 
Tales of the Unexpected: Twisted Tales Episodes I - V

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 Jason Cosnett
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"A little pleasure can come at a cost"

Charles Hargreaves was renowned for having the very best of everything, his entitlements procured through tireless hours of toil and dedication to his work. At fifty-four, he was the most successful antiquities dealer in Essex, with eight outlets scattered around the county, and plans for a further two stores in the challenging market of London well-advanced. The portly, balding man was also a known drinker and gambler, but his frequent losses on the horses were well covered by the business of antiques; Charles was the undisputed expert at sourcing a rarity, purchasing it at the market bottom then re-selling it at the top. His business acumen and revered deal-closing abilities made him the envy of the antiques world- by other traders at least; customers were ignorant to just how much extra out of pocket they were when they left a Hargreaves store.

Though no-one but Charles was counting, his fortune included a twenty room mansion near Walton-on-the-Maze, two holiday villas (one in the south of France and another in a secluded Italian valley), and a collection of priceless watercolours by several distinguished artists. He also owned a substantial portfolio of land throughout Europe and the Americas which he held for no other reason than to sell when the market peaked. But Charles' pièce de résistance was his new wife Anne, a twenty-two year old blonde whom he met just a week after the finalisation of his divorce.

Charles had suffered financially with the split from his first wife, despite the wedlock producing no children. He made a solemn promise to himself on the day the divorce papers were signed that he would never again be put in such a position. So during his brief courtship with Anne, he asked his lawyers to arrange a series of intricate prenuptial clauses that would leave her with practically nothing in the event their marriage dissolved or he might die before her (which given his age and overall physical condition, was quite a likely outcome).

But it did not end there. The convoluted legal wording also stipulated that there were to be restrictions on Anne's finances whilst they remained married. She was prevented from accessing any of Charles' bank accounts, under no circumstance was she expected to seek a paid vocation, and a fixed allowance of just two pounds and four shillings a week over and above household expenses (which naturally had to be itemised and accounted for) would be indexed once a year for inflation.

Anne had a relatively stable upbringing and came from good stock despite her father being an alcoholic and abandoning the family when she was a young child. This left quite a gap in the family photo album, not to mention the family finances, so in an effort to keep up appearances, Anne's well-to-do mother sold the occasional piece of silverware to get by. She was also keen to ensure her daughter received the very best education on offer, but such scholastic services do not come cheaply (silverware notwithstanding), so it was left to participate in the world's oldest profession to supplement the shortfall in fees.

But by no means did her mother need to walk the streets of London's East End, for the regular clientele were distinguished gentlemen. Servicing such men from the upper echelons of society was a very financially rewarding experience indeed, and though Anne never quite knew the specifics of what activities went on behind her mother's closed bedroom doors, she knew enough to work out that two hours of services equated to a week's school fees. With plenty left in reserve for lunch money.

Anne developed her own reputation thereafter. Up until she became aware of her mother's activities, Anne was rather prudish when it came to boys, but taking the old adage of what was good for the goose was good for the gander to heart, she decided to put her long blonde hair and sizeable frontal assets to good use. It started with trading alcoholic drinks for a ten minute session in the local woods (five was generally all that was required) before progressing to money, cigarettes, then more money but of greater denomination. And with plenty of local lads and favourable word of mouth (granted, not the ideal choice of language), Anne was never short on offers. And on very few she declined.

Despite all of this, Anne remained on the look-out for Mr Right, that one man who would sweep her off her feet and provide a fairytale life. And Anne thought she had found him after meeting Charles one night at The Fox and Hound; though he spoiled her with copious alcoholic drinks and she had reciprocated with the mandatory sex, he insisted on seeing her again which was so unlike all the other men she had (briefly) known.

Smitten with Charles' affluent lifestyle, Anne was prepared to overlook the finer details of her suitor- namely his physical appearance- in return for life within the walls of Mayfair Manor, which came complete with a cook, gardener and chamber-maid. And she barely batted an eyelid when presented with a twelve page legal concoction a day after their engagement, Charles waving the prenuptial agreement off as nothing more than a 'mere formality of undying love.'

Of course, it became quite clear just how deep that love extended in a financial sense when Anne received her first week's allowance. And whilst the novelty of manor life with everything on beck and call had not dimmed in that first week, by the time their first year anniversary had arrived, Anne was wondering if she'd made the right choice after all. What point was there in marrying a rich man if she was allowed only to window shop?

Anne's decision to finance a lifestyle her husband was unprepared to do was in the end an easy one. The only question was how to go about such a task. Terms within the prenuptial precluded Anne from working under any circumstance, and a divorce would leave her with nothing. There was no profit in killing Charles either, and besides, Anne hadn't the foggiest idea about how to go about it without getting caught.

In the end a variation of her mother's chosen career path was the best option. Leaving the manor for extended periods of time was out of the question; Charles was very dictatorial in knowing where she was and what she was doing at any given hour of the day. But there were always dinner guests over, and many of Charles' friends and colleagues were as financially stable as he. The perfect source of money, as far as Anne was concerned. Some were even quite good looking.

An opportunity arose when Charles announced Edward Blakemore would be dining with them the following Friday evening. Edward was the Assistant Manager at the head shop in Thaxted, and though he wasn't quite in the same financial league as Charles, Anne fancied him as rather the dishy sort. He was also single, which Anne hoped would make the undertaking all that much simpler. There was no authoritarian wife to bypass suspicions, no glamorous lady friend to compete against.

The week went slowly, but it gave Anne time to refine her plan. She knew exactly what to say to Edward almost verbatim, the only problem was in getting him alone long enough to say it. But Anne was sure an opportunity would present itself.

It was a little after 8pm when Charles suggested the trio adjourn to the formal lounge for a drink. The Peking Duck had gone down splendidly and with Edward failing to bring company- as Anne had hoped- it meant just that little bit more found its way onto Charles' plate.

That fact was not lost on Anne, and it was she who reminded him of it as the whiskeys were poured.

'You know dear, I've just realised that poor Edward didn't get any second helpings....thanks to you.'

Charles arched an eyebrow mockingly and patted his overbearing stomach. 'But there's just so much room here, Anne. You'd have had to put up with rumblings all night long otherwise.'

Laughing, Edward followed with a similar gesture. 'And there's not much here to fill I'm afraid Anne, so Charles was more than welcome to the leftovers. As delicious as dinner was, I just couldn't fit another thing in. And thank you again for inviting me. My homecooked meals just do not compete.'

Anne's eyes sparkled as Edward ran his hands over his shirt. In contrast to Charles, Edward's abdomen looked firm and taut, even if she couldn't see underneath his clothes. Her mind wondered again, sizing him up for the umpteenth time that evening. She couldn't decide which part of him she liked better; the square, set jaw, or the way he flicked back his blonde wavy hair.

Anne bit her lower lip tenderly. It didn't really matter, she thought to herself. Every bit of him was as good as the other.

'I thought you had hired help for that kind of thing,' said Charles.

Edward shook his head. 'Had to let her go a couple of weeks back. Costing me in cutlery as well as just wages, if you get my drift.'

'That is a shame,' Charles said, and passed a whiskey to his guest. He sat down next to Anne, and rubbed her knee gently. Though accidental, his action pushed back Anne's breezy summer dress and it slipped half-way up her thigh. Anne remained impassive as Edward struggled to overt his eyes from her exposed flesh. She made no effort to return the hem to the original position, instead accentuating the appeal by raising her knee slightly.

'You know your problem? You need one of these,' Charles continued, patting Anne. 'A wife can do so much. This one even lets me have a flutter every now and then.'

'I don't think I could stop you even if I tried,' Anne said, rolling her eyes.

'Oh, come now. Every man's allowed a vice, isn't he? Even Edward makes the occasional bet and comes up trumps, and look how perfect he is.'

'More like I come up trumps occasionally, Charles,' Edward corrected. 'I seem to back all the wrong horses in case you hadn't noticed.'

'My point exactly then- a lovely wife is like a lucky charm.'

'Well, we'll just have to wait and see. I'm in no rush right now. But thank you anyway for looking after my, er- vested interests.'

Charles laughed. 'You know, it's quite odd to hear you make so many compliments. Usually the shoes on the other foot. Did you know, dear, young Edward is one of my most respected employees? I've received so many letters of praise and admiration from customers about this man, I've lost count.'

Edward waved off the remark and smiled cheekily at Anne. 'But what your husband doesn't know is that they're mostly from my dear aunt Matilda who is as desperate to see me get another pay rise as I am.'

Charles raised his glass in admiration. 'Now you can see why I'm so keen to keep this young man. Wit as well as a devoted work ethic. You don't find that too often nowadays you know.'

'Charles talks about you all the time,' Anne said. 'I'm surprised he hasn't invited you over more often.'

'Oh but I have, dear,' Charles replied. 'Only Edward appears to be somewhat the casanova and is far too busy to want to spend an evening or two with the likes of us. Always seems to have better things to do, don't you Edward? Dinners, dances, social gatherings, that sort of thing. And always with a lady friend, though you never quite seem to settle into a relationship, which baffles me somewhat. That's why we just must find you a wife.'

'Sounds like you have a lady friend after all,' said Anne.

Edward blushed. 'The truth of the matter is, whilst I'm not getting any younger, I certainly don't want to rush headfirst into marriage with the next woman I meet. And I'm trying to...well, er...experience life while I still can. Oh, do I hope that doesn't come across as sounding like I'm too frivolous with women. That isn't my intention at all. But...' Edward seemed to stumble over his words before finding the right mix. 'Well, I do like the company of women and I seem to think they rather like mine. And that suits me just fine at the moment.'

Anne sighed heavily. Old as Charles was, he certainly had very little to show in the way of experience with the fairer sex. His only conquests were the two women he had ever wed and Anne could easily testify to that little fact by the way he went about his business twice a week (always on Tuesdays and Saturdays) in that monotonous, almost detached manner of his. Only on special occasions- holy festivals and birthdays among them- did Charles appear to put the effort in, though being able to count on two hands instead of one the number of required thrusts before expelling himself for the night might hardly be considered a display of intimate affection.

By her own admission, Anne's experience wasn't much better. Granted, her number of sexual partners far exceeded the price tag on the Seth Thomas Regulator displayed in the Thaxted shop window, but quantity doesn't always dictate quality. Male friendships may have been aplenty before marriage, but Anne never really spent enough time with any one companion (or was that the other way around?) to appreciate all a relationship had to offer.

Yet the man before her, this gleaming man of the world, was virtually exuding his sexual prowess by shrugging off those very triumphs in an embarrassed, uncomfortable fashion. Now this was a man worthy of bedding.

Charles raised his glass again. 'Nothing wrong with that, Edward. Many a man in similar circumstance would do the same. In fact, had I not married Anne, I might very well be out with you tonight hunting such women down.' Charles laughed and Edward again followed his lead, though he clearly seemed ill at ease in doing so.

Noticing Anne's discomfort, Edward cleared his throat and tactfully changed the subject. 'Well I know it's rather rude to talk shop Charles, and forgive me please Anne, but I forgot to mention to you today about this young American chap who happened to pass through. Antique book collector he was, of all things.'

Charles nodded agreeably. Though his outlets stocked very little in the way of books, he himself was an avid collector of rare binderies and first editions.

'The half dozen books we had on offer didn't really catch his fancy,' Edward continued, 'so he asked for directions to the nearest rare book shop. Turns out he's after a couple of first edition Thomas Hardy prints- Wessex Tales and The Hand of-'

'Ethelberta,' Charles finished, his eyes flickering. 'Well, well. They're each worth a pretty penny. I take it you mentioned my name?'

'Indeed I did. And he seemed quite interested in meeting you. Well, your books at any rate. I told him you were a bit of an enthusiast and knew you had a few Thomas Hardy books in your personal collection, though I wasn't sure if you could accommodate. Or willing to, for that matter.'

Charles dispensed the remainder of his drink in the one swig. 'Well as it just so happens, I do have one of those books. And as for parting with it, well anything is possible...for the right price of course. Is he passing through again?'

'Friday.'

Charles sat silently for a moment. Already he was calculating the sentimental loss of such a prized rare edition from his collection against the monetary profit of its sale. And rare book collector or not, the buyer was American. They always parted with just that little bit extra cash than was really necessary. Something to do with the exchange rate, or so Charles always believed.

'Well I am intrigued,' said Charles, rising from the couch. 'So intrigued in fact that I might just go and find the book in question. Anne, be a dear will you and keep our guest entertained. Shan't be more than five minutes.'

'Now, Charles?' Anne said. 'Must you?' Anne strained the questions so she sounded disappointed, but not that disappointed with his decision. Truth be told, she couldn't have asked for a more perfect scenario.

'Five minutes,' Charles repeated. And with that, he was gone.

'So typical of him,' said Anne, not believing her good luck as she re-adjusted her hem with a slow and deliberate action. 'Like a dog with a bone he is sometimes. Gets an idea into his head, and just won't let it drop. I'm surprised he hasn't decided to drive off and hunt this American down just to satisfy a whim. Oh I am sorry, Edward. He shouldn't be long. Then you boys can continue your little chat about things.'

'No trouble at all,' Edward replied. 'At least I get to have a chat to you instead. Unless you decide to pop off as well that is.'

'I'm quite happy to stay here with you Edward,' Anne said, widening her eyes and making sure he noticed the gesture. She had spent many hours wondering how to broach the subject, but Charles' little banter about the ladies had created the perfect opportunity.

Anne took a deep breath. 'But I am still surprised you didn't bring a date with you. It would have been quite nice for some extra company of the female kind. I don't get to see many of my friends, you know.'

'Really?'

'Charles doesn't approve.'

'Oh, that is unfortunate. I'm sorry to hear that, Anne.'

Anne shook her head soberly. 'Matters not, I suppose. I have the staff to keep me occupied...'

'And Charles,' Edward added.

'Well...' Anne paused, 'to tell you the truth, he's rarely home. And when he is, he's always cooped up in one of the rooms by himself, or entertaining visitors. His visitors, I should say. I rather think I'm quite low on his list of priorities. We're like passing ships to be honest.'

'Oh. I...I didn't know you were experiencing marital problems like that. I am sorry.' Edward stared into his drink, unsure of how to respond next.

'That's all right. I suppose I should be used to it by now. Much like the financial problems I have to endure really.'

This got Edward's attention. He looked up quickly and arched a brow. 'Oh? You mean Charles? He-'

'Good grief, no. Charles has plenty of money. I was talking about my financial circumstances. Charles doesn't let me work, you see. What little possessions I own are from before we met. This dress, for instance...' Anne ran her hands over the straps and down to her waist. 'I've had this for years. It's so out of vogue.'

Edward cleared his throat. 'Doesn't seem to be too bad.'

'Oh but it is.' Anne stood up. 'Look how the hem only just passes my knees. This summer's style is so much shorter.' And to show evidence of how the current cosmopolitan look was doing the rounds, Anne stood up and hitched up her dress and pinned it tightly with her fingers against her thighs. That the particular length she'd accrued was in fact another two seasons away didn't really seem to matter. The anticipated effect was overwhelming. Edward's eyes were positively bulging out of their sockets.

'And I'd so dearly love to be able to afford one. Wouldn't you?'

'Well, I...I suppose I would. Well, I mean, I would like you to be able to afford such luxury. I'm rather sorry you're...in such...an unfortunate situation.'

Anne smoothed back her blonde hair and curled it around her left shoulder, leaving the opposing neckline exposed. Her skin glistened in the light.

'Of course, it need not be like this,' she said. 'Given the right kind of opportunity, I might be able to treat myself to a new dress or two...hypothetically speaking, of course.' She let the words linger for a moment before sitting back down. Anne crossed her legs slowly and tapped her foot up and down. Edward followed the movement and unknowingly licked his lips. 'I bet you've bought plenty of dresses for your lady friends, Edward. What price might you expect to pay for something like that?'

'Well, I, er- well, I wouldn't know to tell you the truth. Quite a lot, I'd fancy.'

'You mean you've never once purchased one as a gift?'

'Well, no.'

'Oh, shame on you, Edward. Any girl would adore you if you did. She'd probably be willing to do just about anything...'

Edward moved uncomfortably around in his seat and surreptitiously fiddled with his belt. Anne had a quick glance for any tell-tale signs of arousal and pouted her lips at the positive response. Things were moving quicker than she expected. And quite literally at that.

'Take the situation I'm in as an example. I've a husband who refuses to satisfy my personal and material needs. Imagine what kind of things I'd be willing to do if an opportunity presented itself.'

'And has it?' Edward steadied the question with another gulp of his drink.

'Not yet, no. But let's assume it did. Completely pretend, of course.'

'Of course.'

'Several things would need to be thought through carefully. Four, to be exact.'

Edward tried to hide his interest. 'Oh? And they would be?'

'Well for one, the right person...the right man, would have to be involved. If I were to go behind my husband's back, it would have to be with someone whom I trusted. Stable and of sound mind, that kind of thing. And they would certainly have to be mature about the whole thing. Oh, and of course, good looking. An older man in his late thirties might suit the bill for that, wouldn't you think...?'

Edward responded with another shuffle of his belt and a clearing of his throat.

'Secondly, there is the question of remuneration.'

'Remuneration?' said Edward.

'Payment for services rendered, shall we say. Oh, I'm quite sure there are all kinds of stores that sell nice dresses. But I'm not the kind of girl to buy any old tatty thing. The latest chic look doesn't come cheap you know. I'm certainly not a two bob hooker who would be satisfied with a bit of loose change.

'There would also have to be certain arrangements with how...recompense is made,' Anne said cryptically. 'I'm an independent kind of girl and wouldn't want someone to be holding my hand whilst choosing the right dress. For a start, you don't even know my taste.'

Edward turned the corners of his lip up a little, smirking. The direct reference to him as a potential suitor hadn't gone unnoticed. 'In other words, you would be looking for a...cash payment,' he said, matter of factly.

'You might say that, yes,' Anne replied, her eyes twinkling. 'Whilst a gift is gratifying, it's not exactly what I'm looking for. And as a respected salesman, I'm sure you understand the value of liquidity. Money in its most basic form is so empowering, wouldn't you agree?'

Edward began to rock his head back and forth in agreement. Anne took this to be a good sign; a very good sign in fact.

'And the final requirement?' said Edward. He knew now exactly what it was, but decided to ask the question anyway. It was the same whether he was showing a potential customer the attributes of a Bonn vase or a Waltham watch; the price of the item offered for sale was always discussed last. It was just good manners.

'Why, the most important part of the whole transaction, Edward- the monetary value of the good or service being sold. You of all people should know this.' Anne spoke quickly, but even this condition was met with promise. Edward's mind was well-guarded, but his face indicated a man prepared to part with his entire savings for the sake of ravishing the voluptuous blonde before him.

'You detail an interesting arrangement,' said Edward. 'But what exactly is the offered item? I mean, what specific...attributes of yours would be utilised?' Edward put the comment as delicately as he dared.

Anne put a finger to her lips and let it linger there for a moment before curling it around the edges in a hypnotic, circular motion. 'You know, as a young girl, I quite enjoyed going to the local fair. The rides and games were quite enjoyable, but my favourite part of the whole day was when I got to choose a lucky dip from one of the side stalls. You never quite knew what it was you were going to get inside that brown paper bag, but it was always pleasant...and I always went home satisfied, no matter what it had cost me.'

Edward seemed to quite enjoy the imagery Anne had conjured up. 'Then we would both have to agree to certain terms of this...proposition,' Edward said, placing the empty glass on the table beside him. 'But I don't think that will be a problem. Do you?'

Anne tingled with excitement. 'No. So what are these terms of yours? Price?' she said bluntly.

'That is the most important one, yes. Do you know what the...going rate is for such services?'

Anne sunk back into the couch. 'I was thinking of along the lines of twelve pounds.'

'Five,' came the immediate counter offer.

'Eleven.'

'Eight.'

'Make it ten and we're done.'

Edward thought carefully. 'Very well, ten pounds it is. Now, to the other little condition. Or problem as it were. Where and when do you expect we could carry out this little...transaction? Evidently here is out of the question, and-'

'Don't be so sure of that, Edward. The manor is quite large, and I'm sure we could manage to sneak you in one afternoon without any of the staff realising. You might wonder why I'd want to take that risk, but let's just say I have my own reasons.'

'Very well.' Edward could guess what those reasons were. Anne came across as a woman who liked to be very much in control. Meeting in some cheap hotel and leaving with a purse full of money afterwards took away that control; it aligned her with common prostitutes that walked the city streets. But if Edward were to do the visiting, the roles might seem reversed. At least, they would seem reversed to Anne. 'Well if you're happy about the where, there is just the question of the when.'

As soon as possible, Anne stopped herself from saying. 'I was thinking one evening next week. I know Charles has a prior dinner engagement to which I'm not invited. I'll find out which evening it is and let you know-'

At that moment, Charles re-entered, carefully holding a large book in his hands. His interest was more focused on this than Anne or Edward, who exuded a sense of naughty children caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.

'Isn't it just wonderful?' Charles beamed, holding up the Hardy narrative for them both to see. Charles ran his fingertips over the binding. 'You know, I think I've already made my decision. Sell it for the right price, is what I'll do. The right price, mind you, not necessarily a fair one.'

'And I'm sure you'll get what you demand,' said Edward.

'Oh I think I will. What day did you say this American was coming back?'

'Friday afternoon. At least, that's what-'

Charles held up his hand. 'No matter. Friday it is. And you know what? I think we'll close up early that day, Edward. No sense in tying up our American friend with other customers that might happen to wander in. Besides, I'm sure I can get make a much bigger margin on this lovely item than anything else we've got in Thaxted at the moment. This could be worthy of a week's takings.' Charles tapped the book satisfactorily. 'So you might as well finish early yourself on Friday.'

'Are you sure, Charles?'

'Oh, absolutely. You've earned it. But if you do feel bad about taking the afternoon off, you're more than welcome to put in a couple of extra hours early in the morning next week.' Charles chuckled to himself and returned to his seat, squeezing Anne's knee again as he sat down. As he heaved himself back into an upright position, Edward carefully winked across at Anne.

The excitement that tingled through her body this time was far more intense than before. But she knew it was nothing compared to what Friday afternoon would bring.

If the week leading up to the dinner dragged, the days preceding Friday positively dawdled. Anne was a mix of nerves, eager to be ravished by a man she hardly knew, and excited at the prospect of finding financial independence again. Friday just couldn't arrive soon enough.

Upon waking, Anne rose quickly and saw Charles off to work ten minutes earlier than he would have normally left. But there was so much to do and so little time in which to do it. First, she treated herself to an hour long bath with a lot more soap and fragrance than was really necessary. Then another hour was spent choosing the right outfit to wear. Anne finally decided on a nice dress similar to the one she wore on Tuesday. Though it was slightly longer and didn't reveal as much of her neck, her back was nearly fully exposed. And the most important items of clothing, the undergarments, were a matching set of fine black laces safely hidden from view. For now.

Following an early lunch (at Anne's insistence), the cook was sent on a special errand which would take her the better part of the afternoon- if she was lucky; the chamber-maid was given the afternoon off for exceeding her duties the previous week (in fact she had under-performed, but Anne didn't want to upset her good mood); and Mr Higgins the gardener was left to his own devices to potter about on the grounds. Of all the staff, he was the only one Anne could afford to keep around. Dismissing all of them for the afternoon would have looked highly suspicious, so she had decided to keep someone at the manor, and Mr Higgins was the obvious choice. He was nearing seventy, had awful hearing, and his eyesight had clapped out years ago. But best of all, he was only interested in his garden greeneries; the goings on within the walls of Mayfair Manor were of no concern to him.

At half-past one, Anne looked up from her magazine as the door chimed. She slipped into a pair of open high heels that accentuated her calves and sauntered down the hallway to the door.

'Not too late, am I?' a freshly shaven Edward Blakemore announced as Anne swung open the cedar door.

'Not at all. Did you drive?'

'Parked the car in a nearby allotment. Don't worry, it's completely out of sight from the main road.' Edward leaned across and gently pecked Anne on the cheek. She turned a little to meet his lips, but he pulled away, teasing. 'We might not be able to wait if we start now,' he said.

'Then you'd better come in and follow me upstairs,' Anne replied, leading Edward by the hand. His was warm the touch, she noticed.

They walked silently up the stairs and turned right at the very top into the main bedroom. Edward glanced around quickly, half expecting Charles to jump out from behind a curtain. But of course, he was back in Thaxted doing his best to milk the American book collector for all he was worth.

Anne sat down, kicked her heels off and lay across the bed. Instinctively Edward came down to her, but she sat up quickly, halting his advance.

'Business first,' Anne said, gently tugging at his tie.

'As you wish.' It wasn't an angry response, but Anne noted his tone had deepened, as if offended. 'Ten pounds, wasn't it?'

Anne didn't reply, but watched carefully as Edward removed the required fee from his wallet. The money was hastily dropped onto the dresser, but it was all there.

'Thank you. Shall we?' Anne relaxed back onto the bed, pulling Edward's tie down towards her.

'We shall,' he said, and proceeded forthwith to consume the services of Anne Hargreaves for the princely sum of ten pounds.

The engagement in physical relations lasted almost an hour, which was the longest session of intimacy Anne could ever recall. But what an hour it was. Anne tingled with pleasure with every one of Edward's thrusts, and clawed at his back with passionate desire. It was pure wickedness, and Anne loved every moment of it.

When it was all over, Edward hastily dressed himself and left with a cursory round of thank-you's and cheek kissing, but dismissing an offer of a round of tea and biscuits. An extensive session of copulation it might have been, but he clearly was not in the mood to tempt fate.

Anne was positively glowing. She saw Edward off and took a long hot shower to freshen up. It also served to remove Edward's musky smell from her body, something she didn't want lingering around when Charles came home. After changing the bed sheets to hide the last piece of incriminating evidence, it was time to return to the fashion magazine she'd been reading before Edward had arrived. And this time, the sophisticated wears splashed across every other page appeared just that little bit closer in reach.

Charles came home a little earlier than normal, but there was a skip and a bounce in his step as he entered the lounge- no small feat for a man of his size. He came over to Anne, kissed her on both cheeks and patted her on the shoulder.

'I take it things went well then?' Anne asked nonchalantly.

'Oh, yes dear.' Charles made no inquires as to how her day had gone, or what she had been up to. 'Today was just marvellous,' he continued. 'Sales were peachy, we finally managed to sell that old trinket box I'd been carrying for the last year, and our American friend came through trumps.'

'You got your asking price for the book?'

Charles rubbed his hands together. 'And then some. The old man was positively beside himself. Of course, I think he also got a bit muddled with the exchange rate, but that's not really my problem. He paid a fair and decent price as far as I'm concerned.'

'Oh that is good.'

'Ah, but I haven't told you about the best part of the day, have I?'

'No, dear,' Anne replied with very little interest. Her mind had wandered back to the featured summer dresses in the magazine she'd been reading. Now what colour...?

'Well you'll be especially pleased to hear I had rather a nice win at the races this afternoon.'

'Oh.'

'Yes. Thirty to one odds on Nice Little Earner, a four year old filly with only a couple of fourth and fifth placing's to her name...until now.'

'That's nice Charles,' Anne said blandly. 'You had a win for once.'

'And not just any old win I'll have you know. A thirty to one win. Now that doesn't happen every day.'

'No...no, it doesn't.'

Charles helped himself to a drink, pouring just that little bit more Scotch than he otherwise normally allowed. 'And that reminds me- did Edward call round?'

Anne's mouth suddenly turned dry. 'Edward, dear?'

'Yes. Edward Blakemore. The chap who was here the other night. Please tell me he popped in like he said he would Anne.'

There was a moment's hesitation. 'Yes,' Anne said finally. 'Yes, that's right. He...he came around shortly after...two-ish, I think it was.' Anne watched the back of her husband for a reaction. But there was no sudden movement and he turned around normally.

'Rather silly thing for him to go and do, wasn't it?' Charles continued. 'Still, at those long odds, he'll no doubt thank me come Monday morning.'

'Well if you say so dear, though...Edward didn't really elaborate.'

This surprised Charles. 'He didn't tell you then?'

'No.' Anne peeped.

'Probably too embarrassed.' Charles settled onto the couch and sampled his Scotch. 'Well it was quite a silly thing to do, but he left his wallet at home today you see. And being a bit of race goer like myself, I just couldn't bear for him to mope around all day wondering what might have been, so I loaned him some money from the morning takings.'

'You loaned him...'

'Oh, it was only ten pounds or so, of no consequence really, but he was so beside himself and promised to drop it back off as soon as he'd gone home to find his wallet. Of course, I did tell him it could wait until Monday, but Edward was having none of it. He's quite like that you see- doesn't like having debts hang around.'

Anne's face had turned quite pale. Her hands were clammy and beads of sweat had formed across her forehead.

'I say dear, you don't look all that good. Are you all right?'

'Yes,' Anne whimpered.

'Might be best you take some tablets and have a lie down, eh. Anyway, Edward did drop off that money didn't he? The ten pounds I was talking about?'

'Yes...yes he did.'

'Good, good.' Charles began to relax and took another drink. 'Who'd have thought- thirty to one odds. We did all right out of that little filly coming through, eh?'

But Anne wasn't listening. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, the magazine slipping from her grasp in the process. And as Charles bounded about the room in his happy mood, Anne began to sob quietly to herself.
The Gift

"It's not what you give but how you give it"

Harold and Mavis Peabody were the kind of grandparents every child dreamed of; the former was a retired British Rail train driver who regaled the young with stories of life on country tracks; the latter spent the weekends baking an assortment of biscuits and cakes sweet enough to alarm even the most liberal National Dentistry Association member.

Harold was seventy-two and kept himself in reasonable shape for his age. His only visible ailment was a limp in his right leg, the product of an old work injury, though this never restricted his volunteer work at the local Salvation Army. He ate only the freshest fruit and vegetables from the Sunday markets, hadn't smoked a single cigarette in over thirty years, and only recently had he limited his intake of alcohol to a thrice weekly pilgrimage to The Hare and Mole, though Mavis was sure- quite sure in fact- that the number of pints actually consumed far exceeded the number of visits to the respected alehouse.

Mavis was a sprightly seventy-six years old. Her thinning white hair, green speckled eyes and radiant cheeks betrayed the image of a loving grandmother to no less than thirteen children (fourteen if you counted the one due in March). The quaint town of Satterly-Downs, some forty miles west of Brighton where the Peabody's resided, was always awash with news of what the extended family were up to, and Mavis Peabody was the medium through which that service was provided. There was the time young Michael Peabody broke his leg falling off his bike ('blame that foreign import rubbish, I do', Mavis chided); the occasion when Annabelle Tyford locked herself in her room all weekend because of a spat with her father ('never liked that man anyway'); and the time Colin Peabody uttered his first words (two syllables comprising of 'da', though grossly misrepresented as a five word sentence); all detailed into the Satterly-Downs community by one house-proud grandmother who had won first prize in the church fete baking competition for an unprecedented seven years running.

Like most grandparents, the Peabody's enjoyed spoiling the children with gifts, but times had been rather hard of late. Harold and Mavis had never been partial to Labor's political offering anyway, but they had even more reason to despise that regime with the economy on the cusp of yet another downturn. Inflation was rife, unemployment had jumped a full percentage point in twelve months, and interest rates were expected to rise for the fifth consecutive time if The Sun were to be believed (not that Mavis read The Sun; it was Harold who relayed this information to her one morning when he was having his cup of tea and crumpet). Yet amongst all this macro-economic babble, the one thing that mattered most to our ageing septuagenarians, the humble fortnightly pension, seemed to remain stagnant. If being a pensioner was considered work, the Peabody's would be two rungs below minimum wage.

Under normal circumstances, Mavis would have tightened the proverbial belt around the household budget. But one alleged Labor parliamentary response to the nation's economic woes ('Grin and bear it', the un-named member for Bosworth suggested during News Hour) so incensed Mavis, she dropped a stitch on the new baby's woollen jumper. With her nerves shattered, she tucked the knitting needles safely away, and composed herself with a nice glass of port. Reinvigorated, Mavis then sat down on that cold and windy Saturday afternoon to devise a scheme to supplement the meagre income that represented the Peabody's fortnightly annuity. Harold raised his eyebrows upon hearing of the formulated plan and passed considerable objection, only to be reminded that both Michael and Colin were due birthdays in the coming week, and wouldn't it be a shame if the purse strings didn't quite stretch to their desired bequests?

So that was that. Harold's initial trepidation to his wife's highly unorthodox- not to mention illegal- idea, was quickly put to bed, and within months it had actually blossomed into a part-time hobby equal in enthusiasm to his model railway pastime. Best of all, it ensured the Peabody's never again had to worry about where those elusive pennies and pounds came from when considering what to purchase the grandchildren.

As we shall see...

The wireless (Harold could never bring himself to call it the radio) was tuned to the morning gardening show, Gardenias being the day's topic of choice. Harold munched away on his buttered toast while Mavis poured herself another cup of tea.

'Fancy one, love?'

Harold shook his head. 'Better not. Long bus trip, eh?'

Yes it was. Two and a half hours long as a matter of fact, if the timetable was any indication. And that was just to get there; the round trip was worthy of a full day's activity encompassing several interchanges. Of course, the distant travel was a necessity. When the Peabody's first started out, they restricted their operations within close proximity of home, but repeat visits were a high risk. It was much safer to venture to areas not frequented by the pair, even if that meant uncomfortable long trips on public transport. The law is very unforgiving, even to a mild-mannered couple approaching the twilight of their lives.

'So what's the name of this place again?' said Harold, pushing the last of the crust into his mouth.

'Newberry Marketplace,' Mavis replied, 'though I doubt very much it's much of a market. Never is though, is it? Not these days, eh? All department stores and fancy escalators. And if they do happen to sell vegetables, it won't be anything like what Mr Owens has, that I can assure you. Rubbery and bruised is what they'll-'

'I only wanted to know what it was called, woman!'

Mavis pinched her lips together and chose to ignore Harold's remark. 'Best take your tablets before we go, love. It's a long journey, you know.'

Though Mavis had never done a single day's paid work in her life, she knew enough about raising eight children to see the benefit in planning ahead. Plan the work and work the plan was the little adage by which Mavis had lived her life. Today was no different; Harold would take his medicine prior to departing on the number twenty-seven bus; ten minutes for bowel movement at the first interchange; a cup of tea at the second (Mavis had already researched the appropriate tea-houses to visit), leaving a little over an hour to complete the set task and commence the return trip home.

Harold drummed his fingers on the table. 'Twelve, isn't he?'

'Who is love?'

'Young Peter.'

'Thirteen next Friday week, love. You should know that.'

Harold furrowed his brow. Yes, he probably should know the ages of all his grandchildren, but there were just so bloody many of them. Besides, his memory wasn't what it used to be. It certainly didn't have the same recall and date capability that Mavis so aptly displayed.

'What was it he wanted again?'

'A new radio, love.'

'Ruddy hell. Those things cost a fortune. Can't his father buy one for him?'

More pinching of the lips. 'I promised him one for his birthday, Harold, and that's exactly what I'm going to get.'

Not noticing the fact he had been struck from providing an offering to celebrate his grandchild's birth acknowledgement, Harold pushed on. 'But they are expensive, Mavis. Even the ones on sale, you couldn't pick up for less than twenty pounds.'

'Oh? And how would you know that, love? When was the last time you bought one?'

Unsure of how to respond, Harold buttered himself another piece of toast.

The journey was an arduous one. Despite taking his remedies before leaving, Harold's leg insisted on playing up, and the brief interludes between connecting buses was welcome respite. After two-and-three quarter hours of travel and stops (much to Mavis' chagrin, the timetables were wrong again), the journey came to an end. As the bus pulled into the assigned bay, Harold nodded satisfactorily while Mavis tutted at her watch. In her mind, it was yet another failing of the Labor government; public transport never ran like this under Thatcher.

'Hope you know were we're going,' said Harold as they alighted. 'It's a ruddy big place.'

Indeed it was. Touted as one of the more fashionable shopping centres in the area, Newberry Marketplace was a hub for over seventy speciality shops, including three department stores. One of them was a Marks and Spencer's, which delighted Mavis no end.

But Mavis had no desire to browse the shops today, nor did she have time for such luxury, despite knowing exactly where her beloved M&S was located.

'Just follow me love. And do try to keep up.'

A little way down from Marks and Spencer's stood Mason's, the split-level department store that catered for the budget shopper. If it was service one was after, Mason's was most definitely not the place to go; the main employ were untrained teenage staff. Even the trained ones left little to be desired.

Harold limped several strides behind Mavis, such was here will to accrue lost time. As the pair rode the escalator to the electrical goods section, Harold chanced a suggestion that now might be as good a time as any to pop off to the toilet.

'No time, love. You'll just have to hold on. Oh look, we're here.'

Flashing lights and loud music welcomed the Peabody's. Fifteen aisles of mass-produced electronics ranging from toasters to hi-fi equipment were on display. There appeared to be little order to proceedings, with alarm clocks bundled opposite hair-dryers and television sets stacked next to kettles. But then, Mason's wasn't renowned for having a logical layout in any of its stores. Reputable brand names were also one of Mason's less endearing qualities; manufacturers synonymous with short-term product life offerings were the norm. Many customers wondered if brands such as Plysonic, Senyo and JZC were actually trying to catch out less astute buyers who were seeking offerings from far superior namesakes.

'Lucky to find anything in this ruddy mess,' said Harold as they wandered through the aisles.

Mavis drew a sharp breath. She calculated a good two days would be required to tidy up the shelves and put everything in its right place. 'Ah, here we are, love.'

'Quite a lot of them, aren't there?'

Ignoring her husband's grammatical muddle, Mavis reached for the first radio-stereo unit positioned at eye level. 'Oh, this one seems rather light, love. I don't think it'll any good at all. It would probably break the moment we left the floor.'

'That's how they come nowadays. Old Smithy brought one for the shed a few weeks back. Said it was as light as a feather. You'd hardly think there was anything inside.'

'That I seriously doubt, Harold.' Mavis looked over the item a few times and re-positioned it back onto the shelf, angled slightly so as to catch one's eye. 'Oh, there's really too many to choose from you know. I think we're going to need some assistance.'

That was easier said than done. As well as hiring predominantly young personnel, Mason's was also quite adept at keeping their staff spread thinly across the shop floors. Management sold the ploy as a tactic in ensuring everyday low prices- their television campaigns proudly flaunted the concept- though any person with the tiniest shred of financial sense knew the company simply skinned a greater profit margin through having less staff to pay.

'Wait here, love,' said Mavis.

Harold barely had time to enjoy the moment alone before she returned with a sales assistant in tow. And by the look on his face, the young man appeared quite displeased with the summons.

'We'd like some help in choosing a new radio for our grandson,' said Mavis. 'What can you recommend?'

Startled at being asked for such detailed advice, for the young man's experience in resolving issues had only ever been in directing customers to their desired browsing area, the assistant mumbled an apology.

'Er, well this ain't actually my area, like. I'll 'ave to get someone to 'elp.'

'But you do work here, don't you?' said Mavis.

'Yeah, but-'

Mavis pointed to the yellow nametag. 'Robert, is it? Well look here-'

'James, act'ally,' came the nonchalant reply. 'Ad to borrow this 'ere thing see. Me mam lost mine.'

Mavis sighed. If those in active employ throughout the nation were as ignorant as this chap, there was little hope for those cited as an unemployment statistic.

'We'd really just like your opinion,' said Harold. 'You must know a thing or two about these wireless things, eh? You've probably got one at home.'

'Probably.'

'Like this?'

'Naw. This stuff's a load of bollocks. Prob'ly only last yer a few months at best.'

'Really? Well that's no good, is it Mavis?'

'No love.'

James stepped forward and reached for a small stereo on the bottom shelf. 'Well, 'at's just a figure of speech mind, ain't it? But if yer want some'in 'alf decent, yer'll be wantin' one of these. Wouldn't get one meself mind, but it'll do yer for what yer after. Fer yerself, were it?'

'Our grandson,' Mavis repeated firmly.

'Oh well 'ed prob'ly be after somethin' a bit more classy like. Like this one.' He picked up another store sample and offered the device to Harold who nodded agreeably. The stereo was black with a blue handle and red speakers. An array of buttons aligned the side panel next to the digital display.

'It's still rather light though.'

'All the rage, aint it? Three kilos packed inter that little number. Not bad, eh? Sporty, like.'

Mavis, who had never seen the need to upgrade to metric standards (Marguerite Fenner recipes managed just nicely without, thank you very much) smiled sheepishly. 'And that's something you're sure he would like?'

'Oh yeah. I mean, 'ave a look at what else it does. Says 'ere on the side that it's got extra bass and will do all yer read an' write stuff.'

'So one of the best?' asked Mavis, unsure what any of these features meant.

'Well yer can still get a lot better, but this naff place won't 'ave any.'

'And what of the price?' said Mavis.

'Er, says 'ere twenty-five quid or thereabouts. Too much for you lot?'

'No, I don't think so. Well look young man, surprisingly you've been most helpful. There's a couple of other things we need to look at, so we'll be sure to pick one up on our way back.'

Harold replaced the stereo back onto the shelf and bid the assistant good-day. Mavis spent a couple of minutes browsing cook-books hoping to glean some new recipes and tidied up the magazine racks while Harold perused the gardening journals. A few times he wandered towards the rack where Big N' Booty and Naughty Forties were stored in all their cellophane glory, but Mavis's own prying eyes were enough to keep him in check.

Once they were sure the sales assistant had returned to his post, the couple walked back to the aisle containing the audio equipment. Mavis quietly picked up the same demonstration model that Harold had been holding only minutes before, and with it tucked tightly under her arm, made her way to the nearest escalator.

The Customer Service department was little more than a raggedy area nestled away in the far corner near the sporting equipment. The neon sign with the missing capital 'C' seemed to typify the focus Mason's placed on customer relationships; the counter was staffed with just two young girls, the queue stretched back to the ladies apparel, and an assortment of broken and returned goods were stacked knee deep in front of the main service desk.

'Rather a shambles, this,' said Mavis disapprovingly, and tutted for good measure. 'You wouldn't find Mrs Baxter's shop in this kind of state, that I can assure you.'

'Mrs Baxter hasn't quite got the same stock levels that this place has to worry about though, has she?' Harold motioned for them to join the back of the queue.

'Now, now, love. Mrs Baxter has quite the assortment, thank you very much. And it's far superior in quality to what I've seen today.'

Mavis continued her tirade for another thirty-five minutes as they edged further along in line. Finally it came to their turn.

The girl at the counter appeared to be in her early twenties, but Sharon Towley (so her name badge implied) was barely seventeen. An excessive use of makeup was not uncommon for this girl and Sharon often spent a good two hours prior to the commencement of her shift applying said makeup to her face, lips and eyes. The result of this cosmetic enhancement meant she looked much older, and to her that was a good thing, especially when it came to nightly pursuits at the local pubs and clubs. It also helped this doe-eyed blonde with less-savoury male customers who felt a need to vent frustration at a service assistant; a flutter of the lashes and even the most hardened man turned to jelly.

Mavis approached the counter and carefully placed her handbag to one side. 'Hello, dear,' she said and pointed to her name tag. 'Sharon, is it?'

'Alright, love. Yeah, 'ats right. Wot can I do for yer?'

'Well it's this wireless thingy.' Mavis removed the stereo from under her arm and positioned it on the counter.

'Wot's wrong with it, then? Don't work, eh?'

'We wouldn't know to tell you the truth, dear.'

'Never been turned on, actually,' said Harold, tapping the sides for emphasis. And as far as he knew, he was telling the truth.

'Oh right. So wot's wrong wit' it?'

'Well it's rather embarrassing really,' said Mavis. 'Our grandchildren- bless them- had a little whip-round a couple of weeks ago. Harold and I have just celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary you see.'

Obviously Sharon didn't, for she remained still and impassive.

'Quite a nice gesture,' Mavis continued, 'and so totally unexpected. But to be honest, this isn't really the kind of thing we use.'

'Wouldn't even know how to turn the ruddy thing on!' chimed Harold.

'We've no doubt the children's intentions were in the right place, but we would have much preferred something a little more practical. A nice vase for the kitchen or a set of picture frames would have more than sufficed.'

'So wot you wanna do then?' Sharon asked.

'Well if it's not too much trouble, we were wondering if a refund could be offered. Of course, we totally understand if the policy of your-'

'Naw, we can do that. Got a receipt?'

'Óh, we don't dear. It was a gift.' Mavis clenched the straps of her handbag nervously and leaned forward slightly. 'Is that a problem?'

'Well yeah, kinda. Don't usually refund or exchange without 'aving a receipt.' Sharon pointed towards a plastic apex that explained Mason's stance on the return of goods.

'Oh dear,' Mavis said. 'That is a pity. And to think we came all this way from Satterly-Downs.'

'Two buses and a train,' added Harold.

Sharon rolled her tongue around the inside of her cheek. She looked at the stereo and picked it up, examining the back closely.

'Well it does look like it's one of ours.' Sharon pulled the Mason's price tag wrapped around the main cord as if for reassurance.

'It's got extra bass, you know,' Harold said offhandedly.

Mavis cleared her throat. 'Oh, don't get me wrong dear. Harold and I love our music, but there's nothing the matter with the little wireless at home. It plays Wednesday night's Victor Silvester just the way we like it. We don't really see the need for having this... contraption.'

The charade worked just nicely. Sharon pulled the stereo towards her. 'Suppose I can make an exception, jus' this once like. You don't seem the type.'

Whatever the type was, Sharon didn't elaborate. She keyed some details onto the computer in front of her.

'Name?'

'Violet Brown,' said Mavis.

'Don't 'ave any proof, do yer?'

Mavis took a pensioner's card from her purse and slid it across the counter. Mavis had acquired the card of her close friend some months before she passed away. The Woman's Auxiliary (South) Division traditionally met for tea and scones on Friday mornings, and it was during one such meet that Mavis and Violet's pensioner cards had become mixed up. The mistake did not become apparent to the following week, and though the two had always meant to correct the error, it was just one of those matters neither had gotten round to doing. And in the meantime, Violet had caught that nasty bout of flu that was doing the rounds, and when word got out that she was on her last legs, well; there was really no point in returning that pensioner card was there?

Of course, it would expire eventually, but the Women's Auxiliary had no shortage of elderly members. Dementia, pneumonia and a whole host of other ailments came to bear on a regular basis, and Mavis was only too aware of that.

'Cheers,' said Sharon. 'Can't be too careful, eh?'

'Oh, of course not dear.'

Sharon rang up a credit on the cash register. 'Don't 'ave five pence, do yer? Jus' ter make it a round twenty-fiver back, 'at's all.'

'I think I can help you there.' Mavis fumbled with the zipper of her purse and passed over the requested coinage. Sharon handed back a crisp twenty pound note and a fiver that that seen better days.

'Thank you ever so much dear,' said Mavis, safely tucking away the money with her dear friend's pensioner's card. 'You have been so helpful.'

'Yeah, no probs.'

With the transaction concluded, the Peabody's stepped away from the service desk and began to walk back to the escalator.

'Went rather well,' Harold offered. 'She was quite a nice girl.'

'Oh, really? Rather a rude little tart actually, if you ask me. You certainly won't find me shopping here again.'
The Punter

"Trash and treasure"

The Fox and Vic had been good to Phil Bartle; for the past five years the punters came in numbers not seen since old man Bailey had run the place, and that was way before the days of Thatcherism. There was a new housing estate located nearby awash with young couples, retirees and the odd single mom out on the pull on a Saturday night, and Phil's little corner alehouse was the perfect place to spend an hour or two away from the hustle and bustle of home life. There was also a good passing trade of blue collar workers from the nearby factories, though traffic only really picked up when Sharon was pulling pints in-between her college tutorials. There was something about the buxom blonde the men found appealing, and it certainly wasn't the size of the head she left on a glass of Amberley Bitter.

But like all long-standing businesses, The Fox and Vic was having a bit of rough trot of late, thanks in part to the downturn in the economy, and local competition in the form of a refurbished up-market bar that had recently opened its doors. It would of course be no match for Phil's well-established icon; the Victorian built pub had passed through umpteen hands over the years before Phil took over as the most recent vendor, and a European style bar with its synthesized music and polyester furniture was but a flash-in-the-pan when compared to what local residents affectionately named "The Vic". An all-over renovation might buy a glistening mirror bar and a sliding ladder able to reach the top shelf product ten feet up (and didn't the lads love that when the female bar staff were given an order for a Midori Sour Spritz), but you couldn't replicate the 80's veneer and beer-stained carpet that went with Phil Bartle's territory. The good times would return, of that there was no doubt, but for now a fledging pound and glitzy competition was making for a slow return to form.

Phil set aside his bookwork and his eyes crawled around the bar. Only Charlie was left now; the lunchtime rush (if you could call it that) had gone back to their normal existence of trying to pay the gas bill, buying enough antibiotics for the baby, or whatever it was that dictated living expenses for the week. Charlie was a really trooper though- five times a week he came down to The Vic, always doing his bit for the economy with a pint or two, hunched over his daily read of The Sun...though never quite managing to make it past page three. God bless Charlie.

It would be a quiet one today, Phil thought. Tuesday's always were, and the drizzle that was forecasted on and off all day wouldn't help matters. Not even Sharon and her barometric chest would save the cash register from dying of boredom today.

Phil had just returned to dissecting the creditors column when the door swung open and a finely dressed gentleman stepped inside. Tailored in a black pin-striped suit and carrying a fine leather briefcase, the bald-headed man complete with rounded glasses glanced around, momentarily pausing to look at a framed sketch beside the main door, and strode confidently to the bar before presenting himself upon the far stool. He appeared in no rush to be served; with a click of the briefcase and an extraction of paperwork and pen, he settled into reading whatever documentation he carried, making appropriate notations after thoughtful and prolonged pauses.

Phil took a couple of steps to the customer. 'Afternoon, guv. What'll it be?'

The man tapped his pen on the paperwork and thought carefully. 'Jameson's, if you have it.'

Phil checked his top shelf product. There was a bottle towards the back, less than half full.

'Straight, please,' said the man.

The requested drink was poured and the appropriate payment made. It was Phil's best sale all day and likely to be repeated if the man's drinking capacity was any gauge. Half the glass was downed before Phil had run up the sale. He could see the customer up close now; apart from the balding hair, he had a long thin face with sunken eyes and sagging skin. Phil guessed him to be easily in his early seventies if not older.

'Passin' through, then?' said Phil, keen to make conversation. The man was partially pre-occupied with whatever paperwork he had in front of him, but he was also glancing up every few moments and staring towards the far end of the bar.

'Something like that.' The man reached into the inside of his jacket and extracted a business card. He slid it slowly across the bar, turned it around and tapped it twice for good measure. It said:

Antiques and Collectibles

(020) 83624

Estd. 1963

W.B. Quibble

Proprietor

'Pleased to meet yer, Mr. Quibble,' said Phil, frowning. A strange name, he thought. But such opinion was best left in the recesses of his mind. 'Didn't think there were any dosh left in buying and selling old junk nowadays.'

Mr. Quibble gave a hearty laugh. 'It is true the market is somewhat depressed...but antiquities have always been a sound investment. That common little adage of one's trash being someone else's treasure rings so true so often.'

'Oh ayah?'

'Well, there must be some truth in the matter. I've been in the business a good forty-five years, and made a tidy sum over that time.' He leaned forward and lowered his voice for effect. 'But don't tell our friend Mr. Chancellor of the Exchequer I told you so, eh?'

Phil allowed a chuckle. There was always a character or two passing through, someone with a story to tell or a secret to share. And politicians and tax collectors were an easy target.

'I won't say anythin' long as yer don't mention about the reddies that don't go through that there till.'

Mr. Quibble raised his glass in mock appreciation.

'So what brings yer into this neck of the woods, guv? Business?'

'Indeed.' He sighed. 'A dear old lady who has lived in the same house all her life.' His eyes glazed over. 'Her family are keen to...cash in their investment, shall we say.'

'Ayah. Well I'm sure it'll be a nice little earner for everyone concerned, includin' yerself. Wish I were that lucky.'

'Oh, if you ever had to have a fire sale you might be surprised at what items of value would turn up.' Mr. Quibble looked around and nodded towards the lithograph near the door. 'I had a quick look at that one when I came in. An A. Paul Weber work; not his finest by any means, and certainly drawn in the latter part of his life. But I'd fancy it would fetch upwards of three hundred pounds, perhaps as many as four. Certainly no more though.'

'Four 'undred quid? Are you jiffing me?'

'Oh no, sir- I assure you am not. But four hundred would be rather...ambitious. Three hundred less any commission would be much closer to the mark to be honest.'

'Oh ayah. I know your type,' he said, laughing. 'Sure ter give me a good discount are yer?'

'I was merely saying, dear sir,' Mr. Quibble said with a frown. 'But I'm quite sure you're in no hurry to sell it, and I certainly have no interest in acquiring it, or acting as your representative. Whilst I am confident it would fetch a reasonable price, sadly A. Paul Weber's later works are not a cup of tea I like to taste.' He took another swig of his drink leaving barely a mouthful left.

'Oh, picky are yer?' said Phil. He checked his bar; Charlie still had half a pint left and was in no hurry for a refill.

'Well, astute is rather the term I'd prefer to use. One has to sift through what the market has to offer and select only those with a viable potential; our esteemed Mr.Weber has plenty of artworks to satisfy even the most fussy of collectors, but only a few are guaranteed to invoke a reasonable profit. That thing you have over there is sadly not one of them.'

'Yer lost me with all 'at fancy talk,' Phil said with a grin. 'Still, three or four 'undred quid I ain't going ter complain about. Anythin' else catch yer eye?'

Mr. Quibble turned and with his raised glass, pointed to the far end of the bar. An old looking clock was propped up against the side wall on the bar edge. 'That clock you have over there. I do hope you have it insured because I certainly wouldn't be leaving it in such a prominent position, certainly not in this day and age.'

'You wot?' Phil said, surprised. 'Yer tellin' me it's worth somethin'?'

'A pretty penny,' Mr. Quibble said with a grin. 'Well, assuming it's not a very good copy of course. I would have to have a closer inspection- I'm sorry, but my eyes are not what they used to be.'

Phil drummed his fingers on the bar and ran his eyes back and forth between the clock and Mr. Quibble. 'Yeah, yer can have a look. But I should tell yer, it's not even mine for keeps. I'm jus' lookin' after it for a customer who's out doin' some errands.'

It was Mr. Quibbles turn to look surprised now. 'You mean someone has entrusted you to look after a Waltzien timepiece and they left it there on display for the whole world to see? Oh my goodness! I pray only that it is adequately insured, for such an item is practically irreplaceable...assuming it's the real McCoy of course.'

Phil stood still and silent with a perplexed face. Mr. Quibble was in an awful flap; he was squinting his eyes trying to get a better look at the clock and mumbling to himself about the need to take greater care of important antiques.

'You mean' it's worth somethin' then?' Phil finally repeated.

'If it's the real thing, then yes,' Mr. Quibble said firmly. 'That's what I just said.'

Intrigued, Phil motioned for Mr. Quibble to follow him to the far side of the bar. He wiped his glasses, and holding them carefully by the rims, pushed them as far as they would go over the bridge of his nose.

The clock was about a foot high by half a foot wide and deep. The clock face took up almost the entire width of the front and was immaculate in detail with large roman numerals which marked the hours and a smaller circular timepiece located just above the number six to represent the minutes. There were two small paneled doors underneath the face, presumably where the chimes hung, and it had a rounded top edge expect for two brass pointers at the back that protruded upwards either side which made them look a little bit like ears. There were some marks and scratches grooved into the wood, but it generally looked to be in reasonable shape.

'And?' Phil said hurriedly.

But Mr. Quibble was not to be rushed. He examined the clock from top to bottom with his eyes, and only after frowning several times did he then touch it, first running his fingers along the edges before prodding the sides gingerly. He studied the main clock face carefully, and put his ear to it, nodding satisfactorily as the steady and rhythmic ticking went about its business. All the time Phil looked on, unsure whether to interrupt.

Finally, Mr. Quibble turned the clock around slowly and peered at the different markings on the back. He seemed to find the one he was looking for and smiled confidently.

'And?' Phil repeated.

'Well it's definitely a Waltzien, of that I can assure you. There is a signature of sorts just here.' Mr. Quibble pointed to a small copper plate in the bottom left hand corner with AW R4 stamped into it. 'Can you see that?'

'Yeah. And?'

'Albert Waltzien was renowned for marking every clock he handcrafted with his own initials and adding a series reference and iteration. This is a Rosenthal, hence the letter R. From a distance I thought it might have been one from his Crown or Allenby series; the three are very much alike.' He ran his fingers lightly up and down the wood paneling. 'Yes, it is very much a Rosenthal. This clearly has three rungs either side.'

'Ah, I see,' Phil said with a feigned interest. 'An' the number four?'

'Well that represents the order in the designated series; Waltzein only ever crafted five or six in any given series and it is commonly acknowledged that the higher numbers represent a higher quality. Once he had ironed out his imperfections in his first few attempts, the fours, fives and sixes in any given series were practically flawless.'

'So why didn't 'e just keep making the same clock over and over if 'e got so good at it?'

Mr. Quibble sighed and adjusted his glasses. 'Because my good man, as a craftsman, it is in your blood to challenge yourself. I am quite sure Waltzien could have made himself immensely rich by setting up a production line in Bangalore to ensure every family in Europe had an Allenby or Rosenthal on their mantelpiece, but that was not the nature of Waltzien, nor is it the nature of other such craftsman. Here, let me show you something.' Mr. Quibble turned the clock back around and tapped his forefinger against the glass over the first roman numeral. 'Carved from only the finest ivory, Waltzein insisted that only male elephants rode by the great Indian prince Baji Rao II during his twenty-two year reign from 1796 be used. A whole tusk might be enough for just three clocks believe it or not.'

'Mmm, is that so?'

'Indeed!' Mr. Quibble exclaimed, his hands bubbling about animatedly. 'Hard to believe, isn't it?'

'So what's this here things value? Now that you reckon it's the real deal, 'ow many reddies are we talkin' about?'

Mr. Quibble lolled his head from side to side. 'Difficult to be precise really- I know of only three other Rosenthal's, but only one was really fit for sale. And it was in such immaculate condition you could have sworn it had never been touched, so its final selling price was somewhat, er- how should one say this?- artificially inflated, shall we say.' He rubbed his forehead and pinched his eyebrow. 'Well, it's obviously in good condition...look, even in today's conservative market, I'd be surprised if it went for any less than five thousand to be perfectly honest. A few months ago before the market turned you would have got seven thousand in a heartbeat though.'

'Five bloody thousan'!' Phil exclaimed. 'You're shittin' me, ain't yer?'

'Oh no, sir, I assure you I am not. Of course, with the market being what it is today, I would expect it to remain on sale for as many as three months before it sold, but even the most cautious of investors would expect to pay no less than five thousand. So you can why I was so...concerned with this being left where it was.'

'Five thousan',' Phil whispered. He was licking his lips slightly and his eyes were fixated on the clock.

'I do hope your customer friend realises the intrinsic value of this Waltzien,' Mr. Quibble said. 'It would be such a shame for something to happen to it.'

'Oh yeah, don't you worry 'bout that, guv. I'll tell 'im all right.' Phil carefully lifted the clock from the bar and positioned it next to his till, far away from prying hands. 'Fancy another?' he said, taking a clean glass from a tray.

Mr. Quibble checked his watch. 'As tempting as that sounds good sir, I really can't afford to be late for my next appointment.' He returned to his stool and packed up his briefcase. 'And if your customer friend happens to be interested in selling his Waltzien, then please don't hesitate to give him my card.' He pushed the business card to the edge of the bar with his forefinger. 'I can't guarantee him a fair commission, but I'll certainly get him a good price,' Mr. Quibble added with a sly grin. 'Good day to you, sir.'

'Ayah,' Phil said from where he was leaning. The empty glass was still in his hands; he was turning it around in his fingers, his mind elsewhere. Mr. Quibble gave a curt nod as he went through the doors, but Phil didn't notice. After a while, he walked back over to where his customer had been sitting, picked up the business card and with a carefree flick, watched it twist and turn straight into the bin.

It was a little after four o'clock when the man in the torn jeans and frayed shirt came back to pick up his clock. He was a young looking chap; about twenty-five, with dark stubble on his face, thin eyes and a square jaw. Two middle-aged women were sitting over where Charlie liked to ponder, and one flicked eyes to the other to indicate there was a male worth having a quick gander at. They did so as women do; slowly and surreptitiously, and the man was none the wiser to their discreet pleasure.

Phil had been waiting for the man to return ever since the antiquities dealer had left. The quiet afternoon had allowed him to carefully think over his planned actions and bartering technique, and now as the man approached the bar with a cheerful smile, Phil was more confident than ever that he could pull it off.

'Guv,' Phil said, and nodded his head.

'Hiya mate. Sorry I took so long. Got caught up, like.' He looked over to where the clock should have been and noticed it had been moved. 'Everythin' all right, then?'

Phil thumbed towards the till. The clock was standing proudly next to it.

'Nice one, guv.' The man pulled out a worn five pound note from his wallet and tossed it onto the bar. 'Cheers for 'at, mate. Only didn't want to lug it wit' me all the way ter the dole office an' back, and me nan would have done 'er 'ead in if anythin' 'ad 'appened ter it before cashin' it in like.'

'Oh? Worth somethin' then?' Phil asked casually.

'Dunno. 'At's what I'm about ter find out. There's a pawn shop round 'ere somewhere, ain't 'ere? I ain't from round 'ere, see. Jus' doin' me nan a favour, like.' He proudly blew on his fist and rubbed it against his shirt as if the proffered deed was an extra special effort. 'Mind you, she's givin' me thirty quid for gettin' rid of it for 'er, so it must be worth summin, eh?' He ginned awkwardly, revealing several badly decayed front teeth. 'Might even keep a bit more for meself if the price is good, know what I mean?'

Phil nodded sagely. The five pound note had found a home next to a bar coaster, but Phil was in no rush to pocket his storage fee.

'How much were your nan hopin' ter get for it then?' he asked. 'Only I've been wantin' a nice clock ter hang around 'ere for ages. Always getting punters askin' what time it is an' all, and I ain't got nothin' for 'em ter look at except me old watch.'

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 'Dunno, guv. Well if me nan's givin' me thirty quid jus' ter pawn it for 'er, I reckon it must be worth summin, like. She might be a couple of pennies short of the pension, but she's an old biddy, and you know what 'em lot are like when it comes to 'lookin' after the reddies.'

Phil drummed his fingers lightly on the bar. He had hoped this would be a relatively easy transaction to enact, but the young man who was easily half his age was already proving difficult.

'Fair enough. 'Ow much you want for it then?'

The man cocked his head to one side. 'Puttin' the ball back in me court then, eh? Nah- don't do it like that, guv. I'd sooner take it ter get looked at first. Could be a nice little earner that, know what I mean?'

'Suit yerself. Only good luck ter yer luggin' that thing around hopin' ter get paid somethin' decent.' He leaned forward, his elbows on the bar and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. 'Sixty quid for it. How about 'at?'

'Sixty quid? Yer kiddin', ain't yer? I'll get a 'undred for it sure enough. Me nan ain't daft.'

'All right then. I'll give you a 'undred.' Phil started to move off towards the till.

''Ang about- what's the rush, like? Do you know summin about me nan's clock that I don't?' The man positioned himself on a stool and casually picked up a bar coaster, twirling it about between his index fingers.

'What you mean?'

'I mean why the sudden interest, like. An' the offer of a 'undred quid.'

'Told yer- I needed a clock for me punters.'

'Oh yeah? Then why not go down to the markets and get yerself some old chink rubbish? It'll do yer the same job, won't it?'

Phil paused with his hand hovering over the till. It hadn't been a particularly good day but if he included the float, there was just over two hundred in cash. He might be needing every pound at this rate.

'I like a bit of class with me gear,' Phil said, turning back around. 'That clock of yours- it looks like it's got a bi' of class. Don't want ter get meself some five quid piece of junk that'll cop out in a couple of months.' He pointed to the lithograph near the door. 'See that? Original A. P. Weber, that is. Four 'undred quid's worth, an' insured for twice that. Class- that's what I like.'

'An' yer reckon me nan's clock's got some class?'

'Well yer said she ain't daft, an' that's the same thing. What yer say then- 'undred an' fifty? I've got the reddies right 'ere, and yer won't have none of that 'aving ter prove yer iden'ty lark like they make yer do down at the pawn shops.'

The sudden increase of fifty pounds seemed to have an appeal, for the man arched his brow.

'If yer can do one-fifty I reckon yer got it in yer to go two 'undred.'

Phil shook his head. 'Nah, sorry mate- one-fifty it is.'

'One-eighty then. 'At's one-fifty for me nan and thirty for me.'

Phil sniffed a couple of times as if he had a blocked nose. 'Yer nan ain't goin' ter see one-fifty. You know it an' I know it.'

The man smiled. 'She might.'

Phil pressed the OPEN button on the cash register and the drawer slid out. The largest note was a fifty, which Phil took first followed by eight tens and ten fives. After counting it out on the open drawer, he bundled the notes together and stepped back to the bar. He didn't bother to close the drawer; there were only a couple of small notes left inside and the bar was still relatively quiet. 'Here you go,' he said.

The man watched carefully as Phil proceeded to count the money slowly. Phil put the money down as if he were dealing cards; half an inch of each note showed underneath the other so there was no question as to the number of notes and value.

'...one seventy...one seventy-five...one eighty.' Phil gestured to the neatly lined pile. 'Want ter count it?'

'Nah. Bleedin' obvious 'ow much there is, ain't it?' He ran his hand underneath the pile, cleanly scooping up the money. 'Nan'll be 'appy.'

'Pretty happy meself,' Phil said, smiling. 'That clock'll look good when I 'ang it up.' He allowed himself a stretch, and felt a sense of relief and satisfaction sweep over him. He'd been out of sales a long time but he never forgot what it was like to close a deal; back in the heady days of the eighties and nineties he'd won and lost a livelihood several times over, but the pitfalls of failure were always countered by the euphoria of success.

'Nice doin' business wit' yer,' the man said with a wink, and hastily bundled the money into his shirtfront.

'Ayah.'

'Might 'ave meself a pint before headin' off then. Any chance of givin' us one, on the house like?'

Phil grunted. He was feeling generous, but not that generous.

Mr. Quibble had been double-yellow parked for about five minutes, but he was a man who made his own luck, and such men care little for double-yellow parking their car. And as if to emphasise that point even further, his top of the range Audi- the one with electric sunroof, rear sensor reversing options and in-built satellite navigation- wasn't even properly parked; one front wheel was half-way up the kerb, and the back was so obscurely stuck out into the road, one would have to drive around it or risk taking out a headlight.

As Classical Music Hour played through the six speakers, Mr. Quibble was patiently scoring his racing results in the afternoon papers form guide. He'd amassed three wins and a place- slightly below par- but there'd been an unexpected fall in race five, and if he ignored that result he'd have been right on the money. Still, spring season was only a couple of weeks old; plenty of time yet to find form.

There was a knock at the driver's side window. Without pausing to look up from the guide, he flicked a switch and the electric window hummed half-way down.

'Guv.' It was the same man who had only a few moments prior been in Phil Bartle's bar.

'Afternoon, young Adam. Everything go all right then?' This time Mr. Quibble looked up. A few flecks of rain entered into the car.

'Like a song.' He reached into his shirt pocket and pull out a wad of notes. He peeled off a hundred and fifty pounds and passed it through the window. Mr. Quibble counted the money and nodded approvingly. 'No chance I can get a lif' wit' yer is there, Mr. Quibble? Only I ain't got any idea 'ow the buses run 'round 'ere.'

Mr. Quibble glanced to the passenger seat which was occupied by a cardboard box full of clocks. The rain was getting heavier and dark clouds blotted the sky.

'Just let me pop the boot so you can put all this cheap junk in there first.'

The Fox and Vic had been good to Mr. Quibble too.
Beware The Baker Boys

"They'll get you, ay"

Luxton Heights was the quintessential showcase of British 1970's estate housing. The hastily constructed concrete tower block replete with dual lift (neither of which had worked simultaneously since Thatcher took office) gained planning approval with the mere formality of a public servant's yawn and rubber stamp one Friday afternoon after a few pints at the pub, and it quickly imposed itself in the concrete jungle landscape of south-east London. Touted as 'a community for Britain's up and coming families,' within five years its inhabitants were anything but what the developers had envisioned; wanton acts of the paid variety were commonplace within the units, empty beer cans and used syringes adorned the stairwells, and there was a constant stench of human waste that trailed the graffitied walls. If Luxton Heights was supposed to be vision for the next golden British age of architecture and harmonious community living, someone had forgot to mention it to the poor souls who had the misfortune to call this place their home.

Tommy Anderson was one such occupant, and in his short nine years, had barely known a life other than the concrete monstrosity that was a blight on the visual and socio-economic landscape. Born to a drunkard father and mother whose reputation could best be described as questionable, Tommy had seen and heard it all from his vantage point in unit fifty-six. His father regularly took to him with a belt for failing to 'keep that bleedin' TV down', he was often witness to the drug selling activities from the (supposedly) employed panel fitter at number fifty-four, and there was always some kind of noise being made in the room above his, usually late at night and always involving a squeaky bed. The only saving grace for Tommy was that his mother had recently moved out having after also being subjected to his father's belt on one too many occasions, and was now living in a newer (though no less socially dysfunctional) estate a few streets away which hadn't yet been completely infiltrated with the criminal scourge that plagued Luxton Heights. And whilst the pair hadn't quite agreed on formal parenting rights, the 'come and go as you please' attitude suited both adult Andersons as they only had to feed Tommy when he showed up. The lack of moral responsibility was a common trait of those who resided here.

Tommy was a scrawny looking boy; whilst not completely malnourished, his diet of crisps and soft drink supplemented with the odd cooked meal of sausages, didn't help his gaunt look. His hair was always knotted and unkempt, and he often went days without bathing. A school uniform was few and far between, and most days he knocked about on the estate anyway when he couldn't be bothered getting an education, hurling stones at bottles and partaking in the odd bit of shoplifting down at the supermarket. Namely crisps and cans of soft drink.

He bounced down the stairs two at a time and sat down on the bottom rung in the foyer. Above him, the light flickered briefly like it sometimes did before fixing itself into a stable stream. He was in no real rush; his mum never got back to her new place before seven anyway. She'd taken up a new job at one of the supermarkets during the day (or so she said), and a few times a week she went down the pub afterwards, though knowing exactly what days were allocated to an alehouse drink was anyone's guess. Tommy had often been found waiting outside by his mum on the balcony strip shivering before a comforting hug and beer-laced kiss warmed him up.

Tommy reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a thin black marker. Taking off the lid, he started to draw a stick figure underneath a series of other stick figures for no other reason than that it had become something of a daily ritual. There wasn't much real estate left in this part of the foyer, and Tommy knew that by next week, he'd be drawing stick figures over by the lift. Or on the metal lift doors if that took his fancy. He was amazed at some of the colourful drawings and words that others had scrawled on the walls. Some of them even looked quite artistic if you could see beyond the sexual overtones.

The far door swung open. The first thing Tommy noticed was the bobby helmet as the officer took a few careful and pronounced steps into the foyer. The noise of his shoes echoed around the concrete walls and the door clattered shut behind him. Tommy froze and quickly pulled the pen away from the wall, tucking it under his arm for safekeeping. He could feel his cheeks burning, and his knees closed together. He shuffled up against the wall, hiding his latest stick art offering to Luxton Heights.

'Evening, lad,' said the officer with a curt nod of his head. He stepped closer and peered over at Tommy. 'Everything all right, is it?' The voice was firm but well spoken, almost as if it were devoid of any accent.

'Fine,' Tommy mumbled.

'I see.'

From Tommy's vantage point, the policeman looked like a giant. He was tall though. He noted the jacket with the polished silver buttons that sparkled under the fluorescent lights and what looked like a truncheon embedded into the trouser pocket. A walkie-talkie seemed to hang on the top front of the policeman's jacket as if by magic. His face hid under the big helmet, but there was no mistaking those dark piercing eyes that burrowed into young Tommy's body.

'So what are you up to, lad?'

'Nothin',' Tommy replied nervously. He instinctively pushed the pen deeper into his armpit with his fingers.

'Doesn't look like nothing. This all your work?' The officer motioned to the graffitied walls. 'Or maybe just some of it?' He smirked a little. 'I don't think you can reach half this stuff. Or know what some of these words mean. Don't worry, lad. I'm not here to arrest you.'

Tommy let out a sigh. 'I wasn't doin' nothin' wrong. Honest.' His cheeks were still burning red and his hands felt clammy.

'I believe you. What's that under your arm, though?'

Tommy tensed up further. He wished for the power of invisibility to befall him right there and then. Sheepishly, he reached under his armpit and pulled out his pen.

'Not exactly a switch-blade though, is it lad?'

Tommy shook his head.

'Well then, I won't be grassing you up for carrying around a marker. Just make sure you don't go drawing on these walls again though, OK?'

'Yeah.'

The policeman took another step forward towards the lifts, turned to the side and leaned back against the wall. There was an uncomfortable silence and Tommy didn't know whether he should get up and leave or sit still and wait. His legs felt heavy and his arms were shaking a little.

'Don't mind me, lad. You can go if you want too. You're not in any trouble.'

'OK.' But Tommy didn't move. He couldn't move. His legs wouldn't have supported him.

'You live here, do you lad?'

'Yeah. Number fifty-six,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'Well, me dad does. An' me. Been stayin' at me mum's lately though. She's got a new place now. Moved out a few months back, she did.'

'I see. Where's that then?'

Tommy shrugged his shoulders. 'Dunno. I mean, I know where it is, like. It's over by that big park. Jus' dunno what it's called.'

The policeman rolled his eyes. 'Summerset Estate?' he offered.

'Oh yeah. That's the one.'

'I see. But you're here at your dad's tonight?'

Tommy shook his head. 'Nah. Goin' over ta mum's soon. Jus' thought I'd 'ang around 'ere for a bit and...'

'Draw on some walls?' he finished. He smiled, and Tommy returned the favour. For the first time since the foyer door opened, he felt at ease. 'Bit late to be going out for a young lad like you. It's starting to get dark now.'

Tommy pushed himself back up a couple of steps. He didn't feel as intimidated and certainly not as small as his nine years implied. It probably had something to do with the fact that he probably wasn't going to get arrested today. 'So wot you doin' then?' he asked.

'Police work,' came the reply.

'Yeah, but what kind?'

'The police kind.' And with that, he tapped the side of his nose and gave another wry smile.

This made Tommy curious. His mind was awash with all kinds of ideas. A bit of random graffiti was certainly not on this officer's criminal shopping list. It was almost as if he was...waiting for someone.

Tommy thought for a moment. 'Not Mr Andrews three doors down is it? 'E's always knockin' stuff of is Mr Andrews.'

'Is he now?,' said the policeman with a furrowed brow.

'Yeah. Jus' hi-fi's mostly. But I didn't tell you 'at.'

'Your secret is safe with me, lad. And if anything does come about with this...Mr Andrews, you can be sure that nothing will get back to you.'

Tommy smiled awkwardly. He wasn't sure if he said the right thing, but it was too late now. He had a vision of Mr Andrews being carted away in the back of a police van in handcuffs whilst his JVC product sat idly in his front loungeroom.

'Mus' be good bein' a copper,' he said. 'Bet you get to see all kinds of good stuff.'

'It has it's rewarding moments.' He tilted his head slowly. 'So anyway, lad, what's your name?'

'Tommy. Tommy Anderson.'

'I see. And what are you? Nine, ten?'

'Nine.'

'Lived here a long time, lad?'

'Guess so,' Tommy said with a shrug. He thought for a moment. 'Yer must be on somethin' important if yer waitin' down 'ere.'

The officer laughed a little. 'Oh? And what makes you think that?'

''Cause yer standin' by the lifts...like yer waitin' for somethin' or someone. Like yer on some kind of stakeout or somethin. I reackon that if yer knew they were 'ome already, ye'd have gone up and knocked on their door by now.'

'A stakeout? Well, you do seem to know the police lingo don't you, lad?' He smiled a little more, revealing his white shiny teeth, and nodded approvingly.

Tommy looked over to the foyer door. 'So is yer partner keepin' an eye out on the outside?'

'My partner?'

'Yeah. You lot always do stakeout in pairs, don't yer?'

'I don't know. Do we? Where on earth did you get that idea, lad?'

'Yeah, you do,' Tommy said. 'Me and me mum always watch Juliet Bravo on Sunday nights. Well, when I'm over 'er place on Sunday anyways. Dad never watches it 'cause he reckons it a load of bollocks, except for 'at Stephanie Turner who he reckons 'e wouldn't mind givin' her one too if she came 'round knockin'. Anyways, they always 'ave two of 'em doin' stakeouts and stuff, don't they?'

Tommy thought for a moment. 'Bet yer have one of those Escorts too that yer all zoom around in.' His mind wandered to the episodes he'd seen with his mum on Sunday nights; Tommy always loved seeing one of the Ford Escorts going about its business, scooting around corners or speeding down roads as the police chased the criminals. They seemed to have more up and go than the other cars they used in the show. When he grew up, he wouldn't mind being a policeman for the sole reason of being able to drive one of those cars. That is of course, if his first choice of becoming an astronaut wasn't available.

The officer sighed. 'Well, police television and police reality are two different things entirely I assure you, lad.'

'So it's jus' you then?'

'Afraid it is..'

This piqued Tommy's curiosity even more. 'Are you goin' ter arrest someone then? Can I watch if yer do?'

'And what makes you think I'm here to arrest someone? Maybe I'm just waiting to have a...friendly chat.'

'Nah. Yer goin' to arrest someone, I jus' know. Never seen it 'appen in real life before.' And that was true enough. Despite living on one of the roughest estates around, the criminal way of life was practically a norm in Luxton Heights; neighbours tended to keep to themselves, namely for fear of bringing the wrath of the law into their own sinful household.

'No, no. Just a friendly chat...if he shows.'

He? Tommy's ear pricked up. 'But there's jus' one of yer. Wot if 'e shows up with a mate or bunch of mates an' they start smashin' the bull out of yer like? Bet yer wish yer partner was here then eh.'

'You do have quite an active imagination, lad. I like that, though. An active imagination should keep you out of trouble with the law.' He yawned a little. 'Well, if trouble is afoot and I am unable to manage by myself, I'll just have to rely on you to help me out. Or call for backup.' He tapped his walkie-talkie approvingly.

Tommy felt pleased that he had raised such a concern and that the officer had enough confidence in him to be able to assist. Though he wasn't sure if he was quite up to being able to get handcuffs onto someone if required. He wasn't exactly big boned, he thought.

'Me dad says that if 'e ever sees a copper come to our door 'cause of somethin' I've done, he'll belt the bejesus out of me.' Tommy gingerly touched the top of his hip, reminding himself that he had suffered such punishment for far less a crime.

'Well let's hope it won't ever come to that. You stay in school and keep yourself out of trouble, OK?'

'OK.' Tommy thought for a moment. 'Hey, yer not waitin' for one of the Baker boys are yer?'

The officer shuffled uneasily. 'And what do you know about the Baker boys, lad?'

So he was waiting for the Baker boys. I knew it, Tommy thought. He stood up and walked to the bottom of the stairs, brimming with confidence. 'They live up on the top an' act like they own the place.'

And that was true enough. The Baker boys comprised of three brothers – Terry, Paul and Michael. Terry was in his mid-twenties and had somehow wrangled custody of his much younger brothers who were still at high school (on paper anyway; Tommy would be considered a saint in attendance compared to the other two misfits). The parents had died a couple of years ago in a double overdose down by the river though the rumour mill on the estate had them as victims of a drug deal gone wrong; the first law of wheeling and dealing was that you never sampled your own product as it reduced the profit margin and made for bad business, and the Baker's had never been known as junkies. They were known to have dabbled in some of the softer stuff, but steered clear of the more risqué drugs which made their deaths all the more mysterious.

Terry Baker was as tough as nails complete with a skinhead look and tattoos that already had covered a good three quarters of his body. Paul and Michael were primed to continue the family tradition of crime having such a dedicated role model in their older brother, and they had already hot-wired a dozen vehicles between them in pursuit of no other reason but to fill in the void of weekday and weekend evenings (allegedly). Michael was of particular concern; whilst he was the youngest, he seemed to have something to prove, and his temper was unpredictable and vicious. He would strike out to uphold his family namesake, and those that crossed his path would cop it hard and just. Already he was responsible for at least six broken noses, and two of those belonged to a couple of school friends his middle brother's age.

The Baker boys possessed all the hallmarks of their deceased father; cruel yet businesslike; fearsome yet approachable. Word on the estate was that in a few years' time, the Baker boys would probably acquire Luxton Heights as their own empire via their own brand of misguided economics. If they weren't already dead or banged up in HM Belmarsh for the next thirty years.

'Tough nuts, aren't they?' the officer said.

'Yeah. Terry 'specially. Guess 'cause he's the oldest an' all.'

'We have a saying down at the station lad: "Beware the Baker boys." Do you know much about them and what they get up to?'

'Oh yeah. I mean, I've heard stuff an' all. Never seen exactly what they get up too. But 'eard a lot.' Tommy felt a rush of excitement and apprehension all at the same time. He wanted to help this officer – felt compelled and obligated too, if he was honest with himself. But he knew Luxton Heights had its own law, and the Baker boys wouldn't for one moment hesitate in serving out their own justice for being grassed up.

'Such as?'

Tommy hesitated. 'Er, well...'

'What does your mum like most about Juliet Bravo, lad?' he said, changing the subject.

Tommy thought for a moment. 'Well, apart from the storyline's an' how that police lady always get the bad guys, she really likes the start of the show an' the music.'

The officer pinched his eyes together. 'Ah yes, I've seen the opening theme a few times. It shows one of these doesn't it?' He tapped his bobby hat. 'Only the type worn by my female colleagues is a little bit different to this one.'

'Yeah, that's right.'

'Well...How would you like to wear this one for a little while? In exchange for helping me out with a bit of information about our friends the Baker boys?'

Tommy's eyes lit up. All of a sudden he felt like the Milky Bar kid earning his first sheriff's badge. 'Could I?' he gleamed.

'Sure, lad.' He unclasped the hat and took it off. For the first time Tommy could see the policeman's full features; a rounded jaw, green eyes and short wavy hair. He looked more friendly with the hat off, more approachable. Tommy came forward and the officer carefully handed it to him. 'Here, you're big enough, lad. You put it on yourself. Don't need me to do it.'

'Will it fit?'

'Won't know until you give it a try, lad.'

Tommy took the proffered helmet with both hands. It was big but it felt lighter than he thought it should be; on Juliet Bravo all the officers seemed to struggle with them as if they were too heavy and cumbersome for their head. But it didn't feel like that at all, and felt quite...plasticky to the touch if he was being honest. Cheap and nasty. A bit disappointing really.

'Well go on, lad. Try it on. It won't bite.'

Tommy pushed the helmet over his mottled hair. He had to crow his head a little to be able to see properly.

'Don't worry about doing the clip up, lad. It'll be too loose for you anyway. Other than that...happy?'

'Yeah, its bril',' Tommy gushed. 'Never thought I'd 'ave somethin' like this.' It didn't feel like he always imagined, but he wasn't going to complain. He was a real policeman now. For a little while at any rate.

'Well you are very lucky. We're told not to do this kind of thing, see. I can get into a lot of trouble if my Sergeant found out.' He winked, and bent down a little. 'Now, lad...what do you know about the Baker boys?'

Tommy bit his lip knowing he now had to keep his end of the deal. 'Well...they ain't nice. I see Paul about more 'an the others.'

'Paul...he's the youngest one isn't he?'

'Nah, that's Michael. Paul's...dunno, about sixteen, seventeen.'

'Oh that's right. The funny looking one?'

'Well, they're all funny lookin'. Big noses and ears that look like me dad's 'ad a go at 'em. Depends what yer mean by funny lookin'.'

'And when you see Paul...what kind of stuff is he getting up too? Or has he done? It's OK, lad...you're my deputy now remember. You're not going to get into trouble.'

'Well....last Thursday I saw 'im down at the garage's goin' through some 'andbag he must have nicked. He saw me and told me to piss off. Said he'd cut off me balls if I told anyone.'

'And did you?'

'Nah. Jus' you. Didn't want me nuts cut off, see.' Tommy considered what he had just said. 'Yer won't tell 'im that it was me who told yer, will yer?' He glanced around nervously, half expecting to see Paul Baker saunter into the foyer complete with his pig face look. And if he did happen to chance upon the pair, they'd be no need to ask the question about who had grassed him up; the deputisation of young Tommy Anderson complete with borrowed bobby hat would be evidence enough.

'Of course not, lad. So do you think Paul has been knocking off a few handbags of late?'

'Dunno.'

The officer nodded slowly. 'Word at the station is that Paul is up to his neck in handbags. You wouldn't like it if he stole your mum's handbag, would you?'

Tommy rolled his eyes. He didn't think his mum actually owned a handbag. She did have a little purse that she carried around everywhere with her, of that Tommy was sure. She didn't keep much in it except the odd fiver and some odd looking little square packet which was quite squishy to the touch. He thought it was some kind of chewing gum though he'd never seen one like it in the shops before. He'd always meant to ask her what it was, but knew he's have gotten into trouble rummaging around in her purse.

'Suppose not.'

'Well...if this Paul chap doesn't stop stealing handbags, he might end stealing your mum's. And then they'd be no pocket money to share with you, would there lad?'

Tommy was going to protest that between his mum and dad, the mere thought of offering pocket money would have impeded their ability to buy their weekly fag allocation, but he thought better of it. 'Nah,' he muttered in agreeance.

'And that's why I'm here to...have a friendly chat with our Mr Baker.'

Tommy's mind raced. He wondered just what the remaining Baker brothers might do if Paul got carted away and chucked in a cell. They might start one of those riots up like what he saw on the TV the other night down at Brixton. He wouldn't put it past them.

'Your mum would be very proud of you, lad, if Paul was able to turn his back on a life of crime. It would all have been down to you, you know.' He knocked his bobby helmet good-heartedly and Tommy blinked. 'Better have that back now, lad.'

Tommy took off the helmet and passed it over. The officer clipped it back on under his chin and pressed a button on his walkie-talkie. It made a crackling noise but didn't seem to connect properly.

'Probably no signal down here,' he said. He checked his watch. 'Do you know what time the Baker boys usually get back?'

Tommy shrugged. 'Nah.'

'It's getting late. Probably quite dark outside by now too. Do you usually go over to your mum's this late?'

'Sometimes.'

'And she doesn't worry about you?'

Another shrug. The policeman pressed his walkie talkie again but it made the same crackling noise.

'Are yer calling for back-up?'

'I just wanted to check-in with the station, that was all. And maybe see if they have had any luck in getting hold of Paul. You don't know of anywhere else he might hang around, do you?'

'Nah.'

'What about the arcades down by the shops?'

'Maybe. I might have seen 'im down there once before.'

'Oh?' This got the officer's curiosity. 'There could be a chance then?'

'Dunno. Like I said, maybe.'

The policeman drummed his fingers on his chin. 'Well, I'm thinking that maybe I should go for a drive down to the arcade and have a look for myself, lad. Don't fancy a quick ride, do you?'

Tommy opened his mouth in awe. 'Could I?' He had never been inside a police car before though his dad had been lucky enough several times.

'Sure. Just a quick drive though. If I don't see our Mr Paul Baker, I'll drop you off at your mum's and come back here and wait for him. Don't want you getting into trouble, and I certainly don't want you out on the streets in the dark.'

Wait until his mum heard about this, he thought. A real police car! Just like one in Juliet Bravo with all that fancy CB equipment and lights and sirens. His mum would be dead jealous.

'If we do see Paul, you'll just have to keep your head down though. I don't want him seeing you otherwise he'll know you've stitched him up. And we wouldn't want that.'

'Yeah.' But Tommy wasn't listening. A real police car! Wearing a police helmet was one thing, but going for a ride in a real police car would be something entirely different. He bet it was one of those new Escorts too.

'Come on then.' The officer walked over to the foyer door and pushed it open. Tommy was right behind him, his little body pumping with adrenalin.

The officer was right; it was dark outside. Chilly, too. Tommy hadn't thought to grab a jumper, but then that wasn't unusual.

'Just over here, lad.' The car was parked just behind the bins where the Baker boys often sat smoking and drinking on weekends. Tommy couldn't see it properly, but there was no mistaking it as a Ford Escort though it looked a bit grubbier than the ones on TV.

'In you go, lad,' he said, opening the back door.

Tommy jumped in enthusiastically and the door shut closed with a shudder. He looked around and was a bit disappointed. There wasn't much in the way of all that fancy equipment the panda cars had on Juliet Bravo. It wasn't new either; the back seat was frayed and the centre light hung loosely by its cord. It was quite messy too; there was a distinct smell of paint and some old oily rags were on the seat next to him.

'Shouldn't take too long, lad,' said the officer as he got into the front seat and started the car up. 'Just a quick look down at the arcades before we get you to your over mum's.' He took off his helmet and tossed it over his shoulder. 'You can look after that for me while I drive if you like.'

Funny police car, Tommy thought as it clattered into gear and drove off. But what an adventure this will be!

The Escort with 'Joe's Painting Services' emblazoned on the side was such a noticeable vehicle as it noisily drove away from Luxton Heights with little Tommy Anderson staring excitedly through the back window and the exhaust blowing out black smoke.

But no-one could ever quite recall seeing it.
Honey Trap Enterprises

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"

Mrs Bronwyn Dawson had specifically booked Fraser's on Allenby Street because of the very private booths at the back of the coffee shop. The booths were popular with young couples who wanted some quiet time over a latte or perhaps something a little stronger, and were designed with three's a crowd in mind. Mrs Dawson had only used one of the booths once before when a close friend had some very important- and scandalous- news to share, and so it was the ideal setting for today's little meeting.

Bronwyn was fifty-two, though she was ageing gracefully and looked much closer to a woman of forty. She had always prided herself with her appearance; she took vitamins daily, exercised regularly, and always ensured her weight never tipped over sixty-five kilos, even if it meant skipping a few hearty meals for a day or so. She had shoulder length blonde hair, green eyes and a dainty button nose that was a trademark inheritance from her mother's side. Her natural pale complexion meant there was little need to wear makeup, though today she had treated herself to some light touches of non-smear eye-shadow and lip gloss. It was a special occasion, after all.

She was thinking of ordering another coffee when a tall young woman with dark hair and thin face approached the booth. A large shoulder case was loosely slung across one arm.

'Mrs Dawson?'

'Yes. Abigail Watson?' Bronwyn responded.

'That's right. Pleased to meet you.' Bronwyn rose from her chair and they shook hands.

'I'm sorry I have such clammy hands. I'm a little bit nervous still.'

'That's quite all right, Mrs Dawson. It's quite common to feel that way.' The woman's voice was calm and soothing, and her hazel eyes gave off a sense of understanding.

'Thank you. And please, call me Bronwyn. It feels much less formal. I'll feel like I'm attending a job interview otherwise. Um, may I get you a drink?'

'That's very kind of you, but no. I've been in about a dozen coffee shops today already. But please- grab yourself another if you must.' Abigail unclipped her bag and took out a small black file and pen.

Bronwyn smiled nervously. 'Maybe it's best I don't, she said. 'Anyway, thank you for agreeing to see me today,' and they both sat down.

'Please Bronwyn, it is I who should be thanking you for allowing Honey Trap Enterprises the opportunity to quote you on our service. As you are probably aware there are now quite a number of organisations like ours to choose from. The marketplace has really opened up these past few years, but I'm confident you will see that Honey Trap Enterprises has both the credentials and success rate to make it your business of choice.'

Bronwyn nodded, noting the subtle marketing ploy.

'And may I ask if you have had many other quotes from our competitors?'

'No. You are the first company I've contacted. You were recommended by a friend, you see.'

Abigail smiled. 'Well, please don't feel pressured to sign anything today. Take as long as you like, and get as many quotes as you feel is necessary. I understand how tight things can be in today's-'

'Oh, it's not about the money,' Bronwyn interrupted. 'We have plenty of that.'

'I'm sure you do. But you also want to ensure you are getting the best service available, and I can give you a personal guarantee that Honey Trap Enterprises not only has the highest success rate in this industry, we are also endorsed by the British Services Organisation with a five star rating. Not many of our competitors can match that. Your friend- may I ask if she was happy with our service?'

Bronwyn pushed her empty coffee cup to one side; she was already more relaxed now. 'Yes...Yes she was, actually. In fact, I've never seen her so happy. She's had quite a change in demeanour since...well, since it all happened.'

'I'm pleased.' Abigail opened up her file, revealing a detailed application form that had already been filled in. 'Well, with introductions out of the way, I suppose I had better get down to business. Now, it says here that your husband's name is Kevin and he's fifty-five and that you've been married for, oh let's see now...almost thirty years?'

'Yes. It's our anniversary next month.'

'Oh, congratulations.' Abigail moved her pen further down the page. 'And you have two children- a boy and a girl?'

'That's right, though they're both grown up now of course. Jasper has children of his own, and Christina has just gotten engaged. I don't think either of them have lived at home for five years or more now though.'

'I see. You've indicated that Kevin is in sales...Erm, exactly what kind? I mean, is he a sales rep who travels, or does he stay in the office and make a lot of phone calls?'

'Well, neither actually,' said Bronwyn. 'That's not to say he doesn't travel or make phone calls though. He's a senior executive at a financial services firm- it's a small company called Larson and Stanley on the outskirts of town. You may have heard of it before. His junior staff are the ones who do most of the...grunt work, I suppose you would call it.'

Abigail deliberated over how best to re-name his occupation before crossing out "sales" and scrawling "office fat-cat" in the designated column. 'Now then, that's the basics all done. What I don't have here are specifics about your husbands...er, supposed infidelity, to put it politely.' Abigail paused and glanced up from the page. 'Are you OK with me taking some notes? We'll destroy everything when we've completed our assignment should you choose to proceed with us.'

'Go right ahead.' Bronwyn took a deep breath.

'Take as long as you need, Bronwyn. These things can be quite emotional and distressing.' Abigail glanced over to her bag, checking the supply of tissues. There didn't seem to be any need at this stage to surreptitiously place the packet onto the table; nervous as Bronwyn was, she didn't look like bursting into tears anytime soon. In fact, she looked quite resolute.

'Right.' Another deep breath. 'Well I had some initial suspicions about six or seven months ago. He went on a business trip to Scotland- Edinburgh to be exact- but I didn't get to go. I know it doesn't sound like much, but Kevin had been promising to take me there for ages, and he even made a bit of a song and dance about it when he found out where he would be going. But a couple of weeks before the trip, he told me that partners were no longer allowed. Apparently with the market taking a bit of a dive, the company had to enforce some cutbacks....and one of those cutbacks extended to additional entertainment expenses. Wives and partners apparently fell into that category.'

'These things can happen, especially in tough economic times,' Abigail agreed.

'Oh yes, I quite understand the position. But I found out afterwards that partners were in fact allowed to go, and they indeed did go. I ran into one of my husband's colleague's wives at the shops- by pure chance you understand- and she was adamant that all partners were present and correct that weekend. Of course, I was a little perplexed by it all.'

'Did you confront your husband over this?'

'No. I did consider doing just that, but curiosity got the better of me. And everything I have done since has been...er, how should I say this? On the quiet?'

Abigail reached over and patted Bronwyn's hand. 'Good girl. Now- this weekend away- do you know if any women from the office went? His PA for example?'

'No. It's all all-male affair at Kevin's office, apart from the little admin tart, but she's only in the office twice a week and never gets invited to after-work functions. Even Kevin's PA is male. His name's John, and he's a bit...queer, if you get my drift.'

Abigail cleared her throat slightly and gently said, 'Bronwyn, I should remind you that Honey Trap Enterprises does not undertake any...homosexual engagements. However, our sister company-'

Bronwyn raised her hand. 'No, no, I wasn't implying that at all. I was inferring that he doesn't engage in sexual affairs with women he knows. You see, I am sure- quite sure in fact- that Kevin uses the services of prostitutes.'

'Oh, I see. And Edinburgh- you think this was his first time?'

Bronwyn's eyes glazed over and for a moment it looked as if she was about to cry. But her resolve quickly steadied. 'Yes. I know it sounds silly, but it's as if he felt the need to...test out the waters well away from home. Why I don't know- he might just as well have used some knocking shop around the corner from us for all it mattered and I probably would have been none the wiser.'

'It's not silly at all, Bronwyn. In fact, it's more common that you might think. A married man's first time with a prostitute is twelve times more likely to be somewhere other than...home turf. If he convinces himself it is going to be a one-off, then he must do everything he can to protect himself from being discovered. And what better way to do that than when overseas, or in a different city? Plenty of time of get over any guilt he may feel before packing up his bags and heading back home.'

'Oh, I see. That seems to make sense explaining it that way.'

'If he chooses to pursue his newfound hobby- as most married men tend to do- he becomes more confident with each success, and will likely move his operation closer to home, believing that he can get away with it each and every time. He is prepared to take greater risks because he thinks his partner will never find out.' Abigail paused for effect. 'I take it this is what happened to your husband?'

'Oh, you are good,' gushed Bronwyn. 'You have gleaned all this from years of experience I presume?'

'We have a flaw in male genetics to thank mostly. Now please, continue.' Abigail turned to a clean sheet of paper and prepared her pen.

'Well after Edinburgh, I started to look for signs and signals that something was going on. One of the first things I did was to buy myself a diary in which to document everything. I didn't want to think I was going crazy or anything.' Bronwyn started to draw an imaginary circle on the table with her finger. 'I don't know if this is relevant, but I made note of every time we had intercourse. On the weeks I suspected him of straying our lovemaking was more frequent and...intense. He really seemed to have some get-up-and-go about him if you catch my drift.'

Abigail indicated that she understood completely. 'Another common failing of men- they try to mask their indiscretions by over-compensating.'

'I thought so too. I then did some subtle checking of old credit card statements. There was nothing incriminating per se- no references to massage parlours or the like, but I did find a couple of notations for petrol stations which were a bit out of the way, and not part of what I would reason to be his normal country travel routine. The days immediately after those fill-ups, he brought me flowers for no apparent reason. I marked that down in the diary too.'

Abigail shook her head. 'Oh dear, Bronwyn- this isn't looking good at all, is it?'

'No, it's not. Then a few weeks ago one of my Monday tennis classes got cancelled, so I decided to surprise Kevin for lunch instead. I was about to pull into his work when I caught sight of his Volvo heading down the road in the opposite direction. I followed him, keeping a distance of a few cars back at all times, though it wasn't really necessary; everybody was giving him a wide girth as it was.

'Anyway, about ten minutes later he parked outside some old houses in one of the- er, more seedier parts of town. He got out, and seemed to be trying to find a specific house, which he eventually did after walking around for a while. He was inside for...oh, I'd say half an hour or so.

'After he came out and drove off, I waited for about two hours, and counted no less than five individuals- all men- enter and leave that very same house.'

'Quite a production line,' said Abigail. 'Well...I think that is the smoking gun we are after. You didn't by chance manage to see the prostitute in question, did you? Only it will help in knowing what his tastes are like with these sorts of women.'

Bronwyn smiled coyly. 'After the fifth man had left, a young girl aged about twenty or so came out and headed down the road. I assumed she had run out of supplies or was taking a well-earned break.'

'Excellent. Was there anything particular about her? Was she a...big girl for example? I know it might seem odd to ask, but we once had a gentleman who had a fetish for extra large ladies. We had to get one in on the books just for that job, and it took a few weeks to order her in specially. I'm just thinking ahead...should you elect to choose us, of course.'

'Oh no, she was nothing like that. Well, she was a slim young thing I suppose. And...look, I don't know if this sounds like I'm being racist, but she seemed to have an eastern-European look about her.'

Abigail leaned forward slightly. 'These kinds of girls are all the rage nowadays. Twenty years ago Asian girls were the bee's knees, but ever since the fall of Communism there's been a steady flow of girls from that part of the world. Polish and Ukrainian girls are especially in demand at the moment. Very pleasing and extremely cheap. So I've been told.'

'Oh, I see.'

'Anything else about her? Hair colour isn't always a good indicator, but I'm assuming she was blonde or brunette?'

'Brunette,' Bronwyn agreed, and her eyes misted over. 'He's always had a thing for brunettes.' She looked absently into the coffee cup and put on a brave face. 'So anyway, that's about it. Well, there's been a couple of other things- I've deliberately called his office for example when I've known he should be there only to be told he'd gone out, but I suppose now I just need that final bit of proof and confirmation. Which is why I'm here to see what you can offer.'

Abigail put her pen down and crossed her fingers together. 'Well, we offer a complete service with a full money back guarantee. If you're not completely happy with our performance, then neither are we.' She slid out a price list from the file and pushed it across the table. 'Bronwyn, we are slightly more expensive than our competitors, but as I mentioned before we have the highest success rate. And that's an independent verification, not just us bragging that we're the best.'

'I see. Have there ever been any mistakes?'

Abigail bit her lip. As a salesperson she was trained to gloss over any company indiscretions, but one of her most endearing qualities was her honesty. 'There have been...errors of judgement in the past, yes. Look, no industry or business is ever going to have a perfect record. Years ago, one of our agents in Rome got the wrong man. It was a complete stuff-up, of that there was no question; he wasn't even married or in a relationship, and it caused great embarrassment to all concerned. Another time- in Swansea I think it was- an agent actually fell head over heels for the man she was supposed to be trapping and you can just imagine how that one turned out. But please rest assured- all this happened before government regulation, and we've had a flawless record ever since. At least that's one thing Tony Blair got right in his time in office. And I should add that all our girls are given a full psychological evaluation to ensure we don't have any...nutters in the ranks as it were, and we continue to update our procedures and protocol to keep up to date with changing compliance requirements. We also review all our girls every six months. Strictly speaking, we don't have to do this, but we pride ourselves on having only the best.'

'Speaking of psychological evaluations,' said Bronwyn. 'I was a little bit...intimated by the one I had to fill out with my initial application. Was it really necessary?'

'Yes, I'm afraid it is. Again, another one of those compulsory requirements.' She shuffled through a few pages. 'Look, don't worry- you scored...ninety-two percent which is well above the minimum level of acceptance. I know it doesn't mean much- I suppose anyone can fake their way through a test if they really put their mind to it- but it is something we are obliged to do. We once had a woman who engaged our services and went absolutely wild when we presented her with the final result. She refused to believe any of it, said her husband wasn't like that at all, and that it was all a big mistake. She started smashing furniture in the office and it took four security guards to restrain her. You can probably imagine just how difficult a situation we were in given what had already transpired. And despite everything, she still threatened to sue us, even though her evaluation was retrospectively tied to the main terms and conditions of her contract. And please remember that Bronwyn- we are removed of all liability should you change your mind after the final go-ahead. The contract clearly states this.

'Now then, I have here some examples of how good our photographic evidence is.' She flicked further through her file and stopped at a clear plastic divider with four pockets. In each pocket there was a black and white photo; every photo had a different man and woman locked in a passionate embrace. 'Firstly, notice how clear the images are,' Abigail continued.

'They're very good,' Bronwyn agreed. 'You can see everything.' She tapped at the photo in the top right-hand corner. 'This chap's rather quite excited.'

'Secondly you'll see that in each photo the man's face is clearly identified. There can be no mistaking a husband or partner in any of these.' She flicked over the page and pointed to one where a man was leaning against a bar, a drink in one hand while his other was suggestively wrapped around a woman's body. His face was tilted at an angle to match her kiss, his eyes wide open, indulged in the moment. 'Half the face only perhaps, but his wife would have no problem in identifying him. His mouth might be contorted somewhat, but I'm sure she would recognise his eyes and that tongue gesture anywhere.

'And finally- this.' Abigail reached into her shoulder bag and took out an old-style camera with a telescopic lens. 'It's seen better days of course, but it does the job just nicely.'

Bronwyn gave a surprised look. 'Oh, don't you use the latest digital cameras then?'

'When Mrs Emma Pearsell started Honey Trap Enterprises over eighty years ago, the only camera technology available to her then was a box-type shutter and flash that took almost an hour to set up. Since then technology has changed, but we've never seen the need to use extreme cloak and dagger techniques. This camera does exactly what it was intended to do, and in over thirty years it's never once let us down. Besides, digital imagery can be easily manipulated with any home computer software; the black and white negatives this little baby produces are completely tamper-proof.' Abigail gave it a pat.

'I suppose that's very true.'

'Now then- you'll also be wondering about where and when we surprise the cheating partner. Let me begin by assuring you first of all that we only ever enact the final stage of proceedings in a safe and secure place, such as a hotel room or parked car. These photos give you an idea of how our agents work in public venues, but a kiss and cuddle can still be construed as fidelity. A man's greatest weakness is his desire to get naked with a member of the opposite sex, and we ensure we have him exactly in that position before moving in. Here- let me show you something.' Abigail again reached for her shoulder bag. This time she took out a large yellow envelope containing another clear plastic holder which Abigail proudly pushed across the table. 'These arrived from our Munich branch only this morning. As you can see, each man has been caught at the very height of his, er- desire.'

Bronwyn gasped. 'Oh my! These are good. Look, I must confess that I was somewhat...hesitant about exactly how good your final pieces of evidence would be, but this has clearly put my mind at rest.' She reached for her handbag and took out a chequebook and pen. 'You've completely sold me, Abigail. I'm not even going to bother messing around with getting other quotes. This is exactly what I'm looking for.'

Abigail beamed with pride. 'Oh, thank you, Bronwyn. I just knew we could meet your expectations. Now then- we do have a couple of things for you to sign.' She turned to the back of her file and pulled out a stapled contract. 'And just a couple more questions, to ensure we have the right agent for the job and so forth. I also need to explain that payment is half now, half on completion. So, if you'd just care to...sign here...and here.' She pointed to the client signature lines and Bronwyn quickly signed and dated against the relevant conditions. Bronwyn couldn't help but chuckle at the slogan printed in red ink just below the Honey Trap Enterprises name and logo at the top of the page: 'Because Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned', it read.

'I was going to remind you that you are more than welcome to take our contract home first to read,' Abigail said with a smile, 'but it looks as if you're already committed now.'

'Whatever fine print might screw me over in there is nothing compared to what Kevin has done.'

'Quite. Just a few more questions to go and we're just about done. Firstly, we'll need a recent photo or two of your husband and specific details of where he works, plus anything else that might help- the pubs he likes to visit or sporting club affiliations, that kind of thing. We'll strictly observe for a week or so, and of course we'll be very discreet. It's just so we can build a complete profile of him, his mannerisms and the like. You'll be surprised at what womanising habits we'll be able to ascertain after just a few outings.'

'Already a couple of steps ahead of you there,' Bronwyn replied, and she rummaged through her handbag again. She extracted a small envelope and spilled the contents onto the table. Most of the photos were of the husband and wife at various family functions but there were a few of Kevin alone. A folded-up piece of paper with some detailed notes was at the back. 'My friend told me what to provide. I hope there isn't anything I've missed.'

Abigail studied the photos in turn; Kevin was a jolly looking man with receding hair and a plump face. Most of the shots were from above the waist but there was one taken side on where he looked to be decked out in summer clothes whilst watering the garden. He had a homely pot belly and thin stringy arms.

'These are good,' she said. 'Can I borrow them?'

'Please- keep them. I shan't be needing them anymore.'

Abigail put everything back into the envelope. 'Now- you mentioned before that you suspected your husband of being with a prostitute who was likely of eastern-European descent. May I ask- is he a fan of James Bond films by any chance?'

'Oh yes, he is,' Bronwyn said, replacing her chequebook into her handbag.

'And what would you say was his favourite?'

'His favourite James Bond film? Oh, it would have to be The Spy Who Loved Me, though he quite liked Goldeneye after the franchise started up again a few years ago- it's one of my favourites too, what with that gorgeous Pierce Brosnan as the leading man.' Abigail made some careful notes and nodded to herself. 'Why? Is that important?'

'Major Anya Amasova, played by Barbara Bach in The Spy Who Loved Me, and Natalya Simonova, played by Izabella Scorupco in Goldeneye,' Abigail said without hesitation. 'Both characters were Russian operatives...and both were brunette.'

Bronwyn gave a little gasp. 'Oh my, but that is extraordinary,' she said. 'You actually know every female character and actor who has had a starring role in a James Bond film?'

'It is one of the prerequisites of this job,' said Abigail. 'We call it the Pussy Galore test, and you wouldn't believe the amount of research we have to do every time a new film comes out. But...I think you can clearly see a trend here and what I'm implying. Your husband has a fondness for brunettes whose accent is east of the old Berlin wall, and we have to exploit that weakness.'

'And can you?'

'Oh yes. We have dozens of girls who fit the criteria, but I do have a particular one in mind who will be exceptional for this role. She's young, eager, and has recently made a bit of a name for herself in those less than savoury areas of the celluloid industry from the Czech Republic. Lovely girl though, is our Elena. Russian parents too, I believe.'

'Is she clean? I mean, I wouldn't want Kevin to get a nasty infection, despite-'

Abigail waved her hands gently. 'All our girls have a medical clearance and are tested regularly. You needn't worry there.'

'Oh good, that is a relief.'

'Now, I am assuming you would like your husband to meet Elena in a pub or hotel?'

Bronwyn nodded excitedly. 'I know he's going away to Brighton the weekend after next for a conference. He's stopping at one of the swanky hotels they've got down there.'

'Excellent. Well if you can just provide me with all the details of exactly when and where a couple of days beforehand, and I'll make all the necessary arrangements with Elena. We can work with a much tighter turnaround but we prefer to have a couple of days leeway for obvious reasons.' Abigail paused. 'One other thing- we've recently introduced a new service which has proved quite popular with our American cousins. We can allow your husband to make one phone call to a number of his choosing once he's- er, caught with his pants down so to speak. Would you be interested? There's only a small surcharge involved.'

Bronwyn gave the additional service thoughtful consideration, but politely declined. 'Thank you, but no. It's not really my thing.'

'That's quite all right.' Abigail knew when to turn up and down the sales pitch, and there was no need to push their latest marketing trick with her newest edition.

'So what happens next? Do I let you know the details about Kevin's conference?'

'If you would be so kind.' Abigail checked the signed contract and detached the client copy. 'And please- if you have any further questions, or hesitations about this, contact myself or our office as soon as possible. Please- and I cannot stress this enough- do not leave it too late.'

Kevin Dawson was having an absolute corker of a time at Brighton's bi-annual Financial Standards Conference. He'd shot a three-under to finish one of the best rounds of golf he'd ever played, and had picked up a healthy two hundred pound wager in the process. Several existing clients had expressed an interest in consolidating their external portfolios, and the opportunity of some new client blood had been confirmed; a wealthy mobile phone distributor had arranged a Monday morning meeting specifically to discuss transitioning a dozen senior employee accounts worth eight hundred thousand pounds. And to top it off, the little brunette number all alone over by the bar had flicked her hair and batted her eyes not once or twice, but three times in the direction of the senior executive from Larson and Stanley.

He'd been eying her up too of course, ever since the moment she stepped inside and swung those cute little hips towards the bar wearing that low-cut sparkly silver dress and platform heels. Every man had done the same; a few had even gone as far to pluck up some alcoholic courage and attempt to introduce themselves to her, only to be shot down with an abrupt shake of the head and a curt, 'Nyet.' Those that persisted were simply ignored. She merely continued to sip at her requested Martini and engage eye contact with Kevin Dawson, who now regretted packing his wife's choice of tight underwear instead of the comfort-fit ones he was used to wearing around the home.

He was still a little hesitant about making a move so soon; though he too was drinking alone and the bar was relatively empty, the post-dinner crowd would be arriving shortly, and there was bound to be a couple of the boys from the office with that lot. He'd originally planned to down a few drinks early and head off into town looking for some private entertainment, but the arrival of this beauty was too good an opportunity to pass up. He knew exactly what she was and what she did though; he'd been at enough functions over the years to see these kinds of women ply their trade, and a smartly dressed executive in his mid-fifties was an obvious target. Without thinking, Kevin licked his lips and tapped his jacket pocket where the funds from his wager were stored. Even if she was more expensive than the others, she'd still be a cheap filly tonight, he reasoned to himself with a smirk.

As Kevin made his way across the floor with an uncomfortable looking gait, he was oblivious to Abigail Watson and her noisy camera as it went about its work.

Bronwyn had risen early and done half an hour of callisthenics when the phone rang. Normally she would have been annoyed, but she had been expecting this call.

'Mrs Dawson? It's Abigail Watson from Honey Trap Enterprises. How are you this morning?'

'Fine, thank you.'

'Good. Is there any chance we can meet later today? I can call around to your home if you like, or we can-'

'Fraser's?' Bronwyn interrupted. 'I was planning on going out for a coffee a little bit later anyway. It should be quiet today anyway, being a Sunday and all.'

'Ten-thirty all right?'

'Perfect.'

There were no nerves this time; Bronwyn Dawson settled into one of the private booths with an air of confidence about her. She arrived early and ordered a skinny latte before reading the Sunday newspapers cover to cover, with the exception of the sports pages. That was Kevin's forte, and there didn't seem to be a reason to go down that path now. Abigail arrived on time with a smile.

'Can I buy you a coffee this time?' Bronwyn asked.

'Why not?' Abigail beamed.

As soon as the drinks were ordered, Abigail got straight down to business. She unclipped her shoulder bag and took out a large envelope containing several dozen A4 sized black and white photographs. Bronwyn looked at each one calmly, not once flinching. Her breath was slow and steady as she eyed through the images. In order, the photos ran like still-frames from a film; Kevin approaching his quarry in the low-cut dress; Kevin laughing whilst sharing her Martini; Kevin with his forehead against hers while his hand rested on her knees. They got worse- the final few were of him kissing the young woman, his lips running over her cheeks and down to her mouth in full view of the other shocked patrons.

'Three hundred and fifty pounds was the agreed price,' Abigail said, 'just in case you were wondering.'

'I wasn't, but that's nice to know.' She sat upright and knitted her hands together tightly. 'And the final evidence?'

Abigail glanced around to ensure no-one was watching. She reached into her shoulder bag again and took out a small clear plastic bag that had been carefully sealed and labelled.

The cut was flawless; Kevin Dawson's penis had been severed directly at its base whilst in full erotic glory. A large plastic clip had been applied to the cavernous artery and two smaller clips applied either side of the corpora cavernosa to stem the flow of blood. Though some blood had still managed to seep out and pool into the bag, his penis was still beautifully preserved.

'Magnificent,' Bronwyn gushed. 'I don't think I've ever quite seen him as excited as this before.'

'I'm glad you like it. Elena did have some trouble at first; I believe it took about ten minutes back in his hotel room before she managed to get him to full stretch. Seems to happen a lot with men his age, as you probably know. But once he got there, it didn't take much effort on her part at all. And he didn't make much noise either apparently; I suppose it was the shock of everything really. That's quite common too.'

But Bronwyn wasn't listening. She was already eagerly reaching for her chequebook and pen, and humming a little song to herself.
