 
Jacqueline

&

Other Stories

Copywrite 2018 Sandra Maggs

Published by Sandra Maggs at Smashwords

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Stories

Introduction

Jacqueline

The Cemetery Plot

The Pastures of Jordan

The Violin

Underneath the Radar

Arthur Tide

Splendid?

Whisper

The Hanged Man

Ursula Flynne's Terrible Sin

When the Water Runs Blue

Roses Forever

About the Author

Contact

Other Books by Sandra Maggs

Introduction

Within these pages you may find a story that may satisfy your appetite. When I first put the collection together, I didn't have a particular genre in mind, so it's a mishmash of sorts. I love fantasy so it's quite possible there are some stories in here that border on the realm of make believe, and others that you might find yourself believing.

From a dark place to a ridiculous hunt for the illusive beaverick, there's sure to be something that will curb your curiosity. Perhaps you seek eternal youth, or you're wondering how to keep a lover faithful. There may be those of you who just want to immerse yourself in the unreal and others who are seeking some sort of advice. Whatever the quest, the answer may lie within.

Along the way you'll encounter many characters. Some have secrets to share with you and some have secrets they don't want to share. But beware dear reader. I have a warning for you. Whatever you do, and this is very important, don't eat any of Ursula's biscuits!

Happy reading,

Sandra Maggs

Jacqueline

In life, there is opportunity to love, but with love comes responsibilities. Jacqueline Leville had the perfect life. In love with her husband Frederick, a reputable medical practitioner, she would do anything to maintain her perfect life, but in the autumn of 1888, their marriage ran into problems.

West London was bathed in an opulent, charismatic dusk as summer was coming to an end. The wealthy streets were far less crowded. People hurried a little more, eager to get home as the evenings began to cool and the season turned the leaves from green to brown, which fell in the traditional manner to carpet the drab sidewalks. Street sweepers continuously removed the debris from the pedestrian paths. It was the right of the rich.

Jacqueline patronized the windows of their drawing room and studied each of the carriages that passed along the avenue, eager for one to stop and deliver her husband home from his practice. As each clip-clop of horses' hooves reached her ears, she peered into the street looking up from her delicate needlework. A floral sampler lay in her lap, the fine stitches lined up perfectly like soldiers with their arms crossed in the front. It was the ideal craft to fill in the long boring afternoons which were becoming frequent with time.

Frederick had been working late at the practice rooms in Harley Street more often and Jacqueline was left to fill the evenings with her own activities. When a partnership was offered to the young doctor, it was certainly a dream come true for the couple. Opportunities like this one didn't come along very often, so he wisely accepted. Sadly, Jacqueline hadn't realised the hours would stretch so late into the evening and she was beginning to regret her husband's decision. Lonely hours were tedious. A child could fill the void, there was plenty of room in their spacious home, but working long days was taking its toll on Frederick and he was far too tired to join in the amorous activities they normally enjoyed.

Jacqueline's sister Connie had not yet married and provided some company, but the single woman's social life thrived. The younger sister's bubbling spirit ensured her popularity, and evenings at soirees with handsome bachelors were regularly on offer. Many afternoons were spent shopping for fancy clothing to wear out to her numerous social events, and sipping tea with friends who liked to gossip about the goings on in the social scene they frequented. During a rare afternoon visit, Connie served up a slice of gossip to Jacqueline that seemed unlikely, but still quite possible.

On that very evening one week prior, Connie had attended a party. When she left the event, the carriage that had delivered her safely home from the evening's entertainment had travelled through Whitechapel and Connie had spotted a man who resembled Frederick Leville cavorting with some women of ill repute outside a public house. At first, Connie wasn't sure whether she should tell her sister, but Jacqueline had noticed a difference in her and forced the information from the girl. The truth was revealed and after extracting every tiny crumb from Connie, she started to wonder if this were the reason her husband was out so late.

"Are you certain it was him?" Frederick, the man she had promised to obey, the man she had given herself to, was he fraternising with the lowest of the low? It didn't seem quite right. "He told me he was working."

"Well, I'm almost certain it was Frederick, but it was late, and I did drink a lot of champagne. The party was fabulous," Connie told her.

Jacqueline listened as her sister revealed the festive gossip from the night. But she didn't care about Lord Whatshisname or Lady Thingamabob, it was the news about her husband she was interested in.

When left alone, her thoughts turned to Frederick. Surely, a well-respected Harley Street doctor wouldn't be seen in a cesspool such as that. Clearly, her sister had been mistaken. But if he had been there, then why? A thousand reasons swirled through her head like a whirlwind, but not one of them feasible. If Frederick were questioned, would he deny it? There was only one way to find out for sure, she would have to visit the scene and investigate for herself. Arranging a carriage, the journey began, the journey towards the truth. Jacqueline needed to gather the information herself. If her husband had been there once, then he might return. Perhaps she could find the women he had been talking to and question them about the incident her sister had witnessed. The thought made her shudder. The East London area wasn't nearly as attractive as West London and thinking she may have to leave the carriage and speak to people put her on edge. Society's doomed wandered the streets looking for the faintest hope of a better future. Drabness and the smell of cooked offal drifted into the carriage and almost made her heave. A faint spike of courage jolted inside her and she remembered why she was taking the trip to begin with.

As the carriage approached the public house on the road Connie had described, she looked for a group of women who might be able to help her. When she spotted the women, her heart sank. Jaqueline saw him. Her beloved husband laughed with the rats that nosed around in the filthy east end of the majestic city. The offensive women of the night. She watched as he walked off with one of them, arm in arm. How could he do that her? Seething with anger, Jaqueline returned to her home. Confronting him in public would only embarrass them both and it might mean the end of her marriage. A more discrete conversation was necessary on this occasion.

Heartbroken, as the evening drew to a closed, Jacqueline once again retired alone. Unable to sleep, she waited for him thinking about what she had seen and decided there was only one definite solution to the problem that had developed.

Frederick kept several medical journals at home and as she read until she could no longer concentrate, she assembled the information that would help return him to their bed and hopefully keep him there. All sorts of instruments were listed, and she found recipes to brew remedies and potions that would quickly place their drinker into a deep sleep. Jaqueline had always been a quick study and as she read the medical text, the scheme evolved.

Fredrick slipped into bed in the early hours of the morning, she could smell the lewdness of Whitechapel. The cheap drink and stale cigar smoke had accompanied him home. Jacqueline lay quietly, mapping the plan in her mind, the plan that would stop her husband from straying. Her love for him far outweighed anything else and although he had been unfaithful, she was willing to forgive him. But for now, the knowledge of the situation would remain unsaid and Jacqueline would take matters into her own hands.

Throughout the day she worked away at her strategy and when evening approached, and Frederick arrived home at the expected hour, she prepared a nightcap for her husband with warm brandy and a few drops of a special concoction she had read of in one of his many medical textbooks. Her feelings towards him grew into despair and Jacqueline felt the heartache inside. It bubbled and boiled away and she found it difficult to contain her feelings. But nothing would take her love away. As Frederick slept, Jacqueline slipped out into the evening to clear her head.

Sluggishness appeared to render Frederick unworthy for work when morning arrived. He conceded it must be a cold of some sort which had confined him to his bed. Jacqueline doted on her husband persuading him to stay warm and comfortable and waited on him to help him regain his strength, knowing fully well she was responsible for his false ailment. When he felt as though he was over the imaginary illness, he returned to his practice. Jacqueline waited up for him, but he did not appear for dinner and as the clock ticked on and struck midnight, she went to bed alone.

Once again it was apparent the use of the sleeping draught was needed. After the evening meal on the following day, Jacqueline slipped it into her husband's nightcap and after drinking the tonic, stumbling into bed, he plunged into a deep sleep. Night turned to day and Frederick slept well into the morning, a result of the strong drug he had taken without consent.

"Frederick, it's almost noon. Are you going to wake up at all today?" Jacqueline nudged her husband gently.

Opening his eyes, he gazed at the pretty face of his young wife. His head was heavy and his mind a blur as if he'd had too much to drink the night before. Lethargy invaded his body weighing him down. Perhaps he had returned to work too early.

"Maybe you're unwell again. Go back to sleep. I've given the cook the afternoon off, I'll make you some sort of meal. I'm sure it will help with your recovery."

Jacqueline prepared the stew. An onion, two carrots, and the special cut of meat she had procured the evening before, a different blend of ingredients for her one true love. "Darling, I've made you some supper all by myself," Jacqueline announced as she lay the tray on the cabinet beside the bed. "Now sit up and I'll feed you. You're very ill."

Frederick struggled to a sitting position with the help of his devoted wife. With his pillows fluffed and strategically positioned, she picked up the tray and placed it on his lap. Lifting the silver cloche, she unfolded the napkin and tucked it into the front of his nightshirt. Jacqueline smiled as she stirred the bowl of thick meaty stew with a spoon and commenced feeding her weakened husband.

"Interesting flavour," he said after swallowing a few bites. "What meat is this?"

"I don't recall. Why one would bother I don't know. I just wanted to cook something nice for you, considering you're so unwell," Jacqueline said, as she spooned some more of the stew into her husband's mouth like a mother feeding her child.

"Is it from our usual butcher?" he asked her, wiping some of the gravy from the corner of his mouth. "It's rather unusual."

"No, I was recommended another place. But what does it matter Frederick? I made it myself to help you feel better."

Mopping up the gravy with bread that had been baked in their own kitchen that morning, Frederick finished the meal. He drank some tea and she kissed him lightly on the cheek before tucking him in and removing the tray from the bedroom. Frederick once again fell into a deep sleep and while he slept, Jacqueline carried on with her plan.

London buzzed across the entirety of the city. A story covered in the newspapers sparked a fearful interest and a feeling of uneasiness stretched throughout the community. Women had been murdered in the east end and the culprit, Jack the Ripper, was described as the murderer with a sinister expression in his eyes. Whispers on the street mentioned he had the look of the devil. Jacqueline knew if that were the truth and if somebody had seen this assassin, the police would have made an arrest by now. But nobody could provide them with a definite description and the killer remained at large.

Continuing to sabotage her husband's evenings, each time she drugged Frederick, Jacqueline added a little more of the draught, knocking him out for longer and sending him into a deeper sleep than the dose before. The love which matured in her heart made her determined to keep him by her side and every time a murder hit the paper, she sat by him and read the article aloud, hoping it would deter him from visiting the east end in the future.

As the weeks progressed the charade came to an end. Frederick sat up in an armchair by the window one afternoon reading the paper. He was feeling more like his old self as Jacqueline had stopped giving him the sleeping draught a few days earlier. Now she perched nearby with her needlework on her lap sewing the finest of stitches into the luxurious fabric. The drawing room scene was a picture of happiness.

"The papers are calling this fellow Jack the Ripper, there are suggestions he may be a surgeon. It seems the killer has taken body parts of the victims," Frederick told his wife. "Apparently some killers do that. They like to keep a sort of souvenir of the event. I can't imagine any of my colleagues doing something like this. It's preposterous."

"I don't know why you're bothering with that. I recall reading the articles to you myself. Now eat your stew," she urged, as she put down her sewing and moved the plate of food closer to him. "You'll be back at work soon and we don't want you to relapse like the last time."

"Would you like some?" he asked her as he stirred the stew with a spoon looking carefully at the contents of the bowl. Frederick examined the meat on the spoon closely. "I say, this is very delicious, I wish you could remember the name of the cuts you use."

"I'm not really keen on stew, but some say it's like a tonic when you're ill," she said quickly. "I cook it for you because I love you Frederick and the next time I visit the butchers, I'll ask about the cut."

He finished the stew and poured another cup of hot tea from the pot. Smiling with the contentment a satisfying meal provides, he continued to read the paper and Jaqueline carried on with her sewing. A few days later Frederick felt as though he was ready to return to his practice.

Life was as once, normal again, and Frederick came directly home from work, steering well away from the deadly Whitechapel area of London. The romance and intimacy had returned to their life but there was a difference about his young wife that Frederick was noticing, a doting streak he had never seen. Jacqueline had nursed him back to health and spent almost every waking hour by his side. She had even asked him questions about different instruments he used at work, genuinely showing an interest as a devoted spouse should. It refreshed his feelings towards her.

Jacqueline couldn't have been happier with the result of her secret mission. In the evenings, they dined together, and the stew was a meal which had been left in the past, she never cooked it again. There was no reason to fear losing him any longer. Glasses clinked, candles burned, and contentment had once again found her.

"I've noticed a difference in you, you seem more nurturing, yet at times you drift away into the distance," Frederick said, as they sat drinking a nightcap by candlelight before retiring.

"I feel as though I could do anything for you Frederick. I love you with all my heart and if actions speak loudest, I've proved it of late. But," Jacqueline hesitated, burdened by a guilty conscience.

"You have something more to tell?" he asked, feeling slightly confused.

"No my love, all is well." Jacqueline longed to tell her husband of the tale Connie had shared with her, the sleeping draught she had concocted and administered and her late-night rides in the carriage that helped put their life together back on track. But she kept it all to herself.

Jacqueline and Frederick had rekindled their love for each other and the following year a baby boy graced their home. The activities they kept from each other, they took to the grave, because love can make you do strange things, and even the best relationships have secrets.

The Cemetery Plot

For some reason, the man who had just moved into number ten had decided to learn a weird sort of musical instrument. Late night practises produced a ghostly and unappealing noise and made living next door unpleasant. It sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie.

"Sixty years I've lived here and that bugger next door is driving me to an early grave. What time does he call this," Dennis said to his wife as he stood and thumped on the wall that divided the properties. Instantly the noise stopped, and peace reigned again. "That's more like it. One day I'll knock on his door and give him a piece of my mind."

His wife looked at him and smiled, she knew very well that it was unlikely that Dennis would ever do that. "Of course you will dear."

As Dennis and his wife Muriel climbed the stairs to bed, he grumbled to himself about noisy neighbours and climbing stairs. He held on to the wooden handrail which was smooth and polished to a high shine. One by one he passed the framed photographs of family members on a floral wallpaper backdrop. It was almost time to redecorate again. Dennis shuddered at the thought. Stripping back the paper and sizing the walls, it was such a burden. But Muriel would badger him until he gave in and she would once again pick wallpaper with a similar print to what they already had. Dennis wondered why they bothered to change it.

When did his life get so bothersome? Cuckoo Close had always been respectable, but one by one, the neighbours had either passed away or moved away, and Dennis wasn't as comfortable as he had been when he first bought their semi-detached home. All he wanted was a quiet life and enough money to see him and Muriel through to the end. Retirement was supposed to be a pleasant time of life. A time to spend with grandchildren and take nice day trips to the seaside, not to be plagued with noisy neighbours and redecorating. Things just hadn't turned out the way he expected.

Outside, the wind began to howl and whistle. Rain fell on the rooves of the houses that lined the close. Winter was coming to an end, but spring eluded them for another week or two. Tree branches swayed in the dark to a gusty song, and new leaves rustled, clinging to the twigs and branches for dear life. Somewhere, a dog cried in the night to be let in. It wasn't the weather for anybody to be out.

Dennis stared out of the bedroom window. The double glazing kept out the cold and as his fingertips touched the glass, he could see the trees straining against the sudden icy blast and he shivered slightly. Something moving towards the end of the neighbour's driveway caught his eye. He strained to see through the wet darkness of the storm. What was that bugger up to now? Dennis squinted to try to make out what was going on. In the blackness, he could see his neighbour heading out into the weather.

"Dennis love, come to bed," Muriel said patting the patchwork quilt beside her.

"In a minute, I just want to watch that bloke next door. What's he doing out on a night like this? He's up to something, I know it," a suspicious Dennis told her. He watched until the other party was out of sight and after removing his dressing gown and slippers, climbed into bed beside his wife. "I think there's something very strange going on next door Muriel."

"Don't be ridiculous, he's just as harmless as you are you daft old sod. Now, lights out. Remember we're going out tomorrow," she reminded him.

Dennis lay back and closed his eyes, his head sunk into the soft pillow. Sixty years he had lived in that house with his wife and life had been bliss until that weirdo moved in next door. In the darkness, shadows danced on the walls as if they appeared from nowhere. The odd shapes looked strange and after the eerie music from earlier, he felt a little on edge. It was silly really, but it rattled him slightly and he was curious about the new neighbour. The fragrance of the perfume Muriel had worn that day drifted his way as she moved slightly. It interrupted his thoughts, comforting him a little. Dennis soon forgot about the bizarre music and drifted into a peaceful state of slumber.

Another month went by before Dennis began to question the actions of the neighbour again. The strange music was still apparent, but not as late in the evening. Annoyingly, the weirdo had taken to playing it as close to the wall as he could possibly get and it creeped Dennis out. He wondered what on earth could make such an eerie noise.

There was never any exchange between the two men, not even a nod in the street, but Dennis was bothered by the stranger and without Muriel knowing, he decided to find out more about his neighbour. She would never agree to him snooping around, but if she didn't know, then it wouldn't matter.

As the seasons changed and the daylight lingered, the weather warmed slightly, and the evenings were somewhat balmy considering the usual climate. Dennis and Muriel had taken to leaving the windows open overnight for the cool air to circulate, especially in the upper level of their home. As Muriel slept, Dennis lay awake listening. He could hear his neighbour through the wall. He heard him descend the stairs and then the sound of a front door closing. This was the opportunity Dennis had been waiting for. He crept from their bed and dressed quickly. Taking a glance at his wife to make sure she was still sleeping, he left the bedroom and tiptoed down the stairs, then out into the night.

Dennis found the fresh air still but invigorating as he walked quietly along the road. He could see the man he was stalking ahead of him; but kept enough distance between them as to not arouse suspicion. As he continued to follow, Dennis had no idea where he was going until they came to the hill that led up to the local cemetery. It put him on edge. He hadn't thought they would end up there. Perhaps his neighbour was going to do a bit of grave robbing. Although, that didn't seem to be a very popular activity in this day and age. Dennis tried to rein in his imagination. It stretched to its limits conjuring frightening images of scientists building monsters and gave him the willies. Perhaps he should have stayed home. Determined to see it through, he trudged on.

The large ornate wrought iron entrance gates were wide open. Dennis stepped onto the hallowed ground and looked around him in the darkness. A creepiness greeted him. Not fond of cemeteries, knowing he would somehow end up in one eventually, he didn't want it to be before his time. The lamps lit to show the pathways had a strange glow about them and Dennis was unsure which way his neighbour had gone.

"Are you following me?"

Spinning around Dennis came face to face with his mark, "Um," was all he could get out. Up close the guy looked quite menacing, not to mention he was a good six inches taller. Fear began to surface, and he did his best to suppress it.

"Come with me," he said, grabbing Dennis roughly the arm.

Dennis didn't know what to do. Nobody knew where he was, and he was really starting to regret following the guy. How was he to know they were going to a cemetery. His neighbour hurried him along a bitumen road in silence until it ended, and the pathways branched off weaving in and out of the graves. On the top of a hill, there was a wooden bench where they sat down together. Finally, Dennis had his arm back and he contemplated running, but he was more fearful of a heart attacked than the guy beside him. Climbing the hill had been just as difficult as climbing his stairs at home, even with the gruff neighbour dragging him along by the arm.

It was a while before they spoke, and Dennis began to get even more nervous. He wondered why they were sitting on a bench on a hill in the boneyard in the middle of the night.

"This is the best view in the cemetery," the neighbour said finally, as he looked down the hill in the darkness.

Dennis nodded his head in agreement. Even in the middle of the night, you could see the entirety of the premises, but at the moment, it was bloody petrifying. What did this guy have in store for him?

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

Dennis looked at the man, "I'd be a fool if I said no."

"I want to bury my mother here on the hill," he confided. "She always loved a good view."

Feeling slightly more relaxed about the situation, Dennis just nodded.

"I'm Martin by the way," he said cheerfully, holding out his hand towards Dennis.

After the introductions, Dennis wondered why he had thought the guy was a weirdo. He seemed quite normal, in an odd sort of way. "Where is your mother?" he asked. Dennis couldn't remember Martin having any visitors. Perhaps she was in a nursing home somewhere. She would have to be quite old by the looks of her son.

"Come with me," Martin urged, as he got up from the bench and the two men retraced their steps. They stopped near a few headstones, one of which looked a little newer than the rest. "There. That's where she is now."

Dennis looked in the direction of the torch beam. Now he understood.

"She passed away about ten years ago and I always promised her she would be buried on the hill, but it wasn't possible. The land on the other side if that footpath isn't consecrated. So, they don't bury anybody up there," Martin explained. "She doesn't know she isn't buried on the hill, but I know. I've let her down Dennis."

It was that one sentence which pulled at his heartstrings, so Dennis came up with what he thought was a foolproof plan. He felt sorry for Martin and a few days later an idea struck him. One that might help relieve his strange neighbour's misery and rid the world of the dreadful sound of that alien noise coming from his house. Armed with a six-pack of beer, he knocked on Martin's door. The home was not as he imagined. Dennis had pictured a maximum amount of weirdness, but the place really was quite ordinary. The wallpaper was similar to his own. "What's this," he asked settling into a chair beside a strange looking metal construction.

"That's my theremin. Here, let me show you how it works."

Dennis watched the extremely theatrical demonstration that Martin provided, finally understanding where the strange music had come from. "What made you want to play something like that?" he asked, curious about the strange sound it produced.

"I like it. I liked it the first time I heard it. So, I bought one and started practising," Martin explained. "Sorry about the noise."

After taking a turn at the theremin himself, he sipped at his beer and explained the real reason for his visit. Martin's eyes widened as he listened to his neighbour and the two men came up with a strategy to execute the plot.

"It's nice to see you getting on with Martin from next door," Muriel said a few days later. "He's not so bad after all."

Dennis was feeling too anxious to answer her. Tonight they would carry out their plan and the thought of the job at hand made him a little queasy. An idea like the one he had shared with Martin wasn't something he would normally think of. He picked away at his dinner, and tried not to dwell on it too much, smiling at his wife as she chatted away.

Shortly after midnight when he was sure Muriel was asleep, Dennis trotted off to the cemetery with Martin. They carried the tools required to relocate Martin's mum and give her the view he had promised her.

"This is it. There's no going back now," Dennis said as they stood by the graveside. "I hope you're not squeamish because I can't imagine this is going to be pleasant."

By torchlight, the two men set to work digging, working away as the hole got wider and deeper. Finally, the shovels made a clunking sound as they hit the top of the coffin. Clearing the rest of the soil away, Dennis handed Martin the crowbar to pry the top off. "She's your mum mate. I just hope there are no meaty bits left," he said, struggling his way out of the hole and getting the sack ready.

"The coffin was pretty cheap, so there shouldn't be." Martin took the tool and pried open the coffin. The gruesome sight of the skeletal remains grinned at them in the torchlight. "Ah Mum, you were a good-looking woman."

"I can see that," Dennis said sarcastically, staring at the grinning skull. "Now let's get her out of there and in this bag and don't leave any parts of her behind." Dennis opened up the hessian sack and held it out in front of him.

"What?" Martin asked staring into the bag. "Me?"

"Well, she's not going to get in by herself."

Martin carefully lifted the skeleton from the coffin. "I don't think she's going to fit," he said looking puzzled. The sack was clearly a lot smaller than a lot of the bones.

"Just put her in a bit at a time," Dennis suggested. "You know, sort of like a puzzle."

Martin lifted the bones out of the hole one at a time and carefully placed them into the bag. Slowly he manipulated the skeleton of his late mother to fit her into the sack that was clearly far too small. A moment later the skull and one of the arms fell to the ground. Martin watched in dismay as the rounded, bony cranium rolled across the grass and settled next to a nearby headstone.

"That's no good," Dennis mumbled. "We'll get those bits in a minute, let's just get the bulk of her in this."

Getting all of the bones into the sack wasn't the easiest thing either of them had ever done, and after retrieving the head and adding the arm to the hessian bag, they scoured the area to make sure there were no odd bits of Martin's mum lying about. Picking up the shovels, the two men filled in the grave. It was much easier than it had been to dig the hole and they finished in no time. There was a bit of a mound, but that would sink down and after covering it with the turf they had removed carefully to begin with, you couldn't really tell, much.

"Let's get her in the ground," Dennis said, and they headed up the hill. "We'll take up a patch of turf and then dig another hole to put her in."

Once again, they worked together until they had a suitably sized hole for the remains.

"Alright then, tip her in," Dennis said.

"I can't just tip her in, it's not right."

"She's not going to know, we're doing this because you feel guilty," Dennis reminded his accomplice.

Piece by piece, Martin carefully put the bones of his mother in the hole in the ground with the skull at the top. "I think that's all of her. Wait, what's this?" he asked pulling something small and round out of the bottom of the sack.

"That's a potato, it must be a leftover," Dennis said taking the shrivelled vegetable from him. "Come on let's get her covered up. Do you want to say a few words or something?"

Martin stood thinking for a moment and then cleared his throat. "We bury this skeleton today in memory of my mum who always liked this spot. I'm sorry we had to do this illegally in the dark without your closest friends. Carry on Mum." He picked up a handful of soil and sprinkled it into the hole.

They soon had the bones covered and the turf replaced. Dennis looked around. "It'll be light before too long, make sure we don't leave anything behind," he said as they tidied up as best they could. As they were ready to leave the new gravesite, Dennis spotted something white nearby on the ground. "What's that?" he asked pointing to it.

"Bloody hell, it's me mum's foot," Martin replied as he bent down and picked up the object.

"Well shove it in your pocket and let's be off then," Dennis said. "We'll come back and bury it another night."

Reluctantly Martin did as Dennis suggested. "I'm not sure how she's going to feel about being buried without both of her feet," he said.

"I don't think she'll even know, it's not like she's using them at the moment." Dennis smiled to himself. Although they had done this out of pity, there was a sense of accomplishment when sorting out someone's last wish.

As the two men left the cemetery, they both felt relieved. The job was done, and Martin's mum was in the very spot she had wanted.

"What's that noise?"

"What noise?" Martin asked as they hurried towards their homes.

"It sounds like tapping," Dennis replied.

"I hear a clicking noise," Martin told him stopping to listen.

"No, it's more like click tap, click tap," Dennis explained. "It's getting louder, it's coming from behind us."

They both turned to see the grotesque site of a dirty grey skeleton standing there. An arm sticking up from the top of the spine waved around and from the shoulder hung a skull where the arm should have been. The skeleton reached the flailing arm out towards them with its bony palm facing up.

"What does it want?" squeaked Martin barely able to speak.

"I don't know, it's your mother," a terrified Dennis said looking at the misshapen monster. "Maybe it's the foot, give it the foot."

Martin took the foot from his pocket and handed it to the skeleton with a trembling hand. The bony fingers wrapped around the prize and the skeleton turned and hobbled off tapping down the road. Both men watched as the jumbled mess walked away clutching the cherished bones.

Disturbed by the reality of their night together, they quickly finished the journey home in silence. Dennis left his neighbour at the gate and went upstairs sneaking into bed just before the morning arrived. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling wondering if he would ever be able to sleep again. The grotesque grin and the appearance of the dishevelled skeleton wouldn't leave his thoughts. More than anything, it was the thought of what they had done. The idea had been ridiculous, but Martin's mum had wanted the best view in the cemetery and they had moved her for that reason. He wondered if she were back in her original spot or in the tiny hole they had put her bones in. His eyelids became heavy and before he knew it, Muriel was shaking him awake.

Dennis never visited next door again after that night. He just didn't know what to say to his neighbour. Martin moved away not long after and someone else moved into number ten. Dennis kept to himself, just nodding to the family when he saw them over the fence. He never told the tale to another living soul, not even Muriel, and on summer nights when the window is open he listens carefully for the familiar clicking footsteps that will haunt him until the end of his days.

The Pastures of Jordan

There was a distinct feeling of neglect about the old farmhouse. Cracked white weatherboards, with a rusting corrugated iron roof and a well-used veranda that stretched across the front of the old building, assaulted the eyes on approach. Two, dirty brown ruts, moulded over time with a strip of bright green grass up the centre, led from the gate to the home front. When the weather was wet they would turn to mud and it was near impossible to negotiate.

She called the farm Jordan because she liked the name. At least, that was the story Peggy Sherman told. Several titles had adorned the pale wooden sign which swung from a post at the entrance to the driveway. With each owner, a different name burnished the lacquered timber. It was tradition.

In the small family cemetery that graced the property, Peggy placed the multicoloured bouquets of flowers in front of the worn grey stone heads. The monuments were chiselled with the names of those who had lived in the farmhouse before her. A final resting place of family members who had worked the pastures for many years. She liked to visit them regularly, just to remind herself where she had come from. Green grass surrounding the headstones was neatly manicured without a weed in sight. A well-kept white picket fence was scrubbed and painted every summer, and enclosed the small area. This singled-out zone was the one patch of farm preserved to perfection. It was very different from the house which had been sadly neglected. Peggy would be the last to be buried in the small fenced lot. Who would place the flowers when she was gone? There was nobody to carry on the family name and nobody to care for the intimate graveyard. What would happen to the property? Would the small plot be moved? She hoped not. She prayed that the name would stick forever, and her family's remains would always grace Jordan.

Fields of wheat that waved in the wind like a golden ocean stretched for miles, interrupted by snaking streams and long dusty tracks, encompassed the small farmhouse. Every year the wheat was harvested and ground at the local mill to make flour. Peggy never saw any of the fine white powder, it was shipped off to different parts of the country to make bread and other baked goods. The money contributed to a mediocre lifestyle she had adapted to. There was nothing extravagant in the slightest about the spending habits Peggy had formed, but the farm was comfortable, and she enjoyed the solitude. At times though, she wished for just a little companionship.

An open fireplace was her one luxury, and the wood was chopped elsewhere and delivered to Jordan before the cold weather set in. She would slowly stack the fuel in the large shed and every few days, she filled her wheelbarrow and transported the tinder to the house where it would be arranged neatly by the hearth. Using a hatchet and a chopping block by the back door, Peggy chopped a few of the larger pieces into kindling. The work was exhausting, but when the fire crackled in the evening, the memory disappeared like smoke up the chimney. During the colder months, it was kept alight constantly to make her life a little easier. With each night that followed the day, she sat in the same chair by the same fireside and time moved forward as she gradually headed towards her winter years, the years that would be her end. As that day drew nearer, she often drifted back to her springtime, remembering herself as a teenager and happily reminisced about the company she kept.

They met at a summer camp when Peggy had just reached her adolescent years. She fell for him after a single glance. Slightly older than her, his looks were intoxicating. His hair was the same colour as the wheat that grew in the fields on the homestead, and his eyes as blue as cornflowers. He enchanted her, and drunk with lust, she spent evening after evening with him. Sneaking from her bed into his and enjoying the satisfaction of his maleness. During the daytime, they joined the regular activities with the other teenagers, and their meetings were kept a secret. That particular summer camp would stay in her memory always.

As her belly grew she hid it with loose-fitting clothing and although there were accusations cast her way, she brushed them off like flies and carried on. Mornings of illness accompanied the swelling and Peggy rose earlier in an effort to hide her condition. When the pain came far before it's time, by herself in the shallow water of a stream on the wheat farm, she reached the point of departure. The cool water refreshed her, and she buried the product of her original sin beneath the earth under the willow that wept on the bank. In the bark of the tree, she carved the name of her stillborn child.

Sometimes Peggy would cry. She would remember that dark lonely time, and unable to hold back the tears, she would sob, but always alone. Telling herself to stop bawling, the crying would cease as she remembered the decision she had made in secret.

When her summer arrived, another lover entered her life. Working in a diner, she served up milkshakes and he paid her with compliments. Struck by his looks at first, and after, struck by the back of his hand regularly. Again, she kept her secret, hiding her sorrow behind her smile. The bruises were covered with makeup and a happy pretence kept up, but beneath the surface, she looked for a way out. Away from her family, he always took her violently and under protest. Unable to cope any longer, one night whilst caught in his arms, she adorned the back of his head with a heavy object and felt him slump as the last rattly breath escaped him.

Once more Peggy hid her wickedness beneath a pile of soil, but this time, there were no tears. Alone and silently relieved, she carried on as though nothing had happened, hardened by violence and time. The questions came and went and although his disappearance was mysterious, he had been known as a philanderer and stories were hatched regarding what may have happened. Peggy kept the truth to herself and nobody had any reason to doubt her.

Alone she lived and worked, and lived and worked. Outings with friends kept her busy and her past was soon pushed aside. Jazz entered her life and she relished the joy that it brought. Purchasing a record player, she spent a little of the money she earned on the black discs that sat on the turntable spinning and spewing out the tunes she sang along to. A rare gift was discovered and with a small amount of confidence, Peggy took to the stage in a nearby bar. Her name became a regular addition to the posters that decorated advertisement boards in the small town. The money was a pittance, but the sense of pride and the pleasure her singing gave the audience was the real prize. Patrons who listened to her sing thanked her and many friendships were built in the small bar.

Without any professional training, she relied on her sound, but without the real know-how, problems soon developed. A visit to a doctor revealed nodules within her vocal folds, and forced to lay down the microphone, Peggy was heartbroken. She still frequented the bar, but instead as a spectator. Nights of drinking far too much followed. Eventually, the addiction that matched the sadness came to a head and close friends encouraged her to seek help.

Reluctantly she attended the small gatherings admitting to herself and others what she had become, and it was through the help of the group that Peggy conquered her despondent nature and became a source of good fortune for others. Slowly her foundation grew stronger and as time passed, her success in the community, and the feeling she received by helping others, far outweighed anything she had done before. A new type of fulfilment entered her life, but when she received word from home about an illness in the family, there was no other option for her than to head back to where it all began. At first, just for a visit, but it was apparent where she was needed the most.

As her autumn years approached, she returned home to the farm and after she said goodbye to her mother for the final time, Peggy moved back into the familiar ragged house with her record collection and a few important possessions. The farm was known as Eagle's Crest, but she never asked why. It was a name her father had chosen, and he had never shared his story with anyone. Once strong and masterly, age had taken its toll and his memory faded daily. She nursed her ageing father, but she herself grew weak. Illness took her closer to her mother and as she fought the beast with every ounce of her failing strength, her hair died with the condition. Carers visited the two invalids making the reality just a little manageable, with gifts of soup and sweet dishes to ease the journey. Neighbours gathered together to help with the homestead, and the gesture brought with it optimism and courage. The disease confined her to the house until she conquered the monster and recovered. Never the same though, her vigour never fully returned, and as she inched closer to her winter, Peggy buried her father in the family plot.

The lacquered board was purchased immediately, and the name Jordan added. Peggy hung it with pride at the entrance to the farm and continued through her autumn by herself, smiling when she saw it swinging in the wind.

Winter finally set in. Alone, she continued to sell the wheat and tend the small plot of land that honoured her ancestors. There were rarely any visitors, until Hope arrived. Still in her summer, Hope was looking for work and Peggy welcomed her with arms wide open. Sunshine blessed the farm once more along with a fresh breeze that escorted the younger woman.

Peggy shared her stories but kept her secrets. Tales of happiness and sorrow from her seasons were revealed and Hope listened with enthusiasm telling stories of her own journeys. Never having travelled herself, Peggy loved the stories of far off lands and different cultures. They enjoyed each other's company; both were a comfort to the other. It was almost a mother-daughter relationship and Peggy knew, when her winter came to an end, she would leave the farm in capable hands. Hope would put the posies on the graves and keep the green lawn trimmed and lush.

Towards the end, a moment returned from the subconscious springtime of her life and she contemplated the decision to tell of her actions. Twice in her life, she kept secrets and now they weighed her down. The burden was far too heavy for an elderly woman to carry. With a shaky hand, she wrote her sins in a small red vinyl notebook, a gift from a Christmas long gone. One undisclosed moment from her spring, and another from her summer, crept onto the pages and she closed the book locking it away in a drawer.

Hope sat beside her bed in the small hours of the morning. Warmly she held the frail woman's cold hand in hers and as the end drew closer, Peggy handed her the key that would unlock her secrets and reveal them to the rest of the world.

In the small of plot within the pastures of Jordan, Hope added fresh flowers to the graves of the woman who had left her the farm, and the family she had never known. There was work to be done on the old house and nothing would be easy, but it was necessary. Each room held a memory of the departed and she found herself wiping the tears from her eyes on more than one occasion throughout the day, as she packed away the past. She fingered the key kept safely in her pocket, unsure of what it belonged to. Trying cupboards and cabinets, finally in the small bedroom where Peggy had spent the past few months, Hope found the lock that fit the key and opened the drawer that held the vinyl covered book and the secrets of Peggy's life.

Relaxing in the chair by the feverish fire, she sipped her hot, black coffee slowly and read page after page of shaky handwriting which revealed the sins of the past. Places were pinpointed, and with emotion she contacted the authorities to disclose information that would bring a family peace. At least there wouldn't be any repercussions for her late friend.

The other secret, Hope investigated herself without disclosing it to another soul. Armed with a gardening trowel, she sought out the spot by the stream, and beneath the willow, she moved the earth with the small spade. The cloth, threads of an old rotted jacket, barely wrapped the skeletal remains of the premature child who had never known the world. In the wrinkled grey bark of the tree, the name Jordan was carved. Hope took to the tree with a tomahawk and carefully cut around the name digging away cautiously so there was no damage to the slice of bark. Removing it in one piece, she gathered her collection.

Within the small fenced off area beside the grave of Peggy Sherman, Hope dug in the soil removing enough to hide the precious bones of the tiny stillborn baby. Covering the remains, she said a silent prayer for the boy who never drew breath and sheltered the grave with the bark from the willow. The name Jordan stared up at her from the ground.

Hope never changed the name of the farm and the carved wooden plaque still swings from a pole by the gate in honour of her lost friend and the secret that was finally revealed.

The Violin

When Clara played the violin, everybody listened. Her delicate fingers warmed the strings, crafting the most enticing tunes, captivating her audience with every tantalising note.

The old instrument had been purchased on the day Clara was born, a gift from her grandfather. From an early age, she had commenced playing, learning all she could about the fine talent that had been bestowed upon her. Nobody else could do it justice. So, when she passed away it was no surprise to anybody that the violin would be sold. A second-hand furniture dealer bought the instrument for a large wad of cash, which was donated to the local music academy Clara had attended as a child.

For weeks, the violin sat on a shelf waiting patiently for someone to purchase it. Polished to a gleam with thick furniture wax, it stood triumphantly among an ocean of ageing bits and pieces. That's when Sally walked in. Browsing the furniture store for antiques, she spotted the old violin immediately. She had wanted one for such a long time.

"That fine instrument belonged to Clara Porter. She had it all her life," the shop assistant announced as he approached her, "You might have heard of her, she was a legend in these parts. It's a pity she's gone."

Sally smiled at the sales assistant and gingerly plucked one of the strings. Instantly an exquisite sound was produced. "I'll take it," she said, picturing the violin at home, complementing her floral wallpaper borders and collection of furniture from bygone eras.

Days of reminiscing followed as Sally remembered her violin lessons as a child. She felt drawn to the shine on the wooden casing more than any other piece she had acquired, and about a week after the purchase of the superb instrument, she sat down to play. A special stool was adjusted to the correct height and felt comfortable as she brought the violin up to her shoulder and placed her chin on the rest. "Let's see what I remember," Sally said to herself.

Surprisingly, her fingers tiptoed along the neck as if she was a master. The enchanting melody poured into the room satisfying every corner and Sally felt delighted as she drew the bow across the strings with the love of music. Her knowledge of what she had learned as a child merged her mind with her fingers as they felt their way through the tune. She played for hours, ignoring the daily tasks and mealtimes. It was well into the evening when Sally finally drew the strength from within to drag herself away from her new infatuation.

Music became her breakfast. Sally found herself leaping out of bed in the mornings and downing a glass of sweetened sugary juice to suppress her thirst. She played the violin until she left for work, and throughout the day her mind wandered from the menial tasks to the four strings of her sweetheart. She tapped at her desk with her fingers as she waited impatiently for her cumbersome labour to finish.

Evenings were filled with a new-found passion. The feel of the neck on the tips of her fingers, the sound of the beautiful music that filled her home, Sally had never experienced anything like it before. She invited her friends to hear her play, her audience held by the striking melody of the violin, accompanied by a supper of victoria sponge cake and small glasses of sherry. But although Sally's playing was mesmerising, one by one her friends grew bored with the repetitiveness and stopped visiting.

A full answering machine was ignored, and nobody called anymore. Sally's furniture, once her pride and joy, displayed a layer of dust. Dishes were piling in the sink and empty takeaway containers were left where they had fallen. Sally ignored her surroundings. Her existence was the violin and the music they created together.

Work became an annoying distraction from the heavenly voice of the wondrous instrument and Sally had been late every day for a week. Her life interrupted the songs that played in her mind. She made excuses to leave the office early and the following week she called in sick, and again for weeks after.

As her friends disappeared, so did her employment. Her purpose which once had been to conquer life and love vanished. She was fixated with the violin. Meals had become a thing of the past. Sally feasted on music and knew only the coveted instrument and its succulent, sugary symphonies.

Minutes playing turned to hours, hours to days and days to weeks. The ticking of the antique grandfather clock, a metronome to time, had long since died. The music crashed through her mind like waves. The ebb and flow of the high and low embraced her senses. Her eyes closed, Sally could see every note as it lived and died with her touch, each exploding, leaving a sticky residue that lingered and twisted into the next. She played like a woman obsessed and as soon as one delectable song was finished, another aroused itself within and flowed through her body to her fingers and into the bow, another tune brought to life from the depths of her soul. Nothing else existed and as the music flowered, her life withered away, and the violin took a new victim.

When Sally played the violin, nobody listened. The music echoed sadly in the empty house where she lived and died alone, playing only for herself. So, when she passed away it was no surprise the violin would be sold. It was returned to the second-hand store where Sally had discovered it, and in the midst of the relics of the past, the violin waited patiently.

Underneath the Radar

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Instantly the lights came on and a cheer went out, as thousands of onlookers shouted and whooped. Light radiated from the enormous Christmas tree which shone like a beacon of hope. Clash felt relieved. The last thing South Town needed was a visit from the council Hybrids complaining about things not going right on this side of the river.

Making his way to the boat waiting by the river bank, the High Commissioner quickly exited the area, clearly relieved to get away from the place. Clash watched the crowd nervously with his hand on the small taser hooked onto his belt. One tiny hint of trouble would be enough for him to use it. His presence obviously had unnerved those closest to him as they moved away. The black uniform did it every time.

There would be a party in the street tonight. Lighting the tree always came with an enormous celebration. Looking at his watch, Clash smiled as his shift came to an end. Nodding to a colleague, he turned, and the sea of people parted as he headed towards the familiar burger joint most of his meals came from.

After leaving home at a young age, Clash had picked up work here and there and slept in crowded shared accommodation. An opportunity to join the Law Enforcement Team had come along, and now South Town was his oyster. Rumours about the brutality of the L.E.T hadn't deterred him and the uniform which made him sweaty and uncomfortable gave him the authority to do as he pleased, within reason. Covered in large metal coils that would repel even a sledgehammer, the heavy helmet forced his hair stick to his head and tiny drops of perspiration ran down his neck. The headwear gave the L.E.T their nickname – Springheads. Even his workmates called themselves that and the name was renowned in both South Town and across the river in Old Town.

Henan watched the lights come on and fanned herself with her hands. There were too many people here and she was tired and hungry. An end of another year was fast approaching and 2090 would be here before she knew it. South Town was overcrowded, and she stared across the river at the lights on the other side. Sometimes she wondered what life would be like if she had made different decisions. Heat radiated through the night and even the darkness didn't cool the air. No relief was found anywhere and although winter had arrived, it was apparent Christmas wouldn't be white this year, or any other in the future.

Pushing her way from the crowded scene, Henan headed towards a popular burger joint for something to eat. What she needed the most was a long hot shower, but there was nothing in her small flat for supper without having to prepare and cook it. The factory where she spent her days was relentless and the stench that followed her around after work was disgusting. Sewing coats made from cat fur wasn't her dream job and the conditions on the sewing floor were less than favourable. But it was better than the skinning room. That was where the stench came from. It wafted through the factory attaching itself to everyone who worked there. Smelling like a dead cat hadn't been on her list of top ten things to do with her life. She was lucky though, there were so many out of work and hanging on to a job was a priority.

Perusing the menu board, Henan ordered the kitten burger. Stories from the elderly about the cat once being a domestic pet plagued her memory. Now they served them up in fast food places and restaurants. Having cats running around the house as pets seemed a creepy idea, the beady eyes and the needle-like claws made her shudder. Clearly, the world had changed a lot since those days. The attendant behind the counter handed Henan the burger and she placed her thumb over the reader in receipt of the food. "Thanks a lot," she said taking the paper bag from the girl. She smiled and left.

Crowds were still gathered, and the hum of laughter as they enjoyed the festivities followed her, as she headed along the narrow alleyway to the apartment building. It was only a short walk to where Henan lived in the one-room flat. Being single meant the apartment allocated was a little on the small side, just over six metres square in total, but she could come and go as she pleased without having to worry about anybody else. Preferring to go it alone, she had her share of one-night affairs, and they kept her going. Life was far too short to spend every waking moment with the same person. Once again, Henan used her thumbprint, but this time to get into her home. Everything was operated by thumbprint now. For a while, it had been facial recognition, but plastic reconstruction had become more popular and The High Commission had changed the system completely.

Times had changed in the twin towns of Latrembius since her grandfather was a boy, he told her stories about locks and keys and she had learned a lot about civil living in history class. He had shared a time when people lived differently. Henan had a vast knowledge of wars and crime, and the consequences which had escalated over the years due to overcrowding in many places. There was no longer any type of judicial system in South Town. If you were caught breaking the law, they threw you in the furnace. A trial was a thing of the past. Extermination was the usual sentence. With South Town being filled to the brim, there was no time to waste on lawbreakers. Nobody ever spent more than twenty-four hours in a prison cell.

Placing the bag on the small table, she used a control panel to turn on the television. Three channels were available to the public. It was just another way of keeping the general population in the dark. A union of tyrants governed both of the twin towns She had a choice of news, sport, and documentaries about meaningless bullshit. The doorbell rang loudly, interrupting her meagre choice, and Henan pressed a button by the door. "Who is it?" she asked speaking into an intercom.

"It's Clash, can I come up?"

Henan once again used her thumb, "it's open."

Soon after the door to her flat opened. "What's that," he asked as he sat down at the small table, referring to the paper bag that held her meal. He placed the large helmet on the floor and his meal on the table. Tearing at the bag he revealed the cardboard container that held his long-awaited dinner.

"Kitten burger," she answered. "What did you get?"

"Same," he said as he took the burger from the box and sank his teeth into it. Juices from the meat ran down both sides of his chin and he wiped it with a paper napkin.

Henan went to the small under counter fridge and took out a bottle. She poured the red sugary liquid into two glasses and put the bottle back. Returning to the table she placed the glass in front of her twin. "Have you seen Mum and Dad lately?"

Clash shook his head finishing the mouthful of food. "Not since the accident."

They sat silently eating and thinking about what had happened to their father. The council had been demolishing a wall and he had fallen from the top. Large amounts of rubble which had followed him had caused considerable damage. His right arm had been crushed and the doctors had rebuilt the limb with shiny, black bakelite. Now their father worked behind a desk like the rest of the Hybrids. There were so many who had been injured in accidents due to lack of safety and the council just fixed them and put them to work behind desks to complete mindless tasks like filing.

"How's the factory?" he asked sipping at the sugary drink.

"It's okay. I think I'm in line for a promotion. Someone let it slip," Henan told him. "How about you?"

"I'm starting to regret joining the L.E.T. The Springheads just aren't the group I thought they would be," he admitted. "They're passive and there's rarely any violence, but it's the part about throwing someone into the furnace that kind of makes me want to vomit and then quit." Finishing his burger, he wiped his mouth and fingers on the paper napkin.

"I've heard stories from people who work in the factory with me who were once Springheads, they say that's the worst part of the job. Hang in there Clash, I'm sure it will get better. At least you're not sewing cat fur coats. Do you want to stay and watch the game?" she asked him, taking the rubbish to a chute in the wall.

"I'd better not, I'm on the early shift tomorrow," Clash told his sister. "I was thinking about visiting Mum and Dad this weekend. It might be nice for them if we both went." He looked at her hopefully.

Henan thought for a moment, she hated going home to the old neighbourhood. Everybody was so snobbish, and the food wasn't nearly as appetising. "Okay," she agreed, "But if they try to make me eat chicken, I'm leaving. You know how I feel about endangered species."

Smiling at her reaction, he stood to leave. "I think Mum knows not to offer you chicken after the last time. Meet me at the station on Saturday morning. I'll be there at eight. We need to squeeze on the train before nine so we don't get charged an exit fee," he explained. "Just think, at least you won't be going there alone."

Clash left the small flat and headed back out into the night towards his own. The celebrations were still going on. Sometimes they partied in the streets for days. Usually, by the end, there were people who were just so wasted, they were no good to anybody. They littered the streets with their presence and on occasion died there. Street cleaners were operated once a week and the bodies removed and incinerated. A funeral was a thing of the past, the cemetery had been bulldozed and the land built on years ago.

Opening the door to his home with his thumbprint, he turned on the lights. His place was slightly more spacious than his sister's due to his employment with the L.E.T. The bed was in another room and the bathroom was bigger than the usual cubical provided. Being a Springhead had its plusses and not having to sleep in your living room was one of them. He stripped off to take a shower before turning in for the night.

Henan sat staring at the television screen. She hated the other side of the river. The way they acted repulsed her and she had left home two years prior against the wishes of her mother. Silly old bat with her stuck-up attitude and roast chicken. If Henan had her way, she would never visit her parents again. They lived in Old Town with a yard around their spacious house. Her father had worked for the council all her life. Council workers always got the better homes, and rarely did they cross the river. Henan had gone to school with the kids of the other Old Town snobs, but she didn't speak to any of them now. They had all gone on to college or pursued a career with the council and she had never wanted to do either. It was art that was her passion and more than anything, she wanted to paint, but that was a profession her mother frowned upon. At least she approved of the factory, but only just. Not that her mother would ever wear anything made from cat fur of course.

After a quick shower in the mildly adequate bathroom, she pulled down the Murphy bed and grabbed the pillows that were kept on a small two-seater sofa during the day. When she had lived with her parents on the other side of the river, her bedroom had been bigger than the whole flat and her bed a lot more comfortable than this one. But it was okay for sleeping and screwing, and that's all that mattered. Henan gazed up at the ceiling. From outside of the building the noise of the tree lighting celebrations wafted her way. Slowly, her eyes closed rounding out the day.

********

South Town Cat Fur Factory was built on the grounds of an old school. Somebody had blown it up years before in an attempt to avoid an education. An act like that seemed extreme, but the world was full of radical whimsy. So, the Bureau of Education had moved the classes to another place. Abandoned burnt out buildings had sat on the site for years until they were bulldozed to make room for the greatest source of employment this side of the river. When the large structures to house the production of coats were erected, there had been an influx of people from neighbouring precincts until South Town was closed off to avoid an overspill. Henan had been working there since she had left home. It was okay. The allowance wasn't much, but it provided her with the small flat and decent rations to survive on, which she accessed with her thumbprint. Clothing was allocated seasonally, and everybody pretty much dressed the same. The system gave her a sense of belonging. At seven every morning, she trudged into the fur factory and went straight to the breakfast hall where the workers were provided a substantial breakfast of cat strap and toast. Her grandfather had told her that the cat strap was the substitute for bacon. But pigs were extinct, and bacon didn't exist anymore. There was also a sausage made from cat offal and a side of fried mushrooms grown in the forest just inside the perimeter of the South Town compound. Henan had only ever been into the forest once. The green trees and the flowers reminded her of Old Town and the memory annoyed her. She wasn't sure which irritated her more, pretentious bastards like her parents or the overcrowding that was sure to lead to an uncertain future. After breakfast, everybody in the factory drank a type of coffee drink sweetened with an artificial substance. That was her favourite part of the morning meal, the hot, sweet, coffee, flavoured concoction.

A loud whistle sounding was the cue for the workers to begin for the day. There were approximately three thousand on the sewing floor and they concentrated on the production of cat fur coats. The fur had annoyed Henan when she first started, but she had grown accustomed to it and the rash that had once troubled her forearms was thing of the past. White masks were worn by all to avoid breathing in the hair. But it was the heat that got to most of them. With three thousand industrial sewing machines whirring away constantly, the room became hotter as the day went on. She welcomed the lunch break with the cool icy drinks of watered-down, sugary syrup and the plate of cat stew. There was usually a piece of fruit too, but most of it was bruised or rotten. Henan rarely ate it.

"What are you doing this weekend?" The question came from Mixi, a girl around the same age Henan had become friends with. Quiet and mousy, she kept herself to herself and conversation was very rare, but on the odd occasion, the shell cracked.

"I'm going across the river with Clash to see our parents," Henan told her. It was no secret to any of her factory friends that Henan was from the other side. There were others on the sewing floor too, so she wasn't alone, but it had been difficult to fit in to begin with. Sometimes she would turn up and people would ignore her. It was a horrible situation, so Henan always went out of her way to make newcomers feel welcome.

"I've never been across the river," Mixi said. "I was born a couple of streets away in the flat my parents still live in. What's it like over there? People say there's grass, like in the forest, and everybody eats chicken. I've never had chicken. My friend's father got some once and the Springheads found out and that was the end of him. It's banned from this side of the river. Chickens are endangered too. Eventually, they'll die out and we won't have any left. I don't want to end up in the furnace, but it would be nice to know what it tastes like."

"Maybe you can come with me one day," Henan said feeling slightly sorry for her friend. "But anyway, chicken isn't all it's cracked up to be. I'd rather have cat any day. The flavour is a lot stronger. If I was the High Commissioner, I'd ban chicken too. Once they're gone, they're never coming back, and I find it disturbing we would slowly wipe out animals and birds one at a time."

"Are you going across the river for Christmas Henan?" Mixi asked, changing the subject. She knew that endangered animals made her colleague angry.

"I have no idea. I don't like it over there much, so I might just have a Christmas of my own," Henan said absently.

"Well, you can come to my parent's if you like. Our family always have a nice Christmas. There a tree and my mum cooks a mean roast cat," Mixi told her lowering her voice. "Once she even made some biscuits out of some illegal stuff that one of my uncles smuggled in through the outer fence."

Henan smiled. She liked Mixi. The girl was simple but very nice all the same and she had always been accepting of Henan. "Thanks for the invitation, I'll think about it."

********

Saturday morning came far too quickly and as Henan and Clash pushed their way onto the crowded train, she wished it were Monday. Packed with people desperate to avoid paying an exit fee, the train rattled across the bridge to the old town and when it came to a halt, everybody got off. Some went shopping and some were there to visit families they had left behind. It was very rare those living in the South Town would have the opportunity to move north.

Razor wire with radar points fenced off the entire area of the twin town precinct. This was common all over the country and leaving one precinct for another was punishable by death. Residents were consented to travel within their own areas, but an exit fee was charged for the train leaving the south after nine in the morning. It was taken from the monthly ration allowance and it meant you missed out on something else. Twice before Clash had gone without toilet paper for a week and it hadn't been very pleasant. Getting on the train early was crucial.

Their parent's, Zinovia and Quantavius Velvi, had married right out of high school. Quantavius had joined the outdoor council's employment group, while Zinovia had opted to stay home and have babies. Their house was a five-minute walk from the station. Along the streets that were cleaned regularly, the detached homes stood tall and proud. Surrounded by grassy yards and fenced off from neighbours, it was a life of luxury that would never be known to some. Working for the council allowed such a lifestyle, but both Henan and Clash had shunned it and opted to move into South Town. Coming back to visit every now and then was a nice change of scenery, but they were badgered by their parents to return for good and that was annoying.

"I want you to be nice to Mum today Henan. Just remember they've gone through a lot, what with the accident and all. They could have lost their home and ended up in the factory. I don't think Mum could cope with that."

Henan giggled when she thought of their mother sewing cat fur coats. "I'll try, but if she starts all of her snobby judging, I'm leaving and I'm never coming back."

"Suit yourself. Come on," he said as they walked up the driveway to their childhood home.

As always, the paths and the yard were immaculate. Their mother was meticulous when it came to keeping up appearances, from the front of the house right down to the make-up she wore. Nothing was missed.

"Oh, my babies," Zinovia cried, as she stepped out of the front door onto the veranda.

"Oh my God," Henan muttered under her breath, and smiled at the crazy woman before her.

They followed her into the house and were greeted by Quantavius. His right arm was rigid and the hinged elbow quite stiff. Cold looking black bakelite reflected the light that entered the house through the large front window. Henan wasn't keen on hugging him, the arm kind of freaked her out, but she did anyway, just to keep the peace. Clash shook his father by the hand, cringing inside as his fingers came in contact with the hard, inhuman plastic.

Smiling at his two children, he led them into the living room. "I was talking to one of the supervisors at the council offices and there's a job for you there if you want it Henan. You could move back in here with me and your mother. Your bedroom is just the way you left it," Quantavius told her with an encouraging tone.

Henan looked at him and then at her mother, their faces so hopeful urged her to say something positive. "I'll think about it." But she knew any thought of moving home would leave her mind immediately after she left the place. She would rather take her chances in South Town.

"Please do. It's so good to see you both," Zinovia told them both. "Now, I know you don't eat chicken Henan, so you can have your salad without it."

"No Mum, it's fine," she said. Henan had plans for the food that she didn't normally eat. "I'll have the chicken."

Feeling slightly suspicious, Clash looked at his sister. Why was she suddenly eating chicken when she was against it? What was all that talk about endangered species for? Girls confused him, they said one thing and meant another. That's why he opted for the company of men. At least you knew where you stood with them. The subject was touchy with his parents though and his social life was never discussed. Knowing that his parents were slightly embarrassed by his sexual preferences was the reason he had left home at such a young age. Things were okay between them now, but he would have liked them to be a little more supportive of his lifestyle.

As the family chatted away about work and Christmas plans, it was easy for Henan to smuggle the bits of the diced chicken into a ziplock bag that she had in her canvas handbag. Everybody was busy catching up and paid no attention to what she was doing. Life was all about smoke and mirrors, so she made her own magic and the chicken slowly disappeared from her plate. At least her parents seemed pleased she had conformed somewhat.

"I have a special treat for you both," their mother said jumping up. She left the table and returned from the kitchen with a plastic container. "Coconut ice," Zinovia announced. Removing the lid, she revealed the pink and white sugary treats to them. "I know you can't take it across the river, so dig in."

The sweetness of the coconut ice brought nothing but joy to the twins and it wasn't too long before they had eaten it all. Or so it looked, but once again, Henan had hidden some in a paper serviette and that was in her bag with the chicken. She knew it would be the furnace for her if she were caught with contraband at the barriers, but having a Springhead for a brother worked in her favour, she hoped.

"We should get going," Clash told his parents. "If we leave now, the train won't be as busy."

After goodbyes all round, they left the comfortable home and their parents behind and headed towards the train station. Henan felt a little apprehensive, but her brother was beside her and it gave her comfort to know they could get through the stations without any questions asked. Clash gave a nod to the inspector who seemed to know him. They passed through easily and the train was not as packed as it had been that morning. There were even a few seats. Relieved once they had boarded, Henan relaxed knowing there was only the station at the other end. As she expected the gate was opened immediately for her brother and she slipped through the barrier with him smiling at the attendant.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Clash asked his sister, as they walked along the streets toward home.

"I guess not," she agreed, thankful to be back in South Town. "What are you doing tonight?"

Clash usually spent his Saturday nights in an underground club that was strictly no girls allowed. "Not sure," he told her honestly. "I was going to go out, but I'm not so certain now. I kind of heard through the ranks that they're raiding the clubs tonight and I don't want to be caught there."

"What? Why are they raiding the clubs?"

"Apparently there's a new drug on the streets. The L.E.T is trying to get rid of it before too many people get their hands on it," he explained.

Henan didn't say anything. She knew how drugs were paid for and she knew that it was a sore point with her brother. Before she left home and started working on this side of the river, Clash had lived on the streets for a few months. A falling out with their parents had forced him into a situation he wasn't quite ready for. The boy had been a walking talking pleasure for predators who combed the alleyways, and some of the things Clash had done for survival were best left unsaid. It was different now though. Now he wore the uniform of the law, nobody messed with him. Slowly one by one, his assailants disappeared. Henan guessed they met with a fiery death after being stunned, but she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

A poster caught Clash's eye. "Look at this. There's a band playing on the riverbank near the tree, they look pretty good. Shall we go?"

"Okay, I'll meet you there around nine," she agreed.

Back in her flat, Henan hid the illegal parcels of food, one in the refrigerator behind some vegetables and another in the cupboard behind the cans of beans she regularly obtained. She would invite Mixi over after work on Monday and share it with her. Henan was sure her friend would keep her secret, especially since it would be the furnace for both of them if the Springheads found out. Even Clash wouldn't be able to save her from something like that.

Going out in the evening was a lot simpler than it had been in Old Town. The khaki clothing that hung in her closet was all very similar. When she lived with her parents, there were too many options. After moving across the water, the clothes she had brought with her had been taken and swapped for the apparel that was the uniform of South Town. Henan had no idea what had happened to the colourful dresses from her past, but she didn't really care. Although, it might be nice just to stand out from the rest just once.

At nine precisely, Clash waited near the river for his sister. Crowds were gathering, and the band had just taken the stage. It looked as though the entire town had come out for the evening.

"Hello. It's nice to see you again."

Clash turned and smiled. A blast from the past had returned to his life. "Kayzon, how are you?" He leaned forward and kissed the other man on the cheek.

"Good, it's been a long time. I hear you joined the Springheads," Kayzon said, as he looked around nervously. "Are you going to be here all night?"

"I'm meeting someone," Clash explained, feeling slightly regretful he'd arranged a night out with his sister. He couldn't just ditch her, she would be angry with him. "Maybe I'll see you later."

Henan arrived as Kayzon left. "He's cute," she said to her brother.

"He's not your type. Come on let's get closer to the stage."

Pushing their way through the crowd, the band started to play, and music flooded the air sending the audience into a frenzy. Unleashing their creative movement, the sea of people jammed together made it difficult to dance, but it was kind of refreshing to be out with her brother on a Saturday night. Looking around, Henan seemed to have lost him. Perhaps he had been shoved to the back.

It was all too much for Clash. Seeing Kayzon after all of this time. He wondered if the guy still worked the streets. Every now and then he bumped into someone from his past and it reminded him of how lucky he was to have what he had. Henan was engrossed in the band, so he headed towards the back of the crowd looking around to see if he could find his estranged friend. Through the ocean of people, he spotted the familiar face. Heading towards him, he watched as Kayzon left the crowd with a group of other guys he knew. Following them, Clash knew exactly where they were headed. He didn't know what to do. Torn between friendship and loyalty, the decision was difficult. Walking a little faster, he stopped suddenly as he noticed a few of the guys from work opposite the club. Leaning against a wall, he stayed in the shadows just watching. Clash wished he caught them before they left the concert. Hoping Kayzon would be safe, he waited, and then it happened. From several different directions, the L.E.T converged on the club. Holding his breath, he could hear the screams and shouts from the underground venue as the patrons were stunned with tasers. Fighting back the tears Clash wished he had been quicker. As people were dragged out into the street, the truck pulled up to help with the removal, the truck that would take the club goers to meet their destiny. Roughly they were pushed into the back of the L.E.T vehicle and the doors were slammed and bolted from the outside. He wondered if there were any survivors in the club. Waiting, Clash watched the truck pull away and head towards the furnace. It would definitely burn tonight. Staying in the shadows, he saw his colleagues leave the club and head off in different directions to patrol the streets. The doors of the venue were closed, and chains were put through the large handles and padlocked. It was clear there was nobody left in there. Turning, he headed back to the concert. As he approached he could hear the band and although the sight was cheerful, the emotion overtook him. Sitting in the gutter his head in his hands, Clash sobbed. He cried for his friends, but most of all, he cried for himself. This wasn't the life he had wanted.

Henan looked around for her brother as she pushed her way out of the crowd to get her breath back. It seemed as though he had abandoned her, but he could just be in amongst the rest of the giant fan club the band clearly had. People were singing along to the songs and there were even girls screaming. If she left and went home, Clash would understand.

"Hey, you."

Henan looked towards the voice. "Hey yourself," she said. "Do I know you?"

"Would you like to," he asked her. "Sorry, I'm Narius."

He was cute in an obvious sort of way and oddly familiar. "Narius huh, I'm Henan." Suddenly life was looking up. She'd lost her brother and maybe gained a partner for the night. "Did you come to see the band?"

"Yeah, but there are far too many people here. Do you work at the coat factory?" he asked.

She nodded her head wondering if they had met before. Why would he ask unless he knew? Maybe he worked there too. Perhaps that's why she knew his face.

"I knew you looked familiar. I work in the skinning room. Do you want to get a drink?"

"Sure," she agreed. Giving the crowd one more look just in case Clash was around, she followed Narius through the mass of people towards a café.

The laminate tables were empty, and they chose a booth near the door. Narius went to the counter and came back with two cups of the steaming coffee flavoured drink that Henan loved. Sipping at the liquid, they chatted away about the factory, the band, families, and by the time they're cups were empty it was as if they had known each other forever. Forgetting her brother, Henan invited Narius back to her flat for the night.

********

Something was buzzing. Henan groaned, and grabbing a long t-shirt she pulled it over her head and went to the door. "Yeah," she said into the intercom.

"It's me, can I come up?"

Using her thumb to unlock the main entrance door, she opened the door to her flat. A minute later her brother walked in.

"Sorry," Clash said, looking at the bed. He hadn't realised that her sister wasn't alone.

Henan stared at her brother, his eyes were all red and puffy. "Don't worry about him. What's wrong with you?"

Clash sat down at the table. "I just can't take it anymore. Last night there was a nightclub raided and I saw it go down. There were guys in there I knew, and I really wanted to warn them, but it was too late. I knew it was going to happen Henan and I let my friends go to the furnace."

"Hang on a sec," she said. Going to the bed, she shook Narius. "It's time for you to go. My husband's home."

"What, but I didn't know," he said sitting up with a jolt and looking at Clash. "She never told me she was married. I swear."

"Relax, I'm her brother," Clash told him smiling at his sister's joke.

Narius pulled on his clothes. "Um," he said looking at Henan. "Maybe I'll see you again."

She opened the door for him and he kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks for the fun night," she said and closed the door after him.

Alone, the twins laughed. Henan sat down at the table with her brother. "Right, now tell me what happened."

Clash relayed the entire story to his sister and she listened intently only stopping him to get them both a drink. The reality of the situation hit home for her and Henan put her arms around her brother. "I know it's difficult for you, but you can either continue your service with the Springheads, work in the cat fur factory or beg Dad to get you a council job. Take your pick Clash," she said. "Or go back to the way you lived before you were employed by the L.E.T.

Shaking his head, he took a sip of his drink. "I don't know what to do. I like my lifestyle, but the way I earn it, it's brutal. I care about people and knowing the penalty makes it more difficult when you know them. South Town is getting more crowded and the punishable crimes aren't hardcore any more. People go to the furnace for the slightest thing. I can guarantee you that the majority of guys in that club last night hadn't done anything wrong except turn up. It didn't stop the L.E.T from taking everybody though. They're working hard at reducing the population Henan and I'm scared."

They sat talking for a while and after Clash had left her flat, she took a shower and cleaned up. Putting her clothes in a duffle bag, Henan headed towards the local laundromat. She was concerned about her brother and what he had said. Fear makes a person do strange things.

********

When Monday came around, Mixi agreed to join Henan in her flat for dinner. It wasn't often she had friends over for a meal, she just didn't have the space. So it was kind of a special occasion for both of the girls.

"I need you to promise me something Mixi," Henan said to her friend as she prepared the salad. Taking two plates from a cupboard, she dished up the brightly coloured vegetables.

"Anything," Mixi agreed. She crossed her heart with her index finger as a gesture to keep the secret.

"You can't tell anybody about the meal we're having here tonight," Henan told her, and she set the plates on the table with the salad and the chicken that she had smuggled into the south town. "It's chicken. I sneaked it from my parent's place and I managed to get it through the checkpoints. Clash was with me, but he doesn't know about the food. If anybody finds out, well, you know the consequences."

Mixi stared at the meal wide-eyed and picked up her fork. The small pieces of white meat had been cooked in some sort of oil and they dotted the green and red salad. Tasting it for the first time, she smiled. "It's not as stringy as cat, is it?" Mixi said enjoying the chicken. "I like it and don't worry Henan, I won't tell anybody. I promise. This is a little more exciting than I thought it would be. Who knew that I'd be having chicken for dinner." Finishing the food, she lay the knife and fork on the plate. "Thank you, that was delicious. I know how risky it was and I really appreciate it."

"Great, because there's another little treat," Henan told her removing the empty plates from the table. She placed them in the sink and took the small parcel from behind the cans of beans. Henan opened the serviette that held the precious coconut ice. The pink and white delicacy was a vision of delight and she was happy to share it with her friend. "I smuggled this in too. It's coconut ice."

"I've read about this in an old recipe book," Mixi said picking up one of the treats and examining it closely. She nibbled the edge and the sweet, sugary taste spread slowly across her tongue. "It's so nice. But how did you get through the barriers without having to declare it?"

"When I'm with Clash, no one bats an eyelid," Henan told her. "I think the Springheads have their own laws."

"That's kind of cool," Mixi said. "If you have a family member that is a Springhead."

Sensing some resentment, Henan quickly changed the subject. "So, you have books at home," she said. "I've never even seen a book, I thought they were banned. We didn't even have them in Old Town. Everything over there is on computer unless you work in the council offices. Dad said that there's so much paperwork in that place, if a fire started, it would be weeks before the fuel ran out."

"We had books when I was younger, but they were confiscated and thrown in the furnace," Mixi explained. "I found it unsettling. You can't find a lot of the classic literature in the e-library. They've censored it for some reason. It would have been nice to keep a few of my great grandmother's books, but the Springheads came to the flat and there was no time to hide anything."

"That must have been scary having your place raided. I can't imagine it myself. Why don't you get your own flat? There are a few empty places in this building, we could be neighbours," Henan suggested. She took another bite of the pink and white coconut sweet. It tasted even better eating it in her own flat, knowing she was purposely breaking the law. "It's cool. Especially when you bring home a guy."

"When did you bring home a guy?" Mixi asked.

"Saturday night. He works in the skinning room at the factory. Narius his name is," she said.

"So, is this guy Narius a permanent fixture?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. For now, no, but who knows," Henan told her.

"I'm so jealous. I usually go home with the guy to his place. I would love my own flat, but if I leave home, my parents will have to move into a smaller one and the flat they have at the moment is the old type with the separate rooms. I get a lot of privacy in my bedroom. So, for now, it's kind of okay, except for the part about bringing someone home for the night. Dad doesn't really approve, he's kind of old fashioned. They know I'm not going to live there forever though and lately I've been a bit restless. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I just left. You know if I went underneath the radar and right off the grid. I know it would be difficult, and my thumbprint would probably lead the Springheads to me eventually, but I just want to know what it's like out there Henan. Haven't you ever wondered?"

"I wonder all of the time. It might be similar to Old Town, but I don't fancy getting caught and going into the furnace," Henan said. "It might be possible for a day though. We don't have to tell anybody and if we're back by nightfall, nobody would ever find out. We could even stay out overnight. As long as we show up for work on Monday morning." Thinking about the possibility of exploring outside of the two regions she had spent her whole life in excited her, and after remembering the conversation with Clash, the thought of getting out of the district for good was tempting.

Mixi's face lit up instantly. Just one or two days out of South Town. It would be like a field trip, almost educational. "I'm game if you are, but how do we get out? The radar will pick up anything that crosses the border in an illegal place."

"Through the waterfall," Henan told her smiling.

Near the southern boundary of the enormous compound, there was a small waterfall with a hidden cave behind the cascade. It was big enough to wriggle through and the opening at the other end was outside of the border. The waterfall was no secret, but the area was patrolled on the half hour and defecting was punishable by death. Henan, however, had information that gave them a bigger window. At five in the morning, the shift changed. This would give them an extra fifteen minutes to struggle through the hole in the rock. After that, the girls would be safe until they returned. Coming back into the compound was even more difficult, but Henan was willing to take a risk. It might be the only chance she ever had to see what was further south of South Town.

For their idea to work properly, there was a lot of work involved and they planned carefully over the next few days. When Friday night arrived, once again Mixi went to Henan's flat. They went over and over the strategy for getting out of the compound. It was late in the evening when she left and went home to her parents' flat.

Feeling nervous about the jaunt, at half-past four in the morning, with the supplies they needed for the day, Henan waited patiently for Mixi. When she turned up at the meeting point, their journey began. Even that time of the day was warm, and they weren't the only ones out in the street. People seeking relief from the heat sat out on the pavement hoping to get just a hint of a breeze. The darkness of the early hours was a comfort knowing what they were about to do, and as they left the streets of South Town behind, and ventured into the forest, they kept a lookout for any movement from the Springheads. It wasn't out of bounds by any means, but if they were caught nosing around there and searched, there would be questions asked about the contents of their bags and Henan knew, whatever excuse they came up, with wouldn't be good enough. The Springheads had ways of making you confess whether you were telling the truth or not. Tales of torture endured by so many had reached the streets and Clash had back up the stories. After what had happened on the previous weekend, she knew they would be doomed.

A siren rang out tainting the early morning. Panicking for a moment, they realised that it signified the changing of the shift and their signal to run. It didn't take long to squeeze into the small cavity and wriggle their way well into the cave. The tunnel stretched before them for about three hundred metres. Damp rock scratched at their skin as they breathed in the stench of compacted soil covered with soft spongy moss. After a while, the rocky tunnel walls started to open a little and they could see a dim light at the end that would lead to the area outside of the South Town. It couldn't be daytime, they had only been in the tunnel for about twenty minutes.

Cautiously, Henan stuck her head out of the rocky escape way, almost expecting the Springheads to be waiting. But the coast was clear, and scrambling out, she turned and helped Mixi. "So, this is it," Henan said dusting herself off and looking around. "Come on, let's get away from the boundary, just in case we're spotted from the compound."

The strength of the street lights flooded the area and after being in the dark it was like stepping out into the middle of the early morning. It would be at least another two hours before the sun rose properly. Without the crowded high-rises, the air was cooler and a lot fresher.

They wandered along the wide streets lined with large houses surrounded by open land partitioned by wooden fences. "This is like Old Town," Henan told her friend. "My parents live on a street similar to this one."

"I don't know why you would give up this kind of lifestyle to work in the factory and live in the tiny flat like you do," Mixi said looking around at the lavishness of the area. "I would give anything just to spend a few days in a place like this one."

"Ssshh, what's that noise," Henan whispered. A humming noise intruded into the quiet morning. She turned slowly looking in all directions. "It sounds like a hovercar. Don't panic, we have to be sensible about this."

Mixi felt the confusing rising within. "What is a hovercar? Henan you're scaring me."

It passed them, the humming hovercar, and turned into a driveway just along the road.

"Come on," Henan whispered. "Act natural, like you're not bothered by the sight of it."

Jolon drove the car into the drive and turned off the ignition. Immediately she noticed the two girls walking along the sidewall. Opening the car door she stepped out. Instantly she knew where they were from. The clothes said it all. Old khaki army fatigues that were the norm in the compound were a dead give-away. There were often defectors from South Town, they came out through the rocky tunnel under the waterfall. "Morning ladies, you're out early," she said cheerfully.

"Good morning," Mixi chirped feeling like an idiot as the words came out. She couldn't contain the way she felt about being out of the compound, but nervousness entered her voice as well. "Sorry," she mumbled under her breath.

"Are you girls from the South Town compound? It's alright, I'm not going to report you. I see a lot of people like you."

Henan's first instinct was to run back to where they came from, but there was a look of honesty in the woman's face. "Yes," she heard herself say. "But we're going back, we just wanted to look around out here." Anybody who lived this close to the compound couldn't be trusted. Defectors were often befriended by outsiders and turned over for rewards. But it was pointless lying. They were both wearing the uniform of South Town

"Well, why don't you come in for breakfast," Jolon offered.

Looking at each other they hesitantly agreed. She seemed very nice and they followed the woman into the house. It was two against one and the slightest sign something was wrong, they would put up a good fight and make a run for it.

Mixi checked out the place in amazement. The large windows and carpeted floors, high ceilings with monstrous fittings in the middle of them that flooded the rooms with light, and soft luxurious furnishings met her eyes. She knew the fittings were chandeliers, they had them in some of the buildings in South Town, but not quite as fancy. A small animal sat on the sofa and looked at them through sleepy blinking eyes.

"What's that doing here?" Mixi asked, surprised to see a living breathing cat.

"He's my cat. I call him Cuddles. I'm Jolon, by the way," she said introducing herself to them.

Once the formalities were over, they turned their attention back to the cat. It was the first time either of them had seen one alive and living in somebody's home.

"Are you breeding them to eat or for the fur?" Henan asked her.

"Goodness no. He's a pet," Jolon replied picking up Cuddles and holding him close. "Go ahead, pat him. He won't hurt you."

Mixi reached out and stroked the cat. The animal was soft and warm unlike the cold dead pelts she had worked with, and the cat instantly began to make a noise. She pulled her hand away quickly. The weird little thing freaked her out.

"Don't be frightened, that noise just means he likes you. Cats purr. I'm surprised they don't teach you more about these animals. You eat them, so you should know about them." Jolon put the cat back on the sofa and it flopped down and instantly went to sleep. "Come, I'll make you some breakfast. I've just finished work myself so I'm ready for something to eat and a nap."

The kitchen area of the house had the largest refrigerator that either of the girls had seen. A spacious bench Henan knew was an island, stood in the middle of the room and Jolon gestured for the girls to take a seat on the high stools provided.

"How about scrambled eggs on toast," Jolon suggested and without waiting for an answer, she commenced preparing the food.

Henan watched as their host cooked breakfast, while Mixi perused the kitchen. The large oven and fridge, the benches, and cupboards, it was the opposite to the small kitchen her mother cooked their meals in. Eggs weren't something they ate very often, they were very scarce, and the ration allowed was two per person per month in both the Old Town and South Town precinct. Jolon used at least six for the scrambled eggs and when they were dished up, they tucked in hungrily and chatted about the compound.

"How do you know so much about where we live?" Mixi asked savouring the flavour of the eggs. She had always liked them and wished they were permitted more. But chickens were endangered, and eggs were expensive.

"I lived there when I was younger, but I got out. Probably the same way that you did," she told the girls. "I guess the rest of my family are still in the compound or gone."

"How did you manage to avoid the authorities?" Henan asked her, thinking it was odd that if someone escaped from South Town they would live so close. They were literally only a few streets from the fence. Doubt started to creep into her mind.

"It was easier than I thought. At first, I tried to survive on my own, but it's difficult by yourself. There are others out here though and once you know where to find them, you can do anything. Hundreds have gone underneath the radar for a long time and there are more and more getting out every day. I was living in an abandoned shop when I found an old flyer with the name of a help group for defectors. Initially, I thought it might be a trap, but after watching and asking a few questions, it turned out to be legitimate. I got a whole new identity and here I am. I can help both of you if you want me to."

Mixi thought about it for a moment. It would be nice to never have to go back. There was concern about what might happen to her parents, but the food available outside South Town was kind of enticing. "Do you by any chance have a sweet called coconut ice?" she asked Jolon feeling slightly cheeky, but the taste had given her an appetite for it.

Their hostess smiled and went to a cupboard. "Here you are," she said bringing out a small green bowl which held a few pieces of the pink and white treat. "You're welcome to hang out here for the day if you like. I'm going to bed. I have to work again this evening, but if you're still around later, I'll cook you some fish and chips."

The two girls were left sitting at the kitchen counter with the small glass bowl of sugary deliciousness to snack on. "Let's wash the plates," Henan suggested. "What did you think about the stuff she said. You know about us getting out of South Town for good."

"Well," Mixi hesitated while she finished the mouthful of coconut ice she was eating. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea. Look at what we're leaving behind. You're just about to get a promotion and there are our families too. I'm don't think my parents would cope without me there. They would lose the flat and I'm their only child now, it would be heartbreaking for them. I am curious about the fish though. We usually have sea otter with our chips."

"I've had fish. The flesh is white and flaky, it's much nicer than otter," Henan told her. "I understand what you mean about your family, but it just seems as though there are so many more options here. Jolon has a car. Even my parents don't have cars. We could have that too and maybe even get your parents out as well. I'm not sure Clash would want to leave South Town, but It wouldn't matter. He would manage, he always finds a way, but I think I could persuade him. My parents drive me nuts and to be honest, a step up on the ladder in the cat fur factory isn't like a dream come true. I really want to paint. But there's nowhere in the South Town to get what I need. Mixi, this is a really big opportunity." In the back of her mind, she thought about what Clash had told her on Sunday morning but didn't want to mention the conversation.

Chewing on another mouthful of coconut ice Mixi thought about everything Henan had just said. "What I don't understand is how Jolon gets all of this stuff without using her thumbprint. I'm sure if she had, they would have tracked her down by now. I need to ask more questions before I decide what to do. Why don't we check out the TV while she's asleep? I wonder if they have more than three channels."

Flicking through the television channels, it was apparent to both of them there were a lot more than three channels. The day seemed to go quickly, and Henan was hoping Mixi was going to taste the fish and immediately want to stay out of South Town.

Jolon woke up just after the sun had set and was pleased to find the girls still there. After offering them beds for the night, she set to work cooking fish and chips for three. While she cooked the girls watched.

"How do you get things?" Mixi asked tucking into the flaky, white flesh of the battered fish. The flavour and texture were like nothing she could have imagined and thinking about defecting for good was slowly becoming more favourable. "You know, like food and stuff."

"With money. Life is a lot better out here. You work, you get money and you pay for the stuff you want. It's completely different. Those who work harder get more. Nothing is rationed, if you can pay for it then you can have it. I own a bakery. You know, we make cakes and pastries. I built the business from scratch. I own this house. Nobody is ever going to take it away. This is a far better place to live than South Town."

"If I didn't go back, would you help me?" Henan asked, wondering if Jolon was as good as she seemed to be. There was a certain amount of distrust towards the overly friendly woman. She wondered if Mixi felt the same way.

"Of course, but we'll talk about this tomorrow. Right now, I have to go to the bakery. I do the baking at night so that it's ready when the store opens in the morning," Jolon explained. She stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and Mixi found it difficult to believe that somebody actually had a machine for washing up. "There's some more coconut ice for you here. I'll see you both tomorrow. We can talk more about it then." Once again, the green dish was produced with the pink and white coconut treat.

"I don't understand any of this. If she can get things, why can't we? Why can't we change things in the South Town so they're like this?" Mixi said, taking a piece of the sugary delicacy. "Can you imagine what life would be like if we had a different system. I'd much rather eat fish than cat. Wouldn't you?"

"Mixi, you don't seem to understand. Nothing in South Town is ever going to change. That place is far too crowded and there aren't enough jobs to go around. The flats are small because there's not enough room to build bigger places. We eat cat meat because it's cheap and easy to get. A lot of the animals that once provided protein for the masses are extinct and those that are left are very rare. Things are rationed for a reason. If the border was demolished and we merged the south town with the surrounding area, the conditions would spread like a disease. Don't you get it? We're in that compound for a reason. They're trying to reduce the population," Henan told her. "That's why they have the furnace Mixi. Eventually, things will get tougher and the slightest infringement will be a capital offence."

Horrified, she stared at Henan. "Well, at least you could go and live with your parents," Mixi pointed out. "Isn't Old Town much better?"

"I can't Mixi. When we moved across the river, they took away our privileges. We can only visit our parents. If I went over on the train and tried to stay longer than a day, the Springheads would hunt me out and the punishment would be the furnace. Unless of course I work at the council offices, and I don't want to. Clash started working for the L.E.T to give himself a better life and he does look after me, but as for either of us moving back over the river, it's out of the question," Henan finished as tears developed. She turned her face away from her friend. "That's why this is a better option for me. You can go back if you like, but I'm staying out here. No matter what it takes."

Mixi couldn't believe her ears. "What about your brother and your parents? What if they get in trouble?"

Henan sat on the sofa. Cuddles stood up, stretched, and sat down again on Henan's knee. "I don't know. I just have to trust they will be okay, but there's one thing that's certain," the girl said as she stroked the cat, "I'll never look at kitten burgers the same way again."

Mixi sat beside her looking at the cat. The experiences that had crossed her path over the last week had given her a glimpse into the world outside of South Town. She thought of her parents. Perhaps if she went back, she could convince them to leave with her. But would they want to squeeze through the rock under the ground? Mixi couldn't see it happening but it was worth a try. "There's just one thing," Mixi said hesitating. "I'm a bit suspicious of Jolon. She's very nice, but why would you invite two strangers into your home and let them stay? What if this is something she does all of the time? What if she just lures people in and then the Springheads catch them? What if this is how they trap people who defect from the compound?"

Henan breathed a sigh of relief, pleased Mixi shared same doubts. "I feel the same way, I was going to ask you about it or wait until you were asleep and snoop around. She's not here, so let's search the place."

Starting in the kitchen, they looked through the cupboards and drawers for something that might indicate Jolon was some sort of informer. Room by room was searched thoroughly to find anything suspicious.

"Look at this," Mixi said, as she walked into a dressing room that was just off Jolon's bedroom. "She has so many pretty things." Picking up a pendant, she slipped it over her head and looked in the mirror admiring her reflection. "Check out all the make-up. I'm giving myself a makeover."

Henan couldn't believe it. There were clothes she had never seen before, even in Old Town some things were restricted. "I wonder what this fabric is," she said looking at a pair of denim jeans. "Oh my God."

"What?" Mixi asked spinning around and looking at her friend.

"Look at this jacket," Henan said pulling the jacket from the wardrobe. "It's cat fur."

Mixi ran her fingers over the fur jacket. Henan was right. "But she said that she lived in the compound, remember. I don't know why she would have a cat coat when she has a cat as a pet though. Perhaps it's just a reminder of where she came from."

Henan hung the jacket up and continued looking about. "Maybe you're right. There doesn't seem to be anything else that shows she's some sort of spy," she said. "What should we do? Do we stay, or do we just go back?"

"I don't know. I'm happy to do what you do," Mixi said putting the pendant back where she found it.

"Well, I'm really tired. So, let's just stay the night and see how we feel in the morning," she suggested. "We can make a final decision then."

All the bedrooms in Jolon's house were clean and comfortably furnished with beds that were free-standing, unlike the pull-down Murphy bed that Henan was accustomed to. They had been awake for a long time and feeling slightly groggy, she climbed between the soft, white sheets under the luxurious covers and rested her head on the pillow thinking of the decision that lay ahead. Perhaps she was being just a little hasty. But there was nothing she wanted more than to follow her dream. There wasn't much for her in South Town. There would be no repercussions for her parents as the Springheads would know that she never crossed the river. Clash didn't know anything about this weekend so even if they questioned him with a lie detector, he should be fine. Henan closed her eyes and slept like she had when she lived in her parents' house in Old Town.

********

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Henan opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light not quite remembering where she was. That's right, Jolon's house, but the bed felt so much harder than it had when she went to sleep. Her brother's voice attacked her hearing once more.

"What were you thinking Henan. Do you know what's going to happen to you?" Clash stood on the other side of the bars, his face angrier than she had ever seen it before.

"How did I end up here. I don't understand, Jolon was going to help us. What happened, where's Mixi?" she asked him frantically, as the realisation hit home. Stoney walls surrounded her, and the smell of human excrement and vomit battered her sense of smell. There was crying coming from somewhere. She knew it must be Mixi.

"Jolon is an informer, she works for the High Commissioner. She searches for defectors and drugs them with coconut ice. Mixi is in the next cell and you are both on your way to the furnace," he told his sister as he paced up and down outside of the filthy compartment. "There's only one thing to do Henan."

"Shit. How could I have been so stupid? I'm sorry. I didn't know. We just wanted to see what was out there," she said. Tears ran down her cheeks as she realised the trouble she was in.

Clash lowered his voice, "Okay, stop crying. This is what's going to happen. I'm going to let you and Mixi out and were getting away from here. There's a boat waiting on the river. I can't let my sister go to the furnace," Clash said quietly. "It just means we can never come back to South Town." Removing a key from his pocket, he unlocked the cell. Moving along to the next one, Clash unlocked that door too. "Come on Mixi."

She looked scared to death. Red puffy eyes stared up at them from the frightened face and Henan choked back her own tears and still couldn't believe the situation they were in. She took the other girl by the hand and helped her to her feet. Quickly, they ran to the end of the hall.

"Wait here for a moment," Clash whispered. He ran along another hall, carefully looked around the corner and then returned. "Follow me and be quiet."

Henan pushed a frightened Mixi in front of her and they followed Clash quietly. Turning one corner and then another, they came to a circular drain cover in the floor. Clash pulled the cover from the opening and gestured for the girls to climb down. Rungs that resembled giant staples stuck out of the sides of the vertical drain. Mixi went first, followed by Henan, and then Clash climbed into the drain and pulled the cover back over. In the dark the going was slow, but finally, Mixi reached the bottom. She waited for the others after which Clash took a torch from his belt and switched it on. They ran along the large drain that would take the three of them to a boat that was waiting on the river bank. As they neared the end of the drain, fear struck them all. What if the Springheads were waiting for them? The thought was unlikely. Until the cells were checked, they wouldn't know that the girls were gone. It was a chance worth taking though. Going back was unthinkable. If they were caught now, all three would go to the furnace.

"Stop," whispered Clash. "Wait here for just a moment. I'll make sure that it's clear. If I go out there by myself and I'm spotted, you both have to promise me that you'll get in the boat and go. They're waiting for us about a hundred metres down the river." He shut off the torch and went to the end of the drain and stepped out onto the river bank. Clash could just see the boat with the four adults who were helping their children out of the predicament they had found themselves in. "Come on, it's all clear. The boat's ready for us. You guys go, and I'll follow in a moment, there's just one thing I have to do"

Carefully leaving the drain they ran along the bank to where their parents waited in a small motorboat that was hopefully going to take them onward to safety. There was no excited cry from any of the older four, they stayed as quiet as possible.

Clash pulled the pin from the grenade he held and threw it as hard as he could into the drain they had used to escape. He ran like there was no tomorrow, knowing if they were caught, that's exactly how it would be.

"Come on," Henan shouted reaching out her hand to help her brother board the small vessel.

As Clash and the other two men pushed off from the wall and dipped the oars in the water, behind them the noise of an explosion rang out and fire shot out over the river as if the drain were the mouth of a dragon. Sounds of chaos followed them from the South Town. The breeze carried it towards the vessel with shouts from the shore and torchlight spotting the waves, as they rowed towards the estuary that would take them out into the ocean.

As they moved further away from South Town, the noise died with their past. Henan sat with her mother and Mixi with hers, both still in shock with the knowledge that one simple trek out of the town could have meant the horrendous punishment that would end their lives.

Starting the motor, Clash wondered if they would hunt him down. He wondered how they would survive without their rations. In the early light of the morning, he studied his parent's faces. His mother smiled at him with a worn, worried look in her eyes. Life would be difficult for her, but at least they were all still alive. Looking back towards South Town, the turmoil vanished, and he watched until the giant Christmas tree, once a beacon of hope, became no more than a dot on the horizon.

Arthur Tide

James Victor panicked. Public speaking wasn't his thing. His thing was waiting until the very last minute before preparing. So, at exactly eight o'clock on the evening before the event, James sat down at an old writing desk in a well-lit corner of his study and began to gather his thoughts logically. Sipping at a hot cup of tea, his mind churned away slowly, trying to chisel his memories into a short speech. A million words wouldn't be enough to describe the admiration he had for his friend, and James didn't quite know where to begin. He thought about the subject, a dedication to his lifelong friend Arthur Tide.

"I need you now more than ever Arthur old mate. Don't let me down," he muttered as he sat with his pen in hand.

Arthur looked over his friend's shoulder at the untainted paper, not surprised James hadn't written a word. This was going to take some work. There was a need for inspiration and it wasn't as easy this time around. Arthur wished he could take the pen and write something for him as he had done so many times in the past.

"How should I start Arthur?" James asked as he scratched his chin. "You were always much better at this type of thing."

"You could start by saying how we first met and how long we've known each other," Arthur answered as he settled on the old leather sofa. Although, he couldn't quite remember their first meeting himself.

James pondered for a moment and started to write. After a few minutes, he stopped and read the words aloud. He scribbled another sentence, put the pen down, picked up the warm tea and dunked a chocolate digestive into it.

"That's a good start Jim. Now add a bit of a funny story. Don't go on though. You want to keep it short," Arthur suggested as he leaned back and closed his eyes. "Sort and sweet."

"A funny story," James mumbled with a mouthful of soggy biscuit. "That's exactly what this speech needs. But not too long a story, short and sweet, that's the ticket."

Once again, the ink flowed as he searched all the hidden nooks where memories might lay dormant, ready to resurface for a purpose such as this one. Slowly he recalled the times he had spent with his mate. Every so often, James would pause to remember something else, or read over his work. While this was going on, Arthur relaxed on the sofa and the clock on the wall ticked away breaking the silence a second at a time. It was taking just as long as Arthur had suspected and was equally as difficult.

"What about the time we went on that hike together and you got us lost, hey Arthur," James chuckled. "Or the time that we went picking strawberries and met those girls?"

"I remember. They were good times. We married those girls we met at the farm that summer. Married them, built a life with them and then buried them both, this year in fact," Arthur said sadly. "But now's not the time for looking back at the sadness, we have to look at the good times and look forward to the future Jim, and the speech for tomorrow."

"Yes, those two girls, our wives were best friends. Just like us," James murmured, his voice breaking a little as he paused to reminisce. He looked at the photos on the wall, their lives progressing from sepia, to black and white and then colour. "Tomorrow will be a grand affair. I'll do you proud Arthur."

Arthur left the couch and rested his hand on his old mate's shoulder for comfort. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. They had been friends for as long as he could remember, and they never had a falling out. It was comforting for Arthur to know that he could rely on James for something so important.

As the clock struck half-past twelve, the speech was finally finished. James gave it one last going over, turned off the lights and went to bed. In the dark, he listened to the silence, interrupted only by the odd creak of the house and a dog barking in the distance. The sounds of the night. Slowly, James closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

*********

Morning arrived too quickly and as the night faded, James Victor opened his eyes and remembered the duty that lay ahead. On the bedside table, the alarm cried out and as he reached over to comfort it, he felt nervous. Gathering his thoughts, James stared at the ceiling. His eyes followed a crack in the paint. It needed redoing, but not today. Today was a day for celebrations and his speech.

Following a satisfying breakfast of bacon and beans, James dressed in his best suit. Over the years he had exhausted many best suits, but the one he had chosen for this occasion had only been worn twice before. James turned this way and that looking in the mirror and he decided that today would be the last day he would see himself in it, although it was likely he would wear it one more time.

"Are you ready old chap?" Arthur asked from the old leather sofa as James entered the room to retrieve his work.

"I think this will do," James said quietly as he looked at the speech and then folded the paper, slipped it into his pocket and checked his watch. "Not long to go now Arthur. I just hope I can go through with this."

"It's all going to be okay Jim. I'll be right there with you."

The car arrived, and they travelled together in silence, just two old mates who had known each other forever and stood shoulder to shoulder through the highs and lows. A testament to true friendship. As the car came to a standstill, they both noticed how many people were there. It was a decent turnout.

"Look, there's old Henry Duggett," Arthur said as they approached the grey stone building. "I thought he passed away years ago."

"Good morning," said the old gentleman tipping his hat, but James didn't seem to see Henry, he was busy thinking about the job at hand, and bothered about getting up in front of everyone.

"That's not a very good picture of me," Arthur grumbled as he entered the building beside James who stole a glance at some of the names written in an attendance book that lay open.

"We could have gotten a better photo. It's funny though Arthur, I feel as though you're still right here with me," James said looking at the image in front of him. He picked up the picture, gave the glass a rub with his sleeve and took it inside. Most of the seats were already full and James made his way towards his rightful place in the front row. Arthur's children were there, but they were no longer as playful as they had been. The eldest of the girls patted James on the arm as he placed the photo on the coffin and sat down beside her.

Arthur smiled and stood to one side. He was a proud man, proud of his friends, proud of his family and proud of the life he had led. His children were grown up and he'd done the best job he could. Now it was time to say goodbye, once and for all.

When James stood to speak, Arthur noticed the tears welling in his old friend's eyes. He noticed the tremble in his hands and the quiver in his lower lip. "Come on Jim," Arthur whispered, "You can do this. I'm right here old mate."

James cleared his throat and pulled himself together. "We're here today to honour the life of Arthur Tide. We were friends through thick and thin from the time we were kids, and he stood right by me until the very end."

Arthur Tide didn't need to hear any more. He gazed upon the congregation and his family, and then up at James in admiration. Slowly and silently he turned and finally left, without looking back.

Splendid?

Mist is a natural wonder produced by water droplets that are miraculously suspended in the air. Sarah didn't care how it formed, or where it came from, she didn't like it. It made her hair lose its bounce and sheen and go all limp and frizzy. Standing on the platform of the train station in the damp, early morning fog, all sorts of thoughts ran through her head. Had she really lost it?

In her younger days when she first started out, Sarah had really been something. The beautiful, vibrant, confident, Sarah Park. Her flaming, red hair had been the envy of all her friends, the way it bounced when she walked and shone in the sun. Now, she spent hundreds of pounds a year just trying to keep the greys away.

Adjusting her hat, she looked along the train track that disappeared around a bend about a hundred metres or so from where she stood. According to the station clock the 06:31 to Cannon Street was only three minutes away.

Sarah moved forward on the platform and tried to rationalise her decision. It was a simple one that had taken hours. Decision making had never been one of her strong points. She didn't seem to have many strong points at all, not any more.

In her hands, Sarah held a pair of black leather gloves. She twisted them nervously and looked around. There were other commuters on the platform. She wondered if they had noticed her, and if so, could they guess what she was thinking?

Staring straight ahead, the people on the platform opposite stared back with a look of scrutiny. It felt as though they were all watching her every move.

Through the mist, she noticed the numbers on the clock change. Two minutes now, but it felt like a lifetime. She inched closer to the edge of the platform.

Opening her handbag, Sarah took out a compact and looked at herself in the mirror. There were flaws in the facade and her skin sagged a little under her chin, age had beaten her. She touched up the lines with some of the pale pressed powder. It didn't help, of course, she could still see them, but she felt better for trying.

More people had gathered on the platform. There was still no sign of the train and Sarah began to grow anxious. She put her gloves on. They made her hands too hot, so she removed them, shoving them roughly into the pocket of her coat. Another step was taken, a little closer to the edge. Sarah knew what she had to do. There was no going back now.

They were still watching from the other side of the tracks. She could read their minds. They were thinking, Sarah Park's lost her spark. She repeated the sentence over and over in her mind. It sounded ridiculous and juvenile. Spark had been her nickname when she was younger. The shining Spark. It had suited her personality then. But now, she wasn't so vivacious, she was more the insular, dowdy, uncertain Sarah Park, and they no longer called her Spark, it was just Sarah.

It began to rain lightly. She loved the rain. It was nice to wander down to the Thames when it was grey and miserable and watch the raindrops bounce off the surface of the murky river, sometimes brown, sometimes silver, it depended on the light.

As she stood on the platform alone, there was nobody by her side. If she succeeded today, she knew it would be because of her own efforts. If she failed, Sarah had nobody to blame but herself.

She thought about her lover taken from her years before. He had put up a good fight, but sometimes the best just isn't good enough. Tears welled in her eyes and she tried to suppress them. She remembered his smile, his smell, his eyes, they were brown.

Still no sign of the train and she was starting to wonder what the hold-up was. There had been no announcement, no indication to say it was running late. But then again, did it bother anybody at all? It seemed like such an insignificant detail in the grand design, yet so many people complained.

The rain was starting to fall a little heavier now. She wished for an umbrella but knew that nothing ever came from wishing. She had made thousands of wishes over thousands of days and rarely did they come true. As a girl, she had wished her parents had a lot of money and she could have nice things like other girls. She had wished for birthday parties, but there had never been one. As she grew up, Sarah wished for invitations to outings and nice clothes to wear. She wished for make-up and perfume and jewellery, but these things never came. At best, she might get some meagre token for her birthday or Christmas, but not quite as extravagant as anything in her wishes. She had wished for many boyfriends throughout her teenage years, so she didn't have to spend as much time alone, but not one of them had arrived when expected. So many wishes over so many years, and as she grew older she had wished for a wedding as most girls do, another wish that had never come true. She had wished for a child, a girl, no a boy. She would have liked a boy, she would have called him David and he could have played the guitar. She loved the guitar. But there were no children in her life and she herself had never learned to play that wonderful instrument. It seemed like one cruel blow after another and a lot of unfulfilled wishes. As she pulled her coat tighter around her and turned up the collar, Sarah inched closer to the edge of the platform.

A puddle formed in the dirt and stone between the tracks. It was just as small and unimportant as she felt. Around her, the station became busier. The train was on its way. Sarah could hear it in the distance as it rumbled closer. She braced herself. The adrenalin rose inside her. It spread through her body consuming her like fire spreads through a dry field in the heat of summer, and she felt herself moving forward now.

"Look," someone said, "That woman, she's going to jump."

As the train approached, Sarah attempted to step off the platform, but someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her back.

"Cut," yelled the director and the applause followed as he hurried towards her. "Splendid, just splendid," he said. "I believed every moment of it Sarah. I actually thought you were going to jump. I felt the emotion and saw the torment in your face. Why don't you go and get yourself a cup of tea and warm up a bit, fantastic, just fantastic."

Sarah nodded and headed towards the tables that had been set up for refreshments. She smiled at some of the people who had turned up to watch the filming, and as she smiled, Sarah thought about what the director had said. He said she had been splendid. Splendid, the word tumbled around in her mind chasing away any doubts she had about herself. As she poured herself a cup of tea, Sarah though back over the scene. The emotion that had gone into it was taken from years and years of torment. Had that given her the edge that she needed? Had she really been that good or was it the heartache that had taken over? Years of heartache and failure had led to this moment and she knew what she had to do. The next train was due, and she heard the low dull sound of the wheels on the tracks. Sarah turned and walked forward. Another decision was made, but this time quicker. As the beast entered the station, she stepped in front of it.

Whisper

I can't recall how it all started. I think the earliest memory of the obsession is at the age of thirteen. It seems odd that something so dark should start with a number so sinister.

There are those of us who live a rather ordinary life, and those of us who don't. I was one of the latter. Anything that appeared slightly unusual or darker interested me. Seeking out the characters that graced the books of my childhood, from fairies to witches, elves to ogres, and of course, my one true love, the vampire, became a fascination. My uncommon attraction for these creatures set me apart from my peers and the more obsessed I became, the less I craved human companionship.

The books I read introduced me to parallel worlds and I fell in love with the idea the undead might actually walk among us. Vampires such as Count Yorga and Carmilla haunted me and as I grew older, I developed a fascination for the Vampire Lestat. But they paled in comparison to the most infamous Count Dracula. Many tried, but they never stacked up and I was drawn to this vampire more than any other.

Over the years I frequented cemeteries and darkened places searching for a hint these fabled devils might have crossed a path or two, but it was all in vain until I returned to my birthplace to live. Decades had passed, and the cruel streets of London provided new places to search. I lurked in laneways and shadows or anywhere I thought a vampire might be hiding, but there was not so much as a hint or a murmur. It was then I realised if I was to have any chance, I needed to go to the source. So, I booked a flight to Bucharest.

Transylvania is like a delicate flower in the midst of a gorse bush. The countryside along the train line from Bucharest was strewn with rubbish and decorated with burnt out farmhouses which had been abandoned. Wild dogs howled at night as they wandered looking for food. As I sat in the train carriage heading toward Brasov, I thought about how Jonathan Harker must have felt the first time he travelled to Transylvania. That's where I was headed. Into the beautiful Carpathians in search of my one true love, I journeyed. But it wasn't until I reached Bran by bus that I realised I'd made it. I stared up the commanding castle in amazement.

Well versed in the sins of the flesh, my urges overpowered me as I entered the castle grounds. Longing for the power of my master to dominate me. Urging him to come forth and cast all others aside. Around me the exotic earthen urns and the trickle of the stream that ran under the stone bridge made me feel as though I belonged there.

The castle loomed before me and I tingled when I thought of what it would be like to meet him. I could almost feel his fangs sinking into my neck, taking me into his coven and making me one of his own. I longed for it. I walked slowly along the stone pathway which led to the steep ramp and then to the steps up to the entrance. Savouring every moment, my mind wandered, wandered to him, my Dracula. Trees shivered with delight at being stirred by an April wind and as the sun disappeared behind a cloud, I made my way up the steps to the big wooden door of my cherished Count's home.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped across the threshold. The whitewashed walls and the antiques called out to me as if to say, "he is here." I made my way slowly up the hidden staircase, so dark and forbidding, wishing and hoping for a sign, a touch, a whisper, and then it came. A voice, barely audible. Was it real? I was sure that someone had whispered my name. Confined within the stone cavity, I moved forward slowly, listening carefully as I went. To turn back on the one-way staircase would be wicked, but I wanted to hear it again. The sound of tourists met my ears. Forcing me to carry on, I left the staircase and stepped into another whitewashed room. Disappointed, I toured the rest of the castle. He knew I was here, he had whispered my name.

In the courtyard, I threw a coin into the well and made one last wish for him to join me. Glancing around at the others who had come to visit, I handed my camera to a girl and begged her to take my photo. Lingering for a moment afterwards, my wish went unrewarded. There would be no gift of eternal life, no immortal evenings, and no bloodlust as I wandered the streets feeding on those around me. My adoration slowly died. As I left the courtyard and headed towards the exit, reality extinguished my love and ended my unrewarded search.

The Hanged Man

A spirit wind blessed with a forbidden essence flowed through the window and Iris felt a shiver as she turned over the tarot card. A gasp escaped her lips, the hanged man. Was this the defining moment, a predetermined destiny perhaps? It was difficult to tell. There were all sorts of suggestions in the cards, but this card, in particular, frightened her. Quickly she placed it back in the pack and shuffled them again. Cutting the cards, Iris turned the top one, the hanged man appeared once more. Third time lucky crossed her mind, but she knew it would be the same as the other two. Carefully she wrapped the cards in a scarf that had belonged to her grandmother to keep in the spirit and protect the cards from blight.

Summer had taken its grasp and the day was far too hot. As the sun left the sky, she started to feel some relief. Iris longed for a time when women would no longer be restricted by layers of long clothing. The thickness of the fabric kept in the heat and when it spiked in the afternoon, it was close to unbearable. As soon as the day began to turn to night, the temperature took a dive and the evening brought with it a pleasant relief.

Twilight arrived with a desire, a desire for freedom. A chance to remove the shackles of the era. As she ventured out into the dark evening, Iris had only one thing on her mind, the seclusion of the grove and the gift of the cool river. She looked around nervously, making sure there was nobody about. Discovery of her evening jaunt would not end in her favour.

As the young witch passed by the old oak, she glanced at the looped ropes which hung from a lower branch. If her secret was discovered she would swing by her neck from a noose for certain. The bark of the tree trunk felt rough to her soft, smooth hands and she willed it to share memories with her, memories of her sisters who had hung from the tree. Accused of the most heinous crimes, their lives had ended far too early. As Iris remembered them, she heard their whispers on the night's breeze and caught their scent in the forest foliage. She pictured their faces, purple and bloated as the rope tightened around their necks and the vision embedded in her memory disturbed her. She saw her own face there and shuddered.

In the privacy of an ethereal grove, Iris removed her layers of confining clothing in private and waded into the warbling river. She finally felt her freedom. The cool clear water caressed her in places where she had never been touched by another, and Iris shivered as her bare skin tingled beneath the night sky and the glorious full moon. Further and further into the river, she walked over the smooth rounded stones until she stood on the very tips of her toes, barely keeping her head out of the water. Around her, the sounds of nature played like a symphony and as she relaxed floating on her back in the river, she knew she was being watched. Gazing up at the stars that garnished the dark heavens, Iris ignored the onlooker.

Hidden in the intimate recesses of the coppice, John gazed at Iris as she waded into the water unclothed. Her young body beautiful in the moonlight, he felt a twinge of lust as he watched her. He sat under a tree in the cool evening looking on, her beauty mesmerised him. He couldn't turn his eyes away. Around her, the shimmering water lapped at her nakedness.

Iris knew it was the witch hunter hidden in the darkness, and he would know her secret now. A gift so natural, but misunderstood by so many. Slowly she left the water and dressed. Her damp skin glistened in the moonlight. Pushing her long dripping hair up under her bonnet she tied the ribbons beneath her chin. There was nothing else to do but go home and wait for the consequences, whatever they may be. She left the grove in a hurry shivering from the lingering water, her long skirts clinging to her legs hampering her ability to run.

In the safety of her cottage, Iris lit the fire and removed her clothes to dry off properly. The hot orange tongues licked gently at the kindling as they grew, slowly devouring the twigs and leaves. Carefully she placed a larger log on the flickering flames. Her thoughts were elsewhere. As she swung the cauldron of soup back into place above the heat, she wondered if he would tell. He had seen her in the water. It wasn't because of what she was that made her float in the river, it was because of who she was, a daring young woman who wasn't afraid to take a risk. If they came for her, she would hold her head high, plead innocence and never reveal her true craft.

By the glow of the firelight, the witch put on a ceremonial robe and lit candles to say the evening blessing. She thought about the card from that morning. The hanged man, would she be following the others to the gallows? She knelt before the fire and whispered the ritual dedication that she had learned when she was a child. As the midnight hour struck, there was a knock at the door and her instincts instantly told her who it was. Wrapping herself in a dressing gown to hide her Wiccan ensemble, she extinguished the candles and went to the door. "John," she said, "What are you doing here?" The witch hunter stood before her on the threshold in the shadows, his face blank and unrelenting. Her heart pounded, Was this the end for her?

"I've suspected you for a long time," he said as he entered the humble dwelling. "I saw you Iris, in the river, but your secret is safe. I want you to know that."

"Can I get you anything?" she asked, as he pushed past her into the room and after glancing around outside, Iris closed the door. "A drink perhaps?"

"There's nothing I want but your love," he murmured, his hands reaching out and pulled her into his arms. The smell of the fresh river water reached him instantly as he buried his face in her wet hair. "Forgive me for the past."

"How can you come here and seek my forgiveness? They were my sisters, not by blood, but sisters none the less and you were there when they were hanged, each and every one of them. You say my secret is safe, but how can I trust my future to you when there are so many who have died by your hand? How can you ask me to love you?" Iris pulled away from his touch, unsure of her feelings.

"I would turn away from everything I know for you," the witch hunter said, "if only you would return my love. I will go if I must, but you could come with me Iris. We could leave together and go somewhere more pleasant. Somewhere nobody knows us. I will give you until morning to decide. If you decline my offer, rest assured that your secret is safe, and you shall not hang."

He left her in the small cottage with her thoughts. If Iris chose his love would she still be able to fulfil her destiny? The witch had a choice to make and it wasn't an easy one. Her life had been about the Wiccan gift delivered at birth and her future was about the same. If she chose love, would it change her destiny?

Sleep didn't arrive at the small cottage that night and as the dawn crept into her life, her mind was made up. She dressed in her long layers and went to find her beloved.

A crowd had gathered along the path towards the grove where the old oak stood. As she neared it she felt panic rise within. It was him, John, her one true love and he was hanging there as sure as it was light.

"Witch," someone called pointing at her, and she knew that it was the end. "She's a witch. I've seen her floating in the water and he was at her cottage."

This was it, the crucial moment Iris had dreaded. With the noose around her neck, she was hoisted high beside him, her destiny decided for her.

Ursula Flynne's Terrible Sin

The trouble with Tom Blackman was he had been breaking rules all his life. Even after joining the police force nothing changed. He listened but did whatever he pleased. Several formal warnings about going out on investigations alone didn't stop him. He was still alive to talk about it and that was all that mattered. So, when his partner called in sick, and the case of Graham Everton landed on his desk, he took a chance and went out to investigate, alone.

Graham Everton's family hadn't heard from him for a week. None of his bank accounts had been touched and the work van he used was still parked in front of the house where he was last seen. It was almost as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth.

The neighbourhood was decent and the homeowner was some old lady, so Tom didn't feel at all intimidated. As he walked along the path towards the address, his imagination conjured the old people smell he knew that he was about to encounter. It was a given, especially with cottage like this one. What was it with old ladies and lavender? The cottage seemed too commonplace. It took him back twenty years to his gran's. The same white picket fence and the same bloody flowers. He checked out the van that was still parked on the street. It matched the description alright.

Tom opened the gate and closed it behind him. The scent of the roses wafted in the air and the lavender that grew out over the pathway brushed against the blue trousers of the uniform he wore. A police officer for almost three years, he was ready to move up the ladder and if he could locate this missing guy, a promotion would be in the bag.

Taking one last deep breath of the cool fresh air, he pressed a white button embedded in the wall of the verandah and a faint chime, similar to Big Ben, sounded inside the house. Tom tapped his foot impatiently and wondered what was keeping the old biddy. After what seemed like hours, the door opened just a fraction and he could see a metal security chain and the white hair of the occupant.

"Who is it?" asked a voice with a soft, warm, grandma tone.

"I'm police officer Tom Blackman Mrs Flynne, and I'd like to ask you a few questions about the van that's parked in front of your house. I can show you my badge," he said, flashing the police badge in the small opening.

The door closed, and Tom could hear the elderly hands fumbling with the chain after which the door reopened slowly to reveal the elderly woman who owned the voice. She instantly reminded Tom of his gran and he smiled at her kindly.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked and beckoned with a trembling hand for him to enter the house.

Tom stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. Instantly the smell of freshly baked biscuits filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply.

"Follow me," she instructed and slowly she hobbled into a room just off the hallway.

If Tom had been asked to imagine the living room, he could have done so easily. The floral wallpaper, the white ceiling, the crystal light fitting, the furniture with strategically placed doilies, the round mat in the center of the room, the old-fashioned fireplace, and the lacey curtains which crisscrossed and were fastened at the side of the window frame with frilly tiebacks. Some of the small china vases and figurines were the same as those in his gran's house. It was typical of the woman's era.

"If you would like to sit down, I'll go and make us a nice cup of tea, and then I'll show you my birds."

The bird thing had him puzzled. He needed information on the missing man, not birds. But Tom knew better than to argue. If the old woman was anything like his grey-haired gran, she would insist. He sat on the sofa without hesitation and hoped the tea would be accompanied with some of those delicious smelling biscuits.

Ursula Flynne came hobbling back into the room and the silence was eerie. A strange atmosphere lurked, and the only sound Tom could hear was the solid tick of a small, gold, carriage clock on the mantle.

"I've got the tea made so while it's drawing a little, why don't we go and look at my birds?" she suggested. "I'm sorry, my memory is getting so bad, did you say your name was Bobby?"

"No, it's Tom, Tom Blackman. I'd like to talk to you about the van that's parked outside your house if I may."

"Yes, yes, we'll get to that later. Right now, you need to come and see my birds."

Obligingly, Tom followed Ursula's stooped frame through the house to the back door. Before they stepped outside, he could hear the twittering of the birds and as the door opened it became more distinguishable. The round wire birdcage was approximately seven feet tall and there must have been at least 15 birds in it. They were all different colours and sizes and the noise was tremendous. Tom wondered if it were legal to have that many birds in the one cage. As they approached the cage the birds became calm and quiet and just the odd twitter was heard.

"Hello my darlings," she said. "How are we all today?"

Tom looked at them all. There was something strange about the way they were all just so quiet, almost hypnotized by their keeper.

"Do you like my birds?" she asked turning to Tom. "I've been collecting them for quite some time. They're such a pleasure to look at. My family has been doing this for generations you know."

"They're lovely," he lied. Tom had never been one for birds, there was just something about them that unnerved him, probably the smell of bird shit and the beady little eyes. "Where did they all come from?"

"Oh, just around. You know how it is with us old folks, we don't quite remember everything. That's my latest addition to my family," she said pointing to a plump grey and white bird huddled in the back corner of the cage.

"He's very nice. Is he frightened of the others?" Tom asked her.

"They're all like that at first, but after a while, they become accustomed to what they are and then they join the crowd."

"I see," said Tom but didn't quite understand what the old woman was talking about. They were birds, and birds are just birds. Maybe she had meant to say where they are, but she seemed a bit nutty anyway, so he just ignored it. As a police officer, he had learned to try not to offend anybody until he got the information required and in the case of Ursula Flynne, she probably wouldn't remember what she had said five minutes ago.

"Shall we go and have the tea? I'm sure it will be just right by now."

He escorted her back into the house and through a small kitchen. The black and white tiles on the floor were worn from the back door to the hallway from foot traffic. Tom carried the tray which held a teapot covered with a brightly knitted cosy, two cups and saucers, a small jug filled with what looked like milk, and a sugar basin overflowing with sweet white cubes. He placed it carefully on a small oval table that was polished in such a way that you could see your own reflection.

"Would you like to pour my dear?" she asked, sitting in a chair and nodding towards the tea tray.

"Sure. How do you like your tea Mrs Flynne?" Tom asked, joining the game.

"I like my tea with a little milk and two lumps, and my name is Ursula. You can call me Ursula. Mrs Flynne is just so formal. You're quite young aren't you and different to the bobbies that were around when I was a lass. They all had grey hair and moustaches."

"I'm in my mid-twenties twenties," he informed her. "Now I wanted to ask you about the van parked outside of your home."

"Oh, my goodness, I've forgotten the biscuits." Ursula struggled out of the chair and made a beeline for the kitchen returning with a plate of freshly baked biscuits and placed it on the table urging him to take one. "I remember the young man who owns that van. He came here to fix some wiring. These old places are renowned for loose wiring and I think it was Monday. I remember him though. He had that nice grey uniform on, not a bit like yours. It's blue, isn't it? He was plump too and rather short."

"So, he was here on Monday. Do you know what he did when he left?" he asked her. She looked tired; her brown eyes watery like she was almost about to cry, and age spots dotted her wrinkled skin. "Did he say where he was going when he left here?"

"I'm not sure. You haven't touched your tea. It will be getting cold. Would you like a biscuit?" Ursula offered him the plate with the biscuits on. They did smell delicious. He took one and had a taste. Nice.

"Do you like them? My birds like them."

"They're very nice, thank you." The biscuits were like nothing anything he had ever tasted before. There were all types of dried fruit and grain in them and they had a sort of nutty flavour.

"Please, have another," she insisted.

Tom reached for another biscuit before he had finished his last swallow. The taste lingered in his mouth. He took a bite of the second biscuit. Delicious.

"Now," she said. "Back to that nice young electrician that you're looking for, his car is still outside of my house. When did you say he was going to come and get it?"

"I didn't," he replied with a mouth full of biscuit. Tom swallowed and took a sip of tea. His heart began beating faster. Maybe he was eating too quickly. "That's why I'm here. Nobody knows what happened to him and this was the last place he was seen. Do you know where he went after leaving here? Did he say anything about any other work that he had to do in the area?"

"Now, let me think." Ursula paused and gazed at the officer. He was a very handsome young man. His dark hair was shiny and neat, and his eyes were a nice cornflower blue. He would do just nicely. "That young man was here for quite some time you know. I liked him very much. He had tea and biscuits with me just like you. He didn't mention that he had any work to do after my loose wiring. He liked my biscuits. I don't remember his name though."

"His name was Graham Everton, but that isn't important. What we need to establish is whether he met with an accident. Did you notice anybody prowling around outside on Monday?" Tom asked taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. It was quite warm in the room. The old woman must have the bloody heater on. Typical.

"I certainly did not, young man. This isn't the type of area where people prowl. Our neighbourhood is very respectable and there's nothing untoward going on around here. Where did you say you were from Bobby?"

"My name's Tom and I'm from the other side of town," he explained between bites of a third biscuit. "What's in these biscuits?"

"Oh, a little of this and a little of that. The recipe's been in my family for generations. It's a secret. If I gave it out to everybody who asked, nobody would come and visit now would they Bobby?"

Tom finished the biscuit and grabbed another. He didn't care what Ursula called him now, he just couldn't get enough of her biscuits. If he could just get the recipe. He wondered if she had it written down somewhere. Maybe they could issue a search warrant and he could look until he found it. No, that was silly. Nobody would issue a search warrant for a biscuit recipe. Tom's skin began to itch.

"Would you like more tea?" she asked him, as he finished the biscuit and took another from the plate.

"Yes please," he nodded. Tom ate the biscuit greedily. He took another and then another and kept on this way until there were none left on the plate.

"I'm afraid you've eaten the last of them and I won't be baking anymore until tomorrow," she explained.

"Oh, I'm sorry. How greedy of me," Tom apologized scratching his arm. "It's funny you know; I almost feel as though I could take a nap right now."

"That's my biscuits for you. They have that effect on people. It won't be long now, and you'll be just right."

Tom felt the room start to spin slowly. He tried to get up but couldn't. Every muscle started aching and when he tried to ask what the hell was going on, the noise that escaped his lips was squeaky and peculiar. The blue flowers on the wallpaper looked as though they were melting and running down the walls. Nice old Ursula Flynne must have poisoned him with her delicious biscuits. He closed his eyes slowly and lost consciousness.

********

When Tom Blackman awoke, he felt strange. A foul but familiar smell and the sound of twittering filled the air. He remembered talking to Ursula Flynne and eating her biscuits and then something weird had happened. It was all coming back to him now. The room had melted. He opened his eyes slowly and everything looked fuzzy. He tried to focus. Vertical stripes that resembled bars had replaced the blue flowers of the wallpaper like he was in a prison cell. He heard footsteps and two people approached, but they were on the other side of what looked like a cage door. Terror suddenly took over when he realised exactly where he was.

"So, you're finally awake," Ursula said to him through the bars. "This is my granddaughter Ann. She likes birds. Ann this is the newest member of our bird family. I call him Bobby."

When the Water Runs Blue

This is a true story. I heard it from a friend, who heard it from her cousin's neighbour's aunt, whose friend lived in another country and knew the woman the story is about.

There was something odd about the fountain at the Golden Sunset Retirement Village. Kitty stared suspiciously at the water which appeared to have turned blue overnight. Perhaps they had installed lights or added some dye to the feature. "Look at the water Herb."

An elderly man sitting on a fold-up stool looked up from the canvas on the easel in front of him. "It's very nice," he said going back to his painting and ignoring the fountain.

"I know, but the water looks as though it's blue today," Kitty explained as Herb painted away. "Would you look at it properly Herb."

Herb looked at the fountain again. She was right. Surrounded by the walls of green foliage that formed a box-hedge maze, stretching back to the main building of the retirement village, blue water spurted from the fountain. "Well I never," he said and got up from where he was sitting. Approaching the feature, he took a closer look. "That's clever that is. I wonder how they did it."

Kitty joined her friend but felt quite puzzled about the water. Anyway, she stepped forward and reached out her hand plunging it into the peculiar cascading liquid. The crooked arthritic fingers of the elderly woman could still be seen clearly through the running water, but there was definitely a blue tinge to it. "Perhaps somebody put something in it."

Thinking no more about it, they packed up their art kits and slowly headed back through the hedged maze to the dining hall they shared with other residents. Dinner would be ready soon. The usual food smells wafted through the corridors from the large industrial kitchen and both Kitty and Herb headed straight for the large dining room, with the rectangular tables which seated six. Sitting in their usual places they waited for the food to be served up. The midday meal was normally hot with some sort of soft pudding to follow. Later in the afternoon, the residents were given tea and cake and there was a sandwich for supper. On today's menu, shepherd's pie, carrots and peas, and the pudding was sticky toffee. Kitty enjoyed the meals. Especially when she didn't have to cut any of the food up. Her hands weren't what they used to be. Arthritis had crippled them, and she struggled to do a lot of things. The pain, sometimes accompanied by a tremor, interrupted her daily activities and Kitty would do anything just to turn back time for a few weeks.

Not all the rooms of the buildings in the home were shared, the residents all had their own ensuite apartments to sleep in, but there was no cooking allowed in the private areas due to fires starting from forgotten pans left on burners. They all ate their meals in one communal dining room. The recreation room was also shared. Games and books were kept neatly on shelves and there was a television for those who liked to doze off while watching an old movie. A card game was always in progress and in the background the buzz of chatter was constant.

Kitty preferred the outdoors and spent a lot of time out on the grounds with her friend Herb. They had a lot in common and both of them had lost their loved ones prior to entering the village. After the midday meal, the place was usually quiet as a lot of the residents napped for an hour or so in the afternoon. Today, however, Kitty didn't feel as though she needed the usual nap and took a stroll in the garden instead. It was odd for her not to have an afternoon nap and as a result of skipping it knew that she would start nodding off in front of the television around seven that night. But when eight thirty came, feeling slightly puzzled, she sat up in bed reading a book. It was after ten when she finally nodded off and Kitty slept until six in the morning.

All the residents rose early, elderly people tend to do that. Breakfast was served at eight on the dot and after taking a shower and getting dressed, she headed to the dining room for the usual cereal and soft-boiled egg. There was a bounce in her step that morning which wasn't normally there, but Kitty didn't complain. For some reason, she felt younger than she had in a long time.

After gathering their painting supplies, Kitty and Herb went out into the sunshine to carry on where they had left off the day before.

"How are the old hands today?" Herb asked her as he set up his easel and chair.

Kitty opened and then curled her fingers a few times, they weren't as stiff as usual, but the day was warm, and she had experienced this many a time before. The arthritis was much worse when the weather turned cold. As she sat at her easel, she looked at the fountain, the water was still blue. They must have added something to colour it permanently. Kitty thought it was a nice touch.

After painting for a while, Herb stood up and put his hands on the back of his hips. "I'm a bit stiff today. I could do with a drink of water though. Did you bring one?"

Kitty looked in her pack. "No, just get one from the fountain. I'm sure that a mouthful won't hurt you." Feeling a little thirsty herself, Kitty stood and went to the fountain with him. Cupping her hands, she filled them with the cool blue liquid and slurped it down. Instantly she felt refreshed. "Try it Herb, it tastes really clean and it's cool and refreshing."

Herb tried the water and then wiped his chin on the back of his sleeve. It certainly did the trick and the two went back to their painting. "I hope there's something decent on the menu today," he said as they packed up to head inside. His back was feeling better and as they went into the dining hall, Herb felt a vigour that he hadn't known for quite some time. "I feel fantastic," he said to Kitty as they sat beside each other at the table.

"For some reason, I do too," she told him. "Perhaps it's all of that lovely sunshine."

They didn't think much more about it and after lunch, both headed off to their rooms for the usual afternoon kip. Once again, Kitty couldn't sleep. Restlessly, she tossed and turned. She wondered where the new energy she suddenly felt was coming from. The doctors hadn't changed her medication and feeling slightly defeated, she decided lying there was a waste of time and once again headed out into the sunshine.

The extensive grounds of the retirement village were beautifully kept, and the lush green lawns had been trimmed to perfection. Beds filled with colourful floral arrangements decorated the compound and large horse chestnut trees added shaded areas where tables had been constructed for enjoying the outdoors. The maze had been there a very long time and Pete, the gardener, made sure there wasn't a leaf out of place on the square-shaped hedges. Kitty wandered confidently through the maze, a path she had taken hundreds of times. She knew the way through with her eyes closed. A noise reached her as she neared the clearing which was home to the fountain. The sound of laughter. But who would be out here at this time of the day? Everybody was asleep. The sight that greeted her was unbelievable. Kitty rubbed her eyes, closed them, and then opened them again. There were girls in the fountain, but not just everyday girls, ethereal looking creatures with garments that looked as though they were made from water. Long wavy locks adorned their angelic heads and they splashed around in the fountain laughing and enjoying the calmness of the day. The sight was surreal. Perhaps she really was asleep after all.

As Kitty approached quietly they looked up at her. "Hello," she said uncertain whether or not she was seeing things.

"Hello," one of them said confidently. "Do you mind if we play in your fountain?"

Kitty moved closer to the water feature still in slight disbelief. "No, be my guest," she said. "But I was just wondering who you are?"

"We are the water nymphs that take care of the fountain of youth," the one who had spoken before explained. She seemed as though she was the leader of the three, and the other two ignored Peggy's presence and continued to play. "Have you heard of it?"

Kitty couldn't believe the conversation she was having. Water nymphs? The fountain of youth? Were these things real or had she slipped into some sort of delusion? Perhaps that was it, she must be asleep in her bed and dreaming. Finally finding her voice, Kitty answered. "Yes, but is this really the fountain of youth?"

"For the moment. We move it around," the nymph whispered loud enough for Kitty to hear. "That way everybody gets a share."

"So, if I drink the water here I'll get younger?" Kitty asked suddenly coming to a realisation.

"Drink it, touch it, bathe in it, the water has magical powers," the nymph disclosed. "But it doesn't last forever unless you're a water nymph in charge of it. You might feel younger for a while, but it wears off eventually. The reason we stay so young is because we look after the water and take it from place to place."

"This explains a lot," Kitty murmured. "Are you staying in the fountain for long?"

"We usually stay for a few days and then move on to somewhere else," the nymph told her as she gracefully cupped her hands and filled them with the liquid to quench her thirst.

Kitty suddenly had an idea. "It was nice to meet you all," she said, as she left the fountain and hurried back to her room. Sitting alone watching the small television in the corner, she thought carefully about the water and the way she felt. If she put some in a bottle and took a little drink every now and then, she would feel like she did now for a long time. But what would happen when she ran out? Was it better not to do this? Kitty dismissed the thought. Anything was better than having the pain she experienced in her hands, even if it was for a short time. Another difficulty she faced was revealing the secret of the fountain. Should she tell anybody else? What if they thought she was crazy and started giving her pills for insanity. She could tell Herb, he might believe her, but Kitty didn't want to take a chance. This was something she would keep to herself.

Returning to the fountain, she discovered the nymphs were gone and she was completely alone. Kitty filled a plastic bottle with the blue water. She cupped her hands together and took a few good slurps of the enchanted elixir and held her hands under the running water for a few minutes. The blue colour must have something to do with the nymphs and the fact that it was the fountain of youth. Kitty knew while the water still had the colour running through it, the medicinal properties were still available.

Hiding the bottle at the back of the wardrobe in her room, she figured that she had enough to keep her youthful for a few months at least. Perhaps two bottles would have been better. Tomorrow she would take another empty bottle to the fountain and fill that too.

Up with the sun, Kitty decided to go for a walk before breakfast. Taking an empty water bottle with her, she planned to detour past the fountain and fill it. As she near the water feature the truth became apparent. The water nymphs had moved on and the water ran crystal clear. The blue tint had disappeared, and it was obvious it was back to normal. Kitty took a drink from the fountain, even the taste was different, sort of metallic and dirty. That was it then, luckily, she had the good sense to fill a bottle the day before.

Daily, she would take a sip of the precious water with its magical properties and Kitty began to feel like a girl in her fifties. Spritely was one of the words she used to describe herself now. The doctors and staff at the facility were astounded and wondered what had happened to make the effects of time reverse the way they had. Kitty was a medical phenomenon. She started to panic. How would she explain this without giving away her secret? The bottle was almost empty, and her own small fountain of youth would soon dry up. She downed the last of the blue liquid feeling slightly sad she would soon return to the old ways. The arthritis and the tiredness that had disappeared would once again plague her. Kitty would become everything she was trying not to be, old. But while she still could, she intended to make the most out of the blessings she had. The walking turned to a slow jog and feeling much healthier, she enlisted the help of a yoga instructor. Although Kitty knew the time was drawing near, giving up wasn't an option for her. The way she felt now was so much better than she had prior to the youthful tonic and if she just could hold on to a fragment, then not having the fountain water wouldn't matter as much.

It didn't take much for her friends to join in. There were so many people who found her an inspiration and although yoga was difficult for some, they did what they could. Walking instead of napping in the afternoon soon became the norm for most and Kitty found herself pioneering a revolution.

"So, what's your secret," Herb asked one afternoon when the two were sitting at their easels painting.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about Herb," Kitty hedged, she didn't want to tell him about her meeting with the water nymphs and the fountain of youth.

"I'm talking about you suddenly getting very physical and running rings around the rest of us. And those hands of yours, how is it that they're suddenly much better?" he asked.

Kitty looked around, there was nobody near, so she decided to reveal the secret of the fountain. Herb listened to the story of the water creatures Kitty had met and the mysterious blue water and how she had filled a bottle which was now empty. "I expect I should have told you Herb, but I wasn't sure if you would believe me. I suppose I'll go back to how I was before now that I don't have any of the water left."

"It would have been nice to know, but you had your reasons, and you're right about me not believing. I'm not sure if I do now. But Kitty, there's nothing wrong with the way you were before," Herb expressed sincerely.

"Thank you, Herb," Kitty said tearfully, feeling a little relieved at having shared her secret.

Slowly but surely, Kitty began to feel herself deteriorate. Slipping back into the old ways wasn't an option and she wished she had more bottles of the miracle elixir. Aching, she drew a bath for herself and slowly lowered herself into the steaming water. Before Kitty's eyes, the water began to turn blue and reflected in the water was the face of the nymph who had danced in the fountain. A smile and a wink and then she was gone, and the bath returned to normal. For a few weeks after that vision in the bath, she felt as though the clock had been turned back again.

It wasn't the last visit Kitty received from the nymph and she continued the exercise regime with vigour and encouragement for as long as she could. A dedicatory building was erected when she passed away. A gymnasium equipped for those in their twilight years with a picture of the pioneer and a plaque in her honour.

As for the fountain of youth, the story's true. So, stop what you're doing and look around. You just never know when the water might just run blue and you might find it. I heard it from a friend, who heard it from her cousin's, neighbour's aunt, whose friend lived in another country.......

Roses Forever

Once, in a far-off kingdom that existed in someone's imagination, a mythical garden that had never been seen, but spoken of throughout the land, flaunted a magical flower. A flower that was the emblem of the beautiful but wicked Queen Mariella, the black rose. Aromatic and potent, the scent of the black rose hovered in the air above the bushes like a petrified cloud, afraid to float out into the atmosphere. Its medicinal properties were said to be able to cure any ailment and the rose was possibly the most sought-after flower in all the land.

High, grey-stone, walls encrusted with moss, surrounded the castle. Stillness encased the property and from the exterior, one could be mistaken for thinking the castle vacant. According to legend, a crystal throne was the preferred seat of the beautiful Queen Mariella, ruler of the realm and the keeper of the black roses. Nobody could penetrate the castle unless invited and rarely did she send out an invitation.

Shielded by a host of majestic oak trees coated with the bark of ages, the castle sat in the centre of the valley. Slopes of bluebells glistened with the morning dew as the mist evaporated to make way for the sun that edged its way into the cloudless sky. Creatures scurried through scrub and undergrowth hunting or running for their lives. Twittering birds joined in chorus creating the anthem of the forest, and it all went undisturbed.

In another part of the kingdom sat a thriving community. Hustle and bustle greeted those who wandered into the village and the small houses and markets fringed another castle. This particular castle was honest and open and there were no secret flowers growing within its boundaries. Home to the honourable King Aram and his virtuous Queen Cliona, and the gracious Princess Heather, admired by townsfolk for their courteous nature.

Within the walls of a modest bakery in the centre of the market place, an impatient boy sat waiting for the bread to bake. Morning after morning it was the same thing, but Darcio, the son of the baker, had another ambition. Singing was his true passion, not baking bread. The heat from the oven made him drowsy and he longed for excitement, for the adventure that seemed to pass him by daily. Knights on their mounts with shiny armour and glistening swords rode by the bakery on their way to quests outside the walls of the city. He yearned to wander throughout the kingdom playing his mandolin and singing his songs to anybody who might wish to listen. But no, his father wanted him to stay true to the family tradition and bake bread – forever. Finally, after waiting for ages and nodding off a few times, the warm bread was ready for delivery, another one of Darcio's daily tasks. This was one he didn't mind though. Out in the streets with the basket of warm bread for the palace, he hummed a tune he had created in his head earlier. Perhaps someone would hear him and hire him as a minstrel to accompany them on a quest. But the occasion never arose and daily he continued with the dull routine bestowed upon him by his father.

The castle drawbridge was always down and although it was easy to cross, there were knights on either side that scrutinized everybody who tried to enter through the gates. Many a quest had been thwarted by those who stood for the king, and their bodies lay at the bottom of the deep moat. Darcio was never stopped, some of the knights even gave him a wink as he carried the bread into the castle. A vast entrance hall with a floor of shining porcelain tiles welcomed him and the staff who attended the royal family smiled as he made his way to the kitchen, always through the front entrance, like royalty.

After delivering the bread, Darcio left by a door which led out into a garden and picked an apple from the tree. Reaching up as always, he grabbed at the fruit until he secured his prize, plucking it from the branch and wiping it with the dark baker's apron he wore.

"Who are you?" a voice asked.

Turning, Darcio saw her and immediately knew her face. "I'm Darcio, the son of the village baker," he replied bowing low and averting his eyes.

"Rise baker's son and look at me," she urged.

Princess Heather had a kind face and Darcio smiled at her. He noticed she looked at the apple in his hand and quickly he hid it behind his back.

"Don't hide it. I like apples too. Come and sit by the well with me," she invited.

Darcio sat with the princess by the well and took a bite of his apple. He offered it to Heather who politely declined.

"What are you doing here? Did you come to steal our fruit?" she asked him.

Suddenly he felt nervous, but Darcio knew he hadn't done anything wrong. "I bring the bread up from the bakery each day. They let me have an apple in return," he explained.

"I didn't know you visited the palace every day. If I had I would have spent more time out here in the garden. Is it the same time each day?" she asked him.

"Mostly. We bake the bread at the same time every morning and I always bring it while it's warm. So, I suppose you could say I'm here at the same time each day."

"Well, maybe I'll be in the garden tomorrow," she said smiling.

She had a pretty smile and as Darcio walked from the garden that day he sang a new song to himself.

Life is good to those who are good, and Princess Heather was in the garden waiting for Darcio the following day when he picked his apple. A friendship was born, and as it grew, the two learned more about each other. Heather knew Darcio loved to sing and Darcio knew Heather loved to listen to him sing and so he sang to her on every visit and they grew fonder of each other as the days finished and began again. Until one day when she didn't show. Confused, Darcio picked his apple and left thinking the princess may have had some sort of prior engagement, but when she didn't show again the following day, he started to worry.

That afternoon a proclamation was made. The princess had been taken ill and there was no cure for what ailed her. Whispers went from person to person in the village. Nobody knew exactly what the illness was and how she had contracted it.

"Fetch the apothecary," the king insisted. Feeling helpless as his daughter slept, the king paced the room feverishly, frantic over the mystery ailment.

In the four-poster bed with fluffed pillows and covered with thick luxurious quilts, lay the princess. Her beautiful long hair flowed like a river of gold against the blue satin of the soft furnishings that adorned the bed.

The apothecary completed a thorough examination. "I have some bad news, your majesty," he said gravely. "Princess Heather has contracted a disease common with teenagers. It keeps them in bed and they spend most of the time sleeping. However, there is a cure."

King Aram was beside himself with grief. "Anything, I'll spare no expense for my beautiful daughter."

The apothecary braced himself for the king's wrath. "The first cure is one that is not very successful, but if she perhaps found some part-time employment within the village, it would encourage her to get up out of bed and she may overcome the illness."

"Out of the question," the king shouted, red in the face from anger at the thought of the princess working. "Next."

"I can make her a potion to help her get well again, but I need the black rose and the paw of the beaverick," the apothecary said.

"So, it shall be. Gather the villagers. I need a volunteer to ride to the castle of Queen Mariella for the rose and there must be a hunt for the beaverick," the king announced.

The villagers were gathered in front of the steps of the castle and waited for the king's announcement. Murmurs arose from the crowds as they were anxious to know what the king was about to say.

"Attention," bellowed King Aram. Queen Cliona stood beside him sniffing into a handkerchief. "For goodness sake will you stop your snivelling," he insisted, looking at his wife. "You're an embarrassment."

Cliona looked at the king and burst into tears running into the castle.

"As you all may know, my daughter is unable to get out of bed," Aram announced ignoring his wife. "I'm looking for volunteers. Firstly, to hunt the beaverick and secondly to secure a black rose from Queen Mariella's garden."

A gasp went up from the crowd.

A brave knight stepped forward. "I'll hunt the beaverick."

"I'll hunt the beaverick too," said another knight joining his brother.

Before too long a large posse had gathered to hunt the beaverick, but there were no volunteers to fetch the black rose from the castle of the wicked queen. The king looked perplexed, the potion wouldn't work without the black rose and it looked as though nobody was willing to take on the quest.

Noticing the king's look of despair, Darcio stepped forward. "I will fetch the black rose from the castle of the wicked Queen Mariella."

Laughter erupted from the crowd.

"Silence," shouted the king.

"If it pleases your majesty, I would be honoured to bring back the black rose."

"Maybe it's the princess's heaving bosom that makes the baker's son so eager to help," said one of the knights.

"Your majesty, I know nothing of your daughter's heaving bosom. I'm just a boy with a friend who needs his help," Darcio told the king.

"I admire your valour," the King said. "If you fulfil your obligation, I will grant you one request. You shall go forth with my finest horse and some bread and cheese."

The baker – a widower, was very proud of his son, but running the bakery alone would be quite difficult. "Now, I want you to listen to me son. The Queen Mariella has magic. She wears a petrified black rose around her neck for protection. Be careful Darcio, the wicked queen can transform into any creature she likes. Be brave and don't show fear, if you do, you will surely perish."

Thanking his father, he took one last look around the bakery that been his prison until now and headed for the palace to choose his mount. Darcio agreed, and on a fine palomino with the gold crest of the palace emblazoned on his new tunic, he set off on his quest to fetch the black rose. The sun set twice before Darcio arrived at the valley of no return. The bread and cheese he was given to eat along the way were tasty, but it was an apple he craved the most. Drinking from a stream he wished for a tree with the shiny red fruit he ate daily.

As he approached the castle of the black rose an eeriness came over him and Darcio suddenly thought carefully about what he was doing. The stories of wicked Queen Mariella stuck in his head. Sitting just in sight of the castle walls, he ran over his options in his mind. She had magic, he had none. She could transform into anything, he was just a boy. But a boy with the gift of a singsong voice and the knowledge of how to use it. Perhaps he could defeat her after all. Once on his way again, Darcio began to sing.

Behind the walls of the castle, the queen sat gazing upon her beauty in the surface of a pond. Floating through the air came the voice of a minstrel. It reached her ears with a melodious kiss and drew her from the reflection that she admired so readily. Approaching the gate to her grounds her long purple gown flowed behind her like a river of grape juice as she walked quickly along the pathways eager to know the owner of the angelic voice.

His voice did not waiver as Darcio approached the large entrance to the castle and he stayed strong thinking of Princess Heather. By the side of the iron gates, a rope hung limply from a bell suspended on an iron holder. Pulling the rope tinkled the bell which rang out louder than he expected. Darcio waited and then he saw her. A vision of exquisiteness, she approached as if floating on a cloud and he knew instantly that this beauty was his foe.

The gates opened as if by magic and the queen spoke to him. "Are you the owner of the song I heard?"

"Yes, your majesty," Darcio said. He remembered his father's words and reached inside searching for the courage he hoped was hiding somewhere.

"What brings you to the castle of the black rose minstrel?" she asked him, curious that a boy would be riding through the forest singing.

"If it pleases your majesty, I just need shelter for the night," Darcio managed, hoping she didn't cast some sort of hex on him. Up close her beauty far outshone any flower and even the black rose would pale in comparison, but his heart belonged to his friend and nothing would sway him from the path he had chosen.

"Very well, you can stay for one night if you sing for me minstrel." The queen stepped aside to let him pass.

It felt as though he moved through the entrance to the grounds without even trying. Darcio wondered what sort of magic it was that made a horse move as if it were floating. The gates closed behind him and he felt as though he was trapped, but it was for a good reason and her name was Heather. At that moment, he remembered the advice he had been given about the queen and he could use it to his advantage, all he had to do was trick her, but it clearly wasn't going to be easy.

"Follow me minstrel. Your horse can stay in my stable and you will be my guest in the castle for the evening and sing to me. I will show you where you will sleep tonight, and you will dine with me before you sing. Rest that beautiful voice for now, you will need it later," the queen said as they walked along past the pond where she had looked at her reflection, and past the garden of the rows of bushes that flowered with the black rose.

The chamber Darcio was offered for the night was more luxurious than he had ever imagined a bedroom to be. A large, warm, comfortable bed that was almost cloudlike took up just a fraction of the room. A table with chairs stood by the window and on the table, a bowl of apples. He wondered if she knew more about him than he thought, but apples are apples and these apples were so sweet and juicy he couldn't imagine why he'd ever liked any other. First one, then another and another and as he ate apple after apple, the bowl refilled itself. Feeling a little full, he lay on the soft bed and thought about his quest. Two nights sleeping rough to be rewarded with a bed like he had never known. But he remembered the real reward, the health of the princess he had grown close to.

Dining in the large castle was a daunting quest of its own for Darcio, as the room was enormous. and the long table for the length of the hall. Two places were set at one end. A small feast was laid before them both. Roast chicken with potatoes and beans, dressed with a thick succulent gravy far different than the sauce his father made from a packet. Queen Mariella sliced at the chicken with a touch so delicate that Darcio was unsure how the knife went through the flesh. Keenly, she surveyed it with her dark eyes that were likened to coal. Around her neck hung the necklace Darcio had heard about. The petrified black rose that supposedly gave her the power she used to keep her realm intact. If he could just get that necklace, but how?

After the meal, he stood before Mariella and sang. His voice carried through the castle reaching the far most turret where it escaped through the arched windows into the evening. Song after song was performed for the queen and her delight was apparent.

Exhausted, Darcio returned to his room just before midnight. He slept until the light flooded in through the windows. His mind turned instantly to the job at hand as he opened his eyes. A tray had been brought into the room and left. Under the cloche, a plate of bacon and beans waited, and he tucked in eagerly. There was no bread, but what did it matter, the food was ample, and the bowl of apples was proof of that.

A tour of the grounds filled the morning. The staff were almost invisible, but they were definitely present. Darcio wondered how many there were and how loyal they were to the queen. She seemed very nice, but there was a slight uneasiness about the situation, and he knew to trust his instincts. From the horses in the stables to the cat that smooched up against his legs, the animals were well looked after. He walked with her until they came to the garden with the rows of bushes that hosted the flower he sought. The scent filled the air and nothing sweeter was known. That was the trophy he contested for and as they walked in the sunshine, he conjured a picture in his mind, a picture of the strategy to secure the rose and return to his home.

Another evening passed and Darcio was once more the queen's guest. Again, they dined together, and he sang for her as payment for his bed. This went on for quite some time and days turned to weeks, weeks to months and months to years. As time passed, Darcio the baker's son forgot the reason he was in the castle and spent his days enjoying life.

"Do you like my garden," Queen Mariella asked one afternoon when they were appreciating the sunshine and the fragrant black rose.

"Your garden in wondrous and the black rose more fragrant than any I have ever known," Darcio told her. "They seem to bloom all year round though."

"It's a spell," the queen said. "An enchantment to make sure I have roses forever."

He adjourned to his suite and thought about the roses. What had she said? Roses forever. Something stirred in his memory, the reason he was there. Something about roses forever, forever, for Heather. Roses for Heather. The Princess Heather, his friend. How could he have forgotten her? The black rose and what was the other thing? The paw of the beaverick. Darcio searched his mind for a way to get both and before the evening meal was served, he had come up with a plot.

Roast chicken and potatoes filled the dining hall with a delicious aroma and Darcio sat at the table with the confidence that he required to gain possession of both the beaverick and the rose.

Before singing for the queen, Darcio cleared his throat and set his plan in action. "I've always wondered about your magical ability."

"Go on," she said, intrigued by his sudden urge for conversation.

"Is it true you can change into anything you wish?" he asked her, trying to sound as casual as he could.

"Yes, would you like to see?" she asked him. Darcio had never been interested in her magic before and she was eager to show off her power.

"Can you turn into a beaverick?" he asked her.

She stood before him and muttered some sort of incantation that instantly began to change her shape. The small animal sat on the floor before him. Quickly he snatched the necklace from the beaverick and stabbed the beast with the carving knife. Lifting the creature by the tail, he stuffed it into a sack and ran to the stable. Jumping on his horse he galloped through the grounds to the garden of the black rose. Darcio didn't even stop, reaching down he grabbed at a bush and pulled it from the ground, roots and all. Out of the castle yard and through the gates he went. The horse didn't give up and Darcio didn't want it too. He rode until he could see the village with the small bakery he had known all his life. Through the streets to the gates of the castle. Across the drawbridge and into the yard he went, not stopping until he had reached the entrance he was more than familiar with. Alighting from his mount, he leapt up the steps and strode proudly into the majestic building, up the stairs and into the room where the princess lay fast asleep.

The apothecary prepared the medicine required to bring the princess out of her stupor, I mean slumber. She opened her eyes and there was her father and beside him, her friend. Darcio took her hand thankful she was going to be all right now, and maybe a little more active.

A ball was held in Darcio's honour and everybody from the small village was invited. There was music and dancing, but best of all, his best friend was smiling and laughing.

The king clapped his hands together and a hush fell over the crowd. "Darcio, step forward," he boomed.

Quietly, Darcio stepped forward and stood before the king. The gruff look on his face told the boy there was something serious about to be addressed, he hoped it had nothing to do with the apples he had been granted by the kitchen staff years before.

"Darcio, you travelled through the kingdom to the realm of Queen Mariella and brought back the beaverick and the black rose to save my daughter. It took you a long time, but you succeeded. You are, without doubt, the bravest in the land. I will grant you anything your heart desires," the king announced.

"If it pleases your majesty, all I want to do is sing," Darcio told the king.

A look of surprise crossed the king's face. "You mean you don't want to marry my daughter and become a knight?"

Darcio was gobsmacked, Heather was his friend and he'd never even thought about her in that way before. "No, your majesty, I've only ever wanted to sing."

"Well, I'm surprised by your answer, but if all you want to do is sing then your wish is granted," the king said smiling. "Perhaps you could start tonight."

Darcio jumped at the chance. He sang well into the morning as one by one his audience chose sleep over an all-night party. Only when the last of the villagers retired did his singing cease.

I wish I could tell you they all lived happily ever after, but I can't. The baker, not having anybody to help him with the bread deliveries worked himself into an early grave. Princess Heather recovered from her illness but was quite upset that Darcio didn't want to marry her. She ran off with one of her father's knights and they now live in a small run-down caravan with their three children. Apparently being a knight doesn't pay very well and God forbid the princess should work. The king and queen were stricken with grief when their daughter ran off, with one of the more witless knights I might add, and they sold their castle, moved to the Caribbean, and haven't been heard of since. The castle of Queen Mariella was taken over by travellers who converted it to a bed and breakfast for those who enjoy pottery, candle making and tie-dyed clothing. Seemingly, the rooms are quite cheap, and the food is all organic. As for Darcio, he remained single which was the sensible thing to do, sold the bakery for a considerable amount, moved to the city where he started his own record label, and of course, lived happily ever after.

The end!

About the Author

Born in a library, I was raised on literature and fed off the great and masterful writers of classic fiction. Now it's my turn.

After several attempts to have my work published, I'm doing it myself. Residing in the UK, I spend most of my waking hours researching and writing. This is my life and the characters I create are the imaginary world that hooks me in for hours at a time.

This is just a subsection of my work and although I love fantasy and time travel, I'm delving into other genres. Primarily I prefer young adults or early teens literature, but there's always room for growth.

I hope you enjoyed my book as much as I enjoyed writing it, and it would only take a moment of your precious time to leave a rating and a comment on the website you found the book on.

Meanwhile, keep on reading!

Sandra Maggs

Contact

Friend me on Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/sandra.maggs.7

Connect on LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/in/sandra-maggs-b6517532/

Visit my Website - https://sandramaggs.com

Other books by Sandra Maggs

The Gryffon Archives

The Landowner's Secret

The Musician's Betrayal

The Hooper Mysteries

The Mystery of the Cornerstone

The Mystery of Kissing Gate Woods

The Mystery of the Stone Arches

The Mystery of Wicklow Hall

The Mystery of the Vanishing Lake

The Mystery of the Cracked Wall

The Mystery of the Clock Tower

The Bee Line

Hettie Hackwood's Magical Miracle Potion

Scavenger

Ravenous

