed to ask."

He was sincere. They both were.

I was happy to be spending time in their company.

"Thank you," I said. "And thank you for a lovely evening, but I feel I should go now."

Jean-Pierre stood up.

"Come on then. I will drive you back to the hotel."

"No, no. Please don't worry," I said. "It's only a couple of blocks away and I still have some thinking to do."

"Okay then, but if you are sure?"

"Yes. Really. It's fine."

"Okay, Nick. I will collect Chrissie and you from the hotel in the morning at 9 a.m."

They showed me to the door and I thanked them again. They both smiled as I put my hand out to shake theirs but they kissed me goodnight.

"You are in France now," said Henri, "and here, all fairies kiss."

"And don't worry," Jean-Pierre added, "we'll see you through this."

As I walked back to the hotel, I felt much more secure in the knowledge that they were helping Eamon. They were aware of what I was going through and my thoughts returned to him in his cell at the detention centre. It was breaking my heart thinking of him all alone yet I also wanted to hit him.

The following morning, Jean-Pierre picked us up as promised and I became more anxious as we sat in the small courtroom waiting for Eamon's case to come up. Jean-Pierre had checked the list for that day and he was the third case to be tried, which, according to Jean-Pierre, was a good sign. I never asked why he said that. To this day, I am still uncertain as to what the first two cases were all about. The first involved a middle aged woman and a gendarme. She would not stop talking and the whole court, including the magistrate, a very attractive woman probably in her mid-fifties, found it highly amusing. Whatever the outcome was they all seemed pleased, including the woman in the dock.

The second case involved someone whom I presumed to be a Turkish immigrant worker; his whole family was with him. I thought it odd that all the male members looked like him, a little like Saddam Hussein. Whatever it was all about, the outcome was a good one and they all cheered. Except for a small, bald man who stormed out of the courtroom.

Then Eamon's case was called. He was brought into the large room from a small oak door to the side of the magistrate's bench and led to the dock by a gendarme.

He was handcuffed.

He was still wearing the clothes I had left him in at the airport a couple of days previously. He was neat and clean but the look of fear on his face frightened me.

Chrissie took a handkerchief from her purse.

Jean-Pierre was at the front bench and stood up while a clerk read out the charge.

Eamon was staring down at the floor and I was staring at him from the side. But as Jean-Pierre started presumably introducing his client and putting up an initial defence, Eamon slowly turned his head around to look at us. He did not need to say anything.

The fear in his face showed and the tears began to well up in my eyes. I wanted to go over and comfort him. He looked like a frightened child about to be scolded by his parents.

Except this was a great deal more serious.

The magistrate then spoke to him but I could not understand what she was saying. Eamon could and answered "yes". She then said something else and there was a silence as she looked at some papers in front of her.

The police then stood up and took Eamon back through the oak door. Jean-Pierre looked over at us and smiled. It was what he had expected and asked for. Eamon was to be held in custody, though Jean-Pierre would deal with that issue later, and the case was to be passed to a higher court for a fuller hearing involving the border authorities.

We left the courtroom feeling worse than when we had arrived. Though there was the problem with the language barrier, we knew nothing more at that time than we had the previous day.

Jean-Pierre went to see Eamon again downstairs and met us in reception fifteen minutes later.

"Well, it's just as I expected," he said. "The case has been referred as the magistrate cannot judge and pass sentence on a case like this, which allows me to buy some time. I have also been allowed to arrange a meeting with him for you both. This afternoon at 5 p.m. at the detention centre."

"Oh, that's great," said Chrissie.

"And how does he feel now?" I asked.

"Under the circumstances, not too bad," Jean-Pierre replied, "though I must say that I just left him in tears. Not because he is so afraid but because of seeing you both in the gallery. He says he needs to talk to you urgently."

Jean-Pierre had other work to do and he was still not happy that Eamon was passed over by customs though they would still be involved as a second party. Chrissie and I said that we would amuse ourselves for the day and meet him at the detention centre later. It was agreed and Chrissie and I went off to a cafe for lunch. On the way, I bought a fifty-franc phone card and called Sally and Imogen at the cottage. Everything there was fine; the girls were still enjoying their exciting, impromptu holiday. We had a splendid lunch then took a walk around some of the sites.

Later in the afternoon, we took a taxi to the detention centre and met Jean-Pierre. The three of us sat waiting in the interview room for Eamon to be brought in. My heart was pounding as I heard the key turn in the door at the end of the room. A gendarme entered first of all, followed by Eamon and then a second officer. Eamon was wearing a small, red, sleeveless tunic over his shirt – the type worn for a netball team.

He stood staring at us from the end of the room through pitiful eyes and said nothing. Chrissie then burst into tears and ran over to him.

I walked slowly toward them.

"Oh Christ, Eamon," she sobbed, "what the hell has happened?"

He wrapped his arms tightly around her shoulders before looking over to me. He slid from her shoulder to mine.

"Oh, Nick, Nick, please forgive me," he sobbed as he pressed himself tightly against me.

I held back the tears.

I held him for a few seconds and then became practical. I was conscious of the small amount of time we had.

"Eamon, sit down," I said. "We have to get to the bottom of this."

I sat him at the table and he held one of my hands tightly. With his free hand he held Chrissie.

He breathed deeply and sighed.

"Has Jean-Pierre explained this nightmare situation that I've got myself into?" he asked.

"To a certain extent," I offered, "but he doesn't know everything and, besides, why could you not have told me about this? We could have gone to the police."

"And put you both at risk?" he replied and began sobbing again. "The two most important things in my life?"

I was not sure how to respond. Chrissie looked over to me then bowed her head. She was surely important to Eamon?

As I watched him I felt both pity and annoyance. I should have been crying with him but he knew of a threat to my daughter and my loyalty lay with her.

"Look," I said firmly, "you must tell us everything. There may be something the three of us can do to help, and even though you don't want to involve Sally and me, you already have."

Eamon sat back in the chair and rubbed the tears from his eyes.

"Yes, you're right," he said and then went on to explain to us how he became involved with Bulmer and why the initial loan, so trivial these days, was necessary. Chrissie broke down again in tears as he explained how difficult it had been for him after his family had dismissed him as a student. I too became rather tearful especially when he spoke of the blackmailing but at that time, I had only one aim in mind and we were to shed tears for his life at a later date.

I thought quickly after Eamon had finished. Sally and Imogen were safe for the moment and though I knew little of Bulmer, it struck me that he was probably only a small-time crook, perhaps a bit of a bullshitter, and may not have had the resources to carry out his threats. However, I was involved now and with Eamon out of the way, for a few days at least, any action would need to be taken on my part.

"Listen, Eamon," I said, "Jean-Pierre has told us all about the charges and the consequences you may have to face if you do not co-operate with the police. You could end up having to pay the full penalty for smuggling the dope or this new type of drug or whatever the bloody stuff is and I suspect that's more severe than you think."

"But how the hell can I tell them?" he shouted at me. "You have no idea what Bulmer and this connection in Paris might do. I've never seen that side of Bulmer but I don't underestimate that bastard. If he can't do something, he'll know someone who can. The person here may the one who has the greatest power. The police and customs people are all going to a great deal of trouble to nail this bloke."

We all sat back and sighed.

There was no rational way around the situation unless Eamon helped the police, yet I had my daughter to consider, though I believed her to be safe for the moment.

"Listen ... tell me how I can find him," I started. "I want to see this man for myself."

Eamon stopped sobbing and looked up at me from the table.

"But Nick," he pleaded, "that wouldn't do any good. He'd simply deny all knowledge of me and God knows what he might do to you."

"Look, Eamon, just tell me," I replied. "I may not be able to do anything for you now but I'll do anything for my daughter."

I had not intended for that to come out quite as abruptly and loudly but she had to come first in this.

"Eamon," I continued calmly, "all I want to do is to make him aware that you have not yet implicated him in all this. There may be some compromise we can reach – money perhaps."

"Money means nothing to him with the threat of being banged up for a few years." He started crying again.

"No Nick, I can't involve you ... I really can't."

I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up to me.

"Look, just give me his fucking address!" I shouted into his tear-filled face.

"The Gala Tandoori Restaurant in Commercial Road," he sobbed. "He has an office upstairs and goes there every day. It's opposite the hospital."

I sighed and pushed Eamon back into his seat. I was sorry for the way I had treated him and guilty for the obvious hostility I was showing.

I rubbed my eyes and sighed.

"Eamon ... forgive me for that," I started, "but surely you realise how I feel. Christ, here I am in a foreign country and never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that I would ever be involved in something like this."

"I know, I know," he started. "Look, my trial will probably not come up for a couple of weeks and I understand why you must see Bulmer. Please tell him, I swear he will not be implicated but they already know about Fabrier. But if anything happens to Sally or you, I won't hesitate. If nothing else, it would make things inconvenient for him for a while. I know full well that I'm in this situation because of my own stupidity and naivety and I alone will pay the penalty."

He stood up before me with more tears streaming down his face.

"Say you'll forgive me, Nick. Please say you'll forgive me."

A third officer then entered the room and told Jean-Pierre that the time was up. Eamon only stared at us and was then taken out of the room and back to his cell before I could answer his plea.

Chrissie wrapped her arms around me and we both stood in silence.

"Come on," said Jean-Pierre, "we must leave now. I'll take you back to the hotel."

My heart was racing and not in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined that I would be in this strange and unwelcome situation. I'd never been quite as angry, and I surprised myself at just how strong I was when the odds were against me. My daughter Sally was all that I was concerned about and her protection was the only thing that was important. Eamon's mistakes and future, our relationship, the problems when the parents found out, my job, the friends, the whole scenario – nothing else mattered. I'd never grabbed another individual by the scruff of the neck and shouted at them or threatened them. This strength didn't seem to be me.

But it was.

We said nothing in the car on the way back. I was still unsure of what to do or whether or not I had done the right thing at the detention centre. The meeting had not given Eamon the support he needed. But one thing was definite ... I wanted to be with Sally. There was no point in staying in France if Eamon was going to be locked up until the next court appearance and I needed to do something useful.

I was unsure what that could be.

Back at the hotel, we made our way to the bar and took a large cognac each, which I don't remember even tasting.

"I really need to get back to London, now," I announced. "Jean-Pierre, will you take me to the airport? I just need to get my things from the room."

"Me too," said Chrissie. "I really need my family at the moment."

"Yes, of course," he said, "but we really need to discuss what action should be taken over Eamon."

"No we don't," I replied. "Do nothing for the next few days or at least until I have had the chance to speak with this Bulmer person and assess the situation."

"But, Nick, do you really think that's wise?" said Chrissie. "You have no idea how dangerous this man could be."

"Exactly. Which is why I have to find out all I possibly can." I turned to Jean-Pierre. "Please, just wait a couple of days until I return ... probably with Sally. I'd rather have her by my side through this."

"Okay, I understand," and he took hold of my hand. "Please, be careful and keep me advised. I'll do all I can here."

I have to say that I was quite impressed with this new confident me. I feared nothing and nobody.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Part One: Nick

We finished our drinks and it only took a few minutes to gather our belongings and check out of the hotel. Jean-Pierre drove us to the airport and fortunately it was only about forty-five minutes before a flight was leaving for London. Jean-Pierre got us the seats at short notice and I took his phone numbers and said I would call him the next day. Within three hours we were back in London and on our way to the flat.

It was important for me to get in and call Imogen and Sally. When we arrived, Chrissie said that she felt uncomfortable about staying the night at her house and asked if she could stay at mine. I agreed and she went into her house to pick up a few things.

I immediately phoned the girls and Peter at the cottage and was relived to find everything as it should be. It seemed odd speaking with Peter for the first time throughout the whole episode. He was concerned for Chrissie, naturally. I explained that we had returned to London and we would both be coming up the following day, though I would not be there until the early evening. I spoke with Sally, who was exhausted from her holiday activities, and blew her a kiss before she went off to bed. Chrissie then arrived back from her house and I passed the phone to her so she could explain to Peter the days' events. I went into the bathroom to take a long, cool shower and change into something more comfortable. I could smell the bleachy odour of the detention centre on my skin.

While I was in the shower, Chrissie must have gone back to her house and taken some food from the freezer. When I went into the kitchen, she was defrosting some lasagne in the microwave and preparing some salad. She'd also brought over a bottle of wine.

"So what are you going to do about Bulmer?" she asked as we finished our meal.

I thought for a moment.

"I'm still not sure. But I have to see this man and form my own opinion about him. He may have just been spouting a great deal of hot air."

"You can't be serious about that," she said. "Surely someone who has access to drugs and crooks in Paris must have a great deal of power."

"Possibly," I agreed, "but if we don't do anything, Eamon will go to prison for a long time and though I must put Sally first, that is the last thing I want to happen."

Chrissie put her wine glass down on the table and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Oh, God, I don't know what to do or think ... what a terrible nightmare this is turning into and I must accept some responsibility."

I felt rather sorry for her.

"Why do you say that? Eamon made the choice and knew what the consequences could be. You can't blame yourself for it."

"Maybe, maybe not. But I had no idea of the horror that Eamon was going through after he left home. If only we, my parents and I, had been different about it all."

I still found it hard to believe but the longer it went on and the more I found out about it, the stronger I was becoming. I was not afraid at the time and I'm sure if I was in the same situation, I might have done the same thing.

"First of all," I continued, "tomorrow I'll go and see this Bulmer character and find out what I can. After all, we now have something he wants. I suggest you leave in the morning for Suffolk and I'll join you later in the day."

"But I think you should come with me and discuss the situation with Peter," she replied. "He may be able to see another angle to all this."

"No ... that's not necessary," I pointed out. "We won't be any further forward. I'm going to see this man on my own and, if needs be, I'll plead for his compassion, if he has any."

"But aren't you afraid?"

"I'm worried for my daughter's safety and frightened for the outcome of the trial and what it will do to Eamon. But as for my own safety ... no. No I'm not afraid."

"That's good," she replied, "because I'm shit scared. I'm scared that someone will get hurt."

She hesitated before going on.

"I still don't see what you can do. You know nothing about these people."

She was right. At that stage, my knowledge was very limited. I had no idea about the lengths they might go to. From the scant information I had, I didn't see me as a threat to Bulmer. There was, however, a way to protect my child and ensure that Eamon said nothing to the police and face the consequences alone. Alternatively I could destroy Bulmer with a gun or a knife but that was from a detective or spy story and this was reality, not tinsel town.

"You know, I really don't need all this at the moment," she continued. "There are many, too many, problems in my life. This business had come at an unfortunate time."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed.

"It's Peter. Well, it's Peter and me. Things have not been going like they should be."

"You and Peter with problems? I don't believe it."

"Oh, we sure have problems. We hide it all, of course, from our friends and Annette and anyone who might just look under the surface."

I was surprised to hear this but then life was full of surprises at that time.

"Oh, Chrissie, I am sorry. I really had no idea. As a matter of fact I'd say totally the opposite with you two. To both Eamon and me you appear to be the perfect couple."

"That's only a defence, a shield. Peter has been having sex with someone else. A girl he met on that course in Brighton."

I have to be honest and say that I was not really prepared for this conversation and I wish it was not me she had chosen to speak to.

I was rather embarrassed.

"Oh, I see," I muttered. "You mean he's having an affair?"

"No. Far from it. They spent a couple of nights together in the hotel. It was just sex and nothing to do with anything else."

I sighed and stopped myself before making what would have been a typical male "blokey" comment. Just having sex together for no other reason than passion really means very little more than a slapped wrist. To most men, if they can get away with it, then it doesn't deserve a second thought. But to women it is different; and to wives, it's the worst possible thing that can happen.

How different men and women truly are.

"And in the middle of this Eamon lands himself in gaol," I said in the hope that we would change the subject.

She smiled.

"Yes. It never rains but it pours. But if I'm going to be honest, it's my fault."

"You can't blame yourself for your brother's predicament and for heaven's sake, Peter is old enough to know the difference between right and wrong," I replied.

"That's true. But I was the one who denied Peter sex, love, passion and honesty. We did at one time have all of those in our relationship but I changed that. I've always been selfish, even when Eamon left home. He had no choice in the matter and I could have helped him and possibly even prevented all this. But I turned my back on both of them."

"Now that's nonsense," I started.

"But it's true. I've always had a problem confronting emotional issues. It's usually the other way around in most relationships, in straight relationships, but not mine. Nick, I simply have a problem admitting it, talking about it."

"Well, you haven't got a problem at the moment," I pointed out.

She was surprised.

"God, you're right," she realised. "Here I am telling you our innermost secrets, my confessions, and you have enough problems of your own."

I laughed.

"Well, I haven't got too many confessions I need to make and you know all my secrets. Eamon's are now falling out of the closet but, believe me, it makes it all so much easier to have them out in the open. That's probably why Maggie and I got along so well. We always talked it all through. You know, a problem shared and all that? Do you still love Peter?"

"Yes. Yes I really do."

"Then tell him. Tell him what you believe the roots of it all are rather than letting him make his own interpretation. The sex, or lack of it, may be a biological problem rather than emotional."

"Perhaps."

"It's worth exploring. There's far too much time wasted in our lives with all this. We all really need to communicate more than we do."

"Yes, you're right. I know you are," she sighed. "As soon as we get back to normal I'll tackle it. It's the only way I can see to save my marriage."

"But why wait until then?"

"What?"

"Why put it off until later? Why not do something about it now?" Phone Peter before going to bed – there's a phone in Imogen's room – and tell him what you've just told me. At least it will set the ball rolling."

She thought for a few seconds.

"Yes. I'll call him before going to sleep. I really need him now."

She continued after a pause. "And thanks, Nick. Thanks for just listening to me."

"That's what friends are for."

She sighed then yawned. The strain was showing.

"Look, if you don't mind," she said, "I think I need an early night and I'll call him now if that's okay."

"Sure, go ahead. I'll call you in the morning," and with that, I kissed her goodnight and she thanked me again just for being there.

She went off to her room and dialled the number of the cottage.

Soon afterwards I went to bed but spent a very restless night. My mind was still racing over the events of the past couple of days. I imagined an enormous fight with Bulmer whom I pictured in my mind as a tall, well-dressed gangster-type character, which estate agents often remind me of. I imagined a gunfight in his office and lying flat on the floor with a couple of large, well-dressed heavies standing over me, smiling and about to pump me full of lead.

I was surprised when I eventually met him.

To say I was shaking like a leaf when I pulled up opposite the Gala Tandoori Restaurant was an understatement. Sure, I was afraid but I knew I had to get to the bottom of this and I was surprised at exactly how much courage I did have. I was forced into a situation that Alistair MacLean or Agatha Christie can only write about and the whole idea of it all was so alien to me that I began to think of it as unreal and surely not happening to little Nick Wallace from Stoke Newington. Had I known what I know now, I would have been on the first flight to anywhere along with my daughter. I'd never thought of myself as being courageous before but the events and outcome of that day would live with me for the rest of my life, and Sally considers me to be the first and possibly last of the mega action heroes.

It was nearly 10 a.m. and Chrissie had left earlier for Suffolk. Of course, she had pleaded with me not to go – a woman's intuition I believe she called it – but I was a man with only one aim in mind (possessed, I think is the term she used). She was very afraid and I pitied her. She gave the impression that all she really wanted was to run away from her life and leave it all behind. But then she had her own reasons and problems.

From the car, I watched the building, which is typical of many in Commercial Road. It was on three floors and the shop front was covered in a thick plastic hung to resemble curtains and gave the impression that you were entering a tent in the Kalahari Desert or the home of a travelling Maharaja. Very tacky, of course, but there were so many Asian restaurants in the area then that they tried every tactic to get the punters in. The gold and silver painted sign above the front shimmered from any angle you looked at it and above that, on the next level, was a plain but large double sash window. In this, I saw the outline of a man with his back to the light, sitting with a phone in his hand. I knew immediately that it was him though from where I sat I had no idea about his size.

After smoking yet another cigarette, I got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. My mind was clearly miles away as I parked on a double yellow line without a care in the world. I knew the door was open as the cleaners, and probably waiters, were inside and five minutes earlier a delivery of vegetables had been brought in. I put my hand up to the door, pushed it open and went in.

To the left of the entrance was another door marked "PRIVATE". The cleaners noticed that I had entered and one of them came over to me and asked if he could help. He was a rather short Indian man with a balding head and a belly spilling over his tight trousers. I had not taken my eyes from the inner door and must have said, "No, thank you." It was clear I was not there to order a take-away and he returned to his business.

Without waiting, I pressed the button on the intercom and the door buzzed. I pushed it open to reveal a further staircase leading up to another door at the top.

Momentarily, I hesitated, took a deep breath and began ascending. The inner door behind me swung shut automatically. I was about halfway up the steps when the top door was opened and what I thought was a tall, well-built man was standing there. I knew immediately it was not Bulmer. I was later to find out this was Jacky, his assistant.

"What do you want?" he called down to me.

I said nothing but noticed how the expression on his face changed. He appeared to recognise me.

"Oh, well now. It is you," he said. "Mr Bulmer was right. He said you'd be here."

It was not requested that I reply and he held the door open for me as I walked up the rest of the stairs.

"Come on in," Jacky said. "Mr Bulmer will see you anytime."

I didn't like the sound of his voice. It was patronising and had a rather sadistic tone. However, I was not afraid of him. It would have been easy to get the hell out of there but I dismissed that thought immediately.

Standing next to the heavy, I was surprised to find that he was about my height and build and did not appear intimidating at all. There was, however, an overpowering smell of what was possibly an expensive aftershave which made me catch my breath.

"Mr Bulmer is in his office over there," he said and pointed to a door on the small landing.

I looked at the door and then it occurred to me that I was there totally unprotected and I really should have asked someone to accompany me for no other reason than moral support.

"Well, go on then," he said as he pushed his face closer to mine. "He won't bite you," he added and sniggered. "He knows that you're here."

I walked toward the door and turned the handle but Bulmer spoke before the door opened.

"Nick," he said in a loud voice, as if he knew me. "Come on in, son. I wondered when you'd get here."

Bulmer was at his desk and stood up and came over to me. He was not how I imagined. He was smaller and dressed well but nothing out of the ordinary. He looked unsuspecting and could easily have passed for a bureaucratic civil servant from a fifties public information film. I have to say that initially he seemed friendly.

"Come in, Nick," he said, "and sit down over here. We have a few things to talk about."

I followed him to the sofa and remembered that all I wanted to do at that point was just listen to him.

"Drink?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"You don't mind if I do?" he said and took two steps over to the drinks cabinet. "You can't beat good malt before a business meeting. My old man told me that, God rest his soul, and I've never forgotten."

He got himself a drink and came back to the sofa. I was slightly more at ease by then but the emotions I felt for him over the past couple of days came back to me. There I was in a place I had never been before and both Bulmer and his side-kick knew me, yet I had only known of their existence for a few hours. It seemed surreal. Things were moving fast now and I needed answers but had not given a thought to the type of questions I needed to pose.

"So how was dear old Eamon when you saw him yesterday?" he asked as he settled himself into an armchair next to me.

"How the hell do you know I saw him?" I said without thinking.

"Oh, I know everything that happens to my friends," he replied and took a mouthful of whiskey. "After all, I have to protect my interests."

He smiled and stared at me. I was no longer nervous or afraid.

"You know, you won't get away with this," I surprised myself by saying.

He laughed loudly.

"Oh, but I think I will," he said confidently. "You surely don't think I'm going to lay my reputation on the line for some stupid punter like your bum-pal who can't even carry out a simple task without causing trouble for himself. I know everything that's happened so you need not hide it."

Now I was angry.

"Look!" I stood up and shouted. "If you harm a single hair on my daughter's head, I swear ... I swear I'll kill you."

"Your daughter?" He laughed. "Come on, son. Me, harm a small, innocent child? What do you think I am? A wild animal?"

I was confused.

"But you know exactly what I mean. Eamon has told me about the threats you ..."

"Sit down, sit down and relax," he said calmly and took another mouthful of whiskey.

I dropped back into the sofa.

"Your daughter, er, Sally isn't it?" he started, "is not in any danger from me and never has been. Please, me, Joseph Bulmer hurt a child? No, that's not the way things are done in the east end, no way. If I was to do anything like that I would not be able to walk this manor. No you've got that wrong."

"But Eamon said ..." I started.

"Don't take any notice of that," he said dismissively. "That was only a little insurance to make sure that you did not go running to the police if things started going wrong."

"But I don't understand what you're saying," I replied.

He leaned over closer to me.

"Seems simple enough to me but let me put a few things straight for you," he said smiling, "even though straight may be a difficult thing for you to be."

He found this comment amusing and smiled at me.

The hatred I had for him was now showing in my face.

"I only wanted lover boy to believe I meant what I said. I knew that he would tell you if things got out of hand. You see, in my game, son, you have to be one step ahead of the pack. I've learnt so much about you, Nick, that I even knew you would come here by yourself." He leaned closer to me. "You see, you are the real insurance. You are the one that will shut that toe-rag friend of yours up, not your daughter."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

"Oh, Nick, you don't get it, do you? I've learnt so much from the French. They're in the big league, where I want to be, and nobody, not even that pansy you bed, is gonna ruin it. You only get one shot in life and I intend grasping it."

In my confusion, I hadn't noticed that Jacky had come into the room and was standing behind me. I realised too late as I caught the smell of the aftershave just before I received the blow to the back of my head. I immediately fell to the floor and remember Bulmer saying, "Sleep well, my son, sleep well."
Part Two

It was late afternoon when Chrissie phoned Jean-Pierre's office in Paris to see if Nick had contacted them.

"No. He hasn't called me yet. When did you last speak with him?"

She explained that she had last seen him that morning before going to see Bulmer and that he was supposed to call her at the cottage on his way. He hadn't arrived yet and she was very worried.

"I've tried his flat but there's no answer. Do you think it's time I called the police?"

"No, don't do that yet." He thought quickly. "Is Sally still with you?"

"Yes, of course she's still here and safe. But I'm worried about Nick. What if something has happened?"

Jean-Pierre sighed. "I'm sure that's not the case. It may be that he is on his way right now."

"But he said he would phone first and he hasn't. I feel that something terrible has happened. I know it."

"Chrissie, listen to me. Do nothing until I contact you. Give me your number."

She did as she was asked.

"Look, I have a further interview arranged with Eamon in an hour's time. I'll try and get some more information concerning this man Bulmer but I must stress that you do nothing yet. It could make things worse. I'll call you a little later and tell you what I think you should do. I've been finding out a great deal more about the circumstances of Eamon's arrest and being passed over to the local police. There is a great deal more to this than I thought."

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot go into this now. Please, just trust me on this."

"Okay," she agreed, "but let me know as quickly as possible. I really can't take all this."

"I will but you must be strong for Nick and Eamon's sake. I'll speak with you later."

He replaced the phone then told Henri what the call was about.

"Oh my God. Do you think something has happened to him?" Henri asked.

"I don't know, maybe. But I have found out a few details about this Monsieur Fabrier. He has never been convicted of anything but his business dealings appear to be shady to say the least. I think that maybe Bulmer has no idea just how big a name he is here in Paris. His name is connected with too many things for all of them not to have any foundation."

Jean-Pierre sipped his coffee.

"I didn't mention this to Chrissie and Nick but there is talk that he was connected with the police investigator, you remember a few years ago, the one who was found hanging over the Seine with the broken neck."

Henri thought. "Yes, I do. My God, what has Eamon become involved in?"

"That must be why the customs police and local gendarme are working so closely together. This case is bigger than anyone involved would have initially realised."

Henri was not happy to hear this.

"And you too," he said, "could be in some danger. Please, don't take any stupid risks. I don't want to have to fish you out of the Seine as well."

By the time Jean-Pierre reached the detention centre, Eamon was almost hysterical. He had been placed in an isolated cell by himself and the freedom to roam around like the other detainees had been withdrawn. He was anxiously pacing up and down the cell when Jean-Pierre walked in.

"Thank God you've arrived. I knew something like this would happen, I knew it!" Eamon yelled.

"Calm down," said Jean-Pierre, who was surprised at this unexpected outburst. He put his arm around Eamon's shoulder and led him to the bed.

"Now stay calm, please. Stay calm and tell me what you mean."

"They've got him, they've bloody well got him."

Eamon stood up from the bed and walked over to the small table. He picked up a piece of paper and handed it to his friend.

"Here, take a look at that."

Jean-Pierre read the note, which was written in prison note paper. It was in English and said:

LOVERBOY IS WITH US FOR THE MOMENT. BUT FORGET YOURSELF AT THE TRIAL AND HIS DAUGHTER IS AN ORPHAN. LONDON FRIENDS.

"Where did this come from?"

Eamon looked around and wiped the tears from his face on the sleeve of his shirt.

"It was slipped under my door about an hour ago when I was half asleep ... I told you. I told you all he was a powerful man ... he has contacts everywhere."

"Okay, okay. Just calm down and let me think."

Jean-Pierre chewed the nail on the little finger of his left hand. His other nails were immaculate but he kept that one for moments like these.

He thought the situation out before he spoke. It had already occurred to him that something like this could happen. Not, as Eamon thought, via the connection in London but more than likely via Fabrier in Paris. A man like him would even have contacts at the detention centre and there had even been rumours that he was involved in the shipping of foreigners into France and other member states in the EEC. There was no significant evidence but there was the possibility that the police were setting the whole thing up.

"I'm sorry my friend, but I think there is only one thing to do," he said to Eamon, who simply stared at him.

"We must tell the police here everything we know. I know you do not want that but Inspector Sablon understands these situations and will know the best way to tackle the problem. He was the man who interviewed you at the airport then formally charged you."

"No," Eamon said flatly. "I can't do that. I can't put Sally at risk any longer. They've paid enough already for my stupid actions."

Jean-Pierre felt enormous pity for Eamon at that moment. He walked over and put his arm around his shoulder.

"Eamon, my friend, you are not being rational. I think the damage may have already been done. If you want to help Sally and Nick, then I suggest you start trusting me and do exactly as I say."
Part Three: Nick

It must have been early evening when I came around. I had no idea where I was, and when I tried to sit up I had the most excruciating pain in the back of my head. It felt like the mother of all hangovers as I lay back down on that foul-smelling mattress.

I focused on my surroundings.

It was a dark, damp room and I soon recalled what had taken place in Bulmer's office, however many hours or minutes ago that might have been. A wave of panic gripped me momentarily but it was soon gone. I should have been afraid but I was getting accustomed too quickly to unfamiliar surroundings and surprises. I was angry. Angry that I had been so submissive and allowed myself to walk straight into a trap. I had made things easy for Bulmer and his side-kick along with any number of other parasites on his payroll.

He was right. In this game you need to be one step ahead.

I then remembered all those films from my childhood about secret agents, and thugs and cowboys who all got knocked out and I never realised how easy it was do that to another person. I thought it only happened in films because if you hit someone hard over the head you were more likely to crack their skulls rather than make them lose consciousness. But you can knock them out and quite often without them needing to spend hours in casualty departments.

This was an altogether new world I was experiencing.

Very slowly, I raised myself onto my elbows and took a closer look at the place I was in. The room was damp, the smell was overpowering and I found it difficult to breathe deeply. There was a small, barred window close to the floor and this was frosted and wire-ribbed. The dim light in the room was from a single light bulb dangling from the wooden ceiling. The area was about three metres square and, at one end, there was a large metal door. The only items in the room were the stinking mattress I lay on and a dirty bucket, presumably for my waste.

I stood up – very slowly.

I was still shaky and my head was pounding again so I sat back down until the pain receded slightly.

It was possibly a full hour that I sat there looking around the room and attempting to make some sense of this situation. I thought how naive I had been to walk into Bulmer's office and hand myself over to him, rather like a lamb to the slaughter. I was relieved though when I recalled what he had said about Sally and, somehow, I knew that she would be safe. How I knew this, I really don't know, but I was confident even though Bulmer could have been lying. I had the impression that he too was a father and just like Eamon had thought, there was something quite likeable about the man.

Both Eamon and I were now prisoners but he would have no idea that I was being held. It occurred to me that his accommodation was probably better than mine and this made me snigger. I tried to remember the good times we shared together but the only image of him I could imagine was the last one. That was of him crying in the interview room and being taken out by the gendarme and back to his cell.

My thoughts then turned to Maggie, which surprised me. I had not given her a great deal of thought for some time but she would understand that. Before Eamon came into my life, for good or for worse, she was rarely out of my thoughts. It's true that Sally looked much more like her in those days and I suppose subconsciously she was always there. But I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon be joining her.

Then I remembered that magical day on the heath when Sally saw the rainbow for the first time. The image was like a breath of fresh air. How happy she was; how magical that time had been. Would I ever again chase a rainbow with her?

I sighed and attempted to put things in perspective and think of the future. I tried to make myself think the way that Bulmer might think, one step ahead. No doubt I was a useful pawn in this and Bulmer would somehow need to let Eamon know that he was holding me, perhaps through Chrissie or Jean-Pierre. If I was being held, he would not name anybody at a trial. Well, the one person the authorities wanted to get some evidence on, and that seemed to be the French guy. I don't think anyone was interested in Eamon or Bulmer, or even me.

But then I knew all about the situation and who was involved. Would I be allowed free knowing that I would go to the police? Of course not. Bulmer would not take the risk and I knew little about any power or influence the French connection might have.

So I was strong again. I seemed to be certain I wasn't going to be freed and resigned myself to the fact that I would be killed. Strange really – I wasn't afraid. Perhaps I too was one step ahead.

It seems odd now to think back to that time when I thought Bulmer was the one in the centre of it all. I was so wrong. He too was just a pawn, a casualty of it all and being led. It was Fabrier who was pulling all the strings and held all the cards. Bulmer was simply easily impressed and perhaps way too ambitious.

There was a noise outside the door.

I heard heavy footsteps walk across a wooden floor and then a light thud as if something, not too heavy was being dropped. I shuddered as I heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal. The bolt on the back of the door was being moved.

It swung open and in the doorway, with the light behind him, stood the broad figure of a man. He was tall and wore a tracksuit. The man was black with tightly cropped hair and a small goatee beard. In his hands was a crowbar.

"Hey you, it's time to eat," he called over to me.

On the floor by his feet was a small, plastic carrier bag which he kicked into the room. It landed by my feet.

"Hope you like Chinese," he said sadistically, "though it doesn't matter if you don't. It might be your last meal."

He found this comment amusing.

I said nothing. I was worried the crowbar was about to attach itself to my skull rather violently.

"Eat it or don't eat it, I couldn't give a fuck," he added. "And if you wanna piss, use the bucket and not the fucking floor."

I said nothing.

"Did you hear what I fucking said?"

I whimpered a short "yes" as he slammed the door shut and slid the bolt back into place.

"And Bulmer will be here in an hour," he shouted through the door.

I heard him turn and walk up the stairs.

I sat motionless for about fifteen minutes until I had calmed down. He had frightened me and had that been a sketch in a Guy Ritchie film I would have found it rather comical. The language was typical, the food being thrown across the floor and the sound of the bolt. Yes all predictable. But this was not a film and, yes, I really did wet myself.

But I stopped being afraid. I had resigned myself to the fact that something terrible was going to happen and there was little I could do to stop it. I felt quite relieved in many ways. A strange emotion for an even stranger scenario. Perhaps I did not, could not, believe it was all happening. A lower-middle-class trendy single parent like me from Stoke Newington? No. This was just a small part in some low-budget, badly written gangster movie. Any moment the director would shout "it's a wrap" and I'd receive my certificate that said I had starred, for a day, in _Reservoir Dogs_ and Sally would frame it and put it on her mantelpiece. Accept it was not a dream, and when I realised that, I was hungry.

My whole body was sore, which seemed odd as I was sure I was only hit on the back of the head. I bent over and picked up the bag. It contained a foil dish and a can of Coca-Cola. Did the moron who threw it at me not realise I only drink Diet-Coke? Clearly not. Inside the dish were three pancake rolls – cold but the smell was tempting. I had not eaten anything since the previous evening and had then only played with the food on my plate. I found my hunger after the first mouthful and washed the food down with the soft drink.

Feeling more relaxed, I recalled that the moron who threw the pancake rolls at me said that the meal might be my last. I contemplated this as I lay back on the foul mattress, waiting for Bulmer.
Part Four

As promised, Jean-Pierre phoned Chrissie at the cottage after he left Eamon. She almost became hysterical when he explained that it appeared Nick had been kidnapped but he insisted that she calm down and listen carefully to what he had to say.

"It's important that you stay where you are and under no circumstances contact the police."

"But you just said ..." she started.

"Just listen to me and do as I say. I'm going to contact the police myself. I know the Customs and Excise police well and they will take care of it. This man Bulmer must have contacts here at the detention centre or at least his counterpart here in Paris does. I do not want to alarm him. We have no idea what might happen."

This frightened her even more.

"But what about us here?" she asked.

"I am confident they are not interested in Sally any longer but I think you should stay in the safety of the country for the time being. We could jeopardise both Nick's and Eamon's chances if we interfere."

"I don't know what is going on, Jean-Pierre. This is frightening. I'm scared," she cried.

"Please, Chrissie, you must trust me. I know what I am doing," he lied.

He said goodbye and promised to call her later that evening as it was still early. He replaced the receiver on the public phone booth outside the detention centre in case anyone heard him. He then drove the two blocks to the European Customs and Excise Police Headquarters close to l'Arc de Triomphe.

On arriving, he made his way straight up to the reception on the second floor.

"I must see Chief Inspector Bisson immediately," he said to the very disinterested receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"No, I haven't," he replied and pulled out a card from his top pocket. "Here is my card. It's important that I see Bisson now. It concerns the smuggling case he is working on."

"Perhaps I can help you," a voice said from behind.

Jean-Pierre turned around and Inspector Sablon from the Bois de Boulogne Gendarmerie was standing there.

"The chief inspector is not here at the moment but I am aware of the case you refer to and perhaps I can help," he said.

"Damn," said Jean-Pierre. "I need to see him urgently."

"Please, come with me," said Sablon and turned toward an office door a few feet away.

The inspector smiled at him.

"It's okay, you can trust me," said Sablon.

Jean-Pierre hesitated. Sablon was not a member of the customs force and it was odd to find him here at their headquarters. But then everything about this case was odd. He led Jean-Pierre to a small office and told him to take a seat.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asked.

"I have not come here for a coffee evening," Jean-Pierre snapped. "My friends in London and here in Paris are in danger and I need the help of the police."

Sablon sat opposite him. "Please continue."

Jean-Pierre hesitated then quickly explained some of the basic details of the case without giving away too much. He knew Bisson well and was unsure if Sablon could be trusted. He explained that his client, Eamon, wanted to make a full confession but his partner had been kidnapped.

Sablon's expression did not change but he listened carefully to all that Jean-Pierre had to say.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Inspector? Somebody in the detention centre is involved. My client could be in danger either from other inmates or a guard and if we contact the British police, you would have no jurisdiction over them. That's why I need to see Bisson. Eamon must have special protection."

Sablon sighed and rested back in his chair.

Jean-Pierre became impatient and stood up.

"Inspector Sablon, have you understood any of this? You have detention cells here for witnesses and it's important my client is moved here now, tonight."

"Please, sit down," Sablon said calmly. "I have understood all you have said. But more to the point, I am aware of most of it."

"What do you mean?" Jean-Pierre asked. "How can you be? What involvement do you have?"

Jean-Pierre thought he may have made an error in being so open with Sablon, who could have played a part in passing the note to Eamon. The only thing he was sure of was that Bisson could be trusted.

"But how do you know all this?" he asked.

"Your client is a witness, but in a much larger and grander case than you may have imagined. His contacts in France are my concern and the man he was carrying the drugs for is the one I am anxious to protect him from. I was not aware of the note he received."

Jean-Pierre was confused.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Sablon stood and scratched his head.

"It was not the intention to involve you in this area. However, now you are and you had better come with me. I'll explain it all on the way."
Part Five

Henri Fabrier poured himself another Armagnac then sat back on the leather chesterfield in his sumptuous office overlooking the Rue Foch. The boy from Perpignan was how he considered himself and he thought that he had done well when he looked around the room. The apartment was the first that he had broken into when he came to Paris from the south all those years ago. All he was then was just a backstreet boy with ambitions. He loved the height of the ceilings, the marble fireplaces and the mirrors on the doors which divided the drawing room from the salon. The velvet curtains and tapestries were finer than anything he had seen and the hand-woven carpets in the bedrooms were so soft that he could have slept on them rather than in the oak and leather beds. From that very first break-in, Henri Fabrier truly believed that one day he would live in an apartment like that, a stylish address like Rue Foch and even this very apartment. How ironic that would be if one day he were to be the legal owner.

Well, it became true and though the owner was reluctant to sell at the time, Fabrier used his "powers of persuasion" along with some rather ingenious and lucrative tax-evasion techniques to secure it. It wasn't cheap but then style and French chic were never out of vogue and one had to pay for one's indulgences.

Fabrier had done well over the years

But had he made a mistake in the past few weeks. A mistake which might have the most fatal consequences. He'd been so careful over the years – perhaps a little too careful and taken too many precautions. He knew that the authorities – those who were not on his payroll – where watching him all the time and one little slip-up could jeopardise his whole world. In retrospect it seemed like a bad idea to have personally met that amateur in London and then introduced himself to the mule carrying his future pension.

Were the authorities aware of the importance of this new drug and the possible far-reaching and global repercussions if it were to become the leader in its field?

Fabrier was uncertain of what was happening and it worried him. This was not the position he had been accustomed to. The courier being stopped by the authorities was not usually a problem. There were plenty of measures in place to deal with that but was it just by chance or had they been tipped off?

Uncertainty worried Fabrier and in his experience, which was vast, he always believed it better to take action rather than ignore niggling problems and hope they went away. The courier would need to be taken out and his "agency" was taking care of it right now. He needed to go because he could identify the boss and that could set a chain of events off which would be harder to clear up. Bulmer and his organisation would also need to disappear. Fabrier didn't like him anyway – far too amateur and a potential risk. And the English guy with the kid. Yes, there was no question about it – it would all need to be taken care of.

As for that police officer, Inspector Sablon? Was he involved with this? The man needed watching all the time; the bureau had attempted to get rid of him through early retirement but he was like a bull in a china shop. About to cause chaos. Perhaps it was time to show Sablon that he couldn't win.

"Abel!" he shouted to his assistant. "Get in here now. We have some work to do."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Part One

Louisa Sablon was certain that she was the happiest person in Paris that evening. At last she was going home. Not the apartment, the apartment they had lived in for far too many years, but her real home in southern Brittany.

As she prepared to close the library she had worked in for nearly twenty years, she could, if she used her imagination, smell the fresh air as she pictured herself stepping out onto the patio of the home she had only spent a handful of weeks in since they bought it.

The previous evening, Sablon had told her that the chief inspector had called him into the office again and presented what would be the final offer of terms for early retirement. Sablon had pretended to be surprised though he was genuinely shocked when he read the figures. The pension would really be more than they needed but the lump sum of 750,000 francs would allow them the freedom and security they needed for the many wonderful years to come.

Naturally, Sablon explained to the chief inspector that the offer was unexpected and that he needed a week to think about it. The chief was impatient but reluctantly agreed. He was under a great deal of pressure to lower the budget for the whole department and if he was able to get rid of at least twelve staff through early retirement, that would allow him a certain amount of financial freedom for the next two years and assist with his promotion prospects. He did not know that Sablon was going to accept, or that, indeed, he would have agreed had the terms been much less. A condition of accepting though would be to allow him to see through the case against Fabrier, which was nearly complete.

Louisa was relieved. For far too long, Sablon had directed all of his energies into his crusade, his preoccupation in compiling the files and subsequent charges against Fabrier. He had enough already to send him away but Sablon was not happy just to do that. Sablon wanted him away for a very long time. At the beginning, she admired his determination to seek justice. His one aim – to bring the murderer of his partner to court and get a conviction. But the case had drained him for far too long. She watched him as the years ticked by and he grew older, as his hair receded and disappeared. As his eyesight became worse and his waistline grew larger. He needed a new start, a fresh direction in his life and other interests. He needed to be away from Paris, away from the bureau, away from crooks and thieves and junkies. They had become an integral part of his life and Louisa wanted to change it.

The case against Fabrier would probably be long and drawn out. Sablon's estimation was about three months but she had waited all these years so this was nothing. She could wait and, besides, preparation for the final escape from Paris would need a great deal of planning and she knew it would be difficult to sell the lease on the apartment with only twelve years remaining. But that was fine, with their savings and the lump sum, not to mention her small pension, they could afford to appoint an agent to cover the legalities and she estimated they would be heading for Brittany in the early spring.

As a chief librarian, she knew all the books. Her love of books stemmed from her childhood in Brittany and she was lucky enough to read all the new titles before they went on the shelves. That day, she spent her time in the gardening section looking for the reference books she knew so well. The pages and plates of lavenders, lavateras, buddleias, topiary and hebes always excited her. The bulbs, the seeds, the perennials, the biennials, the hardy shrubs, the half-hardy shrubs and the fern – she knew all of them. And then came the hostas for those shady areas of her Brittany garden and the magical clematis. In her imagination the garden was planned. That ever changing, bright, colourful magical oasis in her dreams would soon be a reality.

And they would be happy, Lucien and herself. The two miscarriages in their relationship were long in the past now and the unsuccessful attempts at adoption had taken their toll. Her whole passion, her own rainbow now would be the gardens. She would call him Lucien again and he would also learn the new skills needed to refurbish the house as quickly or as slowly as he wanted. It was already perfectly acceptable but he had always said he would like to restore the old summerhouse and the pigeonnier and build a new patio outside the bedroom so that Louisa could step from her bed and be amongst her blooms.

Yes. There were plans to be made and Louisa was forming them in her mind as she walked from the library in Avenue Pompidou and stepped into the patisserie in Rue Madeline. This was a special occasion and she bought a couple of slices of the highly calorific kiwi and passion fruit cheesecake Sablon and she adored. She would miss the patisserie though. Valerie and Yvonne knew everybody's business in the quarter. The old shop was a source of delights for the mouth and a source of information and education for the mind. But this evening, Louisa was not in the mood for gossip and she would let them know the following day about Lucien's early retirement and what their plans were for the future.

She paid no attention to the blue Citroen as it followed her from the library and waited patiently outside the shop. The car was like many thousands in Paris except that this one's driver and passenger were both employed by Fabrier. He was beginning to realise that Louisa's husband had played an integral part in stopping the courier and Sablon needed to pay for what would have earned Fabrier an even vaster fortune and reputation.

It was the split second before the vehicle hit her that she saw it. She stepped into the road with the yellow and white striped box containing the cheesecake in her left hand. The force of the collision hit her left thigh and she was thrown to the other side of the street, landing head first in a puddle in the gutter.

She was disorientated.

She'd heard the crack of the bone in her lower back but there was no feeling there. There was no feeling in her legs. She could taste the blood in her mouth and moved her head. As she looked up, she watched, rather drunkenly, as the car reversed and the back wheel covered her face and split her skull.

It was over in seconds.

Louisa Sablon would not be living the rest of her days in the picturesque, south Breton village of Savenay.
Part Two: Nick

The noise of the bolt on the back of the door woke me. I must have dozed off after the black joker tossed me the food. I think it was perhaps two hours later.

The door opened and the three of them came in – Bulmer, Jacky and the hired heavy carrying a small, wooden table.

"Nick!" Bulmer exclaimed. "Sorry to keep you waiting but you know what it's like. Business must go on."

I stared at him through blank eyes but had nothing to say.

He was wearing a dinner suit and slipped his hand into an inner pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He stood next to me, opened the case and offered me one.

It occurred to me to kick him in the groin. I was sitting in the best possible position to cause him a great deal of pain. But I wanted the cigarette. I pulled one from the case and he slammed it shut then turned away from me.

"Jacky," he said, "give our guest a light."

Jacky did as he was instructed

Bulmer then took a cigarette from the case himself and paced up and down the room. The black heavy carried the small desk over to the side of the bed and positioned it directly in front of me.

I sucked deeply on the cigarette. It occurred to me it could be my last.

"I've got a problem, Nick," Bulmer announced staring up at the ceiling. "You're gonna do me a favour, son, in the interest of saving my business and reputation."

I found my voice.

"You want me to help you?" I asked and smiled. "I'd rather rot in here before stooping down to help you. Go fuck yourself."

"Well," he said smiling. "So there is a spark of life there after all." He walked across the room to the mattress. "I think you will help me, lad. That is when you hear how I've been passing my day."

The black heavy had already left the cell but now returned with a writing pad and two pens, then positioned himself in the doorway with Jacky. The pair looked like characters from the film _Pulp Fiction_.

Bulmer looked down at me and smiled as I sucked on the cigarette.

"Sorry I had to leave you so long today but I had some business to attend to. Firstly, I was at your flat today."

This shook me.

"What the hell were you doing at my property, you bastard?"

He turned again and paced up and down the room.

"Tut, tut, Nick you have been a naughty boy, haven't you? Jacky and I found a few grams of coke stuffed into your daughter's spare pillow. And some needles and something to smoke in the kitchen."

He sucked on his cigarette and flicked the ash over me.

"What the hell are you up to?" I shouted and paused to think.

"Shout as much as you like," he said. "Nobody will hear you."

He walked back across the room, sucked in his breath and screamed as loud as his lungs would allow then smiled at me.

"Shame about this area," he continued. "Docklands, I mean. It never really has taken off. It just shows you, son, you can't believe all that politicians tell you."

He puffed on the cigarette before continuing.

"Now, where was I? Yes, the favour. I want you to write a little letter to lover boy in Paris for me."

"What? Write a letter to Eamon for your benefit?"

"That's right, son, only I'm gonna tell you what to say."

"Never," I snapped. "I'll see you in hell first."

I was not afraid.

Not even when Jacky's fist smashed into the side of my face. I could taste the blood in my mouth but was getting used to it by then.

Bulmer walked back over to me.

"I think you will help me, sunshine. You know that I would not intentionally hurt your little Sally but adults, well, they can take care of themselves."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Take that couple that live a few doors away from you. You know the ones, Eamon's sister who has that charming little place in Suffolk. Lovely old place it is with a thatched roof. Needs a bit of attention though, if you know what I mean. The only problem with thatch is that it catches fire easily. Always a problem with a place like that."

Now I was afraid.

"Just what are you getting at, you twisted bastard?"

I was angry. So angry that again I did not feel Jacky's fist smashing into my already sore cheek. I could feel my eye beginning to swell.

Bulmer continued.

"She's a nice old dear, that one that lives above you in the flat. Mind you, those stairs are a bit of a hazard for someone of her age. What if she was to fall?"

The black heavy walked across the room and laid the notepad and pens on the small table. Bulmer dropped his cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out.

"Right then, son. Let's get down to the nitty gritty. If I don't get what I want, those people will not be around come lover boy's trial date. Do you understand? Now it's up to you."

My face sank and, quite unexpectedly, I burst into tears. The image of Chrissie, Peter and Annette flashed through my mind and I pictured their charred bodies lying in a heap. I saw Mrs Brown lying at the bottom of the stairs. She would not survive a fall.

It was all becoming clear, or so I thought, and I presumed I knew what this was all going to be about.

The letter was obviously going to save Bulmer and allow the people I loved to live. It was no doubt going to be a confession by me to say that only Eamon was involved in the smuggling. The planting of the drugs in my house would indicate that I was aware of what he was doing and I had probably helped him because I loved him.

I was wrong.

The reality was much worse.

What evil, twisted brain could come up with a scheme like this?

"Now, Nick. Are you gonna help me or what?"

I wiped the tears from my eyes and Jacky handed me a handkerchief.

"We don't want blood all over the paper," he said.

I picked up the pen and Bulmer dictated the letter, which I wrote word for word.

My dearest Eamon,

Words fail me. I don't know where to start in saying how sorry I am for getting you into all this. I was in a desperate mess when I asked you to become involved in carrying the package to Paris.

After Maggie was taken from me, my life was in ruins. I was on the verge of putting my daughter into care and taking my own life because I could not give her the life she deserved.

I could not resist the opportunity when it came up for you to carry the stuff. I figured that if you did not know what it was, you would not get caught. Please try and understand that I could not run the risk of taking it myself.

If I was caught, Sally would be taken away and the chances were I would not see her again. But now it has all gone so terribly wrong and I can't take it anymore. I can't even face life. I hate myself for ruining all I had. Sally will have the best of life with Maggie's parents.

Please don't forget me.

I love you.

NICK.

I could hardly believe it. The whole scenario was to be my fault.

It was a suicide note from me.

Almost laughable in many ways, not in the least original and told me all I needed to know about Bulmer's intelligence. They were, as I had already figured out, going to kill me. As Bulmer read it out loud, my life flashed before me. My daughter would never see me again and I would not be able to keep the promise I made to Maggie on her death bed.

It was, however, a way to resolve the whole situation. My friends and loved ones would be safe and Eamon would be free. Probably free to nail Bulmer and his heavies. But I would be dead.

"Yeah, that sounds all right," he said. "What do you think, Jacky?"

"Sounds good to me, boss," he replied.

How could a Neanderthal like him see any flaws in it?

"Yeah," he went on. "This French bloke has it all sewn up, Nick. This was his entire plan, you know. It's what I mean about being a step ahead. He makes contingency plans for everything he does and me and him are really going places. I reckon it won't be long before the pair of us have every copper in Europe on our payroll. And who knows what more."

I sat on the bed looking up at him. I was disgusted with them but having resigned myself to my fate, I was not afraid. I was taking Bulmer with me.

I sprang from the mattress with such a force that I knocked Bulmer to the floor and lay on top of him. I sank my already bloodied teeth into his neck and felt them pierce the skin close to his vocal chords. I tore at the muscle like a mad dog.

The blow from the black heavy's crowbar knocked me out cold.
Part Three

The guard at the detention centre had seen Eamon's light flashing on the board for at least half an hour but was not about to answer it until the match he was watching on the television monitor was over. He'd waited all day to watch it and nothing would deter him. They were now into extra time and it was crucial.

Eamon paced up and down the cell, angry that he was being ignored. He was shouting as loud as possible.

"I have to see someone. I have something to say."

It was frustrating knowing they were ignoring him on purpose. He imagined the pain that Nick must have been going through and cringed as he pictured him lying tied in a corner, knowing that he could do nothing while his daughter was in danger.

The tears were pouring from Eamon's eyes as he shouted.

He ran over to the door when he eventually heard the shutter being pulled back.

"What the hell do you want?" the guard demanded. Though the match was over and Marseilles had won, he was still angry at being disturbed.

"Please!" cried Eamon. "I need to see a solicitor now."

"Well you can't," the guard announced flatly. "What do you think we do here, room service? Nobody, not even me, can see anybody we want, whenever we want. Besides, he was only here about an hour ago."

"No, you don't understand," Eamon pleaded. "Then let me see the governor. I need to make a confession."

The guard thought for a moment. He did not want the governor here and, besides, it was too much hassle. He would be finishing his shift in less than an hour and did not want to delay it.

"You can't see him, he's not here. Anyway, you've had plenty of time to come up with a confession. It can wait until the morning."

"No ... no, you don't understand. It must be done now, it's far too important. Get someone here now."

This angered the guard.

"Don't you tell me what to do or give me orders, you shit. Write the fucking thing down. You've got pen and paper in there."

He turned to go.

"And don't fucking disturb me again or you'll be sorry," he added.

The guard returned to his television and again ignored Eamon's flashing light on the control panel.

Eventually, Eamon gave up pressing the bell and lay back on his bed. He gathered his thoughts and calmed down. Maybe it was a good idea to write out the confession.

He picked up the pen and wrote in English.

He started from the very beginning and left nothing out. From the very first time he approached Bulmer for the loan. At the time when Bulmer was nothing more than a loan shark in Crawley. A "regular uncle", as the kids might have referred to him. He wrote how the repayments of the loan had been a large burden and drain on his resources and of how easy it was to defer these and top the loan up to meet payments at a later date. He described how he had seen Bulmer become more powerful with expensive cars and clothes and a much seedier type of right-hand man.

Eamon then wrote about Nick, again holding nothing back. The words just poured onto the page from the pen about how he was blackmailed into carrying the cocaine and the fear he had for Sally's safety. He thought hard about times, dates, names, places, etc. Much of what he wrote was out of context but all the information was there.

He wrote until the light was switched out and he could write no more.
Part Four: Nick

I came round with the three of them standing over me as I lay back on that stinking mattress. There was a terrible pain in my shoulder from the blow of the crowbar and I suspect I must have been kicked in the face as I felt the swelling over my other eye. My arms and legs were tied to the sides of the mattress and I was unable to move.

Bulmer was not smiling now. He was coughing and held a bloodied handkerchief to his throat.

I was glad.

"You pathetic little shit," he spluttered. "I was gonna make things easy for you. But not now, you prat."

I screamed as his fist slammed down and hit me in the groin. I screamed again as the second and third blows hit me in the same place, along with his feet. The pain was almost too much and I nearly passed out.

I wished I had.

"That good, is it?" he asked through clenched teeth. "Feels great to me ... what a shame for you that cock-sucking pansy of yours couldn't do a simple task for me."

He stepped back and coughed more violently. He needed medical attention.

Good.

"Are you all right, boss?" Jacky asked.

"Of course I'm all right," he snapped. "Pass me that needle. It's time he got it."

Jacky pulled a syringe from his top pocket and handed it to Bulmer, who snatched it from him. He stood over me and pulled the plastic cap off.

"Go on, son, have a good look at this," he said sadistically. "This is how you go, sunshine. A heavy trip, a special cocktail leaving plenty of evidence inside you. This will prove that you're just a smack-head like all the other losers, a regular junkie."

I watched as he brought the needle down to my arm. There was nothing else I could do.

"Time to say your prayers, nancy boy," he spluttered. "Sleep well ..."

It took me some time to make sense of the confusion which followed.

There were loud, incoherent sounds before the police stormed into the room and then what I presume was a shot, which I felt close to my head. Jacky fell on top of me, screaming in agony, but my arms were not free to push him off. I could not see what was going on amidst the confusion and all I heard was Jacky's screams.

I heard loud footsteps running across the floor and Jacky was pulled off me. A man I had not seen before looked down at me and asked if I had been shot. I later learnt that he was Inspector Bisson from the EEC Customs and Border Police.

I think I said, "I'm okay," before passing out.

It was at least two hours afterwards that I opened my eyes in the hospital. The light was bright and I was disorientated for a few seconds. There was a noise to my side and I turned to see Inspector Bisson whisper something to a uniformed constable.

He realised I had woken.

"Ah, welcome back to the land of the living," he said with a grin on his face. "How do you feel now, or need I ask?"

His voice was pleasant and welcoming with only just a hint of an accent.

"Terrible," I said. "Do I look as bad as I feel?"

"Probably worse." He smiled.

I winced as I remembered how I'd got that terrible pain in my face.

"Please, don't try and move," he said. "You're safe now and so is your daughter. Your friends are on their way back from Suffolk and should be here soon."

I tried pulling myself up on the bed and this made me feel nauseous.

"My throat is very dry. Pass me some water, please?" I asked.

He poured me a full beaker from the carafe at the side of the bed.

"You English. How do you drink this stuff from the tap?" he asked as he passed the glass.

I drank deeply and immediately felt better.

"So, what the hell happened and where did you come from?" I asked as I lay back on the pillow.

Bisson pulled the stool from under the bed and sat close to my face.

"I'll give you all the minor details when you have had a good rest. But for the moment, you should be proud of yourself. I am Chief Inspector Bisson from the EEC Joint Customs and Excise Police. You, my friend, have enabled us to tie together a loose connection, as it were. This man that trapped you, Monsieur Bulmer, he has been known to your police for a while but we were not aware of his connection with a person named Fabrier in Paris. He is a man you would not want to know and we have so much on him now that he will very soon no longer be a menace to other citizens in Europe." He hesitated. "I am sorry, but we have had all your movements tracked since you left the detention centre in Paris yesterday."

"What?" I tried to sit up. I was not sure how to accept this.

"You mean you knew I was being held? And beaten up?"

"Please, calm down," he said. "We knew where you were but we had no idea that you had been kidnapped. Please remember that until this evening, we had no idea what this was all about. Your friend and yourself have become involved in something much larger and grander than you could have imagined. For a long time, we have been tracking the French connection; the life and times of Joseph Bulmer were known but we knew he would only ever be a small fish in a pond far too big for him. It appears that we have stopped two birds in their tracks without knowing it. The man in Paris, Fabrier, was all we were concerned about but he has always had powerful connections and we were not aware of the consequences in just bringing him to court. Everything else, your connection and Bulmer, has developed coincidentally."

I lay back on the pillow. It sounded to me as if someone was reading the script of a James Bond movie.

"This is all unbelievable," I started and laughed to myself. "Just a couple of days ago I was a happy parent and now look at me. If anyone had told me all this, I would think they were crazy."

"Yes. I can understand that. The world of the petty thief, swindler and drug dealer runs side by side with the world that most of us exist in. The two usually do not meet but sometimes cross in mid-stream. You, my friend, appear to have been thrown in at the deep end."

He poured me another glass of water and passed it to me.

"We had no idea and also no proof that Bulmer was involved and had to allow the events to happen. Bulmer is not a strong man. Yes, he has dreams of making the big time but I am confident that if we had called him in, he would have willingly told us all we needed to know about his connection to Fabrier. This is a man way out of Bulmer's league. We have most of your conversations with him on tape and these will be enough to get your friend Eamon off most of the charges. Bulmer will go away for quite some time and will co-operate with us when we explain to him what has happened to other accomplices that Fabrier has collected along his way."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed.

"The chances are that Bulmer would have been disposed of by Fabrier after the ordeal. Fabrier is not a man who carries partners or suffers fools. Bulmer would not have been accepted or invited into the world of Fabrier. In some ways, you have actually saved his life."

"And so you allowed me to become a part of this sordid business?"

"Yes. We had little choice. For all we knew, you too were part of it. It was unfortunate but events took hold so quickly and we had to stand back and evaluate the situation. We've also known for a while that there was a leak in our organisation; the dealers were always one step ahead. There will be a number of arrests very soon but we could not risk taking the case to court without the full details. Many people have worked hard world-wide to get this far. We did not want the case to be dismissed on a technicality."

I then remembered Eamon.

"My God, what about Eamon?"

"I'm not sure," he replied. "But at the moment, my colleague and your solicitor friend are taking care of things. His confession against Fabrier plays an important role in this along with many others. Eamon will be protected but the main part is that you, your family and friends are all safe."

My name was called from across the room.

"Nick ... thank God," she called.

I looked over and Chrissie was walking toward the bed. She stopped at my side, took my hand and kissed my swollen face.

"Oh Christ, thank God you're still alive," she said.

I was never more pleased to see a familiar face.

"Am I glad to see you. How are you?"

"Don't worry about me, stupid. How are you?" She wiped the tears from her eyes. "You look like shit."

"Well thanks. I'll remember to ask for your advice next time I need cheering up. Is Sally with you?"

"Yes, of course she is. But I made her wait outside with Imogen. I didn't know what to expect. The police said that you had taken a few blows to your face. I didn't want her to be frightened."

"Do I really look that bad?"

"You look worse."

Chrissie looked over at Inspector Bisson, who was standing the other side of the bed.

"Oh, this is Inspector Bisson," I told her.

Chrissie's expression changed.

"Yes, I recognise the name. Jean-Pierre mentioned you. Customs police, isn't it?"

"That is correct, Madame," he replied.

"It's you people that arrested my brother and caused all this mess," she accused him.

"Chrissie," I said, "you have it all wrong. There's too much explaining to be done."

Bisson picked up his hat from the side cabinet.

"Well, I must leave now and will drop in again in the morning," he said and turned to go.

"Will I send your daughter in now?"

He didn't need to ask.

Sally walked into the private room. She looked a little confused and unsure and Imogen followed her. When she saw me, she ran over and jumped onto the bed. She stopped, however, when she saw my bruises. It was painful but I could cope now with real pain.

"Daddy?" she asked "What happened to you?"

The tears welled up in her eyes and mine as I wrapped my sore arms around her shoulder and pulled her to me.

"You don't want to know, baby. You don't want to know."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Part One

Eamon eventually got off to sleep with visions of Nick running through his mind. He must have been asleep for at least a couple of hours and he hadn't noticed that the cell light had been switched on, albeit dimmed.

The noise of the electronic bolts on the door and the sliding of them made him open his eyes. Initially, he thought it part of his dream and when the guard came into his cell, a guard he had not seen before, he was still in a dream state and muttered, "Who ... what is it?"

He was soon fully awake as the man crossed the cell quickly and firmly pressed the large piece of plastic tape across Eamon's mouth and pinned him to the bed with his knees as his hands attached themselves to Eamon's neck.

This guard was much larger and stronger than any of the others and looked Arabic. He pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and pressed this hard against Eamon's neck but did not cut the skin.

"Not a word from you or a struggle or this will cut you up for good," he said.

Eamon could say nothing. He was afraid and still rather dazed as the beads of sweat collected on his forehead. There was no way to struggle.

A second guard came into the room and closed the door almost completely behind him. He was much shorter than the first and spoke with what Eamon recognised as a Belgian accent. Eamon recognised him as the supervisor of the kitchen workers he had seen earlier in the day.

"The timer is on the outer door. We only have five minutes before the guards are alerted," he said to the first heavier guard.

"Shit," he said, "I thought you knew how to operate it."

"They constantly change the security arrangements," he replied.

"Then let's get this over with," the first guard said and pulled Eamon from the bed, pinning him up against the wall.

The second guard walked over to them and stared at Eamon.

"Say your prayers, faggot," he said as he spat into his face and began to rip Eamon's shirt off. The buttons popped off like peas from a pod and he threw the remnants of the material onto the bed.

"Grab his left arm," the second guard said.

"Why the hell do we need to go to all this trouble?" the first asked.

"Don't ask stupid questions. You know it's not up to us. We do as we are told."

The first guard pushed his arm tightly into Eamon's neck and pinned him harder to the wall. He brought his other hand down and Eamon presumed they were about to stab him in the stomach. He tried to scream but no words came out.

Before Eamon realised what was happening, the guard with the knife slit his right arm just below the elbow to the wrist. Eamon felt the pain immediately as the blood began to pour out but he could not scream.

He was then twisted around violently and the guard pinned his chest and face against the wall. Eamon's cheek caught a small hook that was on the wall and it ripped his skin. The other guard took hold of the now bloodied arm and dragged Eamon's fingers over the white-washed wall, writing the message they were instructed to leave.

Eamon did not understand, nor could he see what was happening. All he felt was the pain of the arm and cheek wounds. He was nearly unconscious.

The message on the wall, though smeared, was easy enough to read when they stood back.

"FORGIVE ME".

The guards then dragged him back to the bed and one of them tore the remnants of the shirt on the bed into strips and tied these together to make a long thin piece of the material. One of them then jumped onto bed and tied one end onto the strong mesh covering of the centre light fitting.

"Get him up here," he said as the other guard pulled Eamon onto the bed.

"Pull him upright," he demanded as he shaped the other end of the material into a noose for Eamon's neck.

Eamon had not yet passed out and realised what was happening. He began to struggle and the guard gave him a heavy blow with his fist to the side of his face.

He was out cold.

The noose was already around Eamon's neck when the shot from Sablon's pistol was fired and the second guard fell backwards against the wall and slid down the side of the bed. The first guard, still holding Eamon's limp body, pushed his flick-knife up to Eamon's throat. He thought better of this as Sablon, Jean-Pierre and now three guards entered the cell.

It was pointless.

He dropped Eamon's body onto the bed and handed them the knife.

The mess on the cell wall and Eamon's bloodied body looked a great deal worse than it really was.

Jean-Pierre thought that Eamon was already dead until the doctor confirmed that he was alive but losing too much blood.

But he would survive.

Jean-Pierre decided to stay with Eamon in the prison hospital.

"Welcome back," he said as Eamon slowly opened his eyes. "No, don't try and say a word," he added and then explained the events of the evening.

On their way to the detention centre, Sablon had explained to Jean-Pierre that Bisson was in London and was clearing up and piecing together the loose ends. They had also been aware that some of the guards were probably on the payroll of the cocaine chain and allowed Eamon to be set up to capture them. Their information as to the likely suspects was wrong as the guards who attempted to murder Eamon were not the ones they had in mind. The British connection, Bulmer, was not known until Eamon had unwittingly agreed to smuggle the dope through customs. He was obviously a vital link but after investigation with Scotland Yard, they realised he was only a small-time crook with ambitious ideas and not the powerful person he thought he was.

Eamon was in pain and found it difficult to take it all in but he was now fully alert.

"But what about Sally and Nick?" he asked.

"Sally is safe," Jean-Pierre replied, "and Nick, I believe, is being picked up by Bisson as we speak and will be in their custody."

Eamon was relieved. At last the ordeal was nearly over.

He sighed.

"So what happens now?"

Jean-Pierre smiled. "Well, my friend, the police have all they need on tape and you still have to appear in court. However, Bisson and Sablon will be taking care of most things. It's now just the formalities. You will have to appear in court and give evidence. Fabrier is a powerful man and the case will make the news. You'll be a celebrity and need protection. But not right now, so just rest."

Jean-Pierre stood up.

"The doctor says that you have to stay here maybe a few days; the wound on your arm is very deep and you lost a great deal of blood. There is a very deep wound on your cheek and that may leave a scar, a little reminder you will always have. However, when you feel better, I'll be taking you out of here until the trial comes up."

"You, how do you mean?"

"You are coming out on bail into my custody. Unless of course, you want to stay here?"

Eamon smiled.

"Just try and stop me."
Part Two: Nick

Eamon was right.

The ordeal was nearly over for us but just about to start for somebody else.

As they were sorting the formalities of the murder attempt, Sablon received a message that he was to return to his office immediately, on a personal matter. He questioned the young gendarme on the phone who had no details but the chief inspector had been called in from home and was waiting for Sablon in his office.

Sablon gave instructions to the guards at the detention centre then made his way back to his office. The case was now under way and in his opinion solved except for the formalities and Sablon worried that his boss was about to take him off the case. But Sablon had expected this and had already rehearsed his reasons for staying with it until Fabrier was put away.

The chief inspector greeted Sablon and asked him to sit down. He seemed very serious.

Then Sablon experienced an emotion he had not felt for many years.

Fear.

"Inspector Sablon," he started, "I have some terrible news for you."

This was not what Sablon was expecting.

"I am sorry to tell you of this, but it appears that your wife has been the victim of a hit and run road accident."

Sablon remained calm, externally but confused.

"My wife ... is she all right?"

"Sablon ... I'm afraid that she is dead. It was all over in a matter of seconds. I am so very, very sorry."

He stared at the chief inspector. These words were not new to him. On a number of occasions, he had used them himself to convey bad news to people. He always disliked telling relatives but insisted that if there had to be involvement, he would perform the duty as an honour to those departed.

This made his head spin. There was something stopping this small message from registering with him.

"I'm a professional officer. I can deal with this," he told himself.

"You need me to make a formal identification. Where is she?"

The chief inspector came over to him and rested his hand on his shoulder.

"I think you know where she is. Come on, I'll go with you."

"No," Sablon said quickly and flatly. "I'd rather be by myself."

Her battered and bruised face looked horrendous.

She had clearly suffered.

Yet the skin around her neck was undamaged and looked captivating and beautiful as it had always done. Her lifeless red hair looked limp and lay loosely at her side. It had been brushed though she would not have approved. To Sablon, she looked much younger lying there. In death, most of us tend to age but Louisa again looked as young as she had on the day Sablon asked for her hand.

He slipped his hand under the back of her head and brought her lifeless head up to his.

Then the emotions erupted and overwhelmed him.

He cried and whimpered like a dog.

"Oh, my baby, my precious, precious darling. It can't be like this, it can't be."

The years of crying flooded back to him. The turmoil of the miscarriages, the dismissal of God, the sleepless nights, the fear of death, it was all there. And the years of happiness, the love, the passion. the friendship, the understanding. It was draining from Sablon as he held the lifeless body of his love, the life force which made him get up in the mornings, the hope for the future. It was all dragged from him.

"Wake up, Louisa.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nick

It was a few days afterwards, the day before the initial hearing that all five of us sat at the bar in the hotel sipping brandies after a five-course meal, not sure if it would be the last together.

Eamon was staying with Jean-Pierre and Henri, and upon hearing what had happened to me, he wanted to return to London immediately. He could not, of course; it was a condition of his bail and his passport and other documentation had been taken away. He spoke to me on the phone at the hospital and when I was sent home.

My injuries were mostly just severe bruising, which looked worse than it really was and I was allowed home the day after the police rescued me. My face looked a dreadful mess and Sally found it quite frightening. However, it was necessary to attend the hearing as I might have been asked to supply evidence for Jean-Pierre.

When it was agreed that I return to Paris, I was uneasy about leaving Sally again and decided to bring her with me. However, Inspector Bisson convinced me that it was not a good idea as there were a number of formalities that needed attention and he was going to travel back with me. I agreed with him and decided she was perfectly safe staying with Peter and Imogen, so told her I would only be away a few days.

She was upset when I explained this.

"But why can't I come, Daddy?" she pleaded.

"Because you'll have to spend too much time by yourself," I replied, "and I need to do too many things that you'll find boring."

"Well, only if you promise to bring Eamon back with you," she said.

I laughed. "I'll see what I can do."

"No, Daddy," she insisted, "you must promise."

"Okay, darling, I promise."

And then I prayed.

There had been a very tearful reunion at the airport when Jean-Pierre and Eamon met Chrissie and me. Eamon was crying all the way to the Customs and Excise headquarters as Bisson said that we had to make a statement as soon as we arrived for Eamon's defence.

I told Bisson and Jean-Pierre everything in Bisson's office as Chrissie and Eamon sat in the corner crying at almost every syllable. It was over quickly and Jean-Pierre suggested we have a meal back at the hotel with Henri.

After dinner, the whole episode, or rather the loose ends, became clear. Even now, I still find the events which took place unbelievable yet they were totally invaluable in my education and have allowed me to look at life through different eyes.

Eamon became a little nervous after the meal when we talked about the probable outcome of the trial. Putting the blackmailing aside, he was still fully aware of the fact that he was breaking the law and his part of the case might be judged on that alone, especially as Fabrier had some very experienced and good lawyers on his team. However, Bisson and Sablon would be called by Jean-Pierre to give evidence and they were both well respected by most of the judges. The full case against Fabrier would be held later and the charges for Bulmer would be dealt with in London.

I spent the night with Eamon for the first time in what appeared to be ages. We lay wrapped in each other's arms all night and spoke of the events. Nothing could destroy us now. It was a comforting and secure feeling.

The hearing lasted a couple of hours and, initially, as Jean-Pierre had told us, they were only interested in the fact that Eamon had broken the law. Chrissie and I understood little of what was happening as both Jean-Pierre and Eamon looked worried. However, Bisson and a very tired looking Sablon had spoken in his defence and the expression of the judge and jury changed. We were pointed out to them and asked to stand though we were not aware what was happening.

They were happy with the result.

He was given a year's probation or the equivalent of this in France. What was good though was that under new EEC regulations, the sentence could be transferred to the UK probation services so Eamon could return to London.

As we were leaving the courtroom, Eamon was approached by a representative of the college he worked for. He did not know the man and needed a few minutes in privacy to speak to him. We waited for him outside the court and when he joined us again, he explained that though the college were sympathetic to the case, they would rather not continue with his employment. Eamon did not tell me the full details but he had agreed to resign as he wanted to return to London and he would receive a reference based on the previous term.

The fact that he would return to London permanently was fine by me.

The following week, we were back in London. I had returned to my boring job and Eamon was immediately placed with an agency as a relief language teacher. It was soon behind us and we got back to leading a "normal" life.

It was a couple of months after that we had to tackle the next biggest hurdle in our lives and that was explaining our relationship to all the parents concerned. Eamon and mine accepted it relatively easy but it was Maggie's parents who were the problem. They knew briefly about the case though we left a great deal of it out. This was excellent ammunition for them as they went to great lengths to have Sally taken away again and given to them, but after a host of visits by the social services and having had our loyalty tested to great extremes, it was agreed and rather obvious that Sally belonged to a safe and happy household. A doting father with a lover who would do anything to make her happy.

So things went well over the years, though it was not all a bed of roses. We had the usual ups and downs in relationships, like everyone. Sally grew up to be the living image of her mother and took after Eamon in so many ways that I occasionally became jealous. They were inseparable.

She was more pleased than anyone when we announced that we were toying with the idea of going to live in south of France and I was so proud when she was given the scholarship to La Rochelle University. She was eighteen years old then and had not been away from home by herself for such a long period. In her earlier teens, we allowed her to go away with her friends on school trips and we even let her go to Ibiza when she was sixteen with some girlfriends but insisted she phoned every day. Fortunately, Eamon handled the little issue of the facts of life and soon established that she knew more than he did.

Going to university was an altogether different matter.

I knew she would return as a woman.

And so, we moved here and Eamon was offered the job in Perpignan by an ex-colleague and I was lucky to have worked for the estate agency.

Chrissie and Peter fell in love again. It was really quite romantic and definitely knocked years off them. When the trial was over and we were back in England, she confronted the problems immediately. A visit to the marriage guidance counsellor was arranged but they didn't go. Instead they began by talking to each other and tackling the issues without the barriers. There is no doubt it worked. We even suggested they have a couple of weekends away and we would look after Annette.

Within the year, Chrissie was pregnant and, this time, it most definitely suited both of them. She gave birth to twins, a couple of noisy boys whom they named Daniel and Alexander. They were a handful but lovely kids. They are sixteen years old now, strong, athletic and health fanatics, and I've seen the way that Daniel looks at Sally when they visit for the holidays. It's _that_ look, the one that makes me worried if I have to leave Sally and him alone. The look I once had for Maggie.

Alexander though is a different kettle of fish. I've noticed how he looks at the other boys on the beaches here, and who can blame him? I'll be surprised if there isn't a little announcement by him about his sexuality. He's far too extrovert to spend his life in the closet but I do wonder what reaction and support his father Peter will offer. There's no doubt that he was bordering on homophobic but I think that over the years his attitude has changed.

We'll see.

As for Imogen, it most definitely was a phase she was going through. This rather surprised us but it does happen. When Sally started school, she returned to Germany and Christina and she tried making a go of it but they both agreed it was not what they wanted. Eamon blames those tall, blond Arian males. They split up amicably and both married to the delight of their respective parents. Imogen now lives in Stuttgart with her son, Hans, who has just started secondary school.

So here I am.

I often reflect back on those earlier years as I sit here in the garden. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if Maggie had not been taken away from me at such an early age. I regret nothing that happened to me though I do often feel that my daughter missed out on that special love I know her mother would have given. Eamon and I did a good job on her and now our little bird has flown the nest and made her own life.

I am so proud of her.

Now, Eamon and I are doing the things we enjoy and are happy in the knowledge that the rest of our lives will be spent together.

Lucien Sablon drew his last breath in the lavender garden of his home in Savenay in southern Brittany. He returned there a year after Louisa had died. The many cases against Fabrier were brought to court and the trials had been long and drawn out. His "organisation" was tried and convicted of the murder of Inspector Bastrou and, with the help of Sablon's dossier, they received sentences for drug smuggling, arson, insider dealing, embezzlement, transport of illegal immigrants, rape, running brothels and living off immoral earnings.

There was no proof, however, to connect him to the death of Louisa Sablon though, in Lucien's mind, Fabrier would answer to the almighty for that crime.

Lucien had Louisa's body brought to the church of St Madeleine just outside the village and tended her grave every day. His plot was ready by her side and he looked forward to the day when he would be reunited with her in a special place.

From the hillock by the side of the church you could look out over the entire valley at the fields covered in wild lavender, and when the breeze blew the smell was intoxicating.

THE END
