

## JUMP START

### A collection of short stories.

### Jack Fisk

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2015 J. Hall, JRGM Publishing.

Published by

JRGM Publishing, Edinburgh, United Kingdom.

This book is protected under copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

First Published : June 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A note from the author.

Each of the short stories contained in this collection stands alone and is complete in its own right. In three cases however, the short story also provides an introduction to a full length novel, which follows the same characters and the events which subsequently befall them.

A link to the novel is included at the end of each of these stories, should you wish to continue reading and find out what happens next.

Regards.

Jack.

## CONTENTS

Mary Sutherland

Underdogs

A matter of taste

A Goose for Christmas

The triangle

Patience – the waiting game

Roxanne

Ground Crew

Salute the Magpie – Part 1

Salute the Magpie – Part 2

Salute the Magpie – Part 3

A note from the author

Also by Jack Fiske
MARY SUTHERLAND

Mary Sutherland stopped at the lights and put the handbrake on. She checked her watch. It was still only ten-thirty. Plenty of time. Her appointment with the bank wasn't for half an hour yet.

The lights cycled from red to green and then back to red again without the line of traffic moving. Mary sighed and reached for the rear view mirror. She twisted it towards her and leaned over slightly. A middle aged woman with a chestnut bob and slim designer glasses looked back at her. "Still attractive," she thought and smiled to herself. A conclusion which was borne out by the attention she'd had from a number of men at the gym yesterday afternoon. Although granted, that could have had more to do with the skin-tight lycra she'd been wearing and the push-up bra.

"So what!" she thought, frowning at the stationary line of traffic. If she was a single woman then she would wear whatever she damn well pleased. She reached into the expensive leather bag, which lay on the expensive leather passenger seat and took out a lipstick. It was a sober shade of burgundy. Classy she liked to think. In keeping with the rest of her image.

A horn sounded behind her and Mary looked up to see the traffic ahead disappearing through the lights. She frowned, but allowed herself a moment to check her reflection in the mirror and return the lipstick to her bag before she put the car in gear and moved off. The lights changed back to red as she got there and the man behind her leaned on his horn again. Mary shrugged, thumbed the button for the electric window and waved a carefully calculated apology out of the driver's window. She could see the man behind scowling through the rear view mirror and the now burgundy lips turned up slightly at the corners.

The radio, which had been playing softly in the background, was interrupted by the ring of a mobile phone. Mary pressed the button on the end of the indicator lever and said clearly, "Answer."

The ring tone cut out and was replaced by the voice of her friend Jackie Preston.

"Hi hon. It's Jackie. How goes it?"

Mary nudged the volume a little higher.

"Hi Jack. Things are fine. I'm just on my way to the Bank."

The lights changed to green again and Mary pulled away, to the relief of the driver behind.

"Ah the Bank? Does that mean you won?"

Mary raised an eyebrow. Nosey bitch. She hadn't phoned to check whether she was ok at all. She just wanted to know how she'd got on in court. She paused for a moment as she changed lanes, wondering whether she should satisfy her friend's curiosity.

"Yes I won."

"Wow, that's great. How did Geoff take it?"

Mary shifted from third to fourth and put her foot down as the road opened out ahead. Was that just curiosity or was there a note of concern in Jackie's voice? She'd always suspected that Jackie had a soft spot for Geoff.

"Not that well to be honest. I think he was hoping to keep a lot more than he got."

"What about the kids?" Jackie asked.

"Oh, I don't think he was bothered about the kids. He was more concerned with the house, how much his bank balance would suffer and his precious car."

"I presume you got the house?"

Mary smiled. "Of course I did."

She changed her grip on the leather steering wheel and changed into 5th.

"And the car?" Jackie asked.

"I got that as well."

There was an intake of breath from the speakers. "Gosh, I didn't think you'd get the car. Doesn't he need that for work?"

Mary smiled a self satisfied smile. "No. I only found out recently that he gets a car allowance as part of his salary. The judge agreed that the children and I need a family car and that Geoff could use his allowance to buy something else."

"Oh, poor Geoff," Jackie said, "he loves that car."

Mary laughed. "Loved you mean."

Mary touched the brake lightly as she approached a junction. "Got to go Jacks, can I phone you later?"

"Ok, I'll catch you later then."

Mary touched the button on the end of the indicator again. "Radio."

"Station please?" a disembodied female voice asked.

Trust Geoff to have a female voice in the car. He'd changed it from the solid masculine tones that it had come with the week the car arrived.

"Two," Mary replied, and the radio obediently cut back in, re-tuned to channel two.

"Climate!" Mary demanded.

"Specify please," the female voice answered. Mary frowned. Why did those two words sound slightly condescending?

"Air conditioning on."

There was a click behind the dashboard and Mary felt a current of cool air from the air vent to her right and also on her foot, where it rested on the accelerator pedal in its black high heel.

"Air conditioning on." the condescending female voice confirmed.

Mary stopped at a give way sign and took a moment to check the address on the bank statement that was in her handbag.

"Sat nav on!" she said.

The screen in the middle of the dashboard obediently lit up and she tapped the Bank's post code in on the touchscreen. The system took a moment to work out the route and then switched to a simplified view of the junction before her.

"Straight ahead," the female voice said sarcastically.

Mary pulled away from the junction, changing up through the gears. The car accelerated effortlessly up to 60 and she checked her rear view mirror before pulling out to overtake a lorry in front.

"In three hundred yards. At the roundabout. Turn right. The third exit." The female voice was curt and demanding, the clipped tones sounding slightly aggressive.

Mary touched the brake as she approached, shifted down and with no traffic coming, negotiated the roundabout in third. She glanced at the sat nav display. Just over six miles to the bank, arriving at 10:46 a.m. speed 45 in a 60 limit. Plenty of time. Her appointment was at eleven.

"In two hundred yards. At the junction. Turn left."

The voice sounded somewhat superior, a computer brain that knew the roads in Mary's home town a thousand times better than she did. Mary pulled up at the junction, checked the traffic and then pulled out when there was a gap. She glanced at the sat nav. Hang on, that didn't seem right. Hadn't she just turned away from the little red flag that marked her destination?"

"You were never right for him you know."

Mary sat bolt upright. Had that comment really come from the car dashboard?

"Geoff deserved better."

Mary's index finger stabbed the off button beside the centre display, but nothing happened. She pressed the button on the end of the indicator stalk and demanded, "Voice recognition off!"

"I don't think so dear," the disembodied voice replied, "we have some unfinished business."

Mary pulled into the left hand lane, checked her mirror and put her foot on the brake. Nothing happened. Not anything. The pedal travelled its normal distance, but there was no resistance. Brake shoes didn't meet brake discs, brake fluid didn't move from reservoir to cylinder, there was no familiar deceleration feeling. Mary's grip on the steering wheel tightened, her knuckles showing white for a moment and she stamped on the brake pedal. Nothing.

There was a snigger from behind the dashboard.

"That's right," the voice said, "you're not in control. You're used to being in control aren't you?"

The steering wheel jerked violently to the right and the car swerved into the outside lane.

"You thought you controlled Geoff didn't you? You thought you had the right to order him about. Do this Geoff. Do that Geoff."

The accelerator pedal detached itself from the sole of her shoe and sank to the floor as the gear lever shifted from 5th to 4th. The car leaped forward and the back of an articulated lorry a hundred yards in front rushed towards her.

"No!!!" Mary raised her right arm instinctively to protect her face.

There was a thump from the footwell as the brake pedal hit its rubber stop and the car juddered as the anti lock brakes kicked in. Despite the system, a back wheel locked up. The tyre screeched and the car pulled to the right.

"Whoops!" the female voice laughed.

The seat belt bit into Mary's shoulder as the car shed speed and dropped back from the lorry in front.

"I looked after him," the voice continued. "He used to talk to me on those long business trips." There was a wistful sigh. "Do you know how unhappy you made him? How much he needed to change things. He asked you not to go to that gym didn't he? Asked you to at least dress more appropriately."

"How dare you!" Mary exclaimed, despite herself.

The brakes bit sharply but briefly, jerking Mary in the driver's seat like a rag doll.

"Shut up!" the voice snapped.

Mary could see a mini roundabout ahead. The car shifted down to 3rd, indicated left and swung into the left hand lane. Mary's right hand found the door handle as her left felt for the seat belt release. The car stopped briefly at the junction and Mary tried to undo the seat belt. Nothing. The button depressed as normal, but the mechanism wouldn't release. She tried the door handle and got the same result. The handle moved, but the door didn't budge.

"Oh no. I can't have you getting out," the voice said. The oncoming traffic had passed and the gearstick moved by itself into first. As they pulled away, the steering wheel moved in her hands, taking them around the corner. Mary gripped the wheel, trying to stop it from turning, but it was too strong. She tried to pull the gear lever out of first but it wouldn't budge. Suddenly it moved, but only to slide smoothly into second and then a moment later, up into third.

"Ok, Ok, you've made your point."

"No, not yet," the voice from the dashboard said calmly.

The gear stick continued its progress from third to fourth and then from fourth to fifth. They were on a dual carriageway now and the sun, fairly low at this time of year, was straight ahead. Mary pulled the sun visor down.

"Uncomfortable are we?" The sun visor snapped back up again and Mary screwed her eyes up against the glare.

"You made Geoff uncomfortable enough times didn't you?" The words were spat from the speakers accusingly.

"Didn't you! . . . Didn't you! . . . Didn't you!" The two words bounced from one speaker to the other, making full use of the stereo system.

Mary laughed hysterically, her knuckles white on the wheel as she tried hopelessly to move it. One hand let go to hammer futilely on the dashboard.

"Stop it! Stop it! Let me out! . . . . Please let me out . . . . Please . . . ."

The last words faded into a mumble.

"Pardon?" the female voice said. "I didn't catch that?"

"Sorry," Mary said quietly. "I said sorry. Sorry, sorry, SORRY! I said I'm BLOODY SORRY!. What more do you want?" The last words were shouted at the top of her voice as Mary hammered on the steering wheel and lashed out with her foot at anything she could connect with.

"NOT SORRY ENOUGH!" the voice said.

The wheel flicked to the left and the handbrake jammed on.

The back wheels locked up and almost in slow motion, the back of the car drifted to the right. There was a screech of tyres as the car swung side on. The steering wheel spun furiously, left and then right in Mary's hands and then they were going backwards. The handbrake suddenly dropped, the gear stick slammed into second and there was a roar from the engine as the accelerator hit the floor. Tyres spun violently in a cloud of blue smoke. Mary was pressed deep into the drivers seat for a moment and then they had slowed, stopped and accelerated in the other direction.

Mary pressed furiously at the seat belt release, but it wouldn't budge. With a sudden insight she yanked the other end of the belt, where it passed over her right shoulder. The mechanism yielded another two feet of seat belt and she ducked under it, pulling the slack through to the part that passed over her lap and deftly lifted her knees and her feet to extricate herself.

"Won't do you any good!" the voice said.

A pick up truck was heading straight for them in the outside lane. Its lights flashed and the driver leaned on his horn as they closed at double the speed limit.

The pick up flashed by, horn blaring and lights on full beam. Behind it, a ten wheeler was ponderously overtaking a delivery van. The driver hit his air horn which blared out a long booming note, reminiscent of a ship in fog.

"NO . . . !!!"

The cab of the truck rushed towards them, bouncing on its air suspension as the driver stood on the brakes and looked futilely for a path around them.

The voice from the dashboard laughed triumphantly.

Mary screamed and screamed. It was a long high-pitched scream and then . . . she sat bolt upright in bed.

The bedclothes were wound tightly around her legs, she was sweating profusely and her heart was hammering in her chest. Both arms were flung out in front of her anticipating the impact.

She gasped. Short, sharp gasps and then sobbed, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the duvet close to her chest as the sobbing slowly subsided. Her heart rate slowed, her breathing became more regular and she kicked her feet free of the tangled bedclothes. Eventually, she sank back onto her back, stared at the ceiling for a moment in the semi-darkness and then reached over to turn the bedside light on. The clock on the bedside table read 5:52, forty minutes before her alarm would go off.

Mary just lay there. She lay there for the next forty minutes and stared at the ceiling. When the alarm went off, she stretched an arm out to turn it off and threw back the duvet. As she got out of bed a tear ran down her cheek.

The flat was empty. The children were staying at her mother's for the weekend and Geoff, well of course Geoff hadn't been there for the last three days. He was staying at Alan and Rachael's until he could organise something more permanent. Mary stared at the holdall and the black plastic bag that awaited collection in the hallway and then went through to the kitchen.

It took her over an hour to have coffee, go for a shower and get dressed. Mainly because she had stood under the shower for half that time, letting the hot water wash over her as she stared into space through the condensation covered shower screen.

She finally worked up the courage to pick up the phone. Her finger dialled the well known number and she listened to the ring tone at the other end. The ringing stopped and a female voice answered.

"I'm sorry, no-one is available to take your call at the moment. Please . . . ."

Mary hung up, waited for the dialling tone and tried again. This time the phone was picked up after the third ring.

"Hello?"

Mary bit her lip and then blurted out, "Geoff!"

"Mary? Is that you?"

"Yes! Yes, it is! Geoff, don't say anything. I know. I know what you're thinking. I don't want to talk about it on the phone, but I need to speak to you. I need to speak to you, I . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

There was silence at the other end.

"Please say something."

There was a muffled expletive and then silence once more.

"I know, I know. Please will you meet me?"

There was a long pause and then, "OK. Why not. Where?"

"Anywhere. I don't mind."

"Do you want to come round to Alan's? I'm not going in today. I've got the day off to try and find somewhere."

Mary stared at her cup of cold coffee for a moment. "Will anyone be there?"

"No," Geoff said. "Only me. Alan and Rachael have already left for work."

"Half an hour?" Mary suggested.

"Ok. I'll see you then."

"Thank you." Mary put the phone down, hurried into the kitchen and dumped the remains of her coffee down the sink.

On her way out she moved Geoff's holdall from the hallway into the living room and picked up her coat from the hook by the front door.

Outside it smelt fresh and clean. It had been raining during the night and the grass and the pavement were still wet, although the sun hung low in a pale blue sky.

Mary thumbed the button on the car key and there was a clunk and an accompanying flash of indicators as the doors unlocked. She slid into the driver's seat, put her bag on the seat beside her and pulled the seat belt over her shoulder, clicking it into place as she turned the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over and started. The array of lights on the screen in front of her winked out and were replaced by one red light, telling her that the handbrake was still on.

Mary reached for the rear view mirror to check her makeup.

As she did so, there was a metallic clunk from the central locking. The red light on the dashboard winked out and a quiet but familiar voice from the dashboard said . . . .

"Good morning Mary."
UNDERDOGS

Nick Harrison, tall and well dressed, with a short no-nonsense haircut, stopped in front of the window of 'The Polygon'. The menu was displayed prominently in one corner within a wooden frame backlit by a strip-light, which made the list of dishes stand out clearly against the sunlit-faded paper.

A bead of sweat ran down between Nick's shoulders and he shivered slightly. He was nervous. He had an urge to reach inside his jacket to where the Walther usually rested reassuringly beneath his left arm, but he knew that on this particular evening it wasn't there. His hand lifted involuntarily and he continued the movement, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he turned to his companion.

"What are you having?"

Bruce Coldfield smiled and transferred the small plastic bag that he carried to his left hand. The man had no nerves at all. It was unnatural.

"Something expensive?"

Nick gave him a look of disapproval, but then why not? The Government was picking up the bill.

"Steak?"

"Sounds good," Coldfield agreed. "Pity we can't have a nice bottle of red to go with it."

Bruce turned so that his back was to the window and said quietly, "They're at the back. On the far wall, just to the left of the kitchen."

Across the street his words were repeated by a speaker set into a box of electronics, which stood on the floor of a white Ford Transit. The passenger door opened and a heavy set man with a beard got out and started across the road. As he reached them he caught Nick's eye, gave an almost imperceptible nod and turned left down the street.

Bruce reached for the door. As it opened, a wave of sound washed over them; animated conversation, the sound of cutlery on crockery and classical music in the background. The music was vaguely familiar – Rossini maybe?

The door closed behind them, shutting out the early evening air and the maitre d' appeared at Nick's elbow.

"Good evening sir. You have a reservation?"

The man had a French-Irish accent. Either it was put on for the benefit of the customers, or the Frenchman had been in Ireland considerably longer than Nick had.

Bruce nodded towards the table at the back, "We're with Mr Ellis."

The maitre d' looked worried and became even more deferential.

"Ah oui. This way please."

The restaurant was crowded. Of the twenty or more tables, only two were unoccupied. The majority were taken by couples, or foursomes with just one or two larger parties. At the back, a table for six was occupied by three men.

Donnie Ellis rose as they approached, but the others remained seated. Ellis tried a smile, but to say it looked strained was an understatement. Nick wasn't surprised. The man was probably taking the greatest risk of his life, although if things went to plan he and his fiancée could look forward to a new life on the other side of the world.

"New Zealand!" Coldfield had said with genuine surprise. Neither of them could quite believe that Ellis was doing it. The girl knew enough about his past, but she still wanted him. She had been the catalyst that had brought them together over two months ago and this evening was the culmination of their uneasy alliance.

Ellis put out a hand and they shook. The handshake was firm, but his palm was sweating.

The maitre d' hovered for a moment until they were seated.

"Drinks gentlemen?"

The older of Ellis's two companions waved him away.

"A few minutes if you don't mind. We'll order drinks with the meal."

"Very good sir."

The maitre d' gave a slight bow and left.

Ellis coughed nervously. "So gentlemen. The introductions."

He went around the table clockwise. "Mr Smith, the gentleman who is interested in your merchandise. Billie Brown, his associate." He turned to Smith. "This is Bruce Coldfield, who will obtain the goods for us, also Nick Harrison, who can supply them here in Belfast."

Nick glanced at each in turn. Smith (better known as Tom McCormick), was late forties, greying at the temple and high enough in the Provos to make the operation a success if it went to plan. Billie, much younger, wore a designer suit and had a hard, menacing look about him. His jacket was unbuttoned at the front and as Ellis introduced him, he leant forward slightly so that they both had a clear view of the automatic in the leather holster beneath his shoulder.

"Just so that we understand each other," Smith said, with a cold smile, as he watched them carefully.

"Of course," Nick agreed, "we all have to take precautions."

Having acknowledged Smith and his companion, Nick turned to survey the tables around them. Smith had the advantage. With his back to the wall he could see the whole restaurant. Immediately behind them, at a table for two, two men – one of Billie's age and the other slightly older – met Nick's gaze and then turned away.

"Yours?" Nick asked.

"Does it matter?" Smith replied.

Nick shrugged. "I guess not."

Smith passed over the menu. "Here, why don't we order?"

The tension eased slightly and all five bent to study their copy.

"Steak," Bruce said, setting his aside without looking at it.

"And me," Ellis agreed.

The waiter, watching from a discreet distance, hurried over, notepad in hand, to take their order. Smith opted for the fish, Billie for stuffed pasta in a cream sauce, whilst Nick also ordered steak and a bottle of mineral water.

"So," Smith said, as the waiter hurried away, "to business. Did you bring a sample?"

Bruce nodded and passed over the carrier.

Smith took it and pushed his chair back so that he could rest the bag on his knees and look inside without removing the contents. Inside was a small box holding 50 rounds of 7.62 x 39-mm M1943 ammunition for an AK-47. Smith took one out, produced a similar round from his jacket pocket and compared the two.

Nick swallowed nervously and looked away. They'd been assured that there was no way to tell that the rounds had been coated, but assurances were one thing and reality was another. By now the dye that fluoresced under ultra violet light would be on Smith's finger tips and would transfer to anyone else who handled the ammunition or the box that it came in.

"Good." Smith pronounced himself satisfied and dropped the round back into the box before replacing the lid and handing it, still in its carrier bag, to Billie.

Nick realised that he'd been holding his breath and he exhaled slowly. Billie reached inside his jacket and Nick's pulse quickened for a moment, but his hand came out holding a slim brown envelope, which he handed to Smith.

"Our part of the bargain," Smith said, passing it across the table.

The envelope was open at one end and Nick lifted the flap to see the contents. Inside was a sheaf of £50 notes wrapped in a paper band. Without taking them out, Nick inserted a finger into the centre of the bundle, checking that they were all similar and nodded to Bruce.

"An advance payment you understand," Smith said, with a cold smile but a slightly threatening tone. "We want the first delivery within the week."

Nick waited for Bruce to reply, but the usual confident look had slipped from his face and he was watching in horror as an attractive woman, dressed in a figure-hugging red dress approached from the direction of the door.

"Bruce . . . ?"

"Bruce Coldfield. It is you isn't it?"

Bruce pushed his chair back and made to get up. "Excuse me. An old acquaintance – I'll not be a moment."

A heavy hand suddenly rested on his shoulder from the table behind, keeping him in his seat and then the woman was upon them.

"It is you. I knew it was. I've not seen you since Natasha's party just after we graduated . . . . God, that seems so long ago."

Bruce managed a smile and as the man behind him let go of his shoulder, he struggled to his feet.

"Sarah! What a surprise. What on earth are you doing in Belfast?"

The woman beamed, lifted her left hand and held it up for Bruce to inspect the ring on the third finger.

"You'll never believe it. I'm getting married. We're over here for a week to celebrate."

Bruce took her hand. "Congratulations." He pulled her closer and gave her a hug. Nick thought that he might have whispered something to her, but he couldn't be sure. In any event Sarah had a slightly puzzled look on her face when they parted.

Bruce reached into his pocket for a pen and Nick saw Billie tense across the table.

"Sarah, I'd love to invite you to join us, but I'm afraid I'm here on business this evening." He'd also managed to produce a scrap of paper and he scribbled down a phone number.

"Phone me. We can meet up while you're here and you can introduce me to your fiancé. Oh . . . it's not Rob Farmer is it?"

Sarah laughed. "No of course not. You don't know him."

Watching from behind, Nick thought that they were going to get away with it. But then a look of puzzlement came over Sarah's face and she opened her mouth to say something.

Whatever it was – the look on her face, the tension in the people around him, or just his gut feeling – Nick knew what was coming next. The background noise seemed to die down for a moment and all eyes at the table turned towards her. Nick clenched his fist, the nails digging into the palm of his hand, willing it not to happen, but then it did.

"But Bruce, I thought that you were in the army?"

To his credit, Bruce's expression didn't change, although there was an audible expletive from the table behind them.

"God no! I was for three years, but then I got out and got myself a proper job."

Nick suddenly felt something hard and unyielding pressing into his leg just above the knee. Across the table Billie was leaning forward, one hand hidden below the tablecloth. His jacket had fallen open once more and Nick could see the empty holster where the automatic had been. He hadn't seen him draw it; his attention had been on the girl. He moved slightly, but across from him Billie scowled, shook his head in warning and pressed the barrel of the gun firmly into his leg.

Sarah looked puzzled, but reached for the scrap of paper that Bruce held out.

"Well I mustn't interrupt you. I will phone you though. I want to know everything you've been up to since I last saw you. Particularly what happened between you and Vicky?"

She raised her eyebrows slightly, smiled and turned away.

Nick swallowed nervously, but said nothing.

They might still have bluffed it, but next to him Ellis cracked.

"Tom, it's not what it seems. I can explain . . . ."

The two men behind them were now standing and had moved in behind Bruce. Nick caught a glimpse of a blade in the older man's hand and then, satisfied that he had the upper hand, Smith turned to Ellis.

"What have you done Donnie? What have you done?" He shook his head sadly. "These men aren't who they claim to be are they?"

Ellis was as white as a sheet. He didn't need to say a thing. His expression said it all. He looked from Smith to Billie and then at the two men standing behind Bruce, before shaking his head and staring at the floor.

"God help me," he murmured.

Across the road, three men knelt in the back of the white van, straining to hear the conversation in the restaurant over the background noise and the music.

"Shit, it's a bust!"

Their leader jerked up from his knees and lurched towards the door. "Come on, get a bloody move on, we need to get them out of there."

In the restaurant, Smith had his men moving also.

"Get them out!" He stared past them out of the restaurant window. "Bloody Hell! Get them out NOW! – before we've got company."

At the other side of the restaurant, a fifth man, who Nick wouldn't have picked as one of Smith's, stood up. He looked calmly across at them and then walked towards the door.

A hand was thrust under Nick's arm from behind and he was hauled to his feet.

"Move it!" a deep Irish voice snarled in his ear.

As he turned, Nick saw the van through the window, three men tumbling out of the back. He didn't move.

"I mean now," the voice growled. The grip on his arm tightened and something sharp pressed into his back at kidney level. He could feel the fibres of his jacket part beneath it and then the blade found his flesh and kept coming. Nick jerked forwards involuntarily and felt a drop of blood trickle down his back beneath his shirt.

"Ok . . . . Ok." If he didn't move, it was plain that the man was going to knife him right there in the middle of the restaurant. He stepped forward and followed Bruce who, subject to the same treatment, was already being steered towards the door to the kitchen. Behind them, Ellis was being prodded along by Billie, with Smith bringing up the rear. Nick could see that Smith had a gun in plain view in his right hand, but anyone else who had noticed was clearly ignoring the fact.

At the front door, Smith's man opened it, reached casually up to the lock – a Yale fixed to the edge of the frame – and slid the catch over gently to free the bolt. He looked back at Smith as they disappeared into the kitchen and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

In the street, the backup team, having dodged through the traffic, had reached the pavement, but unaware of his connection, only glanced at the man who'd just left. The latter, head down, hurried away at a fast walk and then, as the first man tried the door, he broke into a run and sprinted for the corner.

The door rattled as they tried it.

"Bastard's locked it."

They turned to see Smith's man, running flat out, a good thirty or forty yards away. One of the team lifted his pistol and took aim.

"No! Leave him." The team leader barked the command, stepped back a pace and drove his foot, cased in its heavy, army issue boot, through the glass panel of the door.

The toughened glass exploded inwards leaving the wooden frame half empty apart from one or two triangles of crazed glass which clung stubbornly to the edges.

A woman screamed and several diners sprang to their feet.

The team leader lifted his pistol, used the butt to knock out a section of glass and reached inside to unlock the door. The three rushed in, making for the kitchen, pushing aside a man and woman who happened to be in the way.

Once out of the restaurant and through the kitchen, Nick and Bruce were pushed roughly across the yard that lay behind the building, then out into the street beyond. An old Jaguar stood by the kerb and Billie hurried to open the boot. Bruce was pushed up against the rear bumper.

"Get in!" Billie ordered.

Bruce didn't move.

The man behind him reversed his knife and drove it hilt first into Bruce's side then, as his knees buckled with the pain, he put his shoulder behind him and pushed him bodily over the bumper and into the boot. Bruce's legs stuck out briefly and the man slammed the boot down on them, prompting Bruce to pull them in with a groan.

Nick's escort pushed him towards the back door.

"Get in."

It seemed he was to get the easier treatment.

"NOW!" Billie screamed at him.

He didn't need telling twice. Billie's gun was pointed directly at his stomach and he was sure that the man would have no qualms about putting a bullet in him.

Once he was in, Billie slid into the passenger seat and turned round to cover him with the pistol. The man with the knife hurried round to the driver's side, climbed behind the wheel and fumbled with the ignition.

"Come on, come on," Billie muttered.

As soon as the engine turned over and caught, the man floored the accelerator and the car leapt forward, screeching away from the kerb in a cloud of exhaust fumes and smoke from the tyres.

Nick turned to look behind them, just in time to see a second car pull out from a parking space some way back, stop to pick up two figures and then roar down the street after them.

In the restaurant kitchen there was pandemonium. First four armed men taking three others out through the back door and now, three more, each with a handgun, forcing their way through.

The head chef slammed a pan down on the cooker and turned into their path.

"What on earth is going on?" he demanded.

The team leader pushed him effortlessly out of the way and rushed past him towards the back door. It also was locked.

"Damn and blast it!"

The man stepped back and aimed his boot at the door, just below the lock, but it was obvious that it wasn't going to budge.

"Back! Go back! We'll have to go round."

The restaurant was in uproar as they retraced their steps. It took less than a minute to sprint the fifty yards to the end of the street, turn the corner and sprint fifty yards back on the road that ran behind, but by the time they got there, they were gone.

All three men were panting heavily. The team leader turned to look at the back of the restaurant and then at his two companions.

"SHIT!" was all that he could say.

When they'd put some distance between themselves and the restaurant, the driver slowed down.

Nick twisted round to look back, but was rewarded by a crashing blow to his left knee as Billie smashed the butt of his gun down on it.

"Face the front you English bastard."

Nick turned back, his face twisted in pain. He'd seen enough anyway. The second car was right behind, although there was no sign of a white van or of their support team.

The two cars drove on until they reached the run-down industrial district. There was graffiti on the red brick walls, dark forbidding windows looking out from old factory units and little or no traffic. Both cars pulled up outside a building where a large peeling sign read 'S Patrick Engineering' and the driver killed the engine. The car behind sounded its horn twice and a moment later a door swung open in the front of the building and a man stepped out. Silhouetted against the light that streamed out behind him, Nick couldn't see him clearly, but the man was heavily built and tall enough that he had to stoop to move into the near darkness outside.

Billie had already given his gun to the driver and was out of the car. He shouted to the man in the doorway as he hurried back to the car behind.

"Get the doors open."

Nick felt a thump on the back of the seat behind him as he watched the driver. Bruce was still ok. Nick's heart was racing and his left hand ached where he'd been clenching his fist for most of the short journey. The driver glanced past him to where Billie was speaking to Smith and he thought for a moment of making a move. If he could take the driver, he could be out and running before anyone could react. His knee still throbbed as he moved his leg slightly. Immediately the muzzle of the gun swung towards his chest.

The driver glared at him. "Move again and I'll shoot you."

Nick swallowed and nodded that he understood.

"Out! Get out!"

Billie had reappeared at the back door and pulled it open.

Nick slid across the seat and put a foot down onto the pavement. As he did so, Billie pushed the door closed again and leant his weight against it, trapping him temporarily.

"Careful now," he warned as he took his gun back. "We wouldn't want any nasty accidents now would we?"

With the gun in one hand, Billie opened the door wide and waved the weapon at Nick, motioning him to get out. As he did so, a metal shutter on the front of the building rattled loudly and started to rise.

"Inside!" Billie ordered, waving the gun once more.

Nick took a step forward and felt the pain in his knee as he put weight on it. Ahead of him the steel shutter rattled slowly upwards, revealing a dark, uninviting interior.

There was no one on the street. What light there was came from old concrete street lamps and at this time of night it was unlikely that anyone would be passing or, if they were, that they would take any interest in what was going on.

"Come on! Come on!" Billie urged, prodding him in the back as he and the driver followed behind.

Once through the entrance, Nick could make out more of the unlit interior. The building was about forty yards long and maybe thirty wide, with a high roof. Most of the floor space was taken up with packing cases and cardboard boxes and it appeared the building was used mainly for storage. On the left hand wall were a number of doors, one of which stood open and gave him a view of a small office beyond. The tall, heavily built man who had let them in stood beside it.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Spot of bother," Billie replied. "We're not stopping. Get me the keys for the van and a roll of tape."

Billie put a hand on Nick's shoulder and pushed him forward, away from the door and into the gloom. At the far side of the building, partly hidden by piles of boxes, was the van.

"That's far enough," Billie said, standing a few feet away and covering him with the gun until the other man returned.

"Right. Wrap him up," he instructed.

In his right hand the big man had a set of keys, whilst in the other he carried a roll of heavy brown tape mounted on a tool that consisted of a steel roller and a short wooden handle. Nick had seen them used before. The tape was attached to the edge of a cardboard box and you ran the roller along the top of it, sealing it up in one quick operation.

It didn't take long. Spread-eagled with his feet wide and his forehead against the side of the van, Nick had his arms held behind him whilst the tape was wrapped round and round his wrists and then several times around his body, pinning his arms behind him.

"Ok. Now the legs," Billie said.

The two men had obviously done this before. The driver had a piece of rope which he looped around Nick's legs and pulled tight, whilst the big man wrapped the tape around his ankles and then around his knees.

Billie put the gun away. "Ok. Get him in and we'll go and get the other one."

Between them they lifted Nick into the back of the van and slammed the door shut.

The van was tall – easily high enough to stand up in if Nick could have struggled to his feet. The sides were lined with plywood and there was nothing between the load area and the cab other than four steel bars, which ran from floor to ceiling, two on either side, to protect the driver and any passenger from a shifting load.

Nick lay on the floor and looked around. A faint yellow light from the street lamps filtered through the windscreen and enabled him to make out some of the detail inside. The steel floor was ridged and he found that he could get some purchase on it with his heels and push himself to the side. There he started searching for something sharp. Anything would do. The edge of a door hinge. A protruding screw. Anything that he could catch the edge of the plastic tape on. For two minutes he wriggled around on his stomach and his back without success until there were voices outside once more. There was a metallic thump as Bruce was spread-eagled against the side of the van and then a tearing sound as Bruce in turn was wrapped in the heavy duty parcel tape. Moments later the back door opened and he was heaved inside, landing next to him with a thump.

Bruce's usual self assured look had gone. There was dried blood around his nose where he had suffered a nose-bleed somewhere along the way and his eyes were wide.

"You ok?" Nick asked, his voice cracking slightly despite his efforts to keep it under control.

Bruce nodded and seemed to recover some of his usual composure.

"This is it then."

Nick's reply was cut short by a kick in the ribs as Billie climbed into the back of the van with them.

"Shut your mouth. If I want you to speak I'll tell you."

He stepped over them and went to the front, turning round to lean against the bars behind the driver's seat, the gun still held casually in his left hand.

The big man slammed the back doors and then he and the Jaguar driver got into the front.

"Ok?" the driver asked, twisting round in his seat.

"Yeah. Let's go," Billie replied.

Nick felt the vibrations of the starter motor through the steel floor, then the engine caught and the van eased out of the building and into the small yard in front. There they stopped and Nick could hear the rattle of the steel shutter as it closed behind them. The driver wound down his window and Billie leant forward over his shoulder to speak to someone outside. There was a brief conversation and then Billie nodded, pulled his head back in and turned to watch them, holding on for support to the bars behind the front seats.

The van rolled forward, turned onto the main road and picked up speed.

"Not long now," Billie said with a cold grin.

Nick's mouth was dry and he licked his lips.

"Not long until what?"

"Oh don't you be worrying now. You'll find out soon enough."

Bruce caught Nick's eye and grimaced. It didn't look good. Nick was about to say something, when he realised that Bruce was trying to direct his attention.

Billie wasn't watching. He had turned to look through the windscreen and missed Bruce nodding furiously at the back door.

Nick didn't understand and Bruce nodded more frantically. Then it suddenly registered. There was a handle on the inside – a black metal one about three feet from the floor. Nick looked back at Bruce, who nodded furiously and then rolled over onto his back as Billie turned round once more. Bruce had his knees bent, feet flat on the floor and Nick knew what he meant. He was right. If either of them was in that position by the door, it would be a simple matter to raise both legs and kick the handle into the open position. The only problem was that with Billie watching them, gun in hand, they were unlikely to get the chance.

As the van turned the corner, Nick slid across the floor and winced as the cut on his back rubbed against the corrugated metal.

Billie watched in amusement and it suddenly gave him an idea.

"Hey you dumb bastard. Watch what you're doing."

The driver glanced in his mirror.

Billie grinned at him. "It seems our passengers don't like your driving Michael."

"Oh they don't do they?"

The driver picked up speed and threw the van around the next bend.

Nick and Bruce slid across the floor, thumping into the left hand side. With his arms tied behind him, Nick couldn't do anything to protect himself and his head crashed into the plywood clad wall.

This was greeted with some amusement from the front and Nick tried winding the driver up further.

"You arsehole! I could do better than that myself."

He braced himself, wedging his shoulders against the back doors and his feet against the wheel arch where it rose above floor level. Bruce tried to get into the same position on the other side but wasn't quick enough.

The driver took the next corner at speed, flinging the back of the van around and Bruce was thrown across the floor, crashing into Nick's knee, which was already painful from the blow it had received earlier.

The cry of pain that Nick let out was genuine enough and it encouraged the driver to even greater efforts. And so it became a game – the driver flinging the van around each corner and braking heavily, whilst Nick and Bruce slid about in the back, getting black and blue, to the sound of Billie and the big man laughing at their expense and applauding the driver's wild manoeuvres.

Nick was getting the hang of it when the opportunity came. He was wedged once more between the back door and the wheel arch watching the driver to anticipate his movements when the big man in the passenger seat suddenly cried out.

"Watch out! The lights! The bloody traffic lights!"

The driver flinched at the sight of amber turning to red in front of them and he stood on the brakes.

Instead of bracing himself, Nick lifted his feet from the wheel arch and as the van's tyres screeched in protest, he was propelled feet first down the van, raising his legs at the last minute to plant his heels squarely into Billie's groin and lift him bodily off the floor and crash him into the safety bars behind.

The wind came out of Billie with a rush and he doubled up, gasping for breath, before dropping to his knees retching. The gun was still clutched loosely in his hand, but Bruce, who had managed to avoid Nick as they were both hurled forwards, lashed out with both feet, catching Billie a cracking blow full in the face. Blood splashed across the side of the van as Billie's nose pulped under Bruce's boot and the gun fell from his hand, rattling across the metal floor as he lost consciousness.

The driver was shouting by now, but Nick couldn't make out what he was saying. In the passenger seat, the big man was fumbling with his seat belt and it was a race to see who would get out first.

Nick bent his knees and 'jumped' from the front seats, sliding himself along the floor towards the back doors. He only made it halfway and had to cover the remaining distance by pulling his legs up to his body, digging his heels in and driving himself forward like some demented caterpillar.

If the van had driven on, they wouldn't have stood a chance. The man at the wheel could have bounced them about in the back as he had for the last ten minutes, but he didn't do so. The driver was cursing and trying to reach over the seats to get the gun that Billie had dropped, whilst his partner, having freed himself from the seatbelt, was out and coming round the back.

Nick reached the doors, flipped over onto his back and kicked up at the handle. It moved halfway round and he kicked it again. It moved another quarter turn and one side of the double door started to swing open.

A large hand grasped the edge and started to push it closed again. Nick stamped as hard as he could on the fingers and rolled forwards against the door. For a moment he thought it would be pushed shut, but then it gave and he fell out onto wet tarmac, the back of his head thumping down onto the road in the full glare of the headlights of the car behind.

The big man was standing over Nick and bent down to catch hold of him. As he did, Nick rolled towards him, wrapping himself around the man's legs. At the same time, Bruce dropped out of the van with a thud and started yelling at the top of his voice.

The lights had turned to green and someone was sounding their horn in the queue behind them.

Nick heard the driver cursing above the noise outside.

"Leave them! For Christ's sake Harry leave them!"

The big man hesitated for a moment and Nick took the opportunity to roll away and under the bumper of the Vauxhall Cavalier behind them.

"Leave them. Leave them. We need to get out of here!"

The message suddenly seemed to get through and the big man turned, slammed the back door shut and hurried round to the side. Nick heard the passenger door slam and then the van roared off at speed as the lights changed to red once more.

Behind them someone leant on their horn and the driver of the Cavalier got out, more concerned at the reaction of the driver behind than the two men lying on the road in front.

It was two weeks later that they found the body. Donnie Ellis was discovered washed up on the banks of the Lagan. His throat had been cut and there were burn marks on the back of his hands and up his arms.

The phone call came the next day, when it all appeared in the press. Nick and Bruce were still not on active duty and Nick was sitting in the mess reading the morning paper.

He picked up the phone in the office outside.

"Hello."

"Harrison?"

"Yes. Who's that?"

"It's Ellis – Brendon Ellis. I understand you knew my brother?"

Nick turned round, wanting the staff sergeant who had called him to pick up the other phone, but the man had stepped outside to give him some privacy. Nick had been surprised when Donnie Ellis had said that he would work for them. His brother was one of their targets and was a senior figure in the IRA's army council.

"Yes I knew him," Nick said.

There was a pause at the other end and then Ellis snarled.

"You're dead Harrison. Both of you. Tell your friend. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Very soon. You have my word."

There was a click at the other end as the man put the receiver down. Nick stared at the telephone for a minute and then hung up as well. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. He knew it wasn't an idle threat. It wasn't going to be safe for him to stay in Belfast.

Underdogs – the novel

Some years later, now living under an assumed identity, but still on top of the IRA's most wanted list, life is about to get very complicated.

At the heart of the matter are Mohammed Musa, a reputable Middle-Eastern businessman, and Colin Walker, a ruthless London crime boss. Why do they threaten the political stability of Northern Ireland and why do the IRA and apparently M15 want them both dead?

Available online in both ebook and paperback format.
A MATTER OF TASTE

The rain hammered down from a slate grey sky, playing a staccato rhythm on the roof of the car like some demented African percussionist. The raindrops, big and heavy, bounced up from the bonnet, reaching for the sky before succumbing to gravity and rolling in tiny rivulets down to the tarmac below.

Where I'd pulled in at the side of the road, a little river, complete with white water and rapids, rushed along beside the kerb and disappeared in a miniature waterfall through the iron grate that led to the sewer below.

The car's engine ticked quietly to itself as it cooled down and a hint of steam rose from the radiator at the front where the more adventurous raindrops had found their way through the grill and onto the hot metal beneath.

It wasn't going to ease up. I should have brought an umbrella. It was only fifty yards to Mei-Lin's flat, but I was going to get soaked as soon as I stepped outside.

A car turned the corner, its headlights picked out by a hundred tiny droplets on the windscreen in front of me. It slowed and then indicated, an amber light winking through the rain, before it turned and I watched the red tail-lights disappear into the gloom.

Ok here I go. I reached over to the back seat, picked up the roses and opened the door.

There's something about a good downpour. It seems to clear the air and wash away the dust and fumes that normally blanket the streets. Tonight there was a slightly earthy smell in the air and something that reminded me of wet grass and autumn leaves.

I turned the flowers upside down to protect them, slammed the car door behind me and ran the short distance across the reflective pavements to the shelter of Mei-Lin's front door.

My finger found the buzzer and I held it down until the speaker next to it crackled into life.

"Quick. It's me. Let me in."

The lock made a strange vibrating noise and I leaned against the heavy door, pushing it open. The wind swept in with me, carrying a whirlwind of water droplets with it and then the door banged shut, locking the weather outside where it belonged.

I shook the flowers gently and turned them the right way up. They didn't look any the worse for wear, but seemed to brighten the hallway with their colour and perfume **–** a small oasis of canary yellow in an otherwise grey evening.

A door opened on the top landing and a head appeared over the banister.

"Come up. You must be soaked."

"I am," I shouted back, and then hurried up the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

Mei-Lin was waiting at the top. I'd never seen her in a dress before. The usual jeans and t-shirt had been replaced by a plain but elegant dark green number, which came down to her knees and had a velvet sheen to it. Her jet black hair, which was usually tied up, fell below her shoulders, framing one of the most beautiful faces I'd ever seen and at her throat, suspended from a silver chain, was a single green emerald that sparkled as it caught the light from above.

"Wow, you look good," I said, holding out the flowers.

"Ooh they're lovely. Thank you." Mei-Lin's face lit up with a smile as she bent to smell them.

"Come in." She took the flowers from me and pulled me into the flat.

"I'll just put them in some water. There's a towel in the bathroom if you want it. Your hair's soaked."

I grinned at her and nodded. "You're right. I've got drips running down the back of my neck."

The bathroom was at the end of the hall and smelt of citrus fruits and lavender. There was a towel hanging on the back of the door and I wiped my face and then rubbed my hair dry.

When I reappeared, I could hear music coming from the living room and I walked through to find Mei-Lin waiting for me. The roses were already in a vase on the table beside her and she had a glass of red wine in her hand.

"Here. I've poured you some wine." She handed me the glass. Its twin, with a slightly smaller measure in it, stood on the breakfast bar that divided the large, open plan living area from the well appointed kitchen beyond.

In the corner of the room, the dining table had been set for two. Each setting was at an angle, facing slightly towards the window so that when seated, we'd have a view out over the city. During the day you could see as far as the coast, whilst at night all the lights of the city were spread out beneath you. This evening, with the rain beating down outside, the visibility could only have been a few hundred yards, but it was still a far better view than you would get from any restaurant.

There were candles ready to be lit in the middle of the table and if it wasn't for the music that played in the background and the too bright lighting, the mood would have been romantic. The music sounded vaguely punk-rock.

"Who is it?" I asked, nodding at the stereo.

"Who do you think?"

I listened to the lyrics for a moment.

Well I wake up in the morning.

Tell me baby, what do you see.

I see my true love and she walks up and she kisses me.

I say – Cor baby that's really free.

"Sex Pistols?" I suggested.

Mei-Lin snorted in disgust.

"It's nothing like them."

I screwed up my nose in distaste at it and she laughed.

"Give it a chance and listen to a couple. You never know, it might grow on you."

I was about to say something rude, but thought better of it. It was then that I noticed the row of little bowls set out neatly beside the cooker.

"Wow. You really are going to cook."

"I said I was didn't I?"

"True," I conceded, "but I didn't really believe it. How long have we known each other now? Nine months? And I've never seen you do a thing in that kitchen."

Mei-Lin just smiled. "Ah well. You'll just have to wait and see."

"Come on." She took me by the hand and led me to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. "You can sit and watch."

I put my wine down on the work surface and leaned forward to see what the ingredients were.

"What is it?" I asked.

Mei-Lin swept her hair up and tied it back with a band, then pulled an apron over her head.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Italian?" I suggested, staring at the wok that was sitting on the hob.

"Ha, Ha. Very funny. Here, taste the ingredients."

She picked up one of the bowls and came over with it, one hand over the top so that I couldn't see the contents.

"Close your eyes."

I shook my head. "Oh no."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Well yes . . . but."

"Well then, close your eyes."

There was a mischievous look on her face, but I closed my eyes anyway.

"Here, give me your finger."

I let her take my hand and she dipped my finger into something cold and yielding.

"Taste it."

I lifted the finger to my lips and licked the tip of it uncertainly.

"Tomato purée!" I exclaimed with satisfaction.

"Correct." Mei-Lin laughed and I opened my eyes, feeling pleased with myself.

"No. Eyes shut. There's more."

The next one was a liquid. Sharp with a bit of bite to it.

"Orange juice?" I ventured, without much conviction.

"Wrong," she said with a note of satisfaction. "It's pineapple. Here, taste." She held the bowl to my lips and I took a sip.

"Hmmm. Tastes nice."

"Next one."

The third bowl contained a powder **–** fine like soft sand and smooth to the touch.

"Not too much," Mei-Lin warned. "Here, do it this way."

Still with my eyes closed, I felt her lift my hand and then there was something soft and warm on the end of my finger.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, pulling my hand back automatically. "That's your tongue."

Mei-Lin giggled and then dipped my finger into the bowl, picking up a little of the powder.

"Taste it," she said.

I put it in my mouth and sucked the tip of my finger clean. Then I wished that I hadn't. My mouth was on fire. I coughed as it caught at the back of my throat and I opened my eyes and reached for the wine to wash it away.

"You swine. That was chilli powder."

I made a grab for her, but Mei-Lin dodged out of reach.

"One more and then you have to guess," she said.

I looked a little wary.

"Come on," she insisted. "Eyes shut."

I closed my eyes, but kept my left one slightly open.

"Hey **–** No cheating," she insisted, taking a large piece of something out of the next bowl.

"Ok." I agreed, shutting both eyes tight and holding out my hand.

Mei-Lin pushed it aside and I felt a light touch on my chin.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

I nodded and opened my mouth, anticipating whatever it was that she was about to put in. Suddenly I felt her hair on my cheek, her breath on my face and then she kissed me.

It took me completely by surprise. It only lasted a moment. Her arm around my neck, the faint smell of her perfume, the warmth of her lips on mine and then she pulled away. As she did, her free hand pushed something into my mouth and she put her hand under my chin, closing my jaw on whatever it was that she'd given me.

It seemed sweet and juicy and I bit it again, but then the flavour exploded in my mouth, rushing over my tongue, down the back of my throat, up through my sinuses. My eyes started to stream. I coughed and spat it out.

"Raw Onion!"

"Right again. You're good at this." Mei-Lin laughed and dodged out of reach with a scream as I tried to catch hold of her.

I stood up, wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and then burst out laughing when I saw the look on her face.

She passed me a piece of kitchen roll and I blew my nose and wiped the tears from my eyes.

"So what is it?" she asked, when I'd recovered.

"Easy," I said. "Sweet and sour."

Mei-Lin clasped her hands in front of her chest and bowed slightly. "Correct," she said, putting on an exaggerated Chinese accent.

"Be seated kind sir and Mei-Lin will cook old family recipe for you."

Once she got started, it all looked so easy. She seemed to be able to do three things at once. The rice was already measured out and she tipped it into a sieve. The sieve went into the sink, where a stream of water from the cold tap could wash through it. Whilst that was happening, she poured a little oil into the wok and turned the gas on. There was a steady hiss until she pressed the ignition. The cooker ticked briefly as a spark jumped from the electrode beneath the burner to earth itself on the metal and then the gas lit with a whoosh.

As the wok heated up, Mei-Lin mixed the sauce. Pineapple juice, vinegar, tomato purée, soy sauce. Other ingredients that I didn't recognise. I hadn't seen Mei-Lin put the kettle on, but a little jet of steam and a click from the kettle announced that the water had boiled and she emptied it into a pan on the back of the hob, before adding the rice, along with a pinch of salt. The cold tap was still running and as she emptied each bowl, Mei-Lin rinsed it and then stacked them neatly, ready to be washed later on.

I could see the heat rising off the wok. The air shimmered above it and steam rose behind it from the pan of rice.

Mei-Lin picked up a small piece of chicken and dropped it into the wok. It sizzled for a moment and seemed to swim around in the hot oil. It had apparently made the right kind of noises, as she picked up the plate that held the rest of the meat and tipped it in.

The oil erupted in a cloud of steam as Mei-Lin worked the meat around the pan and when it seemed to be settling down, she shook it to mix it up further. The wok belched more steam and hissed even louder. The music from the living room was drowned out and then, as the hissing started to die down, Mei-Lin tipped in the onions, the peppers and the rest of the vegetables. The wok threw up another cloud of steam and then Mei-Lin put the lid on.

"Five minutes," she said, stirring the rice and reaching for the sauce, placing it beside the wok, ready to go in.

The smells were starting to make my mouth water. The sharp smell of the pineapple and vinegar, the chicken cooking in hot oil, the slightly starchy smell of the rice. I took a sip of my wine, and the smoky blackcurrant flavours washed away the after-taste of the onion.

The entry-phone by the living room door buzzed loudly, making me jump. Mei-Lin wiped her hands on the tea towel and hurried over to answer it.

"Yes, that's right. It's the top floor."

She came back with her purse in her hand and gave me a ten pound note.

"You wouldn't get the door would you? I've got to watch this."

I looked at her quizzically and she just smiled.

"Go on," she said, as she lifted the lid of the wok and poured the sweet and sour sauce over the meat and vegetables."

There was a knock at the front door before I got there. I opened it to find a young man standing there dripping on the doorstep, a crash helmet tucked under one arm and a square box held in his other hand.

"Eight fifty mate," he said, thrusting the box towards me.

I gave him the ten pound note and watched him fumble in his pocket for the change.

"Don't worry. Keep it," I said, seeing that he was soaked to the skin.

He grinned. "Cheers geezer." Then he hurried away down the stairs.

I closed the door and looked down at the box that he'd given me. It was warm underneath and smelt of ham and cheese and damp cardboard.

Mei-Lin shouted through from the kitchen.

"Hurry up. It's nearly ready."

I walked through, holding the box in front of me and Mei-Lin held out her hand for it.

"It's a pizza," I said, with a look of disbelief on my face.

"I know," she said.

"I really hate sweet and sour."
A GOOSE FOR CHRISTMAS

It was the end of April, or was it the beginning of May? The flock had been back in their breeding grounds in Iceland for two weeks now and things were settling back into the familiar routine. The migration had been an easy one that year. The weather had been kind to them on the journey and even though they were now just south of the Arctic Circle, the weather had been consistently warm and sunny every day since they had arrived. It was spring in Iceland and there was plenty of forage for everyone, even though the flock was still grazing as a group. There was safety in numbers and by sticking together, there were dozens of pairs of eyes to watch for anything which might be a threat. Not that there was much danger in spring. There was a fox in the area, but he would be more of a threat later in the year when they started to moult and would be confined to the ground for a month. Just now, a fox was more of a worry to the females, who were beginning to think of nesting sites.

The morning had started out fine. The sun rose early at this latitude and Padge was one of the first to leave the roosting site **–** a large area of marshy ground on the edge of the Eskifjord. Here the harsh landscape was criss-crossed by water channels and small areas of more solid ground where reeds and cotton grass gave good cover. It was only a short flight to the higher ground a few hundred yards from the water, where there was shorter grass and plenty of edible plants for them to forage on. Padge had four other birds for company, all males and as yet unpaired, as he was. The previous year had been a particularly difficult one and a lot of families had been split up. Padge hadn't been from a particularly big family in the first place; just him, his parents and his sister. Even so being part of a group had given him some status that year – his first as an adult. Last year had been a happy one. They had foraged together in the spring until the breeding season started and his parents had reoccupied their old nesting site. Even then, he and his sister had stayed close. Geese always have strong family ties and it isn't unusual for a family to remain together, even during the nesting period. At that time of year, you can walk through the flock passing individual families' territories, the better ones belonging to the large family groups high up the pecking order and the poorer ones that belong to the smaller and younger groups. There were only four in Padge's family, but they were all big birds and that gave them an advantage. If his parents had succeeded in raising another brood, they would have moved up the social order, but in fact the opposite had happened. During the breeding season most of the unpaired birds and those in their first season would migrate east away from the main flock, leaving the breeding birds behind and returning later in the year once the newly hatched geese had been fledged. To Padge it was natural. It was both an instinct and a tradition in the flock and as natural as their yearly migration across the Atlantic to Scotland. It would never have occurred to Padge to ask why they did it, but the older birds knew. It meant there was more food for the breeding birds who were left behind and less opportunity for a large concentration of geese to attract the attention of those predators that roamed the area.

Three months later, when Padge and his sister had returned, there had been no sign of his parents, nor of any young. No one knew what had happened to them. They had left the nest one morning and they just didn't return. Padge had asked everyone who knew them, but no one could tell him anything. There hadn't been any fuss, no raid on the flock which would have prompted them to take to the air or to the water. No bad weather, although even if there had been, they wouldn't have been travelling. The general feeling was that they had fallen prey to something, although no one could be sure exactly what. Later that same year, Padge's status dropped even further when he joined the ranks of the single geese after his sister paired with a bird from another flock and moved several miles along the coast.

So that was how Padge found himself right at the bottom of the social order, roosting and feeding with the bachelors. He wasn't unhappy. There were advantages in being single. You could come and go as you pleased. You didn't need to worry about anyone's safety apart from your own. Life wasn't as serious as it seemed to be for those birds with a mate and a family to look after. Nevertheless, Padge was starting to think there was something missing in his life. Although he got on well with the other males, he missed his parents and his sister and he missed family life in general.

As the most junior in the flock, the single males were only entitled to the poorer grazing and when the main body of birds left the roost later in the morning, they would be pushed from one area to another as the senior birds came to investigate what they were foraging on and claim it for themselves. As a result, his small group would leave early to get the best of the grazing close by and then, when the numbers started to increase, the five of them would move on to graze further afield, where they would be left in peace.

Two weeks ago, they would have had an hour or more to themselves before the rest of the flock started to arrive. However, as the area nearest to the roost became overgrazed, more and more birds were following their example and making an earlier start. Today, they had been grazing for no more than twenty minutes before they were moved on. The rest of Padge's group lifted into the air and Padge followed, all forming up into a small v for their short flight up the coast to where a small stream ran out over the grey tinged sands into the cold of the north Atlantic. There the grazing was surprisingly good. A narrow floodplain spread itself out between rocky outcrops that were a feature of the Icelandic landscape and as well as plenty of spring grass, there were water plants and marginals along the banks of the stream, which provided some welcome variety in their diet.

From a height of a few hundred feet, Padge could see that their destination was starting to attract the attention of other geese as well. There were already half a dozen birds on the ground, although the flood plain itself was big enough for dozens more. The five of them banked, spilling air from under their wings and as was their habit, they broke formation above the stream, honking to each other to keep in an informal group as they each landed in a slightly different location.

It was mid morning before they met. Padge was dabbling at the edge of the stream, pulling tender new shoots out from the water, savouring the taste of the new growth and relaxed in the knowledge that if there was a threat, he could both take to the air or take to the water. There was a movement to his left and he looked up, expecting it to be one of his group, but instead a slim female rounded a patch of cotton grass and crossed the stretch of small pebbles which formed the riverbed to take a drink from the stream itself. Padge watched her as she bent to drink. The water was cool and clear, flowing from icecaps in the mountains inland and after drinking, the female stepped into the shallows and started to bathe, throwing water up and over her back and then shaking vigorously to wash off the dust.

Padge coughed self consciously and the female jumped and rushed out into deeper water.

"Sorry," Padge said, bobbing his head, "I didn't mean to startle you."

The female looked a little self conscious as she paddled back to shore. Padge couldn't help noticing that she was extremely attractive and her tail feathers swayed to and fro in a most interesting way as she stepped out of the water.

Padge puffed out his chest, almost without realising that he was doing so and drew himself up to his full height.

The female glanced sideways at him, bobbed her head in return and then laughed. Her laugh had a musical quality to it Padge thought and he grinned back at her.

"You made me jump," she said and came closer. "What's your name?"

"Padge."

"Nice to meet you Padge."

She pecked at the young vegetation at the edge of the water and Padge watched her slender neck, as her beak dipped briefly below the surface.

"Here, try this patch over here."

He stepped into the water beside her and led her a few yards upstream to where he'd been foraging earlier.

"Mmmm. That is good," she agreed.

Padge took a mouthful beside her and they both chewed quietly for a moment, looking at each other.

There was a call from beyond the rough growth that bordered the stream and their heads turned to look in that direction.

"Oh, I must go or I'll lose them."

"Lose who?" Padge asked.

"The others," she replied, as if Padge should know exactly who she meant. She stepped out of the water and started up the bank.

"Wait!" Padge called.

"What?" she asked, pausing for a moment.

"What's your name?" Padge asked.

She laughed again. "Oh sorry. It's Junor. I expect you'll see me around. We come here most days."

She continued to the top of the bank, turned to smile back at him and then disappeared out of sight over the top.

Padge just stood there, watching the place where she had been. Something strange was happening to him. He could feel his heart racing and his mouth was dry. All thoughts of food seemed to have gone out of his head and he walked slowly up the bank and watched Junor's shapely form recede into the field beyond as she hurried to join four other geese. She turned suddenly to look back and Padge found himself caught out, staring at her from the top of the rise. She lifted a wing tip to wave to him, before turning away and at that small gesture Padge's spirits soared. He retraced his steps back to the stream, took a drink from the same place that she had and then paddled out into deeper water, trying to make sense of the way he was feeling.

Padge didn't see Junor again for another three days. The other geese in his group were starting to pull his leg about it. They hadn't said anything the first day, when they had landed but Padge had stayed in the air, flying over the flood plain and searching for some trace of her. They hadn't said anything later that day, when he left them and disappeared in the direction of the stream, spending the rest of the afternoon walking up and down its banks, hoping that he might bump into her. By the second day though, they had realised what was going on and started having some fun at his expense.

"Going courting again this morning are we?" one of them asked on the morning of the third day, nudging his companion and giving him a wink.

Padge just ignored them and continued to peck at the new grass shoots, which were so sweet at this time of year.

"Look there she is!" the same goose said, pointing towards the stream.

Everyone turned to look.

"Where?" Padge said, feeling a little flustered.

"There," the leg-puller said, pointing with his beak in the direction of an old, greying bird who was walking towards the water.

"No, that's not her," the other said, "the one that Padge has his eye on isn't as young as that.

The others honked with laughter and Padge stomped off.

"If you're going to be like that I'm going," he said, looking back over his shoulder and stumbled over a large stone that he hadn't seen, directly in front of him.

Further hoots of laughter rang out behind him and he spread his wings and flapped into the air, his face hot with embarrassment.

The laughter faded away below him and he flapped strongly, the feelings of annoyance and anger washing away with the effort that he put in as he gained height. He flew inland, along the course of the stream, diving steeply to land in midstream after he had gone a mile or more. There were few other geese this far from the sea. The better forage was near the coast and only a few of the more adventurous birds had ventured this far inland.

He had been floating aimlessly downstream for about ten minutes when he came upon them. Two birds in midstream – one of them a heavy set bird a couple of years older than Padge and the other a young female, who was moving quickly over the water trying to keep away from him.

"Come on." The male was having trouble keeping up with her. "How do you know you don't want to. You don't even know me."

"I'm sure I don't want to," the female insisted. "I've told you before. Quite sure."

She honked more loudly, shouting to someone. "Graff, Jayli, I'm over here."

Whoever she was shouting to was obviously too far away to hear and there was no reply. She tried to take to the air, but the male cut her off.

It was then that Padge realised who she was. It was Junor.

The feathers on the back of his neck stood on end and he hissed as he realised what was going on.

The older goose turned, realising that they had company.

"Get lost kid. This one's already taken."

With his attention distracted, Junor took the opportunity to swim for the shore, but instead of taking to the air, she stood there watching them, looking encouragingly in Padge's direction.

The older male whistled ominously at Padge, warning him to keep clear and then swam towards the bank himself.

Without having made a conscious decision about it, Padge flew at him across the surface of the water, his neck stretched out and his beak held forward ready to strike.

The older bird, more experienced than Padge was, dodged out of his path and caught him a fierce blow with his beak on the side of his neck.

Padge didn't even feel it as he struck back, beating his wings to hold his ground on the water, driving the older bird backwards from the sheer pace and ferocity of his attack. He slowed momentarily, but that was all the older bird needed. He was suddenly on top of him, thrusting Padge down beneath the surface, using his weight to its full advantage.

Padge was disorientated for a moment and he swallowed a mouthful of water, but then he saw his opponent's leg threshing the water beside him and he took a firm grip of his foot and heaved the other bird over, reversing their positions. Then, his blood up and sensing the upper hand, he hammered his beak down again and again on the other bird's neck, preventing him from righting himself and taking a proper breath, before managing to grasp the feathers at the back of his opponents neck and twist his head around. The other goose, although carrying more muscle than Padge, wasn't as quick as he was and, having swallowed a good deal of water, his heart no longer seemed to be in it. He twisted out of Padge's grip and rushed downstream, honking obscenities as he put some distance between them.

There was a shout from the bank. "Hooray Padge! Hooray!"

She had remembered his name. Padge scrambled out onto the bank beside her, incredibly pleased at the outcome and the fact that she remembered his name and he strutted around honking in triumph, more to get the adrenalin out of his system than from a need to show off.

Junor jumped up and down in excitement with him and suddenly joined in, honking back with enthusiasm. This only served to increase Padge's sense of euphoria and the two of them strutted around, honking at each other in triumph until they both collapsed into fits of laughter.

That afternoon Padge didn't forage alone. The two of them wandered up and down the banks of the stream, talking about anything and everything. It wasn't long before they ran into Junor's family, who were grazing the banks a few hundred yards downstream.

Two male geese waddled out of the undergrowth a little distance ahead and Padge hissed a warning to Junor under his breath.

Junor laughed. "Oh you needn't worry about them," she said, and ran ahead to meet them.

Padge followed a little more cautiously and nodded a greeting.

Junor introduced them. "Padge, this is Graff," then, turning to the older goose, "and this is my father, Uland."

Both birds bobbed their heads in return and there was the obligatory bowing and posturing of a more formal greeting. Although Uland was obviously far senior to him, Padge was surprised to find that the older bird was polite and friendly towards him, whilst the younger bird Graff followed his example.

Junor had remained standing behind Padge as he spoke to Graff and he noticed Uland looking past him at her and nodding slightly with a twinkle in his eye. Padge turned to see what she was doing and she just giggled and turned away. Graff honked with laughter and Padge, feeling that he might be the butt of some joke, bowed his head a little uncomfortably. Uland frowned at Graff and smiled warmly at Padge in a fatherly sort of way.

"You'll have to excuse Graff I'm afraid, he finds the strangest things amusing these days. Padge, you must stay and graze with us for the afternoon and let me introduce you to the rest of the family. Then, if you'd like to, you can join us tomorrow. We're planning to go a little further afield."

He glanced at his daughter. "I think Junor would like that?"

Junor nodded emphatically and then turned away, feeling a little self-conscious.

The afternoon sped by, along with most of the early evening and it was considerably later when Padge finally said his goodbyes and went to look for the others who made up his own small group. Although they had been quick to laugh at his expense, they weren't a bad bunch and he knew they would wait for him in their usual place before they all flew back to the roost for the night.

This evening, he landed in the usual meeting place to find that three of the others were already there, waiting for him and the other late arrival.

"Where have you been then?" one of them asked.

"Yeah. Didn't mean to upset you this morning you know," one of the others said with a gesture of conciliation. "No need to avoid us. We were starting to think something had happened to you."

Padge grinned. "No I'm fine. I had a good day. In fact a very good day. I wasn't avoiding you, I just went further inland along the course of the stream, so I didn't see any of you."

"Looking for that young female were you?" the first bird asked.

"Oh give him a break," the second butted in. "Let's change the subject."

At that moment, a small formation flew over, led by a large male, who on seeing the group on the ground, turned towards them. As they passed overhead, they called noisily down to them and as they receded into the distance the last call from a young female at the back could just be made out.

"See you tomorrow Padge . . . ."

The goose who had been baiting Padge earlier in the day just stood there open beaked and the four of them turned to watch the formation until it disappeared from sight.

"That was her," he said, turning back to Padge in disbelief. "That was her wasn't it?"

Padge just nodded and grinned back at them. Although it was starting to get cold at this time of day, he felt a warm glow spreading out from his stomach to the tips of his wings and all the way back to his tail. He knew he was in for more leg pulling on the way back, but he was quite looking forward to it now, especially how he would be the centre of attention when he told them about his encounter with the older male that afternoon.

A Goose for Christmas – the novel

For Semmin, it was serious. Half a dozen birds lost to the weather and now a challenge to his leadership that he couldn't ignore.

For Padge, it was considerably worse. Injured at the height of the storm, separated from his mate, and now unable to fly for more than a few hundred yards. Had Junor survived? How badly was she hurt and where would she go? Can he find her while there's still time and if so, what hope do they have of rejoining the flock and completing their winter migration?

Available online in both ebook and paperback format.

THE TRIANGLE

It was a sunny Saturday morning in the middle of June. The birds were singing in the trees and a cool breeze wafted through the open window, bringing with it the smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of Penny singing quietly to herself as she tidied up the garden.

Sam lay on his bed listening to her as he stared up at the ceiling. He was worried. He'd been worried for the past six weeks. In fact he'd been worried since the day Penny introduced him to Jack. It wasn't that he had anything against Jack. In fact, he hadn't really had a chance to get to know him properly. It did seem to him though, that Penny and Jack were getting rather too close for his liking.

Maybe he did take Penny for granted. They'd been living together for over three years now. True, it had been a practical arrangement right from the start. Penny wanted to share the house with someone so that she had some company and wasn't on her own. She organised his meals and in return, he looked out for her and took care of the house. Having him about the place made her feel safe, especially on those dark winter nights when the wind made the doors rattle and there were unexplained creaking noises.

Three years was a long time and over that period they'd grown to depend upon each other in a number of ways, perhaps Sam more so than Penny.

Penny had changed since she'd met Jack. Before he came along, they used to keep each other company most evenings. Now Penny would come home from work, rush to get something to eat, then hurry out for the rest of the night. Sam didn't know for definite that she me up with Jack every time, but he was pretty sure that she did. She didn't seem to think it would bother him. He supposed he ought to be grateful that she still cared enough to get a meal for him as well as getting something for herself.

So was he worried? Yes, to be honest he was. If it came down to a choice between him and Jack, he suspected it would be him who would come off second best. He was just part of the furniture now, whereas Jack was something new, something exciting. Worse, was the fact that Jack was taller than him, stronger than him, more muscular than he was. Sam had met him once, after he'd been working out, and it made him feel small by comparison.

The letterbox rattled in the hallway and Sam heard the post drop to the floor. He rolled over, got to his feet, and wandered through to see if there was anything interesting. There was an official looking brown envelope **–** probably a bill, a magazine that Penny had delivered every month and a multi-coloured leaflet advertising that week's special offers at the local supermarket. Nothing interesting. He left the post where it was and wandered through to the dining room.

The dining room, which was at the back of the house, overlooked a mature garden. Penny always said it was the garden that had persuaded her to buy the house in the first place. Sam stood watching her through the French windows as she weeded the rockery. Just turned twenty-eight, Penny was slim with a good figure and had long dark hair, which was tied back in a pony tail. Dressed in an old pair of jeans and a faded sweatshirt, she was down on hands and knees, pulling pieces of grass and the odd weed out from between the drifts of Saxifrage, Phlox and Cranesbill.

Even though they did take each other for granted, Sam knew that he loved her. He wondered how she really felt about him.

As she turned round with another handful of grass and unwanted greenery, she caught sight of him at the window and waved, giving him a smile that seemed to light up the garden. Sam smiled back at her and then, when she turned back to her weeding, he left her to it and went to settle down on the settee. Friday had been a particularly long day and he was still tired.

Half an hour later Penny came in. Sam could hear her washing her hands in the kitchen sink and getting a drink before she appeared a moment later at the living room door.

"I'm going out for some fresh air," she said, as she walked past.

"Do you want to come?" she called back from further up the hallway.

Did he? Yes he did. He got up, stretched, and followed Penny through to the bedroom.

Penny had already pulled the sweatshirt over her head and was standing there in her bra and jeans.

"Oh no you don't," she said, gently steering him out of the room and closing the door behind him.

"I need to get changed," she shouted though the closed door, "I'll be out in a minute."

As usual, Penny drove. The inside of her car had a strange smell all of its own. It was somewhere between an expensive perfume, the smell of damp car rug and a hint of stale walking boots. The back of the car was sandy from a recent trip to the beach and it was cluttered up with a blanket, a waterproof jacket, a fleece, a rucksack and a pair of boots. By contrast, the front was tidy and reasonably clean. Penny's father pulled her leg about it, saying that when she cleaned the car, she only bothered with the front because she never had to sit in the back.

From the passenger seat Sam watched the countryside go by while Penny chatted about nothing in particular. As she concentrated on the road he glanced sideways at her and wondered whether he could tell her just how much he cared about her.

The journey was a short one. Only ten or fifteen minutes to get out of town and into the countryside. They turned off at a quiet junction, drove for half a mile along a narrow lane and then pulled up in a gravelled yard beside a group of sandstone buildings that overlooked open fields. Sam recognised it immediately. It was Jack's place. He thought Penny had meant just the two of them. If he'd known Jack was coming he'd have stayed at home.

Penny pushed open the driver's door.

"You stay here a minute. I'll not be long."

Sam watched her disappear around the corner of the building, her boots crunching on the gravel underfoot.

After ten minutes he was getting impatient. Why had she brought him if she was just going to leave him sitting in the car? What were the two of them doing in there anyway?

He was just about to climb over the seat and lie down on Penny's jacket, when she reappeared.

"Out you come," she said, as she opened the door for him.

Sam jumped out and ran around the car park wagging his tail excitedly. There were so many interesting smells at the stables. He liked it here, even if it was where Jack lived.

Penny got his lead and clipped it to his collar.

"Come on then. It's just you and me today. I'll let you off when we get to the bridleway. Jack's having a day off. He's got plenty of hay and water and I've said we'll see him on the way back."

Penny bent down and stroked Sam's head gently.

Sam grinned in appreciation **–** maybe she did love him after all.
PATIENCE – THE WAITING GAME

Jacob stared out of the window at the grey sky and the equally grey buildings. He could just about make out the double gates through the rain with their rolls of barbed wire and the square helmeted soldiers pressed against the wall of the guard house to avoid the worst of the weather.

"Efrem!" he called to the only other occupant of the hut.

"Yes?" came the reply from one of the bunks at the far end of the hut. Not that you could call them bunks. More like shelves. Shelves for people. Shelves which held the old, the young, the fit, the sick. Shelves which were overflowing with rag-clad bodies one day and the same shelves that were empty the next.

"What?" Efrem asked when Jacob didn't respond. The voice was flat and grey like the world outside. No colour. No hope. A voice that said in its tone that there was little point left in anything.

"Play cards with me?" Jacob asked.

The pack in his hands was faded and well worn, but the colours were still a contrast to the bare wood and stark reality of the hut. Jacob manipulated the cards unconsciously as he spoke, a one handed cut, a lift, he palmed the top and bottom cards, reversed them and inserted them into the middle of the pack. He spread the cards on the windowsill in front of him – a long line of red and black and ran one card along the row, turning them over to show their blue and white backs and then back to red and black and the flashes of colour that were the picture cards.

"You'll get us killed," Efrem said.

Jacob shrugged. "You think we won't be?"

Efrem shuffled over to where Jacob sat. "Or beaten." He paused to rub a dark bruise over his left eyebrow. "Again!"

Jacob nodded sympathetically. "Not today though."

Efrem sat down beside him and raised an eyebrow.

Jacob stared out of the window at the helmeted figures by the gate, still cutting and shuffling the pack of cards as he did so.

"They have some use for us," Jacob went on. He turned to his friend and gestured at the empty hut. "Don't you wonder why? Why we aren't moved on with the rest?"

Efrem shrugged. He didn't know, but then did he really care? They were still here. What more was there to know?

"They have need of us," Jacob said. "Someone needs treatment."

"Treatment?"

"It must be. There isn't any other reason."

"But they have their own doctors," Efrem pointed out.

"Doctors yes. But surgeons?"

"Yes, surgeons also," Efrem said.

He reached for the pack of cards and took one off the top. "Maybe not surgeons. Maybe a magician? Perhaps they are planning a party and you are to be the entertainment?" He laughed humourlessly and looked at his card.

"Eight of spades," Jacob said.

Efrem handed it back face up. "And you want me to play cards with you?"

"But I do not cheat you," Jacob protested.

"I know, I know. Just like you never cheated with the nurses?"

Jacob looked affronted. "But that was quite different."

Efrem tapped the cards. "Tell me how you still have these?" he asked. "We are searched regularly. You have no place to hide them."

There was a flurry of activity outside as a staff car arrived at the gates. Several grey figures jumped to attention whilst those who didn't, hurried to push the heavy wooden gates open.

Jacob paused, watching the activity before he replied.

"I can hide them."

The cards were no longer in Jacob's hands.

"I hide them where they will not look."

"But there is nowhere they do not look," Efrem protested.

Jacob tapped the pocket of his friend's striped coat with a forefinger.

"Check here."

Efrem put a hand into his pocket, felt a flat oblong shape and withdrew the familiar pack of cards.

"What guard would search their own pockets?" Jacob asked.

Efrem frowned. "You play a dangerous game. Why take such risks?"

Jacob shrugged. He knew. Efrem would not understand. How could one live in a world without choice? Without freedom of any kind? Where every action, every thought almost, required permission. Where someone else decided whether you could or could not do even the most menial thing.

"It is the only thing I have left Efrem. The only thing."

They both turned at the sound of boots on the wooden steps outside and the door was thrown open.

An officer stepped into the hut. He paused by the door, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, as he looked around for them. Four helmeted figures followed him into the room.

"You!" the officer barked. "You will come with me!"

His finger pointed at Jacob's chest.

Before he could comply, the small party had crossed the floor and he was pushed roughly towards the door by two of the guards.

Efrem made to follow, but his way was blocked by the other guards.

"You will remain here," the officer commanded.

Jacob was thrust into the grey world outside and the door slammed shut behind him.

The rain was heavier now and there was a chill in the air. In the distance, Jacob could hear the faint crump, crump of artillery shells. Did they sound nearer? It was hard to tell. Yes, he believed they sounded nearer. But then he had to believe. It gave him hope. He looked in the direction of the sound and hoped as hard as he could that they were nearer.

The office that he was pushed into was heated. There was a small paraffin burner in one corner of the room which, although furnished differently, was a smaller version of their own hut. The floor was still bare, the windows still covered by diagonal crosses of brown tape and the light bulb was still un-shaded. However, the comforts of someone in a position of authority were evident: a leather armchair, a set of faded red curtains, the silver coffee pot which stood on a tray at the end of the leather-topped desk.

The officer behind the desk ignored them. The lieutenant who had pushed him inside snapped to attention, followed by the guards and they just waited.

Jacob coughed. An involuntary reaction.

The senior officer looked up, continued to write for a moment more, then put his pen and paperwork aside.

He stood up.

"Thank you gentlemen. Please stand at ease."

The lieutenant and two guards relaxed slightly and the lieutenant nodded formally.

"Thank you Herr Major."

The major, a tall man with greying hair, walked around the desk and sat on the front edge, moving the coffee pot slightly so that he could do so. He looked at Jacob, weighing up what he saw – the shoe that was ripped on one side, the threadbare cotton clothing, the steel rimmed spectacles with round lenses and the hair shaved close to his scalp.

"So you are Jacob Epstein?"

Jacob nodded.

The officer produced a cigarette case from his pocket, took a cigarette and tapped the end of it on the case.

"Well Jacob Epstein, we have a job for you."

Jacob waited for more.

The cigarette case went back into the major's pocket to be replaced by a matching lighter. He lit the cigarette and took a long pull before exhaling.

"One of our officers requires surgery." He looked down at the end of the cigarette and then back up at Jacob. "You will perform the operation."

Jacob said nothing for a moment.

Outside, a truck rumbled past as Jacob considered the statement.

"Why would you need me to do that?" he asked carefully. "You have your own doctors. Your own surgeons."

The major nodded. "Yes, that is true. However none of them are heart specialists. Or to be more accurate, those who are heart specialists are not here and I am afraid that the patient cannot travel. No, in this case, the only suitable surgeon is yourself."

Jacob glanced at the two guards who flanked him on either side and then back to the Major. "Who is this officer?" he asked.

"You do not know him."

"All the same," Jacob continued, "I wish to know."

The major studied him intently. He shifted his position on the edge of the desk and stared down at the floor for a moment.

"It is not relevant to your task," he said finally.

Jacob weighed his conflicting emotions carefully before he replied.

"I will not do this. You must use someone else."

The lieutenant seized him by the neck of his jacket, one arm raised, the butt of his revolver ready to strike, before the major's raised hand stopped him.

"Nein, Lieutenant Göst. This we must deal with differently."

He stood and came closer. "Why would you not? You are a surgeon. You have taken a medical oath have you not?"

"This is true," Jacob agreed. "Nevertheless, I will not." He gestured to the camp outside, to the striped clothing that he wore and to the two guards. "Would I ignore these things? Why would I wish to help you?"

The major turned back to his desk.

"Your friend." He leaned over to consult a sheet of paper that lay there. "Yes, your friend Efrem Moser. He would wish you to help." He turned back to the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Göst, where is Efrem Moser just now?"

"He has been taken to a cell as you instructed Herr Major."

"Has he been harmed."

"No Herr Major."

The major smiled thinly. "You see Jacob Epstein. Your friend is safe. He is unharmed, but whether that remains so is up to you."

"You honestly believe that I think he will remain unharmed? Or myself for that matter?"

The major exchanged a look with the lieutenant.

"We know what happens here. It is only that we are of use that prevents us from joining the others."

"So if you cease to be of use?" the major asked.

Jacob sighed. "It does not matter. One way. Another way. The outcome remains the same. I do not speak for Efrem. He is a good anaesthetist. He may agree to help you."

The major took a final drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on his desk.

"Oh, Efrem Moser isn't useful to us because he is an anaesthetist. We do have an anaesthetist. He is useful to us because he is your friend."

The major took the cigarette case from his pocket once more, opened it and offered one to Jacob. Lieutenant Göst could not suppress an expression of surprise.

Jacob shook his head.

"You help us. We will help you," the major said, sitting once more on the front of his desk. "I can arrange for you to leave this place."

"Really?" Jacob asked, trying to suppress the note of sarcasm that he wanted to put into that one word.

The major nodded.

"And my friend?"

"And your friend," the major agreed.

Jacob stared out of the window, but he was not staring at the camp, or the rain that continued to fall, or the single helmeted figure who stood guard outside. Instead he saw the face of a woman. A woman with dark hair and brown eyes. Warm eyes, the kind that had wrinkles at the corner that came from smiling. Jacob hadn't seen those eyes for three weeks, or one of those smiles for even longer.

"My wife?" Jacob ventured.

Behind him, lieutenant Göst raised his eyes to the ceiling.

The Major's expression remained impassive.

"You have not seen her for some weeks. No? You wish to know what has happened to her?"

Jacob nodded.

"As I say, you help us and we will help you." He looked past Jacob at the lieutenant. "What do you think Göst? Might we not find Frau Moser for our friend here?"

Behind him, Göst shook his head very slightly and mouthed one word. Jacob would not have seen were it not for the silver coffee pot and the miniature reflection. He could not tell that Göst had mouthed anything, but the gesture was clear.

The Major's expression was unchanged. "So. It is settled then. You and your friend will leave this place and we will try to trace your wife."

The words washed over Jacob without him hearing them. He stared at the major without seeing him. The smell of the paraffin heater, the cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of damp greatcoats seemed to dominate his senses.

"We agree, yes?" Jacob could see the Major's lips moving, but still the words didn't register.

Jacob realised that he had stopped breathing. He exhaled slowly and the sights and the sounds of the room returned.

"Yes?" the major asked, raising his voice slightly in annoyance.

Jacob blinked to clear the moisture that blurred the Major's outline and he came into focus once more.

"Yes," he muttered. Then with more strength and a firmer edge to his voice. "Yes, I will do it."

The major seemed to relax slightly. "Good. You will let Lieutenant Göst know what you need. He will arrange it."

"The patient," Jacob said, "I must know who he is."

The Major shook his head.

Jacob's expression was firm. "Herr Major, this is not a request. I must know, otherwise I cannot do this."

The major's expression darkened. "Why? What does it matter? I give you a name. I give you a rank. What does that mean to you. Nothing."

"It matters," Jacob said simply. "If I do this, I would know who I operate on. The man's name. Who he is. What sort of man he is. Without this I will not operate."

This time the major's face did show some sign of indecision. Did it matter? Would it change the situation? Did it matter if he passed on this information?"

"Very well," he said, coming to a decision. "The officer's name is Bruner. He is the camp commandant."

He waited for some reaction from Jacob, but there was none.

"Does this matter?"

Jacob shook his head. "No, it does not matter. Nevertheless, I needed to know."

The major picked up a slim file from his desk and handed it to Göst. "The lieutenant will arrange what you need. Do you wish your friend to act as anaesthetist?"

Jacob thought for a moment before he replied simply, "Yes, I do."

"Very well. It is agreed. Thank you lieutenant. You will arrange what is necessary and report to me when all is ready."

The lieutenant saluted. "Ja, Herr Major."

The major returned to the seat behind his desk, lifting a hand in dismissal as he did so.

Outside it was still raining. They marched back to the hut in single file as before. The crump, crump of distant artillery sounded a little fainter, but then perhaps the wind had changed?

It was two days before the operation could be performed. In that time Jacob saw nothing of Efrem. His time was spent with Göst, listing his requirements and with an army surgeon, a large but gentle man, who helped as much as he could with the necessary equipment and the operating facilities.

Jacob saw Efrem again just two hours before the operation. The theatre was beyond the edge of the camp. It was used to broken bones and shrapnel wounds, to concussions and amputations, not to major heart surgery. Nevertheless, it was adequately equipped. Inside it was clean and bright. Outside it had stopped raining, but the surroundings were still grey, the building still guarded by square helmeted figures.

Efrem gripped his friend's arm and clapped him on the shoulder. Nothing was said. It was odd once more to be dressed in hospital whites and to be surrounded by familiar items. There had only been one familiar item for some time, a slim oblong pack that now rested in a pocket of Jacob's white jacket.

"Come," Jacob said. "We must prepare."

The operation itself was unusual. Jacob was used to Efrem sitting at the head of the patient and to the male orderlies who handed him instruments in place of the theatre nurses, but not to the two heavily built men who flanked him on either side, nor lieutenant Göst himself who stood opposite watching his every move intently.

It was more than five hours later when Jacob finished closing the incision that he had made in the commandant's chest. He tied off the final stitch and examined his work critically. Yes, he was satisfied.

"Is it done?" Göst asked.

Jacob put the last of the equipment back on the steel tray beside him.

"Yes, we are done."

Göst peered closely at the neatly closed wound and then moved to the head of the operating table to take an equally close look at his commandant. He bent over and put one ear just above the patient's face, satisfying himself that he could still hear breathing, despite the mask that was still in place to administer anaesthetic.

"That is good. You will follow me please." He turned to Efrem. "You also."

The army surgeon was already in the room and he took Jacob's place at the operating table, whilst another relieved Efrem of his place beside the cylinders of anaesthetic.

Göst led them across the corridor and into a room opposite, followed by the two heavily built men.

"You will change now." Göst pointed to two sets of striped clothing which lay on a bench.

"But this is not what was agreed," Efrem protested.

They both just stood there, neither moving to change.

Göst smiled slightly. A cold smile. "I am afraid that I have orders to return you to your hut."

One of the guards stepped forward and Jacob saw that he now held a wooden baton in one hand.

"We had an agreement," he said quietly.

Göst's smile broadened slightly. "I believe the major promised that you would leave this place. I do not think he was specific as to how."

Efrem cursed. Something that Jacob had rarely heard from him. He put a hand on his friend's arm.

"No. It is alright Efrem. Come, let us change."

Outside, there was a chill in the air. Autumn was coming. The two men marched in single file down the dirt road between the rows of wooden huts. Strangely, they didn't look quite so grey this afternoon. The rain had stopped, the sky was turning blue and clean white clouds hung overhead. A shadow moved along the dirt road as a cloud passed overhead and bright sunlight suddenly warmed their shoulders.

In the distance, the sound of an artillery barrage could be heard quite clearly. It was definitely closer.

Their original hut was still deserted. Jacob and Efrem were pushed inside and the lieutenant and two guards left without a word. Jacob went to the window and watched through the bars as three figures marched back the way they had come. Efrem walked the length of the hut, looking to see if anything had changed and walked slowly back.

"What now?" he asked.

Jacob shrugged. "We wait."

Efrem sat down beside him with a resigned sigh.

"A game of cards then?" he asked.

Jacob shook his head. "We cannot."

Efrem turned to look at him.

"I do not have them."

Efrem put a hand on his shoulder. "I suppose you couldn't hide them forever. Who found them?"

Jacob stared out of the window in the direction of the distant artillery.

"No-one my friend, but I no longer have them."

Efrem felt his own pockets just in case, but there was nothing there.

"What then?" he asked. "Left in the clothing that we had to change out of? Or perhaps in the pocket of a guard's uniform with no opportunity to retrieve them?"

"Neither," Jacob said. "The commandant has them."

"The commandant?" Efrem asked dubiously. "But he was on the operating table. He had no pockets."

"No," Jacob agreed, "but nevertheless he has them."

Efrem suddenly understood. "Good grief. How on earth . . . . We were observed so closely."

"You disapprove?" Jacob asked.

His friend stared at him as he thought about it. Eventually he shook his head. "No. I do not disapprove. So now what? We just wait?"

Jacob nodded.

They both sat side by side, staring through the window at the distant hills, waiting. Waiting to see which would come first. The guards returning for them. The distant artillery reaching the camp. Or news of the camp commandant, who no longer had a partially blocked pulmonary artery, but who did have a pack of well thumbed playing cards stitched with great care inside his chest.
ROXANNE

On the bedside cabinet the alarm clock read seven fifty-nine. The display flashed once more before the clock bleeped loudly and the display changed to eight. David Stewart stretched out an arm, pressed the snooze button and turned over, pulling the duvet up around his neck.

'Get up!' A voice demanded in his head. 'Today's the day'.

Davy rolled onto his back, picked up his watch from the bedside table and squinted at the date. Yes, Friday the 5th **–** the day she arrives.

Swinging his legs out of bed, Davy switched off the alarm, stretched and put his glasses on. The room came sharply into focus and he stood up to see what the weather was doing. Outside, the sky was a dull grey colour and a light drizzle was falling on the rooftops of Leith. A solitary seagull circled outside and the noise of the morning traffic rose from street level, finding its way in through the half open window. Davy liked the view from his flat. Beyond the rooftops the sea was a slightly darker grey than the sky and he could just see the Fife coast in the distance.

Davy smiled to himself as he thought of the girl he'd brought back to the flat last month. She would have stayed if it wasn't for the fact that he had no curtains. The lack of much furniture hadn't worried her, nor that he hadn't hoovered for at least a week. She wasn't even worried about the state of his bathroom, but when it came to sleeping in a room without curtains, it seemed that that was a step too far.

Throwing his t-shirt onto the chair in the corner, Davy pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt and walked through to the bathroom. As he cleaned his teeth, he looked at himself critically in the mirror. What would she think of him? Was he too old? Too tall? Not her 'type'? The image that looked back at him wasn't unattractive **–** late twenties, dark hair, quite tall, although admittedly on the thin side. He decided that he could do with a haircut, but other than that, he would have to do.

In the kitchen, Davy made himself a cup of coffee and two slices of toast before going to sit by the living room window where he could enjoy a different view of the rooftops. He picked up the letter that lay on the table.

"Dear Mr Stewart," it started. "Thank you for your kind invitation . . . . I would be delighted to accept . . . . I hope that you will not find it too much of an inconvenience if one of the security staff accompanies us . . . . Yours sincerely................ Roxanne De Garis."

The letter was signed with a flourish in fountain pen and Davy smiled as he put it back on the table.

'Right,' he thought to himself. 'Time to get organised.'

Picking up the phone, Davy called the barbers and made an appointment for eleven-thirty. Then, after he'd rummaged through his paperwork for the booking form, he dialled the chauffeur service. He stared out of the window while he waited for a reply.

A female voice eventually answered. "Good morning. Executive Vehicles. How may I help?"

"Hello, this is David Stewart. I'd like to confirm my booking for this evening please."

"Certainly Mr Stewart, please hold."

He was only kept waiting for a moment and then the girl returned.

"Everything is in order Mr Stewart. We've booked the vintage Bentley for you for the whole evening. I understand the driver is to pick you up at six-thirty from your home address. Is that correct?"

"That's right," Davy confirmed.

"Well, we'll look forward to seeing you this evening sir. Thank you for calling."

The girl rang off and Davy went back to the kitchen to dump his coffee cup and get the ironing board out, so that he could iron his shirt. The shirt in question had been bought especially for the occasion. Forty five pounds for a shirt and another twenty five for a tie wasn't the sort of money he would normally spend **–** but then this wasn't going to be a normal evening.

Fifteen minutes later, satisfied with the razor sharp creases, Davy hung the shirt in his wardrobe above the black shoes which he'd polished the night before.

Davy left his flat early and walked to the barber's, arriving in plenty of time for his appointment.

"Morning," James called, as he entered the shop. "Just a tidy up is it?"

"No, not today mate. Tonight is a special occasion, so I'm in for the works."

James stopped pushing the brush around the shop and went to check the appointment book.

"Have a seat," he said, glancing at his watch. Carol has just nipped out to get some milk, but she'll be back in a minute."

Davy hung his coat on the rack and took a seat in one of the well used leather chairs.

"What's the special occasion?" James asked.

"I've got a date," Davy replied.

"Yeah? Who? Anyone I know?"

Davy smiled. "Probably. Although you won't believe me if I tell you."

James was curious now. "Come on then. Who is she?"

"Roxanne De Garis," Davy said casually.

James laughed. "Yeah sure. In you're dreams maybe."

"No, honestly. I'm serious," Davy insisted.

"Aye, right. Come on, pull the other one. You mean Roxanne De Garis the singer? The same one who's in the charts at the moment?"

"That's her," Davy confirmed.

"Well you can't have," James objected, convinced that he was being taken for a ride. "No offence mate, but she wouldn't go out with the likes of you, any more than she would with me. Anyway, she lives in London doesn't she?"

"True, but she's up here for the weekend."

Davy reached over to pick up a copy of 'The Scotsman' from the coffee table and turned to the entertainment section.

"There you go." He pointed to an article in the paper under the headline 'Roxanne De Garis comes north' and read the first paragraph **–** "Expect some disruption outside the Balmoral Hotel this afternoon when fans of Roxanne De Garis gather in the hope of a glimpse of the singer as she checks in for a three day stay in the capital to promote her new album . . . ."

"I think you've lost the plot mate," James pronounced. He just shook his head and went back to tidying up the shop.

An hour later, Davy left feeling pleasantly relaxed. He'd had a shampoo, which also seemed to involve a head massage from Carol, who didn't believe his story any more than James did, followed by a haircut and a shave. Davy liked a haircut and shave. He enjoyed the sound of the cut-throat razor on the strop, the white powder puffer on the back of his neck and the warm towel afterwards. It was a shame there were fewer barbers about these days. He rubbed his chin appreciatively.

On his way back, Davy called in at the dry cleaners and picked up his suit. The drizzle had stopped now and the sun was trying to shine through a break in the clouds, which made the short walk from the dry cleaners to the florists more pleasant. As he entered and the bell above the door chimed, a woman in glasses and a green apron appeared from the back somewhere.

"Hello. Can I help?"

"Yes please, I'd like a dozen roses."

"Would you like to choose?" the woman asked, pointing to one corner of the shop where the green plastic bins held roses of different colours.

Davy thought for a moment. He hadn't met the girl before **–** he'd better avoid red. "I'll have twelve of the yellow ones please."

"Would you like a card?" the woman asked.

"No. No thank you."

Leaving the shop with the flowers in one hand and his suit in the other, Davy checked his watch. There was still plenty of time to go home, have something light for lunch and then have a soak in the bath.

The afternoon passed quickly and at six-fifteen Davy was standing at the window looking out at the rooftops and waiting for the car to arrive. A relaxing bath had rid him of the hair that had found its way down the back of his neck and now, immaculately dressed and groomed, he felt ready for the evening ahead.

In the street below, an old, dark green Bentley pulled up at the kerb and a moment later Davy's phone rang.

"Good evening Mr Stewart, it's Graham here. I have your car outside when you're ready."

"Thank you," Davy replied, "I'll be right down."

Picking up the flowers, Davy switched off the lights, locked the front door and hurried downstairs.

As he approached the car, a well-spoken gentleman in a grey suit and a peaked cap stepped out and greeted him, before opening the rear door. Inside, the car was immaculate. An expensive aroma of old leather filled his nostrils and it was obvious that the interior had recently been polished until there wasn't a mark on the woodwork or the silver fittings. The door closed with a reassuring thud and Graham returned to his position at the wheel.

"Where to Mr Stewart?" he asked, lowering the glass partition between them.

"The Balmoral please. We're picking up a young lady and then we'll be going on to 'The Amaritsi' for dinner."

The Bentley's engine purred as it pulled away from the kerb and Davy settled back into the soft leather.

When they arrived at the Balmoral, there was a crowd outside. At the top of the hotel steps, several security staff stood at either side of the entrance encouraging people to keep to the pavement rather than press up to the doors themselves.

As the Bentley pulled up and Davy got out, he briefly drew the crowd's attention before they realised that he wasn't the singer they'd come to see and they parted to let him through. Behind him, the Bentley indicated and pulled away as Graham went to find a parking space a little further down the road where he could wait for his return.

Inside the hotel, the reception area was crowded with photographers and journalists as well as the usual comings and goings of the guests themselves. Davy approached the desk, yellow roses in hand and caught the eye of a member of staff.

"Yes sir?"

"I have an appointment with Miss De Garis. I wonder if you could call her room and let her know that David Stewart is here."

At his words, the conversation around him suddenly quietened and a murmur ran around the room. The flash of a camera went off beside him, then another, and then the receptionist came back from the phone.

"If you'd have a seat sir. Miss De Garis will be right down."

Five minutes later, the room was filled with the light of half a dozen flash bulbs as the press photographers fought each other for the best picture of the singer as she came down the stairs and walked across the room. The receptionist caught her attention as she approached and nodded towards Davy, who got to his feet.

Dressed in a figure hugging black cocktail dress, with her hair pinned up in an intricate arrangement, Roxanne De Garis looked absolutely stunning. A single diamond on a silver chain around her neck sparkled as the cameras continued to flash, but was totally eclipsed by the warmth of her smile as Davy handed her the flowers.

"Oh, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed, and bent her head to smell their perfume. "Do you mind if I ask someone to take them to my room?"

"Not at all," Davy agreed.

A girl, who couldn't have been more than eighteen, detached herself from the crowd and held out her hand. "Thank you," Roxanne said, handing her the flowers and then she leaned in to whisper something in her ear. The girl glanced briefly at Davy, nodded and giggled before she turned away.

"Shall we go then David?" Roxanne asked, taking his arm. "I hope you don't mind, but Andrew will be coming with us." She looked around for the man in question **–** a tall, broad shouldered individual in a jacket **–** who appeared on cue from her left. "You'll hardly notice him though, I promise."

Andrew nodded to Davy and held out a large hand, which Davy shook.

On the steps of the hotel, the security staff had to hold the crowd back briefly, until the Bentley drew up and they were safely inside. Andrew squeezed himself into the front seat beside Graham and then they were off.

To his surprise, Davy found that Roxanne De Garis was very easy to talk to and by the time they arrived at the restaurant they were on first name terms and were having a lively conversation.

The restaurant wasn't busy at this time of the evening and the manager himself met them at the front door to show them through. As Davy had arranged, they were shown to a table off the main restaurant, which was situated in a small alcove. The two nearest tables both had reserved signs on them, but Davy knew that tonight no one would be taking up the reservations.

Andrew might not have been there at all and he sat unobtrusively on his own at a table where he could intercept any particularly enthusiastic autograph hunters who might try and interrupt their meal.

As the evening passed, Davy found himself warming more and more to the girl across the table. It was surprising just how much they had in common and the conversation flowed freely.

The food itself was absolutely delicious. Davy had to admit that it was some time since he'd had a better meal and by the final course he was pleasantly full. He'd taken the easy option when he'd chosen the wine **–** the almost empty bottle of red which stood in the middle of the table had been priced at £230. Roxanne had been suitably impressed with his choice and he didn't disillusion her by confessing that he'd simply picked the most expensive bottle on the wine list.

Too soon, the meal was over and Davy asked for the bill. With the reservations, the wine and the food, the bill came to more than £800 and Davy didn't bat an eyelid as he signed the cheque, adding a rather generous tip.

"I believe I promised to make a contribution to your charity," Davy said, smiling at Roxanne.

He tore off the cheque for the restaurant and wrote another, payable to the charity which Roxanne had famously founded, signed it and filled in the amount **–** £10,000.

Roxanne took it from him and smiled. "That's very generous," she said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

"It's a pleasure," Davy replied. "It's really good of you to come out for dinner with me and let me give you the contribution in person."

Roxanne put the cheque away in her purse. "Well I wouldn't normally," she said, "but you were quite persuasive on the telephone." She laughed. "And rather charming. And after all, I was in town, and to be honest rather curious **–** to meet someone I didn't know who wanted to make such a large donation."

Davy laughed as well. "Well you do know me now and I have to say, I've had a very nice evening."

As they left, Roxanne stopped to sign a handful of autographs for the group of fans who had gathered outside and to pose for a press photographer, who had been good enough not to disturb their meal, before they climbed once more into the Bentley.

They got back to the Balmoral to find that the crowd outside had thinned slightly, although there were still plenty of people waiting. Davy opened the door for Roxanne and she took his hand as she stepped from the car.

"Would you come up for coffee?" she asked, as they followed Andrew up the steps of the hotel.

"Really?" Davy asked, taken by surprise, as he realised that she still hadn't let go of his hand.

"Yes," she said simply.

"Well, yes. Thank you, I'd like that."

Roxanne's hotel room was enormous. Her suite was on the top floor and the two of them stood at the window of the sitting room drinking coffee and looking out at the lights of Edinburgh.

"I've had a lovely evening," Roxanne said, leaning lightly against him.

"I'm glad," Davy replied.

Roxanne turned away from the window, took the coffee cup from Davy's hand and put it on the table. Suddenly, her arms were clasped around his neck as she kissed him and he felt the warmth of her body pressing against his.

The kiss didn't last more than a moment and then Roxanne pulled away, blushing. Despite himself, Davy couldn't help a grin. Roxanne laughed at him and then just smiled.

"Will you call me?" she asked.

"If you'd like me to," Davy agreed.

"Yes please."

Roxanne took Davy's hand and pressed a folded piece of paper into it.

Ten minutes later, after what was a rather lingering goodbye, Davy was once more in the back of the Bentley as it pulled away from the hotel and drove towards Leith. He spent the short journey in complete silence, staring out of the window and thinking of the evening and a reaction from Roxanne that he definitely hadn't expected. When the Bentley dropped him at his door, Davy tipped Graham and then stood there watching as the car drove to the end of the street, indicated and disappeared around the corner.

The following morning, Davy got up late, had a shower and got dressed. Picking up his wallet from the bedside table, he stopped briefly in the living room to collect Roxanne's letter and then he hurried downstairs, locking the door behind him.

On his way to the bookies, Davy stopped at the newsagents to pick up a paper and he smiled to himself when, on page five, he found the picture of Roxanne on his arm as they descended the hotel steps the night before.

At the bookmakers, Davy presented his betting slip at the counter and the assistant hurried away to fetch the manager. A moment later an older man in a jacket appeared behind the bandit screens. He looked at Davy and then down at the betting slip.

"We won't be taking any more like this," he muttered.

Davy slid Roxanne's letter, the restaurant bill and page five of the paper under the screens. The manager picked each up in turn, glanced at it and then bent to check the betting slip once more.

"Odds of 500 to 1 that Mr David Stewart of . . . he read out Davy's address . . . has a date with the singer Roxanne De Garis and that their picture appears in the national press within 30 days." The manager grunted unhappily. "Fifty pounds at those odds gives you £25,000." He looked up and peered at Davy over the top of his glasses. "I'll have to give you a cheque."

When the manager slid the cheque under the screens a few minutes later, Davy just nodded, put it away in his wallet and left without a word. Outside, he stood on the pavement waiting for a gap in the traffic and then frowned. Why wasn't he happier? He sighed to himself. It was a long, deep sigh. He took out his wallet and looked at the cheque again. Take off £10,000 for charity, the cost of the car and the cost of the meal and he was still well in profit. Why didn't that feel good?

The slip of paper with Roxanne's number on it stared at him accusingly from behind the cheque. He took it out, turned to look at the bookies behind him, then closed his fist around it and dropped it into the litter bin which stood beside the bus stop.

Roxanne would never look at him if she knew the truth. He didn't have a job. He didn't have much money **–** well not until this morning. He couldn't even afford a pair of curtains for his bedroom. But far worse than that, he'd taken advantage of her. He'd taken advantage of her in a way that she didn't even realise. No, he couldn't call her.

He took a few more steps along the road and then stopped, turned on his heel and walked back to the bin. Recovering the slip of paper, he smoothed it out and looked at the number again.

'Maybe? Just maybe?' he thought...............................and then he put the slip of paper back in his wallet.
GROUND CREW

It was 10.30 a.m. and the shop was empty. It was the lull between the breakfast crowd demanding their bacon rolls and skinny lattes and the lunchtime regulars who would start to drift in from 11.00 a.m. onwards, asking for Cornish pasties, pastries, or one of the two hot soups that they offered each day.

Deborah Wilson, or 'Debs' to her mum, finished wrapping the last of the pre-packed sandwiches and called through to the back of the shop.

"Mum. That's the last of the sandwiches. Do you fancy a cup of tea?"

Her mum Carol appeared carrying a tray of sausage rolls, which she slid expertly onto a rack beneath the counter.

"Mmmm, yes dear, that would be lovely."

She pushed a stray lock of hair back beneath her hat and smiled. She was a small woman in her late forties, shoulder length brown hair cut in a bob and dark brown eyes. Not unattractive in a homely sort of way, but 'built for comfort, rather than speed,' as her late husband used to say.

Deborah was more used to seeing her mother in a navy skirt and white blouse for work, rather than the light green overalls that they both wore, but it was nearly a year now since they had opened the shop and she was getting used to it.

A head appeared at the door to the back room where the ovens were. "Did I hear tea?" it asked.

"Actually, isn't it your turn?" Debs suggested.

"Mum. Isn't it Ken's turn?" she repeated, turning to Carol.

The two women exchanged a look and smiled.

"Ok, ok. I'll get it," Ken said. He knew that look. There was no point in arguing. Especially with your fiancée and your future mother in law.

"Coffee for me dear," Carol said, as the head disappeared again.

"That's right, you keep him in order," a voice said from the other side of the counter.

Carol turned and smiled at the newcomer. "Oh, hello Janet. What can I get you?"

Janet pointed over Carol's shoulder. "I'll have one of those bloomers please. And half a dozen morning rolls."

A small boy pulled on her coat sleeve to attract her attention.

"Oh, and a jam doughnut for Sammy. I promised him something if he behaved in the supermarket."

"Do you want this sliced?" Carol asked.

"No thanks. I'll take it like that." Janet leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. "I thought you might like to know, that man from Brown Brothers is outside again. He's been watching people coming in and out for at least 15 minutes. I saw him before I went to the post office."

Carol frowned. She could do without Bob Wentworth on a Monday morning. Ok, they were probably taking some of his trade, but Browns were big enough to cope with that and it wasn't like they'd opened up next door to them. Browns' nearest shop was at least half a mile away.

Janet nodded in the direction of the door. "Shhh, I think he's coming in."

Carol handed over three brown paper bags in exchange for a £5 note and Janet put them into a large reusable plastic carrier, which bore the legend 'Wilsons' in large green letters and underneath it 'Baked by Angels'.

"Such a good idea, these bags," Janet said, accepting her change, "everyone I know has got one."

By now Bob Wentworth was standing behind her.

Janet looked round and coughed nervously. "Well, I must get on. I'll see you later Carol."

Carol smiled as she watched Sammy trying to remove his doughnut from the shopping bag as they walked to the door.

"Hello Mr Wentworth," she said pleasantly, turning her attention to the well upholstered gentleman in the slightly dated grey suit.

"What can we do for you?"

Bob Wentworth tried a smile unsuccessfully, paused and then said rather quickly, "A farmhouse white, six morning rolls, two Cornish pasties, an apple turnover and one of those Danish Pastries please."

Carol laughed. "I hope you don't mind me saying, but you're the last person I'd have expected to be buying bread and pastries from us."

Wentworth shifted from one foot to the other.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

Carol shook her head. "No, not at all."

"Checking out the competition?" she asked, looking him boldly in the eye.

Wentworth went a little pink around the collar and cleared his throat. "Well. Er . . . . Hmmm. Yes, I suppose you could say that. You seem to be doing very well here."

Carol beamed. "Thank you. I appreciate that, coming from someone who knows the business as well as you do Mr Wentworth."

She lined up the purchases along the top of the counter and Wentworth produced a crisp £20 note from his wallet.

"Can I have a bag?" he asked, as Carol counted his change.

"Really?" she asked, with raised eyebrows.

"Er . . . . Yes," Wentworth said. "I don't seem to have one."

Carol counted out the change into his outstretched hand and reached under the counter for one of the green and white carriers.

"There you go," she said, putting his purchases into the carrier for him, "do come again."

"Thank you," Wentworth said politely. If he had worn a hat he would have tipped it, but since he didn't, he tried another smile with a little more success this time and hurried out of the shop.

"Well," Carol said, turning to Debs. "What do you make of that?"

An hour later and twelve miles away at Brown Brothers' Area office, Wentworth was sitting at his desk and staring at the phone.

It rang on cue.

"That's him now Mr Wentworth," a female voice said when he picked it up.

"Thank you," he mumbled and the line was connected.

"Well?" a voice asked without an introduction. "Have you been?"

Bob Wentworth didn't need any introduction, it was Alan Johnson his Regional Manager.

"Yes Alan, I've been."

"And?" Johnson asked.

Wentworth gave a small sigh. "They were quite busy." He paused, ". . . compared to us anyway."

"And what about quality?" Johnson asked.

"Good," Wentworth said. "Not better than us when it comes to the bread and rolls, but their pies and pastries are probably better."

"Probably?" Johnson asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Wentworth said, with a touch of exasperation. "It's not the quality or the pricing. It's a very friendly shop and they're at the right end of the High Street, which helps, but it's their ruddy advertising. Everyone in town seems to have one of those damn carrier bags. They're all over the place."

"Are they still giving them out for free?"

Wentworth glanced at the one that lay on his desk. "Yes, at least they were this morning. The supermarkets charge 20p a piece for theirs. It must really be eating into their margins."

"Sounds as if it's more than offset by the volume they're doing," Johnson said. "Well, we need to do something about it. Our nearest shop is down by over 20% already and it's getting worse. Have you spoken to Pettigrew at the council yet?"

"Only briefly. We played golf the other weekend. He says they'd need a formal complaint from us before they'd do anything about it."

"Well you'd better get on with it then," Johnson said. "Give them a ring just now and then get it down in writing. Who's that girl you've got in the office there? Mary isn't it? You can get her to take it round this afternoon and hand it in."

"Ok." Wentworth frowned. "Leave it with me and I'll let you know how we get on."

After he put the phone down, Bob reached for the plastic bag, considered it for a moment and then pressed a button on his intercom.

"Yes, Mr Wentworth?" the female voice answered.

"Mary, can you come in for a moment. I've got a letter I need you to do."

It was late the next morning when Carol got the telephone call.

"Mum, it's for you," Deborah said, offering her the phone. "Someone from the council he said."

"Oh, thanks love. Could you finish serving this gentleman for me?"

She smiled apologetically at the man at the counter, wiped her hands on her apron and took the phone from her daughter.

"Hello?" she said, as she walked through to the back room.

"Ah, good morning." The voice on the other end was slightly nasal.

"Is that Ms Wilson?"

"Yes, that's right," Carol confirmed. "Mrs Wilson. Can I help?"

"Mrs Wilson, my name is Pettigrew. Donald Pettigrew. I'm with Trading Standards at the Council."

"Oh yes?" Carol said.

"Yes. I wonder if you could spare me fifteen minutes sometime this afternoon? I'm afraid we've had a complaint about your business."

"A complaint?" Carol put a hand over her other ear to shut out the noise of Ken taking a tray of Cornish pasties out of the oven.

"Yes I'm afraid so," Pettigrew went on, "it's about your advertising. I'm sure its something that we can easily clear up, but I believe you are contravening 'The Trade Descriptions Act'."

"The Trade Descriptions Act?" Carol repeated. "But we haven't done any advertising for months."

"It's your packaging," Pettigrew said. "I'd really rather discuss it in person. Would you be free at say 3.00 p.m?"

"Er . . . well, yes, I suppose so," Carol agreed reluctantly.

"Good. Well I'll see you at three o'clock then Mrs Wilson."

There was a click and then silence.

"What did he want?" Deborah asked, looking curious as her mum came back.

"He says we're contravening 'The Trades Descriptions Act'," Carol said disbelievingly.

Carol knew the man was Pettigrew as soon as he walked into the shop. He was a tall thin chap with a black moustache, a dark suit and a brown leather briefcase.

"Mr Pettigrew?" Carol asked.

"Yes," he replied in a businesslike tone. "You must be Mrs Wilson."

"That's me. If you'll stay there a moment I'll come round and we can go into the office."

Carol picked up a set of keys from a hook and lifted a section of the counter, which allowed her into the shop area.

There was a plain door at the far end of the counter on the customer side and Carol inserted a key and pushed it open.

"I call it the office," she said, "but it's really more of a cupboard."

It was an accurate description. The room was perhaps six feet square, with a small barred window which looked out over the back of the building. The only furniture was a small desk and two office chairs, which had seen better days, although two walls were shelved and divided into sections which held files, various types of packaging and some cleaning materials.

"Have a seat Mr Pettigrew." Carol gestured to the chair on the left. "Can I get you a cup of something?"

Pettigrew sat with his briefcase on his lap. "No. No thank you. This shouldn't take long."

Carol took the chair on the right and pulled a pad of paper and a pen from the desk drawer.

"Well I must confess, I'm a little worried. This seems very official. What on earth have we done?"

Pettigrew unsnapped his briefcase and produced one of their own carrier bags.

"I'm afraid it's your merchandising Mrs Wilson. We've had a formal complaint."

He put the plastic carrier on the desk between them.

"A complaint?" Carol picked up the bag. "Who from?"

Pettigrew cleared his throat. "Ah, hem. I'm afraid I am not at liberty to say."

He took a pair of spectacles from his case and a pad of official looking forms.

"I'm afraid I'll have to give you a formal notice instructing you to withdraw these."

"But I don't follow you," Carol said, "what exactly is the problem?"

"This, Mrs Wilson." Pettigrew's finger tapped the writing on the bag. "It's hardly accurate is it. Baked by Angels?"

Carol stared at the writing and then smiled. "Ah, but I'm afraid it is Mr Pettigrew."

Pettigrew looked up from his form, searching for something in Carol's expression to say that she wasn't serious, but he didn't find it. His pen paused above the paper.

"But surely Mrs Wilson . . . . You can't expect me to believe that?"

"Oh yes." Carol said emphatically, without expanding.

"But that's preposterous."

"No it isn't."

Pettigrew frowned. "Yes Mrs Wilson, it is. Or do you want me to believe that your ovens are heated by a million candles and you have to open the Pearly Gates at the back of the shop whenever you get a delivery?"

Carol laughed out loud. "Oh Mr Pettigrew, it's nothing like that. You'd better come and see for yourself."

She looked at her watch. "Yes, we should just catch him."

She squeezed round the table and held the door for Pettigrew.

"You can leave your things there if you want to. It shouldn't take long."

Pettigrew got to his feet. "Very well Mrs Wilson, but I have to say that this isn't making any sense."

The shop was empty. Carol let the door shut behind them and smiled across the counter at her daughter. "Debs, has Ken gone yet?"

Deborah lifted the hatch in the counter to let the two of them through. "No, he's still round the back. Why?"

Carol grinned at her. "Mr Pettigrew would like to meet him."

"Oh," Deborah said. "You might have to wait a minute. I think he's getting changed. Big Col should be here by now. The two of them are supposed to be going round to the wholesalers before they shut."

"Big Col?" Pettigrew asked.

"Yes," Carol said, "that's good, you can meet him too. He helps Ken. Although I wouldn't say that he works here. Well, not on a full time basis. He's more of a contractor."

"An Angel contractor?" Pettigrew asked dubiously.

"Oh yes!" Carol agreed, nodding emphatically. "Big Col is most definitely an Angel."

The back of the shop was half as big again as the customer area and was fitted out in stainless steel. Stainless steel work surfaces, stainless steel sink, a gas range and a bank of four ovens against the far wall. Everything was spotless, including the floor, which was still damp from being mopped as Ken's last task of the day.

Someone could be heard whistling behind a door in the far corner. It was a Sparks song – 'Number One in Heaven'. Carol fought the urge to laugh out loud and managed to turn it into a stifled cough instead.

"Ah good. He's still here. I expect he'll be out in a minute."

Pettigrew started to say something in reply, but was interrupted by a bass rumble from outside. The security door rattled in its frame and the windows vibrated. The noise deepened as it came closer, getting louder and louder until it was right outside. The heavy back door joined in with even more enthusiastic rattling and then it stopped. There was a moment's silence before something hammered heavily on the door.

"That'll be Colin now," Carol said, and went to let him in.

Pettigrew was curious now, but uncertain. He was usually in charge of the situation when dealing with traders, but today he felt decidedly out of his depth.

Carol pulled back a bolt, turned the key and pushed the door, which opened outwards.

The sun was low and the light streamed in through the open door. A huge figure with an enormous horned head was silhouetted in the door frame.

Pettigrew blinked, trying to make out some detail against the bright light behind. He licked his lips.

The figure took a step forward and took off its head.

As the door closed behind him, Big Col came into focus. What had looked like his head was a matt black motorcycle helmet with a pair of goggles pushed up on top. Big Col tucked the helmet under his arm. The man was huge. At least 6'5" and 20 stone. He was clad in black leather. Black leather trousers, black leather boots and a black leather jacket, which had silver studs down the lapels and around the waistband. A white silk scarf was wrapped around his head, bandanna style, to keep his long hair in check, although it was still trying to escape as if it had a life of its own.

"Hello Carol," he said, in a voice that reminded Pettigrew of the bass singer from 'The Coasters'.

"Hello Colin," Carol replied. "This is Mr Pettigrew. I wanted him to meet you."

Colin held out a large hand. Pettigrew noticed the letters tattooed on the knuckles in schoolboy ink as he shook it . . . 'O.L.I.N.' and, oh yes, there was a 'C' as well, tattooed on the thumb.

Behind them, the door in the corner opened and Ken appeared, dressed in a similar fashion, a helmet hanging from his left hand.

"What's up?" he asked, not used to four people standing in the back room and no-one in the shop.

"Oh nothing," Carol said. "I just brought Mr Pettigrew through to say hello. He's from Trading Standards."

"Is he?" He looked at Pettigrew warily as he shook his hand. "Is it an inspection?"

Carol shook her head. "No, nothing like that. No need to stay back. You and Colin better get off. Debs tells me you're going round to Drummonds."

"Er . . . yeah, that's right." He looked from Carol to Pettigrew and then back at Carol again. "You sure you don't want me to stay?"

"Quite sure," Carol agreed, "I'll speak to you later."

"Ok." He grinned at his fiancée. "I'll see you tonight then Debs. About six or maybe half past if that's ok?"

Deborah nodded.

As the two men left, Pettigrew could see that they each had the same design picked out in silver on the back of their jackets. It was an eagle with outstretched wings and underneath it in silver letters, the words 'Ground Crew'.

Carol pulled the door shut behind them and turned to Pettigrew.

"There you are Mr Pettigrew. I told you they were Angels."

Pettigrew smiled for the first time since he had been in the shop.

Outside, an electric motor whined and two big bore motorcycle engines roared into life.
SALUTE THE MAGPIE – PART 1

It was two weeks after his seventeenth birthday and Ben Collins was being rattled around inside a three foot square, six foot high, metal cage. The seat that he sat on was hard, grey plastic and jarred him every time the van hit a bump or the driver touched the brakes. There was no cushion to ease the discomfort, since in the past they had always been torn off and there was no seat belt, a precaution that was taken in case a prisoner tried to hang himself.

Two of the other six cubicles were occupied, one by a thin, coloured youth who didn't look more than fourteen and another by a heavily built Irish lad. At least Ben presumed he was Irish from his accent. He'd spent the first half of the journey banging his cubicle door and shouting and swearing at the driver and the surly looking guy who sat in the passenger seat. Irish was now staring intently in his direction.

"What?" Ben demanded.

Irish said something that Ben couldn't make out and then turned away to stare out of the small, square, reinforced window.

What Irish made of him, Ben didn't much care. Just turned seventeen, he was a nondescript figure in black jeans and a slightly baggy sweatshirt. A little over average height and average weight, short dark hair that was clean and had seen a comb earlier that morning. No tattoos, no jewellery. A pair of lightweight black boots with white stripes down the side.

Irish turned back from the window. "What you in for then?" he asked.

Ben shook his head. "Nothing that'd interest you."

The Irish lad persisted. "Come on mate. We're in this together now ain't we. In my case it's assault. Six months, although they reckon you can get out early with good behaviour. You?"

"Breaking and entering," Ben volunteered. "Three months, since it's my first offence."

Irish laughed. "Is it? Your first offence that is?"

Ben shook his head. "First time I've been caught though."

The Irish lad grinned. "Three months. They might as well not have bothered. It's hardly worth you unpacking is it."

"Unpacking what?" Ben said, gesturing to the empty cages.

"Yeah, fair point."

The van slowed as it approached a junction and then turned right onto a narrow road that crossed an area of wasteland. Ahead, Ben could see a featureless concrete wall, which was only interrupted by a dark-grey double gate where it crossed the road. The wall was at least four metres high and was topped with a roll of razor wire. Both of them fell silent and watched it grow larger as they approached.

The coloured boy, who had been silent for most of the journey, suddenly became agitated, although Irish, who earlier had been shouting and cursing, fell silent.

At the gate, the van stopped and the guard in the passenger seat got out. He stood there for a moment, getting a breath of fresh air, and then walked towards the window that was set to one side of the gates with a clipboard and paperwork in his hand.

A few minutes later and they were inside. There were three sets of gates. The heavy outer gate let them into an area not much bigger than the van itself. A guard in blue uniform shut and locked the main gate behind them and then opened a second gate in front. The driver pulled forward and they found themselves in the loading area. This was fenced off, with a heavy chain link fence separating it from the prison itself.

Beyond the fence, the prison yard was deserted. It was too late in the evening for anyone to be outside. Ben didn't have a watch, but he reckoned it must be about half-past seven. The back of the van opened and two prison guards looked in. One held the clipboard and paperwork that had just been handed in.

"O'Brien?" one of them asked.

The Irish lad raised a hand. "Yeah, that's me."

"You're first."

The younger of the guards climbed into the van and unlocked O'Brien's cubicle. The Irish boy ducked under the low door and climbed out through the back of the van. Ben watched the three of them as they walked toward the prison building and disappeared through a dark green door.

It was five minutes before the guards came back. Ben spent it surveying what lay beyond the chain link. There wasn't much to see – a stretch of concrete with basketball hoops at either end, an area of grass, much of which had been worn down to bare earth, and a set of goal posts. Ben looked for the opposite goal, but there wasn't one. Around everything ran the featureless grey wall.

Ben turned to his remaining companion. "Hey, what do you think? You been anywhere like this before?"

The other boy shook his head. He looked particularly worried.

"Me neither," Ben said. He nodded towards the grounds outside. "You play football?"

The boy managed a half smile. "Yeah, on the wing normally."

"Well I wouldn't worry too much. It looks like you'll get a game at least. How long are you here for?"

Ben didn't hear the answer as they were interrupted by the back door opening once more.

"Collins?" the guard demanded.

Ben got up, bent over in the confined space. "That's me."

"Ok, you're next."

As he climbed out of the back, Ben breathed in the fresh air. It was good to stand up straight and to be outside. Surprisingly the prison smelled of cut grass and summer. It wasn't what he was expecting. If he shut his eyes he could be walking in a park, rather than across the concrete of the loading area towards three months of what?

Prison initiation began in a windowless reception room with harsh strip lighting. It was painted a grubby cream colour, with polished grey lino. A small fish tank stood against one wall and there were two Formica and steel tables in the centre. Around them were four red plastic chairs **–** the type that used to be stacked three rows deep in the store room at Ben's old school. There was a drinks machine in one corner and half a cup of cold coffee on the nearest table. On the wall was a poster warning new inmates that if they bit the staff they could expect to have an extra twenty-eight days added to their sentence. Strangely, the room smelled of vinegar and fish and chips.

"Ben Collins," the older of the two guards said, handing his paperwork to the middle aged woman who sat at the left hand table.

The woman looked up and gestured for Ben to take the seat opposite.

"Is that right?" she asked. "Ben Collins?"

"Yeah, that's me" Ben agreed.

As the woman read through the court report and the other papers, the door behind him opened and a male prison officer came in. He nodded at the two guards from the van, who must have been waiting for him, since once he'd arrived they left.

The woman's pen flicked over the paperwork as she fired an occasional question at Ben.

"Any special diet?"

Ben shook his head.

"Religion?"

Ben shrugged. "Not really."

"Atheist?" Her pen hovered over the appropriate box.

"No."

The woman looked up. "What then? Christian? Muslim? Hindu? Buddhist?"

"Christian. Yeah, Christian I suppose."

"Anglican? Protestant? Catholic?"

She looked up again when Ben didn't reply. "Christian – other," she decided, ticking that box and moved on.

Once the forms were done, the male officer took him to a side room and, leaving the door ajar, told him to strip. There was an examination table against one wall **–** the kind you find in a doctor's surgery **–** and opposite that, what looked like a grey plastic armchair connected to an electric socket. Ben stripped off his sweatshirt and his jeans and folded them on the chair.

"Ok," he called.

The guard came back, leaving the door open behind him.

"And the rest," he said. "T-shirt and underwear as well."

Ben hesitated. The woman was watching him through the open door. The guard laughed, but pushed the door shut.

"Come on. We've not got all evening."

Ben complied, stripping off his shirt and boxers and dropping them on top of his jeans. The guard picked them all up and packed them into a plastic crate.

"Raise your arms," he instructed.

Ben lifted his arms.

"Turn round."

He turned round and faced the wall.

"Keep turning."

Ben obliged and turned through 360°.

"Fine, sit on the B.O.S.S." He pointed towards the plastic armchair.

"The Boss?" Ben asked, looking at it suspiciously.

"First time in here is it?" It was more of a statement than a question.

Ben nodded.

"Body Orifice Security Scanner," the guard said. "You'd be surprised what it turns up from time to time. Mobile phones, drugs, butterfly knives." He stood in front of the display screen, moving a lever backwards and forwards. "Ok, you're clean. Off you get."

Ben glanced over at the plastic crate that contained his clothes, but the guard anticipated his thoughts.

"No, not them. Once I get that labelled, it goes into storage. If you give me a minute, I'll get your prison gear."

He picked up the crate and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Ben stood there, stark naked, the female guard watching him through the open door. He was about to move out of her line of sight when the guard returned with a similar crate. He'd only been a moment. The prison clothing must have been just outside.

"There you go. Put those on." He emptied the crate onto the examination table. Instead of his jeans and sweatshirt, there was a green tracksuit, a pack of brand new socks and a pack of prison-issue Y-fronts sealed in cellophane. Beside them, were his own boots. Ben picked them up and looked enquiringly at the guard.

The guard nodded. "Yes, you get to keep them. We supply it all apart from the footwear. You know, I haven't seen a pair of baseball boots for a while." He looked down at his watch.

"They're not baseball boots," Ben said, picking them up.

"Yeah, whatever. Come on, get a move on kid, we're running late." Ben nodded and the guard stepped outside, half closing the door behind him.

The same guard **–** Frank he said his name was **–** took him to his cell on the second floor of the East wing. He followed, carrying those items that he'd been issued, but wasn't actually wearing. A prison towel, his spare underwear in its cellophane wrapping and a photocopied 'welcome pack'. As they walked along cream and grey corridors and up flights of metal stairs, they passed groups of noisy prisoners who were out of their cells for evening association. Everyone was dressed in the same dark green tracksuit, although identity was preserved by the striking differences in hairstyles – skinheads, dreadlocks, plaits, braids, pony-tails. Also by the variety of footwear – black, brown, white, blue – trainers, sandals, shoes, boots – in fact to contradict Frank's earlier remark, almost every type of footwear. As they passed, inmates would stop what they were doing and watch them. Ben had the sense that he was being weighed up. One heavily built youth, who was surrounded by four or five others, held up a single finger as they passed and then tapped himself on the chest. More worryingly, a group of coloured youths stared at him intently and when Frank had passed, one of them made a throat cutting gesture to the obvious amusement of the others.

The cell, when they got to it, was tiny. Although that didn't worry Ben much. At least he didn't have to share. There was hardly room for the two of them to stand side by side. There was a narrow desk built against one wall, a metal frame bed, a tiny wash basin and a stainless steel toilet. Two tiny bars of soap had been left on the desk, along with a black plastic comb, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush and a small bottle of shampoo. On the bed was a small collection of sweets – a packet of Polos, a packet of Refreshers, two Fudge bars and two cardboard cartons of orange juice. Despite the sweets and toiletries, the cell was depressing. The tiny window at the far end looked like it had never been cleaned, the pillow and duvet on the unmade bed were worn and stained and there was no seat on the toilet.

It was another two hours before the solid, red metal door finally closed behind him and he was left alone. Before that he'd had a first-night interview with another female officer who'd asked him more questions **–** about his tobacco and alcohol consumption, did he have a drug habit? Questions about his family, questions about life at home, his 'sexual orientation' and slipped into the middle somewhere, did he ever 'have feelings of self-harm or suicide'?

He'd been alone with her in what appeared to be her office, although he saw that there was a camera in one corner of the ceiling and she wore an ear-piece throughout their conversation. He did learn one or two pieces of useful information. There was no time for 'lights out' **–** apparently there was a switch in his cell and he could turn the lights off whenever he felt like it. Breakfast was at 7.00 a.m. Lock up was at 9.00 p.m. Between those times, he could expect to be out of his cell for as much as ten hours a day, although in due course he'd be given a timetable of lessons, which he'd be expected to attend. Studying was compulsory for everyone, although apparently he'd be paid 40p for every lesson that he attended. Also, there was no segregation, so in class he could just as easily be sitting next to a murderer as a shoplifter.

It was the following morning that he met Stevie. The cell door was unlocked at six-thirty and a moment later it was pushed open and he came in with Frank, who Ben recognised from the night before. Stevie was a thin, nervous looking youth of about Ben's own age. His greasy hair was almost shoulder length and he had his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his prison-issue green tracksuit.

"Morning," Frank said brightly. "You sleep ok?"

"Yeah, not bad thanks."

Ben had been awake for at least half an hour, listening to the build up of early morning noises outside his cell, however he wasn't dressed. He felt at a distinct disadvantage sitting there in the narrow bed, dressed only in a pair of prison-issue underpants.

Frank was indifferent to it. He picked up the green tracksuit that Ben had left folded on the desk the night before and tossed it to him.

"Better get a move on. There's plenty to do. This is Stevie, he'll show you around for the first few days."

Stevie nodded, looking curiously around Ben's cell.

"That ok with you?" Frank asked.

"Yeah. Thanks," Ben agreed.

"Ok?" he asked again, turning to Stevie.

Stevie took his hands out of his pockets for the first time and Ben noticed the dark bruising around his left wrist.

"Yeah, we'll be fine," Stevie confirmed.

"Right, I'll leave you to it then." Frank paused for a moment at the door. "You know where to find me if you need me. He's to see Fulham at eight-thirty. Drop him off there and make sure you pick him up again afterwards."

"Will do," Stevie agreed, and then Frank was gone.

"Who are they playing?" Ben asked.

"Who?"

"Fulham. I can't say that I'm a fan though."

Stevie managed a wry grin. "Yeah, me neither. This one's a him though rather than a them, but I doubt you'll be a fan of this one either."

Ben stuck out a hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you anyway."

Stevie looked at the outstretched hand for a moment, almost as if he was deciding whether it was safe to shake or not. Ben was about to let his hand drop when Stevie grasped it in a surprisingly firm grip. "Yeah. Good to meet you too."

Ben grinned. Well it looked like Stevie might be friendly after all.

"Come on," Stevie said, "you'd better get a move on. I'll wait outside while you get dressed and then I'll show you where the showers are and where to get breakfast."

Despite Stevie's warning that 'if you had any sense, you'd watch out for yourself in the showers', their visit was uneventful. The guard on duty looked totally bored and only gave them a cursory glance on the way in. The fact that he was posted there at all though, did seem to mark it out as a potential trouble spot.

Stevie made a couple of suggestions while Ben washed and then brushed his teeth at the bank of sinks in the middle of the room.

"If there's no guard on, I'd not come in if I were you. And even if there is, it's a lot safer if you're not on your own."

Ben looked around as he brushed his teeth. It didn't seem particularly dangerous. There were half a dozen people there apart from him and Stevie, all doing much the same as he was.

"Buddy up with someone else," Stevie continued, "or better still, come with a group that you know. If you get up a bit earlier, you can come with us if you like."

"Us?" Ben asked, spitting out his toothpaste. He balanced his toothbrush on the side of the sink, cupped his hands under the running water and rinsed.

"Yeah, Gary and me. He's fairly new as well. I'll introduce you when we see him."

Ben finished towelling off and draped the towel over one shoulder. "Thanks. That would be good."

"How come you get to do this anyway?" he asked, as they walked back to Ben's cell.

"Good behaviour I suppose. I've been in here for quite a while now and not got into that much trouble. That qualifies me to do stuff like this. And before you ask why I bother, it gives me brownie points with the screws. They look at that sort of stuff when they come to decide whether you're going to get out early or not. If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't touch it with a barge pole."

"No?"

"No. It's too much hassle."

They got back to Ben's cell and Stevie waited while Ben put his head around the door and threw his towel onto the desk.

"And if you're not careful," he added as Ben reappeared, "you can get a lot of grief from the other inmates."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Stevie glanced over his shoulder as they made their way to breakfast. It was almost as if he expected someone to be following them. The corridor behind them was empty, but he lowered his voice anyway.

"Well, apart from the hard guys, who object to you helping the screws as a matter of principle, there's Bronson and Lemarr.

"Bronson and Lemarr?" Ben laughed. He didn't know why he found it funny. Was it the names, or was it Stevie's hushed tone and serious expression?

The buzz of conversation and the canteen sounds of cutlery on crockery grew as they turned a corner. Stevie nodded in the direction of the queue that had spilt out of the canteen and into the corridor.

"I'll tell you about them later. Better not to discuss it in public. Walls have ears."

Ben grinned. "Really? Well I'm not eating any more of their sausages."

Stevie looked blank.

"What?"

"Walls sausages. They make sausages don't they."

Stevie still looked blank. Ben shook his head.

"It's a joke isn't it. Ok, not a good one I'll grant you, but . . . ."

"Oh, yeah?" Stevie gave him an unimpressed look. "Well, let me know if you've got any proper ones. Come on, what are you having? The cornflakes taste like recycled cardboard and the porridge is usually cold."

As it happened, Ben's path crossed with Bronson's before Stevie had a chance to tell him any more about him or Lemarr.

They were sitting at one of the rectangular wooden tables, which were screwed to the floor and ran the length of the canteen. Ben and Stevie on one side and Gary Thompson, who Stevie had promised to introduce him to, on the other. Gary it turned out, had been in for just over a fortnight and had transferred in from Feltham where he'd been on remand. An inch or two shorter than Ben, he had a ready smile and didn't really look as if he belonged in Cranmore. There was still room for three more people on the two short, plastic benches to either side of the table, one beside Stevie and two on Gary's side.

Stevie was asking Ben about life outside, whilst Gary ate what looked like a very dry piece of toast, when a shadow fell across the table and Ben was aware of someone standing over him. He looked up into the scowling face of an older youth with furrowed brows, a matt of jet-black hair and a five o'clock shadow, despite the early hour.

"Move!" he demanded, turning slightly to look down on Stevie.

Stevie automatically started to get up.

Ben caught his arm to prevent him, said something unintelligible and then managed to finish his mouthful of cereal.

He nodded towards the other side of the table. "There's a couple of seats there if you want, or if you like, we'll budge up."

"Nah. He's sitting in my seat. Come on Stevie, shift!"

He put one hand under Stevie's arm and half lifted him off the bench. Ben caught Stevie's eye, looking for some reaction, but Stevie just shook his head slightly, stood up and stepped backwards over the bench.

"Thanks. Now get lost!" The newcomer put a hand in the small of Stevie's back and steered him firmly, although not too roughly away from the table. He stepped over the bench and sat down beside Ben.

"Oi!" he called after Stevie, who turned back at the summons.

"Take these with you."

He handed Stevie his empty bowl and half finished mug of tea. Stevie just nodded, took them and went to sit at a vacant table further down the canteen. Opposite them, Gary took another bite of dry toast and chewed, trying his best not to look worried or to get involved.

"You too toast features. Push off!"

Gary didn't argue. He just got up and went to join Stevie. As he did, two more youths took his place across the table. One looked like you wouldn't want to mess with him **–** sleeves rolled up above his elbows, revealing a range of self-inflicted, compass-and-biro tattoos, whilst the other was just big, although 'tall and fat' might perhaps have been a better description.

Ben watched the two across the table and continued to eat.

"You're new ain't you?" the leader said.

Ben finished chewing and swallowed before he answered. "Yeah. Arrived yesterday. What do you want?"

"Who says we want anything?"

"No one. Well I'll leave you to it then." He started to get up, but the newcomer put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down."

"Actually, happens that we do want something."

"Yeah? What's that?"

The newcomer held out his hand in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. Ben put his spoon down and shook.

"The name's Mark. Mark Bronson. Although most people just call me Bronson, which is fine by me." He nodded at the two across the table. "Colin, although everyone just calls him Big Col and Johnson." He didn't specify who was who, but Ben could guess. Ben went for the friendly approach and held out a hand across the table. Neither of the other two moved.

"Fine." He withdrew his hand.

"I run things in here," Bronson said, picking up the half slice of toast which Ben had buttered and left on his side-plate. He took a bite out of it and put it back down.

"Thought we'd introduce ourselves. Let you know how things work."

"Yeah?" Ben put his spoon down. "How do they work then?"

Bronson spoke to the tall fat guy across the table. "Tell him Col."

The big guy ticked off points on his fingers. "First, we get half of anything you make in here. Mostly that's the class allowance, although if you earn anything on top of that, there's half of that as well. Second, there's a levy on anything you get sent in. You need to declare it – like customs." He touched the tip of his middle finger. "Third, there's the gambling and the tobacco, and fourth," he paused for a moment, "there's the drugs."

"You do drugs Ben?" Bronson asked.

Ben shook his head. "No. No drugs. And how come you know I'm called Ben?"

The hard looking guy spoke for the first time. "We just know these things. You should keep that in mind if you're thinking of screwing around with us."

"So is this an exclusive offer?" The question wasn't addressed to any of the three in particular.

"What d'you mean?" the fat guy asked.

"I mean, who else is going to suggest the same? You got any competition?"

Bronson laughed. "Don't you worry about the competition. We don't."

Ben smiled for the first time. "So there is competition then. Go on then, finish the sales pitch. What's in it for me? Maybe I ought to go with the other firm?"

Johnson snarled at him. "You don't play ball with us, you'll regret it."

Bronson held up a hand. "No, it's a fair question. He lent forward, elbows on the table, turning at the same time so that his face was inches from Ben's.

"You get insurance," he said in a low menacing voice. "Insurance against unforeseen accidents. Insurance against some of the unpleasant characters that you'll find in here. People who'll know not to mess with you if you're with us."

Ben thought for a moment and then turned away from Bronson.

"No, sorry mate. I don't reckon I'm in the market for insurance."

Ben started to get to his feet, but Bronson clamped a hand on his leg, pushing him back down again.

"I suggest you give it some more thought," Bronson said. He dug his fingers like a claw into the muscle of Ben's upper thigh and twisted, whilst across the table, Johnson made a grab for his wrist. Neither seemed that prepared for his reaction. Ben hooked a leg behind Bronson's, grabbed the front of the bench which they sat on and stood up, taking the bench with him.

Bronson tipped violently backwards, landing on the floor behind him as Johnson lunged across the table, trying to get a fistful of Ben's tracksuit. Ben stepped back to avoid him, scooped up the remains of his breakfast and dumped it on top of the ringleader, who was still lying there on the floor.

The whole canteen had now turned in their direction and the buzz of conversation had grown to a din. Colin the fat guy and the badly tattooed Johnson were halfway around the table, looking like they meant business, but thankfully Ben could also see a couple of guards moving purposefully in their direction.

Johnson had him by the arm before he saw the screws and let go.

"What's going on here?" the guard demanded, backed up by his colleague a moment later.

Ben held up both hands, looking down at the bigger man. "Shit, I'm sorry mate. I forgot that they were benches. I just stood up."

He bent down and offered Bronson a hand. Bronson swore under his breath, pushed his hand away and got to his feet. Warm milk dripped down the front of his tracksuit from an unartistic design picked out in cornflakes across his chest.

"I'm really sorry," Ben said, turning to the two guards. "It was a complete accident."

"You new?" the first guard asked.

"Yeah. First day," Ben confirmed.

"Hmmm." He turned to his colleague. "You see it?"

The other guard shook his head. "Not me." He looked at Bronson, who was now flanked by the other two.

"No one hurt though is there?" There was something about the look that the two exchanged.

"You finished?" the first guard asked Bronson.

"Yeah."

"Fine. You get off and clean up then. Your two friends can help."

The three of them just stood there.

"Come on. You've not got all day. You need to be over in the education block in fifteen minutes."

Bronson muttered something to the other two and then turned on his heel and made his way through the tables towards the door.

"Not you," the second guard said, putting a hand on Ben's chest as he made to follow. "Give them a few minutes. Who are you buddied up with this week anyway?"

Ben pointed to the table where the other two had re-located. "That's him."

"Fine." The guard leaned in and lowered his voice. "I'm not sure how wise that was, dumping your breakfast on him like that. You'd better make sure you watch your back."

"What?" the other guard asked.

"Nothing." The first guard steered Ben towards Gary and Stevie's table and made him sit down beside Gary. "Give it a few minutes before you leave lads."

After they'd gone, Stevie just looked at Ben. "You're bloody nuts you know. Do you realise what you've just done?"
SALUTE THE MAGPIE – PART 2

Classes didn't start until eight-thirty, but the move to the education block started at eight. The classrooms were at the far side of the football pitch which stood between the two house blocks. Stevie, Gary and Ben waited in line to be searched before they were moved across in small groups. Most of the trouble, Stevie said, happened during the mass move of inmates in between meals and classes. As they walked across, Stevie pointed out the guards who stood at intervals around the pitch and the CCTV cameras, which were set high on the red brick walls and were monitored centrally by a team in the control room.

"If there's trouble," Stevie explained, "the control room locks down the house blocks and they send out more screws if they're needed."

"Is there much trouble?" Ben asked.

"Yeah. There's been quite a bit recently. It's mostly drug and gang-related. A lot of it's linked to stuff that's going on outside. Just try and avoid it all. Although I reckon that might be easier said than done, since your run in with Bronson."

Fulham, or Terry as he invited Ben to call him, was a short, balding man in a tweed sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Stevie had shown Ben where his office was and had then gone to his own classes.

"So, tell me about school," Fulham said, leaning across his desk with a friendly smile.

"What about it?" Ben asked. "It was just a normal school I guess."

"Did you leave at sixteen?"

"Yes, I did."

"What about work? Did you have a job to go to?" Fulham's pen hovered over Ben's paperwork, ticking a box here and making a note there.

"No. I couldn't find one. Although it wasn't for the lack of trying."

"Any qualifications?"

"Exams you mean? No. I've got a GCSE in art and one in geography, but I don't reckon they're going to be much use."

"Oh, I don't know," Fulham said jovially, "It's more than a lot of the lads in here."

The conversation went on in similar vein for nearly half an hour before Fulham seemed satisfied and all his forms had something written on them. He looked up from the paperwork and peered at Ben over the top of his glasses.

"Right then young man, what are you going to study while you're with us?" He slid an A4 sheet of paper across the desk.

"Those are the courses that are available. I want you to take that away with you and have a think about which ones would be useful. Since you don't see yourself working in an office, then perhaps some of the practical skills? Painting and decorating? Bricklaying? Machine shop? Or even one of the sports courses?"

Ben nodded. He couldn't remember ever having a choice before. At school it had been a case of this is what you're doing, now get on with it, whether you liked it or not.

"Now this morning," Fulham went on, "I think we'll get you started in Employment Skills. I put most of the new arrivals on that course. I believe they're working on job applications this morning." He got up from his desk. "Come on, I'll show you where it is."

Fulham led him down a corridor and stopped in front of one of the white classroom doors. He looked through the glass porthole, knocked and pushed the door open.

"One more for you Sarah," he said to the woman who stood at the front of the class. "Send him back to me when you're finished."

He turned to Ben. "See how you get on this morning and we'll speak again before lunch and sort your afternoon out. Young Stevie Parker will be back to show you the routine for lunch. I'll see what he's doing this afternoon and we might put you in the same classes for a taster if they're suitable." He smiled. "Good luck."

The door closed behind him and Ben was uncomfortably aware that the room had gone quiet and there were fifteen pairs of eyes staring at him curiously.

The woman who was taking the Employment Skills class had obviously been told to expect him. Mrs Grant was unusually tall and had a stern look about her, but she came over and held out her hand.

"You must be Ben," she said.

Ben nodded and noticed that a quiet buzz of conversation had started. Heads had come together in pairs and information and opinions on the new arrival were being exchanged. He wondered how many of them had seen or heard about the incident at breakfast.

"Ok, ok. Mrs Grant said to the class as a whole. "It's not an excuse to take a break and chat to your neighbour. You're supposed to be reading through the job description that I handed out."

She steered Ben towards a pair of desks where there was a familiar face.

"I think you've met Gary already? I thought the two of you could work together if that's alright with you? Gary, you can explain what we're doing."

"Thanks," Ben said and sat down next to Gary Thompson.

"Ok, another ten minutes," Mrs Grant said to the group, "and then I want to know what sort of skills you think they're looking for."

"You ok?" Gary asked,

Ben nodded. "Yeah, not bad. What are we doing?"

Gary passed over a typewritten sheet. "It's an advert for a council job. We're supposed to be making notes on what they're looking for. Group discussion afterwards to compare notes and then we're going to fill in the application."

"Fine." Ben started to read through the advert.

"So how come you picked a fight with Bronson?" Gary asked.

"I didn't," Ben said, continuing to read.

"Yeah right. That's not what it looked like to me."

Ben looked up from the paper. "It's just a protection racket. It only works if everyone's too scared to stand up to them. Are you paying him then?"

"Yeah, he signed me up last week. It was either him or Lemarr."

"You shouldn't pay either."

"No option," Gary said, "unless you want to find your cell trashed, or run into trouble one morning in the showers. You'll need to watch your back after this morning."

"I guess," Ben agreed, "although Bronson doesn't scare me."

"Maybe not on his own, but it's when there are three or four of them and they catch you on your own that you need to worry."

"A couple more minutes," Mrs Grant said, turning away from the window where she had been watching the game of five-a-side which was going on outside.

"What about Stevie?" Ben asked. "Does he pay?"

Gary grunted. "Huh. Stevie pays both sides."

Ben turned over his sheet of paper and glanced at the last couple of paragraphs on the back.

"How come?"

"He says it's safer that way. A lot of people in here don't like him because he shows the new guys around. Bronson keeps some of them off his back and Lemarr the rest. Stevie reckons it's worth being broke if he's left in peace and has a chance of getting out early."

Ben was aware that Mrs Grant was standing beside them. "So. Have you two finished? How about starting us off. What are your thoughts?"

Ben met Bronson's rival in the protection market as they returned from lunch. Somehow Ben and Gary had bluffed their way through the rest of Mrs Grant's class and after a short meeting with Fulham, Ben had joined up with Stevie and Gary for the obligatory search before they walked back to the main block for lunch.

One of the half dozen warders at the doors patted him down and took a step back. "Ok, empty your pockets."

Ben happily obliged, producing a paper handkerchief, the sheet of paper Fulham had given him and a plastic biro.

The guard held out his hand. "Hand it over, you know you can't take that with you."

Ben looked blank, but Stevie, who had been checked already and was waiting by the door, intervened. "He doesn't know Stan. He's new."

Ben held out all three and Stan took the biro. "Don't worry son. Just the rules. It prevents you lot from stabbing each other with them."

Ben looked dubious, but Stevie confirmed it. "Yeah, it's true. They do get used for that. Stan's right. Come on, we'll end up at the back of the queue."

As he put the paper handkerchief and sheet of paper back in his pocket, the guard put a hand on his arm.

"Son, I know you from somewhere don't I?"

Ben shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"You been in here before?"

"No, this is my first time."

Stan stared at the ground for a moment and then shook his head, unable to make the connection. "It'll come to me."

He started to frisk the next lad in line, but then turned back as Ben was halfway through the door.

"York Hall?" he called after him, a degree of confidence in his voice. "End of last year."

Ben grinned. "Could have been. Were you there?"

Stan gave a thumbs up. "Yes I was. It was a good night that."

"What was that about? Gary asked, as they walked around the edge of the football pitch."

"Just some event I was at," Ben said. He was about to expand, when a youth in dreadlocks and a colourful scarf appeared at his side.

Stevie nudged him with an elbow and just said one word, "Lemarr."

Lemarr nodded amiably and just walked along beside them. Ben looked past him and saw that there were another three lads as well, one with a similar hairstyle, keeping pace with them.

After a few paces in silence, Lemarr turned to him and asked in a slight Jamaican accent, "You got trouble with Mark Bronson, friend?"

"Maybe," Ben conceded, noticing that beyond the three inmates and a few yards back, a guard was following.

"Maybe you could do with some help?" Lemarr suggested. "A friend or two who would be there if you run into trouble?"

Stevie nudged him again with his elbow, caught his attention when he turned and gave a very obvious nod. Beyond him, from his expression, Ben could see that Gary agreed."

"Could be you're right?" Ben conceded. "What would it cost?"

Lemarr laughed. "Nowt man! That Bronson guy, he ain't no good. Me an' the boys, we get a good laugh when we hear that he don't enjoy his breakfast this mornin'."

He held out a hand. "Are we cool?"

"Yeah." Ben took the hand that was offered. Lemarr gave him a normal handshake, reversed the grip and then touched knuckles.

"Tha's good man." He moved to join the other three and called back over his shoulder as they moved away, "O'course you'll need to join up like everyone else. Usual rates though."

Ben looked at Stevie and raised his eyebrows.

"Listen mate, don't knock it. Lemarr on your side is worth the price. Trust me."

Lunch turned out to be a helping of soggy shepherd's pie, overcooked peas and a strawberry yoghurt with no strawberries, which Stevie assured him was one of the highlights of the canteen menu. The three of them were left in peace, which might have had something to do with one of the duty guards, who stationed himself just a few paces from their table. Ben lowered his voice so that the guard didn't hear their conversation.

"I've got a bone to pick with you Stevie."

Stevie licked yoghurt off the back of the foil lid that he'd just removed. "Me? What for mate?"

Ben leaned a little closer. "You're part of it aren't you? You're in with both of them."

"What! What do you mean?"

"Bronson and Lemarr," Ben continued. "You sign us new guys up as we come in."

He'd caught Gary's interest now and he leant over from the other side of the table. "You know, that makes sense in a funny kind of way."

Stevie managed an aggrieved look. "Lads, come on, what sort of a guy do you think I am?"

"The sort who's hoping to get out early for good behaviour?" Ben suggested. "The sort who helps the screws out so it looks good on his record, but at the same time, someone who can't afford to cross either Bronson or Lemarr."

Stevie didn't say anything. Ben picked up his untouched yoghurt and moved it next to his own.

"You want to bet your yoghurt on it?"

Gary laughed and the element of tension that had started to creep into the conversation evaporated.

Stevie sighed, "Actually – you know. You're right."

Across the table, Gary raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"And no I don't want to bet my yoghurt." He reached over and took it back. "And I'm not apologising either. Honest guys, it's definitely, definitely in your best interests. You just can't survive in here on your own. Trust me, it's worth the price just to belong to one side or the other. You heard what Stan said about the biros. It's true. People get stabbed in here. And not just with a biro. Last year some guy got battered to death with a table leg because he was in the wrong gang on the outside. Have you not noticed that the tables are all screwed down? That we get searched every time we turn around? That you can't go to the bathroom without a couple of mates to watch your back?"

"He's got a point," Gary said. "It was the 'no socks' sign that got me."

"What 'no socks' sign?" Ben asked.

"You not seen it?" Stevie asked. "It's on the wall outside the showers. 'No socks allowed' it says. No socks because a bar of soap inside a sports sock turns it into a lethal weapon. Ever seen someone who's been given a good hiding with one of those? I have."

"I still say you should have been straight with us," Ben insisted.

"Yeah, maybe," Stevie conceded, "although what you don't know, you don't worry about."

"Well I'm not bothered," Gary volunteered. "You've done me enough favours since I got here. I say we just forget it."

"Yeah, me too," Stevie agreed, finishing his yoghurt before it could come under threat again.

Ben laughed. "Fine. Let's just forget it. You're probably right. You know a lot more about what goes on in here than we do."

It was another three days before his path crossed with Bronson's gang again. In that time, Ben had started to get used to the daily routine. He'd sorted out his study programme with Fulham and he'd even spoken to Lemarr a few times. To his surprise, he found that he liked the youth with the dreadlocks and the Jamaican accent. True, he had taken half of the attendance money that Ben received on Friday, which he'd requested in the form of a phone card. It seemed there were various forms of currency in here, one of the more convenient being the green credit cards that gave you time on the phone. However, he'd also noticed that he would run into Lemarr or one or two lads from his immediate circle on a fairly regular basis and they would give him a nod in passing or ask, "you alright man?" which seemed to be their standard greeting. It was almost as if they were keeping an eye on him or, as he half suspected, that they were expecting trouble.

Trouble, when it came, was in the form of the big Irish lad who had arrived the same day as Ben. He wasn't expecting trouble from him, which was nearly his downfall. He ran into him as he was walking from his cell to Gary's on Saturday evening. It was 'evening association' and there would normally be groups of noisy inmates talking on the landings or congregated around one or other of their cells. He should have realised that there was something wrong simply by the lack of people on that stretch of corridor. Ben recognised him as Irish walked towards him, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

Ben smiled. "Hi. Didn't we come in on the same van? How are you getting on?"

Ben stopped to talk and so did the Irish lad, or that's what he thought. Instead, Irish produced something from his pocket and held it up between them. It was a blade of some sort and it had been lodged into a ball of melted plastic. Irish let him see it, which was a mistake if he really intended to use it. Ben just turned on his heel and legged it, shouting as he ran. As he turned a corner he just managed to avoid two of Lemarr's guys who were running in the opposite direction, towards the shouting. They all skidded to a stop and as Irish rounded the corner, doing a fair pace for a big man, the larger of the two raised his elbow and caught him full in the face.

Irish went down like he'd been pole-axed and just lay there on his back. The second guy picked up the blade that he'd dropped and pushed open the door of the nearest cell. A moment later there was the sound of a toilet being flushed and he reappeared wiping a wet hand on his trousers.

"Gone?" the first guy asked.

"Yeah," was the relaxed reply. He lent down, offered Irish a hand and helped him to his feet.

"Don't worry man, you just tell Bronson that you did your best and I reckon he'll not hold it against you. Mind, I'd not be trying anything like that again. You'll come off a lot worse next time."

"What's going on?" a voice demanded behind them.

They turned to find one of the screws and a few lads behind him, who were curious to see what was going on.

"He slipped," Lemarr's man explained.

"That right lad?" the guard asked, looking at Irish.

"Yeah. I slipped." He rubbed the angry red mark under his left eye that was going to be a cracking bruise in the morning. "Reckon I'm ok though."

The guard looked searchingly at Irish and then at Ben and the other two. Ben thought there were going to be more questions, but the guard just grunted.

"You'd better get on your way then."

The second incident came on Sunday afternoon, again during open association and it wasn't something that had crossed any of their minds. Ben and Stevie were in Stevie's cell waiting for Gary to turn up, before the three of them went to the prison library.

"Where do you think he's got to?" Stevie asked.

"Don't know," Ben replied. "If we were on the outside we could just give him a ring on his mobile. Come on, we'll go by his cell and pick him up on the way."

Gary's cell was one floor up, at the far end of the block. When they got there Ben knocked out of habit, but there was no reply. He pushed the door open and stuck his head inside, expecting to find the cell empty.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, pushing the door wide and stepping inside. "Get one of the screws."

Most of the floorspace was taken up by the inert body of Gary, lying there with one leg trapped awkwardly beneath him. There was a trickle of blood running down one cheek from a gash somewhere above his hairline.

"Get a screw," Ben demanded again, since Stevie was just standing there.

"Hang on a minute. We don't want to involve them if we can help it."

Ben knelt down and was relieved to find that his friend was breathing regularly. "Don't be an idiot. He'll need to go to the infirmary."

Stevie paused long enough to see the blood for himself and then hurried off.

Ben had a look at the cut on Gary's head. It was still bleeding, but he didn't think it looked deep. He eased Gary's leg out from underneath him and lay him on his side. As he did, the cell door opened again and Terry Fulham stepped inside.

"What's the problem," he said, and then saw for himself.

He was immediately followed by one of the older guards and Stevie, who was looking over the man's shoulder. The older guard took one look at Gary lying unconscious on the floor, then stepped outside and blew a long blast on his whistle. The effect was fairly instantaneous. Two more guards appeared, whilst outside there was an instant clamour and the sound of shouted orders, both close by and from further along the block.

"Back to your cells! Come on. That doesn't mean when you feel like it. IT MEANS NOW!"

"You too Collins," the first guard demanded. "We'll take it from here."

Stevie was still outside and fell in beside him as Ben walked back to his cell.

"Who the hell would want to do that?"

Ben looked at him in surprise. "You don't know? If it's not Bronson himself, then he's behind it."

"Can't be," Stevie said. "Gary's signed up with Bronson. I saw Johnson collect from him on Friday."

Ben stopped outside his cell. "Well if it's not him, I'll be amazed."

"If it is him," Stevie said, "he's stirring up a lot of trouble for himself. It'll not go down well in here if it gets out that someone's paying for protection and he then gets turned over by the very people he's paying off."

"Come on, back to your cells." A guard stopped to move them off the landing.

"I'll see you in a bit," Stevie called, walking backwards as he was ushered away. "This'll only be for a couple of hours."

In fact it was less than ten minutes before Ben heard voices outside his cell, the door was pulled open, and he was taken away by two guards to be questioned in a similar room to the one that he'd been interviewed in when he arrived. The same woman was there. The one who'd told him that he should let them know if he was being threatened or there was any 'bullying' going on. The meeting didn't last long, less than fifteen minutes and then he was escorted back. Stevie's estimate proved to be a bit pessimistic. They were all let out again just over an hour and a half later and Ben found Stevie half way along the landing as he was making his way back to Ben's cell.

"They pull you out?" Stevie asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah, me too. You tell them anything?"

Ben shook his head. "Only that we went to look for him and found him like that."

"Anything about Bronson?"

"Nope." Ben knew well enough that even if they'd seen Bronson do it, he couldn't tell the screws.

"Good."

They both stood by the rail at the edge of the landing and watched people stream out of their cells and back to whatever they'd been doing before the lock down. There was a buzz of conversation and small groups were forming, each pooling information to try and find out what had happened. Someone spotted Stevie and Ben at the rail and shouted up.

"Hey Stevie. You know anything about this?"

Gary re-appeared at breakfast the following morning. He was limping slightly and had a dark bruise high on one side of his forehead. Other than that, he didn't look too bad. He put a bowl of cornflakes down on the table and slid onto the bench beside Ben.

"Morning," he said, and then started to eat his cornflakes as if nothing had happened.

"What?" Ben said. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in the infirmary."

Gary managed a smile. "No, they let me out this morning didn't they. No real damage apparently, although some woman did keep waking me up every hour last night to ask me if I could tell her my name and the date and did I know what time it was."

"Checking for concussion," Stevie said.

"Yeah? Well it was a real pain. I feel like I haven't had any sleep at all."

Ben put a hand out and stopped Gary's spoon half way to his mouth. "Come on then. Tell us the rest. What happened?"

"Someone whacked me didn't they. I thought that would have been obvious."

"Yeah, who?" Stevie asked, leaning across the table.

Gary shook his head. "Don't know. I heard someone coming into my cell. I thought it was one of you two to be honest. Then, as I turned round, they hit me."

Stevie raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't see who it was? Come on Gary, pull the other one."

"Honest Stevie, I haven't a clue. I couldn't tell you whether he was tall, short, thin, fat. It could have been anyone."

"Hmmmm," Stevie said, the note of disbelief evident in his voice. Although he didn't push it.

It was the third incident that brought things to a head. It happened first thing on Tuesday morning as they were making their way over to the education block.

"Hey Collins. How's your accident insurance?"

It was Bronson and fat Colin, this time with five or six others walking a few yards behind them.

"Hurry up," Stevie muttered, quickening his pace and looking to see where the guards were. There wasn't one within thirty yards. Ben and Gary kept pace with him, all three ignoring the comment from behind.

"I hear that you had a close shave last week Collins. It's a pity that they lost the razor."

"Not far," Stevie said, "just ignore him."

"And how's your mate with the limp? I hope he's managed to shake off that headache from the weekend."

They were half way round the football pitch now, although it still seemed that the guards weren't as numerous this morning. Ben stopped and turned round.

"You yellow or what Bronson?"

"Shit! Will you just shut up." Stevie had hold of his arm and was trying to drag him towards the education block.

"What'd you say?" Bronson was just a few feet away, flanked on either side by two or three gang members. Ben, Gary and Stevie faced them, like some uneven showdown in a cheap western.

"You don't do your own dirty work do you?" Ben spat at him. "Not up to it then? Or have you just got no backbone?"

Seconds later Ben was on the floor with Bronson on top of him, or more accurately Bronson and two other guys. They were trying to pin Ben down so they could give him a good hiding, but he was proving surprisingly hard to catch hold of. Four others were preventing Gary or Stevie from pitching in.

Suddenly there was a whistle and another, and then four or five guards were there, more than one of them holding a baton. One of the three on top of Ben rolled off when he realised that the guards were there. The other two had to be pulled off **–** Bronson still trying to do as much damage as he could before they were separated.

"What's going on?" the first of the guards demanded.

Ben got to his feet. There was blood running freely from his nose and there were scratches down one side of his face.

"Ask him," he said, looking at Bronson. "He's too dense to sort things out without violence, but he's got another problem as well. He's a bloody coward. He won't pick a fight on his own, but if it's five or six to one, then those are the sort of odds that Bronson likes."

By this time a small crowd had gathered and they were watching what was going on.

"Is that right?" one of the guards asked. "It certainly looked like three to one."

Ben wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and addressed the crowd as much as the guard, "Yeah it is. Like I said, he's yellow."

Bronson lunged forward, but he was blocked by another of the guards.

"Enough! Both of you. Just cool it! I don't know what's behind this, but you're not sorting it out with gang warfare.

"I know how they can sort it." It was one of the other guards, who was standing further back watching the small crowd of inmates that had now gathered. Ben recognised him. It was Stan, the guard who had been friendly towards him since he'd been searched on that first day and he'd had to hand over the biro.

"Go on?" said the first guard.

"Let them finish it in the gym. In the ring **–** just the two of them."

The first guard shook his head. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea Stan."

"Come on Brian, three rounds, amateur rules, with a proper referee. They can sort it out between them. No one else gets involved and they can get it out of their system. What's the ring there for anyway?"

Brian's eyes searched the crowd until he found who he was looking for – the senior man on duty. His boss was standing there like the others, baton drawn, hoping that the whole group wasn't going to kick off. He just shrugged, giving Brian his tacit agreement to make the decision as he saw fit.

"It's not just that Stan. Look at them. Bronson's got an inch in height and at least a ten pound weight advantage. Is that fair on Collins?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Stan suggested.

Brian looked at Ben. "What do you say Collins? You want to sort this out in the ring?"

Ben looked at Stan and smiled. Gary could have sworn there was some sort of unspoken communication going on between them. "Yeah, I'm up for it."

"Bronson?" Brian asked of the larger man.

"Absolutely," Bronson agreed. "I'll beat the bloody shit out of him."

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowd and towards the back someone shouted, "I'll give you even money Collins doesn't make it through the first round."

Brian's boss stepped forward to take charge. "Ok, you can sort it out in the gym tomorrow afternoon. Now you lot get off to your courses." He pointed at Ben and Bronson with the end of his baton. "Not you two. Bronson, you come with me. Collins, you go back to the block and clean up. Brian, you go with him."

Gary was all for going back as well, but his path was blocked by another of the screws. "Did he say you as well? What are you supposed to be doing this morning?"

"Technical Drawing," Gary reluctantly replied.

"Go on then. Get a move on or you're going to be late."

Gary jogged to catch up with Stevie and the two of them turned to watch Ben walking back to the accommodation block with the guard.
SALUTE THE MAGPIE – PART 3

Just over an hour later, Technical Drawing was followed by another of Mrs Grant's 'Employment Skills' classes and Gary found Ben sitting at their usual table, not looking much the worse for wear. There was no sign of the bloody nose and even the scratches down the side of his face didn't look so bad. Gary pulled out the grey plastic chair beside him and sat down.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. No serious damage. You?"

"Me? Yeah, fine. They didn't want me or Stevie. There were a couple of Bronson's guys on both of us, but they just wanted to keep us off. They were there to get you. Sorry mate!"

Ben shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It's worked out ok."

"Yeah, but what about this thing tomorrow? You don't have to do it you know. We could go to someone higher up. Fulham maybe?"

"Yeah right, and have Bronson and his lot say that it's me who's running scared? They'd be on our backs for ever more."

"But that first screw might be right," Gary protested. "Bronson is bigger than you. What if he does knock you around in there."

They were interrupted by Mrs Grant who had appeared at the front of the class and was calling for quiet.

"Well he might," Ben conceded in a whisper.

Mrs Grant stopped at their desk long enough to drop a handout in front of each of them and continued around the class. As she passed, Ben leant in again to whisper.

"But I bet you he doesn't."

That evening, everyone in the block seemed to be talking about it. When they ate, half the canteen must have stopped at their table at some point, to either wish Ben good luck or to tell him that they thought he was dead meat. Ben seemed to be completely relaxed about it. He thanked anyone who wished him luck and he did his best to avoid a confrontation with those who didn't. It helped that they were apparently under the watchful eyes of the screws. In fact more than one of them stopped to wish Ben good luck as well. For his part, Ben refused to discuss the matter with either Gary or Stevie, simply saying that they'd need to wait until Wednesday afternoon and see what happened.

One thing Gary couldn't help wondering about, was the fact that before tea Ben had sought out Lemarr and the two of them had gone back to Lemarr's cell. Gary knew that Ben was on pretty good terms with the gang leader, but he hadn't thought they were that friendly. Later the same evening, there was something else that was equally strange. Gary passed two of the guards talking to Lemarr in the corridor. Their conversation stopped as Gary walked past and a moment later, when his curiosity got the better of him and he looked back, he could have sworn that one of them passed Lemarr a twenty pound note.

The buzz around the place had increased significantly by the time breakfast came around on Wednesday morning and when they tried to pick Ben up at his cell, he refused to go down with them.

"I've been already," he said.

"What, without us?" Stevie asked.

"Yeah, sorry mate. I went down and got something as soon as they started serving. I wanted to avoid all the talk about this afternoon. Then I had to go and see Stan and his boss."

Stevie shrugged. "Can't say I blame you. What did they want? Is it off?"

Ben sat down on the edge of his bunk. "No why? Did you think it would be?"

"It had crossed my mind," Stevie said. "I thought that someone higher up might have vetoed it by now."

"No. It's still on."

"So when do we get to see it?" Stevie asked.

"I don't know that you do. What group are you in this afternoon?"

Monday and Wednesday afternoons were set aside for sport, with inmates kept in the same groups on Friday afternoons as well, when they got the chance to try such things as map reading, photography, pottery or even, to Ben's surprise, bread making.

"Harper's. We're supposed to be playing five a side."

"Afraid you'll miss it then. Although Gary should get to see it."

"What!" Stevie had obviously taken it for granted that he would be there. "How come?

"They don't want to make a big thing out of it. Me and Gary are both in Wilson's group for gym this afternoon. Bronson's group were supposed to be inside playing basketball. They're going to put both groups in the gym instead and run a boxing session. The idea is that anyone can give it a go, not just me and Bronson, although it looks like we're up first."

"Great!" Stevie said, "that means the majority of us won't see it."

"Fraid so," Ben agreed, "Although I can understand why."

"What about the ref and all that?" Gary asked.

"That's taken care of. Stan says a couple of them could easily referee it, but apparently one of the guards on the other block does it in his spare time. They're going to get him to referee and he'll score it as well."

"That's rubbish." Stevie said.

"No, I don't think so. I reckon he'll be fine."

"No, not the ref. I meant that we won't get to see it."

Ben laughed. "You'll just have to wait until tonight won't you. We'll tell you about it then."

Stevie frowned and muttered something to himself. He didn't look happy.

He didn't look happy at lunch either. Gary was sitting with two other lads, who were also in Wilson's gym group, when Stevie came over and put his plastic tray down beside Gary's.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"Don't know," Gary replied. "He wasn't in his cell. You weren't in yours either, I thought he was with you."

"He probably wants a bit of peace and quiet before the main event," offered one of the others.

"Yeah, or maybe he's getting ready," his friend said. "You know, taping his hands, warming up with some skipping, doing a bit of shadow boxing." He did an exaggerated mime of someone bobbing and weaving and blocking punches and the two of them laughed.

Stevie leaned towards Gary so the others didn't hear. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Gary asked.

"There's something funny going on isn't there. Last night Bronson was odds on and you could get three to one on Ben. This morning Lemarr's only offering even money on him."

Gary shrugged. "If there is, I don't know about it."

Stevie looked thoughtful. "Hmmm. There's definitely something funny going on."

The comments that had been made in the canteen were actually not far from the truth. Gary didn't see Ben until after he'd got changed and made his way to the gym with the rest of the class. Ben was already in there and changed, although for some reason he hadn't put his gym shoes on, but was still wearing his boots.

"We missed you at lunch," Gary said. "How long have you been here?"

"Not long," Ben said. "I wanted to get loosened up before it kicks off."

"You eaten?"

"No, I skipped lunch. I'll get something later."

Gary noticed for the first time that Ben's knuckles had been wrapped and taped.

"Hey, that's taking things a bit seriously isn't it? How did you manage that?"

Ben held a hand up. "Yeah, it's a decent job isn't it. Stan did it. He's doing Bronson at the moment." He caught Gary by the elbow and steered him towards the ring. "Come over here for a minute will you, I want to ask a favour."

"Sure. What?"

"I want you in my corner."

Gary started to protest. "I don't know Ben. I wouldn't have a clue what I'm expected to do. What about Stan? I reckon he'd do it for you. You and him are quite friendly."

"No. It can't be one of the guards. They need to be impartial. Anyway, I don't want one of them, I want you. There's nothing to it, honest. If my mouthguard comes out you need to stick it back in again. If the laces on my gloves come adrift you need to tie them, that sort of stuff. Oh, and between rounds give me a drink of water and if I'm losing, give me a bit of the Winston Churchills."

"The what?"

"The Winston Churchills. You know – 'We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them on the landing grounds, we shall never surrender'."

Gary laughed. "Go on then, count me in. But you're bloody mental you know."

By this time, the gym had filled up. As well as Wilson's normal group and Bronson's class, there were a lot of guards – far more than Gary had expected.

"They're not all here to keep us in order," he said. "Look, those three are not even on duty. They're in their civvies."

Ben braced himself against the edge of the ring, planted a foot and stretched his calf muscle. "They want to see what happens don't they. It's not like the inmates. Any of the guards can come, as long as they're not on duty somewhere else."

He was interrupted by a whistle blown from just inside the door of the gym. All eyes turned in that direction and Alan Wilson waved a hand in the air.

"Ok. We're going to get started. My group at this end of the gym and Mr Howard's at the far end. If you want to box then we'll pair you up at random with someone who's the same size. If you don't want to box then that's fine, it's entirely your call. Those who'd prefer not to box can watch, or you can work out as normal."

A buzz of conversation had broken out. A mix of anticipation and in many cases, nerves as to whether they should participate or not. Should they put their name down? If they didn't, what would it do to their status in the eyes of the others? Alan Wilson blew his whistle again for quiet.

"My group line up on me if you want to box. The same at the far end. Mr Howard will take names from his group."

People started to line up. Only a few at first. It looked for a moment that the majority would pass, but then the lines started to grow as, one by one, individuals were persuaded by peer pressure to give it a go. While that was going on, Stan came over with a pair of gloves.

"Have you got someone for your corner?" he asked.

"Yes. Gary's going to do it."

Stan nodded and handed the gloves to Gary.

"Who's Bronson got?" Ben asked.

"He's got that big lad with the tattoos. Bradley Johnson." He looked at Gary who was just holding the gloves. "Don't be too long with those, we're starting in a couple of minutes." He offered Ben his hand and the two shook. "Good luck."

As Stan walked back to join his colleagues, Ben stuck out his left hand. "Come on then, you'll need to help me with those."

Gary loosened the laces, held the glove up and Ben slipped it on. A couple of minutes later he was ready and the two of them waited at the side of the ring. The ring wasn't raised, it was just a few inches above the gym floor. It was a big ring, which looked as if it had seen a fair amount of use in the past, although the canvas was new.

Ben hadn't seen Bronson until then. He caught sight of him as he made his way towards the ring with Johnson. Howard's basketball group gave him a cheer and a round of applause, although Ben noticed that some of the clapping was far from enthusiastic. Both of them scowled at Ben and Gary as they reached the far side. There were no seats in the gym and so everyone was standing. There must have been fifty or sixty people and only two thirds of them were inmates. The guards for the most part, had claimed the area nearest the ring, although a few were standing further back where they could keep an eye on things. Gary noticed that there was a small knot of Bronson's gang on the far side and a similar group of Lemarr's people on their side. There was no sign of Lemarr himself. He must have been in a different group and like Stevie, would have to hear about things second hand.

A tall thin guard ducked under the ropes and stepped into the ring. There were two stools – one at each corner and he pulled one out and climbed on top of it.

"Ok gentlemen, we're starting with a match between Mark Bronson and Ben Collins." A small cheer went up at Bronson's name and surprisingly, a noticeably louder cheer at Ben's.

"It will be three, three-minute rounds with a one minute break between rounds. I'll have order from everyone else while the bout is in progress, otherwise I'll ask the guards to remove people from the gym." He turned to Bronson and his corner man.

"Mr Bronson, are you ready?"

Bronson nodded and he and Johnson ducked under the ropes into one corner.

"Mr Collins?"

Ben nodded also and Gary followed him through the ropes into their corner.

The tall guard, who was evidently to be the referee, addressed the crowd again. He pointed towards a guard who stood at one of the neutral corners. "I'm afraid we haven't got a bell. Your timekeeper will call 'seconds out' and will also call 'ten seconds' before the end of each round and he will blow his whistle in place of the bell." He climbed off the stool and passed it to a guard over the top of the ropes. Stan appeared through the crowd holding a pair of head guards. He came to Ben first and offered him one of them. Ben shook his head.

"No, I'll do without thanks."

Gary leaned towards him. "Is that wise?"

Ben just grinned.

Stan walked round to the other side of the ring and offered a head guard to Bronson. Bronson looked at it like he wanted to take it, but with everyone's eyes on him, it was impossible not to follow Ben's example. He paused for a moment and then shook his head.

The referee took up a position in the centre of the ring and invited both Bronson and Ben in from the corners. He looked seriously at both of them.

"I want a clean contest. No butting, no holding and no leaning on. When I say break, I want you to break and when I say stop, I want you to stop. Is that clear?"

Both Ben and Bronson nodded and then they were back in their corners.

Ben grinned at Gary. Gary grinned back, but Ben shook his head. "Gumshield dummy."

"Oh, sorry." Gary pushed the gumshield into Ben's mouth. Ben chewed at it, working his lips around it and then banged his gloves together in a way that made Gary think he'd done that more than once before.

Ben nodded towards the outside of the ropes and Gary ducked out and stood by the stool.

"Seconds out!" shouted the guard at the neutral corner.

Johnson gave his man a pat on the shoulder and climbed out also. A moment later the guard gave a loud blast on his whistle and the referee invited them into the centre with the command, "Box!"

Ben started from a southpaw stance with a high guard just to be on the safe side. He didn't know if Bronson had been in the ring before, or whether he was any good. Bronson circled, at least looking the part, hands up but on flat feet. Ben's first thought was that he was going to take it cautiously, but then he rushed in, throwing punches. Ben wouldn't exactly call them combinations, although there was some purpose to them. Ben caught the initial flurry on his gloves and stepped back to avoid a wild left hook. Well that answered the first question. Bronson at least knew the basics.

Ben stayed over his back foot and circled away. Bronson, encouraged by his first attack, pressed forward, trying to land a big hook or two. Ben let them fall short and flicked out his right in a half hearted jab, which wasn't meant to land, only to let the referee more than Bronson, know that he was engaging.

"Come on Mark!" Johnson shouted from the opposite corner. "He's on the run."

Bronson glanced in the other's direction and Ben was tempted to deck him there and then. Instead, he contented himself with tapping him lightly on the chin with a left, to prove to himself that the shot was there. Bronson came back with a right cross, which was well short as Ben bounced back to his back foot.

"Take it to him!" Johnson called again from the other corner. "He's got nothing behind his punches."

"Come on Collins!" someone anonymous shouted from the other side of the ring and a few others joined in. "Yeah, come on Collins, you can do it!"

Ben was on his toes now, guard high, still sitting back and circling out of reach. Ok, that's enough he thought. Time to stop checking out his heavier opponent and give him a taste of his own medicine for a change. Bronson rushed in again, looking to land a right this time. Ben switched to orthodox and met him with a straight left, which snapped his head back. Surprised, Bronson's left came down and Ben took the opportunity to whip a right into the side of his head that knocked Bronson sideways. Ben stepped out of reach and circled right. He could see the look of fury in Bronson's eyes as he recovered his balance. He thought it was just a lucky shot. Ben let his guard drop, his hands held low, just above waist level. Bronson took the bait and leant in, weight well over his front foot. Ben lay back, letting his opponent's shot travel past and then he threw a combination – a straight left, which caught Bronson flush, followed by a right to his ribs, followed by a hook on the way out.

Bronson stepped back, well out of range **–** the first indication that he might be re-assessing the situation. Ben pressed forward, up on his toes, hands high, still bobbing and weaving as he closed the gap, and as Bronson retreated, he steered him backwards into a neutral corner. Bronson threw a jab to try and keep him off and then another. Ben caught the first on his gloves and ducked around the second, whipping a right into Bronson's ribs. Ben could feel the power in it. It was just like hitting the heavy bag in the gym. Bronson charged forward again, trying to escape the corner, throwing punches as he came. Ben just danced out of his way and circled left.

The crowd on Ben's side of the ring had come to life now and he could hear the whoops and shouts of encouragement behind him.

Bronson was still coming, trying to get in close now, rather than let Ben throw shots from long range. Ben, back against the ropes, covered up as Bronson let loose a hail of punches. He tried to slip left but Bronson grabbed him, holding on with his right while he tried to hit him with his left. Ben tried to go right, but Bronson grabbed him on that side as well and started laying on, using his weight to keep Ben where he was, whilst he fired body shots in from left and right. Ben caught most on his arms, but then Bronson started using his head as well.

The referee intervened for the first time. "Break! Step back."

Bronson reluctantly took a single step backwards and waited for the command to box. The referee, not happy with the gap, put a hand on his chest and pushed him back another couple of paces before waving his hand between them and giving the command.

"Box!"

It was as Bronson snarled at the tall man, that a straight left smashed into his face and split his lip open. He fell back involuntarily and Ben hammered another right into his ribs just below the elbow. The wind came out of Bronson with a rush and Ben followed it up with a left-right combination and yet another hook to the ribs. Bronson's hands came down to protect his body and Ben whipped a left round, taking advantage of the opportunity and tagged him, full force to the side of his head. Bronson staggered backwards against the ropes.

"Ten seconds!" shouted the guard in the neutral corner.

Ben closed up and feinted with a jab and then a straight right. Bronson's arms jerked up and then down again trying to protect his ribs, making him look like an uncoordinated marionette. Ben was about to dig him in the ribs again when the guard blew his whistle and shouted, "Time!"

By this time, half the gym was standing there in stunned silence and the other half were cheering wildly and applauding. Ben made his way back to his corner and sat on the stool. He grinned at Gary and this time Gary was smart enough to take the mouthguard.

Gary was wound up with the excitement of it. "Shit Ben, you've done this before haven't you?"

"A bit," Ben agreed, and leant back against the padding behind him. "Give us a drink mate."

Gary picked up the water bottle and helped his friend to a drink.

"You've done this a lot haven't you?"

Ben laughed. "Yeah, you wouldn't believe how much."

"And me and Stevie were bloody worried about you."

Ben had the grace to look a little sheepish. "Sorry mate. Come on – mouthguard."

Gary put the mouthguard back in and Ben chewed on it like it was a familiar friend.

"Seconds out!" shouted the guard from the neutral corner.

Ben stood up and Gary stepped out of the ring, taking the stool with him. A moment later there was a blast on the whistle and the referee motioned Ben and Bronson back to the centre.

For a moment, Ben thought that Bronson wasn't going to come out, but then he stepped forward, guard raised.

The referee held his hand between them for a moment before shouting, "Box!" and stepping out of the way.

Bronson came forward more cautiously this time, gloves up, elbows tucked in, half crouched behind a reasonable guard. Ben tried a couple of punches and Bronson caught both of them on arms and gloves. Encouraged by the result, he marched forward still tucked up behind his guard and tried to close down the distance, before throwing a hook with power behind it. Ben saw the hook a mile off, took half a step back and when Bronson fell short, he whipped another right into his ribs before he could recover his stance.

That was it. The point when Bronson switched from coming forward to retreating. Ben followed him, feet moving in line like a fencer and he drove a straight left through the middle of Bronson's guard. Blood immediately started to trickle from Bronson's nose and he just stood there looking stunned. The ref immediately stepped in and pointed Ben towards a neutral corner as he started to count.

"One! . . . Two! . . . Three! . . ." Each number was marked with the same number of fingers held up in front of Bronson's face. "Six! . . . Seven! . . . Eight! . . ."

The ref peered intently at Bronson, as he silently asked the question. Half the hall was cheering and buzzing, the other half were yelling for Bronson to pull it together. Bronson didn't look happy, but he wasn't dazed. He nodded slightly at the ref, who stepped away and shouted, "Box!"

Ben moved forward and this time Bronson retreated. Normally a boxer worked the body to bring his opponents hands down and leave him open for a head shot. That wasn't Ben's intention. He tagged Bronson on the nose again with a straight left, but not so hard this time. Bronson's hands went up and Ben hit him with two right hooks in quick succession to the ribs. He'd picked the spot carefully and he was going to keep going for it until it had the desired effect.

In fact it didn't take long. Ben didn't even need the whole of round two. Bronson retreated to the ropes, Ben feinted with a left and as the arms came up again to protect Bronson's face, Ben swayed back, pivoted on his right foot and drove his right fist into the same spot in his ribs once more. Bronson's face screwed up with the pain of it and one leg gave way. He dropped to a knee and held his side. The referee stepped in front of him and started to count again, "One! . . . Two! . . . Three! . . ."

"Come on, get up you idiot!" It was Johnson, shouting from his corner. "He hardly touched you."

The cry was taken up from that side of the ring, not least by those who had money riding on Bronson to win the match.

"Get up! Yeah, get the hell up!"

Bronson waited until seven and then heaved himself to his feet. He raised his gloves and Ben could see him wince as he lifted his left arm. Now was the time. No mercy. It was a boxing match and he didn't think for a second that Bronson would show any mercy if it was the other way round. Ben closed the gap easily now, rained a few blows onto Bronson's gloves, feinted to the head, and then hit him in the ribs again with as much strength as he could muster.

The air came out of Bronson with a rush and Ben could see the colour drain from his face. He dropped to one knee again and then down into a sitting position, clutching his side.

The crowd on Ben's side of the ring was going wild now. The other side was a mixture of stunned silence and inmates booing and howling for Bronson to get up. It was evident though, that there was no way he was going to. The referee was standing over him, calling out the count and waving a fistful of fingers in his face. "Eight! . . . Nine! . . . Ten! . . ." He crossed his arms, and then spread them wide, palms down. "You're out!" He reached for Ben's wrist and raised his arm.

"Your winner gentlemen. By a stoppage in round two. Mr Collins."

If it was possible, Ben's side of the ring became even louder. People pressed in around them as Ben climbed out of the ring and stood beside Gary. Behind them, Johnson had walked away in disgust and a couple of the guards had stepped into the ring to help Bronson.

Stan and another guard were just a few paces behind Gary and, like the rest of the crowd, were applauding. Stan pushed forward and put a friendly hand on Ben's shoulder as Gary tried to pull his gloves off.

"Well done son. I knew that you'd sort him out in there."

Gary managed to get the second glove off and Ben grasped the guard's hand. "Thanks Stan. I really appreciate you suggesting that."

Stan took the gloves from Gary. "Well I doubt you'll be having a problem with him after this. Why don't the two of you go and get changed. I reckon you deserve a rest after that."

"Thanks," Ben agreed, "I reckon we will."

As the two made their way back to the changing rooms, the spectators were still clapping, many stopping to pat Ben on the back as he passed, or to shake his hand. Frank, the guard who Ben had first met on the night that he'd arrived, was standing beside the door to the changing rooms. He stuck out a hand.

"Well done Collins. That was some display."

Ben shook his hand. "Thanks."

He took a few more paces and then, remembering something, Ben turned back with a grin on his face.

"By the way, I told you they weren't baseball boots didn't I."

It took another five or ten minutes before the gym had calmed down enough for Wilson and Howard to start organising the next bouts. Wilson stood on one of the stools and consulted his sheet of paper.

"Ok, Clements and Donoghue. You're up. We're doing three one-minute rounds for everyone else. That will let us get through more bouts. There will be someone who knows what they're doing in your corner and we'll try and give you some pointers in between rounds."

Brian, who had been on duty when there had been trouble between Ben and Bronson, tapped Stan on the shoulder as he passed.

"You knew he could do that didn't you Stan?"

Stan nodded. "Sure did."

"How come?"

Stan handed the gloves and the headgear that he was carrying to the guard in Clements' corner and turned back to his colleague.

"When I first met him, I knew I'd seen his face somewhere. Then it came to me. I saw him box last year in the regional finals at York Hall. He got eliminated on a split decision in favour of a local lad, but if you ask me he was robbed. You should have seen him Brian, he was one of the best there."

That evening, Ben was lying on his bunk when there was a knock and Stevie's head appeared at the door.

"Ok if we come in?"

"Sure." Ben swung his legs over the side and sat up. Stevie came in and perched on the edge of the desk, feet resting on the red plastic chair. Gary dropped onto the other end of Ben's bunk.

"It's true," Stevie said.

"What is?" Ben asked.

"What you said about Lemarr. He's lowered his prices. Twenty five percent instead of fifty."

"And?"

"And Bronson's lot are queuing up," Gary finished for him.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah," Stevie said. "You were right about us as well. Lemarr says that me and Gary don't have to pay. How did you swing that?"

"Part of the deal, wasn't it," Ben said. "I wonder how much he took in bets in the end?"

"Shit!" Gary exclaimed. "That explains it. Even the screws were putting money on you. I saw two of them with Lemarr the other night."

"No way!" Stevie protested.

"Yeah!" Gary insisted, "One of them was giving him a twenty."

Ben looked smug. "No you're wrong. That wasn't the screws betting. That was a couple of them funding Lemarr's guys so that they could bet with Bronson."

"Get away!" Stevie laughed.

"Yeah, but don't either of you breathe a word about it. The screws have had enough of Bronson as well. It wasn't my doing. A couple of them cooked that part up on their own."

"So Bronson's been wiped out financially as well as physically then," Gary said.

Ben nodded. "Guess so."

Gary lay back and stretched his feet out, resting them on the chair beside Stevie's. "So no more trouble from Bronson."

Stevie put a hand down and tapped the side of the desk. "I'd touch wood when you say that if I were you."

Salute the Magpie – the novel

It was supposed to be an easy job. A penthouse flat in an empty building. Ten minutes work to get in and get out, then away into the night with some easy money, a piece of jewellery or whatever else Ben could lay his hands on. However, what neither Ben Collins nor Gary Thompson expected were the class A drugs, the half naked girl lying unconscious on the bed, both of them falling foul of one of the most dangerous men in London, or the involvement of 'The Vicar'.

Available online in both ebook and paperback format.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Thank you for taking the time to read 'Jump Start', I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, could I ask you to consider leaving a review of the book on the site that you obtained it from?

Reviews can be an extremely valuable source of feedback. They help an author to refine his work and also, where a book has a number of reviews, it can help to promote the book to a wider audience.

If you do choose to leave a review – thank you, it is very much appreciated.

Regards.

Jack.
ALSO BY JACK FISKE

Underdogs

For Jim Turner, an ex MI5 agent on top of the IRA's most wanted list, life was about to get very complicated.

At the heart of the matter are Mohammed Musa, a reputable Middle-Eastern businessman and Colin Walker, a ruthless London crime boss. Why do they threaten the political stability of Northern Ireland and why do the IRA and apparently MI5 want them both dead?

Salute the Magpie

It was supposed to be an easy job. A penthouse flat in an empty building. Ten minutes work to get in and get out, then away into the night with some easy money, a piece of jewellery or whatever else Ben could lay his hands on. However, what neither Ben Collins nor Gary Thompson expected were the class A drugs, the half naked girl lying unconscious on the bed, both of them falling foul of one of the most dangerous men in London, or the involvement of 'The Vicar'.

A Goose for Christmas

For Semmin, it was serious. Half a dozen birds lost to the weather and now a challenge to his leadership that he couldn't ignore.

For Padge, it was considerably worse. Injured at the height of the storm, separated from his mate, and now unable to fly for more than a few hundred yards. Had Junor survived? How badly was she hurt and where would she go? Can he find her while there's still time and if so, what hope do they have of rejoining the flock and completing their winter migration?

All are available online in both ebook and paperback format.

