

#

'The Tales From The Warren Trilogy'

This

Lonely

Incubus

a mark england novel.

Prologue

THE KINDRED

21st February 1983

Kariz-e mutak, Helmand, Afghanistan : 16th January 2007

1st May 1975

Safed Koh Mountains, Afghanistan : 10th April 2007

Ingoldmells, Skegness, Lincolnshire : 13th August 1980

Ingoldmells, Skegness, Lincolnshire : 17th August 1980

Safed Koh Mountains, Afghanistan : 13th April 2007

19th April 1981

Somewhere Over Afghanistan : 13th April 2007

2nd May 1981

Royal Centre for Defence Medicine, Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Selly Oak, Birmingham : 18th April 2007

In The Waiting State

29th July 1981

The Waiting State

6th November 1983

25th November 1983

22nd January 1984

14th May 1984

28th July 1984

The Waiting State

21st September 1984

The Waiting State

Phang Nga Province, Thailand : 31st December 2004

Karatsu, Kyushu, Japan : 16th May 2005

27th February 1986

28th February 1986

9th March 1986

10th March 1986

21st June 1986

22nd June 1986

7th August 1986 : Reprise

THE BEAST

Basra, Iraq : 21st October 2005

Karatsu, Kyushu, Japan : 26th November 2005

Nagasaki, Japan : 17th December 2005

The Waiting State

6th July 1987

2nd December 1975

4th September 1976

20th March 1987

3rd January 1990

15th January 1990

30th January 1990

1st February 1990

23rd March 1990

10th August 1990

27th August 1990

28th August 1990

Amsterdam, The Netherlands : 18th September 1990

4th February 1991

20th February 1991

Whitby, North Yorkshire : 15th June 2006

Whitby, North Yorkshire : 3rd July 2006

Whitby, North Yorkshire : 4th July 2006

The Waiting State

3rd December 1993

23rd August 1994

24th March 1995

Lucknow Barracks, Tidworth, Wiltshire : 23rd August 1995

30th August 1995

31st August 1995

29th September 1995

The Waiting State

Khao Lak, Phang Nga Provence, Thailand : 9th December 2006

The Waiting State

Uzarji Varos, Bosnia : 14th May 1996

Colchester Garrison, Essex : 18th October 1997

Skopje, Macedonia : 6th June 1999

10th March 2007

The Waiting State

Costa Adeje, Tenerife : 31st December 1999

The Waiting State

Fallujah, Iraq : 18th November 2003

Birmingham Airport : 20th April 2007

The Waiting State / Royal Centre for Defence Medicine, Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Selly Oak, Birmingham : 18th April 2007

About the author

Mark England has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

to be the author of this work.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Registered with the IP Rights Office Copyright Registration Service – 1079605830

First published in 2012 by scrutter publications ©

Cover Photography kindly provided by, and the Copyright of

Duncan Daniel

www.englands-glory.com

twitter.com/alonelyincubus

To David & Patricia, who throughout the demands and tests of life, despite its inexplicable pitfalls, have remained strong and with a resolute dignity and unity to provide an ocean full of love.

Flawless parents who most would wish for, who I will gratefully admire, eternally.

I owe you everything.

And with a knowing wink to Sarah, my anchor and my literary inspiration, with whom without I would have downed the pen long before now.

Much love.

THIS

LONELY

INCUBUS

## Prologue

Confusion surrounding his plight suppressed any fears that lay quietly dormant on his front.

In this dustbowl of cruelty he had no time for thoughts of terror and apprehension; he needed to concentrate on just being able to breathe throughout the mental chaos.

The nostrils from his prominent nose flared wildly from an exhaustive workload and occasionally he'd gag from the weight that nudged reluctantly against his oropharynx. It made his eyes well with tears: tears from the agony, from the frustration, and for his uncertain future.

He set on scuffed knees in the old magnesium limestone quarry that was long since robbed of its treasure. A silence weighed on them all, like an intense power from the collection of planets and stars that strung together in the crystal night's sky beyond them. Long gone now the raucous bustle of sharp, leathered souls and the working noise of impatient machinery; long gone the blasted mass of magnesium limestone, via the rail line that kissed the circumference of the yawning pit of vast emptiness like a necklace against a ladies flesh.

This dumping ground of robbed and torched automobiles, worn furniture pieces and pinched shopping trolleys, a playground of youth and curiosity, now a hollow of inexplicable malevolence.

The great network of coal rail lines that had weaved their way across this once mighty coalfield belt would soon slow to relative idleness. On a still night when coal was king you could listen from a sack of dread to the soothing rhythmic rumble of the coal train in the distance, shipping its prized load to a hungry nation in the long, black silent dead of night. It was a thing of calm; a temporary alleviation from the night demons that preyed upon the bedtime mercies of young boys or girls.

Tonight that same rail line from Shirebrook to Sherwood sat helpless and unaccommodating, peering from its aloof perch down upon this scene of wickedness; perilously atop of its stained cliff face of dimmed pinks and oranges that did dance wildly from the mischief of the gingerly set fire. The bouncing shadows emphasized these players, chronicling the roles that they all played: innocently, helplessly and menacingly.

It was nineteen eighty-six and coal was struggling to breathe. Clinging to life like a cat in a bag and gasping for air in a lonely, unloving place.

Just the same as Paul Cable.

# THE  
KINDRED

"There'll be two dates on your tombstone. And all your friends will read 'em. But all that's gonna matter is that little dash between 'em."

- Kevin Welch (American Country Music Artist)

## 21st February 1983

It excited his heart and buoyed his spirits. This was a ritual for the boy.

On each school day at 12:47 it was the same.

He would take up position five minutes beforehand and wait for her. Usually in the stale darkened passageway that linked their terraced house with that of the Johnston's at number 73; though sometimes from behind the safe veil of the net-curtained bedroom window of his parents room - though only when he was alone in the house.

He had always managed to suppress his desire to wait for her out in the street each and every lunchtime and knew he could so easily appear to be overly keen. Keen enough for her to cut through the allotment off of Cinnamon Street and to miss out his road entirely if she'd wished. It would be a longer way to school for her, but one he felt sure that she would take if she felt that he was becoming a bothersome nuisance.

He was the reserved mouse of their class that hid unnoticed, observing. He'd assumed that his own innocence and his notable lack of bravado had reassured her quizzical mind that he was no threat to her. Indeed, they seemed to bring out certain pleasantries in one another. This side of the school gates, they enjoyed lazy conversation and cute jokes. It mattered little to him that once within them she would largely choose to ignore him. He understood his standing and was at peace with his feelings surrounding her blatant reluctance to acknowledge him once beyond the threshold of those gunmetal grey wrought iron school railings that sought to continually threaten the vulnerable sky with their terrorizing jabs.

Nobody would understand their relationship anyhow. For a relationship was how he perceived their seven minute walks to school - eight on an icy day with snow under foot, like today. And he had no doubts whatsoever that when they were older, they would be together. He was a boy with a severe lack of confidence, but something in his gut confided in him that this would eventually be. The thought had aided him greatly so far at St Matthews. What else was there at the place other than Louise Young?..And cross country? And even though she was by far the most popular girl in the year, his belief in this destiny had never wavered.

His ears were blanketed by the orange foamed earphones of the Walkman that was his pride and joy. He knew he wasn't supposed to take it to school, but he couldn't resist. Louise had been impressed by his Christmas present, although on occasions he'd felt that she would rather walk to school listening to the machine than to him. He didn't care. Just to be in her presence fulfilled his day and enhanced it greatly, and for a few fleeting moments he could escape his wretched life and indulge himself in her angelic companionship. Once inside the classroom and Fatty Brown's double period math's he could sit and linger in daydream about her from his desk beside the scolding hot cast iron radiator with its sharp, cracked gloss paint that he had long begun to strip with the remnants of his nails. Nails ravished until they bled.

Beside the cast radiator was a perfect location to admire her beauty. Her profile illuminated beneath the sweeping, dusted glimmer of the giant sash window; it would bathe her as if that from a spotlight belonging to a grand old West End theatre. Her hand seemed permanently aloft. She was so clever and easily the brainiest kid in class; well, math's anyway. And her displayed skin seemed flawless; hazelnut hair wrapped clean back to a ponytail that would bob as she bounced, exposing the full extent of the delicate oval face and the sprinted dashing of freckles that kissed her fragile neck. A neck that made him feel like dying and going to heaven; like her light-green eyes that became like enchanting saucers whenever Fatty Brown would praise her - or when Stephen Bodice was around.

Her eyes never had that same golden flecked glow whenever he'd been alone with her, but he was working on it, and he'd memorized as much of Crackajoke: 501 Greatest Jokes for Boys as his easily filled mind could store to try and induce that look from her.

Fortunately Crackajoke: 501 Greatest Jokes for Boys had a similar effect on the girls too, though his delivery of them required further patience and practice if he was ever to alight those fiery golden flecks that always seemed so readily available for Bodice.

She emerged from around the corner of the street, arms folded to offer some protection against the cold. The neck that he so savored was hidden beneath a chunky grey woolen scarf that would closely match her St Matthews grey jumper. Her beautiful head was buried under an illuminating pink bonnet and her expelled breath wisped in to the freezing air, eventually losing itself in the atmosphere heavily dominated by the aroma of hops that belched from the assiduous brewery from over a mile away.

He waited until she had reached the horse chestnut tree before he surfaced from behind the passageway door, pretending to ignore her existence as he negotiated the deep crust of snow that yelled its crunch from beneath his Clarks 'sensible' black shoes.

Mum had always insisted on Clarks, but he'd thought they were overrated.

Shoes are shoes after all. He'd have preferred that she'd held back some of the money she spent on them and put them towards some ace trainers that so many of the other lads were wearing.

''Shoes have to last you a whole year.'' She'd tell him through her anguished smile.

She knew that it wasn't what he wanted to hear as he sat sulking on the stool in the store whilst the assistant measured his below average-sized feet. She knew he wanted the trainers like the other lads, but the budget just didn't stretch far enough for that and besides, ''shoes have to last a whole year.''

He never complained; he would remain silent for the rest of the day. He knew how much his mother loved him, and he also knew very much about the budget. He just wanted some ace trainers. His mother's love came a poor second to them, and an easy third to a pair of Clarks.

Halfway over the eerily quiet road, his footing defied him and only the furious scrambling of legs maintained his balance and dignity.

She giggled as she approached and he looked in her direction, displaying embarrassment rather than the mock surprise that he'd meticulously intended.

'Careful Bambi. Or do you prefer the hospital to school?' She smiled. Her cheeks crimson from the elements.

'Not really.' He replied in a fluster. 'You'd think the school boiler would have broken by now, wouldn't you?'

'Normally does don't it?'

'Yeah,..typical that our school doesn't get shut. Loads of others have, my mum reckons.'

She smelt as crisp and fresh as sweet spring blossoms.

He dug in to his Parka pocket and brought out a paper bag of midget gems, a quarter fresh from the Beehive store; consciously acquired solely with Louise in mind from the twenty pence that his grandmother had given him for running an errand.

He offered her the bag and she could take the lot for all he cared, they didn't matter to him at all. All that mattered to him was to please her, and she liked midget gems the best, he'd learnt that.

She popped a couple of red sweets in to her mouth and looked at him. Her arms slung back in to the folded position as she chewed. He sniffed at the very early days in the company of a cold in his nose and sneaked a returning glance in her direction. Even under her heavy winter garments he could admire her real beauty, and even at the tender age of eleven, he recognized a vision of sheer magnificence when it faced him. In the bitterness of this winters day, he could feel himself melting within the boundaries of her irresistible intensity. She seemed to glide across the frozen earth, as he trudged unceremoniously through it. At any moment he expected to be reduced to a useless puddle on the snow covered pavement.

'So what you listening to?' She asked.

He knew full well that the contents of his Walkman would decide whether their conversation would either cease - as she would apprehend the machine - or continue, as she would crease up her deliciously perfect nose.

'It's the top 40,..taped off of the radio.' He told her, being deliberately vague about its contents.

'This week's charts?' She puzzled.

'Yes.' He replied.

'Have you got that Kajagoogoo song?' She sparkled.

'Yes. I have.' He followed.'Oh, I love that song.' She exclaimed excitedly, before quietly bursting in to a few lines of the tune.

'Do you want to listen?'

'Oh. Yes please.' She replied. 'That'd be cool.'

He handed her the machine and she removed her bonnet before wrapping the headphones around her ears. He knew that she loved that song; he'd heard her singing it with her friends in the playground, beside the coal bunker. He'd taped and primed the Walkman precisely on that song to please her. He hated it intensely. He couldn't believe it had knocked Men At Work off number one spot, but if Louise liked it, he'd humour her in to thinking that he thought it was the business.

St Matthews Drive is bordered on either side with red bricked terrace housing. In the centre of it is the middle school, almost hidden away from sight behind the shops that mask its existence. The thick layer of snow had successfully provided the streets normally drab façade with a glistening canvas of purity that hid a wealth of imperfections. Only the bellowing chimneys, spilling out their filthy soot were reminiscent of normality. The boy liked it. He liked it a lot. It made him feel as though reality had been suspended and that the estate was really a place worth living. The few minutes with Louise provided more suspension from the rigors of reality until reaching those gates would force a snap to its abrupt conclusion. She was now lost inside the din of the Walkman, one gloved hand to her ear, the other dangling by her side.

He wanted to hold it. He wanted nothing more than to walk through those satanic gunmetal grey wrought iron gates that he hated so much, hand in hand with Louise Young, for all to see and wonder. That'd show them all.

Once within a hundred yards of the school, he immediately halted, rooted to the spot, the girl continued, oblivious to his pause. From across the street a familiar man had exited a house with a battered council blue door. He stood on the pavement as a woman leaned from the doorway and kissed the man on the lips. She was dressed in a vivid orange dressing gown that was strangely at odds with her disorganized yellow hair. The boy immediately pulled up the hood on his Parka and dipped his head, quickening his pace, eager to catch up with Louise who had continued in her glide up ahead.

He was sure of what he'd seen, but could account no plausible meaning to the scene and for once his musings for his lunchtime consort were washed away in a tide of ill confusion.

Who was that yellow haired lady? He'd never noticed her before, despite traipsing this street daily for as many days as his tender years could recount. He remained a few steps behind Louise and it would only be a matter of seconds before she would hand him back the tape machine and they would part.

She would go her separate way, and he would go his, with their only remaining connection being the classrooms that they'd share.

Abruptly the boy was yanked backwards by an unseen force. The zip from his Parka collar choking at his throat as he was violently dragged; the heels of his Clarks scraped against the snow.

He could see Louise continuing towards the school, her brain encapsulated by the music making melody in her ears. He was unable to shout or scream due to the force against his windpipe.

It was the last thing he saw of her as he yanked in to the alleyway linking St Matthews Drive with the Common to the rear of the houses. His face pushed hard against the harsh wall and his mouth filled with choking dust from a crumbling brick. Feet madly scramble against litter and the broken glass of forgotten ales. An arm tugged and twisted tightly up against his spine whilst a knee in his lower back held him in a submissive position. He quickly sensed the sickly stench of stale tobacco on the breath of his attacker.

It was a smell that he was deeply familiar with. A smell that dwelt in his mind at night, along with his other nightmares.

'You saw nothing. Got it!' Snarls the aggressor.

He nodded silently, his eyes turning to water and his teeth full of sharp grit.

'If a single word of this gets out, I'll know it was you.'

The boy breathed heavily; the man's voice right beside his ear.

'I'm watching you boy.... I'm always watching you.... One day you'll pay for what you've done. Make no mistake about it.... Your numbers up!'

The boys skin is broken; roughed up and scraped against the cold of the wall until pinhole specks surface on his abraded cheek.

'If what you've seen gets back to your mother, I'll cut out your dirty black fuckin tongue and feed it to the Johnston's dog. You get it boy?'

Tears flow down the boys raw face; gliding as swiftly and as surely as Louise Young across the beautiful naked snow.

He opens his mouth and croaks through his pained lips. 'Okay dad.'

## Kariz-e mutak, Helmand, Afghanistan : 16th January 2007

We'd found themselves in an unexpected tight spot here that's for sure, and to be honest it should never have come to this. A quick smash and grab deployment, with little expected need for the smash.

The smell of cordite is everywhere and it fills my senses and makes me high: high on death and the human need for all out bedlam. I'm pressed up tight to a grey, mud brick wall alongside 'Kiwi' Bob, the giant six-foot eight inch New Zealander from Andersons Bay, Dunedin, his piercing blue eyes alertly reassuring me of his able assistance from beneath his beturbaned Arab headdress.

Makes you wonder, why the calm of the Pacific Ocean, when the recklessly sprayed thud of Kalashnikov fire is on offer from all around?

It's a shite state of affairs and one that even we'd not anticipated. Intelligence from SOCOM had reported Taliban movement in the region, but nobody had expected anything but to be in and out and back home before the kettle was boiled and the toast was brown.

'Dougie' Johnstone has charge of Sher Muhammad Tareen, who is berating the team leader in fluent pigeon English that's the best that I've ever come across.

He should try Pashto; the Geordie speaks it better than his own native tongue. Apparently this guy is a big supporter of the Helmand governor and a voice that needs preserving. Folks were getting twitchy, that's why we'd been deployed here. Dougie won't let him get any further than an arm's length away at all times and he couldn't be in safer hands than the gaffers.

The fact that things have got a little airy doesn't concern me though. Should Sher Muhammad Tareen be on the wrong end of a bullet, my outlook won't change, a job's just a job and we always do ours to the best of our ability. We don't make mistakes, though sometimes life will declare its fickle fate. We're all big boys and one day we'll all die, every one of us is here because we want to be; we've chosen these odds and sometimes you're asked to leave the table. It's this uncertain fate that gets me up in the mornings when I'm in Afghanistan. I thrive on it these days and hate the stagnant ones, even if it risks my future and all my collection of hopes. When I find myself in the arena, the sense of the world vanishes from sight.

A U.S. Black Hawk helicopter is in the vicinity and is ready for our evacuation. It should just have been a matter of negotiating the few remaining early dawn-lit narrow allies of the relatively large village, crossing the ridge through the covering line of mulberry trees and around the natural crest of the arid wadi for the bird to Bagram.

Nevertheless, despite the game plan altering, we are still in control. I and Kiwi Bob take turns in breaking cover and pepper-potting the brown open ground before us. 'Piss-poor' Paul Wesley and 'Fibber' Murphy are laying down heavy Minimi suppressing fire that has scattered insurgents for cover. A .50 calibre heavy machine gun mounted on a Toyota truck has importantly been retired and the small force of Taliban are seemingly losing their confidence as our team leader and Tareen cautiously lead the retreat for the rendezvous point.

Any chance of F-18 top cover is totally ruled out. The nature regarding the current balance in the war for 'hearts and minds' in this part of the Provence are deemed too fragile.

Everything moves in slow motion for me.

My brain remains calm and my thoughts are controlled and careful. The voices and commands of my colleagues, my friends, are heard and understood with perfect clarity. I am totally focused. My actions are deliberate and well planned. My heart beat remains slowed and my adrenaline, although excitable, is controlled and not reckless. The finger on the trigger of my Diemaco 5.56mm rifle is steady and only squeezes when I am sure. I have a 40mm grenade launcher fitted to the barrel that will only be used in times of necessity; and when an RPG whizzes over our heads and explodes against an ash tree, only I remain on my feet whilst my team instinctively hits the ground. With a cool breath I slot the attacker and his mate who was emerging from the alleyway behind him. In a heartbeat we are away and melting in to the orchard grove at speed, me and Kiwi bringing up the rear, squeezing off two shots at a time.

This is what I live for: my bread and butter, my kicks, my fulfilment, my friends, my existence; the purpose in my life until I find myself going home to her. I have to remain focused to see her again; she is everything I have and to drop my guard would be to drop my promises I've given to her.

The harsh debris that kicks up from the Black Hawk's rotors against my Oakley's also grits against my open face, because I want it to. Kneeling and raising my weapon to cover the others I rip off my headdress to enhance the force. I need to feel it against me so I can beat it back with the skin of my closely cropped skull. Everyone boards, but I'd be happy to stay and fight it out to the very last burst of fire, blood, sweat and morsel of energy in my body. My world is a place where time for explanation and meaning never really had its space; or if it did, it was never made to feel very welcome.

Life in the Special Forces; in a chaotic place like this, a place that nobody truly understands was fucking made for me.

## 1st May 1975

'MUMMMMMM! GGGRRR!......rrrRRRRRR!'

'I'm here love. Breathe. Concentrate on your breathing. You're doing brilliantly.'

'RRRRRRR!.....ARRRRR!'

'Everything's fine Anna. You're doing fantastic love. I'm proud of you. We're all proud of you.'

'GGGRRRR!......I WANT CHARLIE. HE SHOULD BE HERE.'

'He's on his way love. Words been sent out. He'll be here soon.'

'RRRRR!.......MUMMMMMmmm!' A tear of pain dripped from the cheek of Anna Cable. Her hair was matted across her swollen raw face and her dark eyes were sleepy and moist. This was her third pregnancy. She'd lost her last baby eighteen months previously during birth and had been nervously anxious about this moment for the whole length of her pregnancy.

The light in the room was purposely soothing; a desk side lamp providing just enough to allow the midwives to do their job. Whilst an orange glow of street lighting burned a glare through the thin curtains, and heavy wind and rain thrashed against the window panes. It seemed that the elements wanted their very own glimpse of proceedings.

Heather gripped her daughters hand tightly. She herself was fraught with tension. The last occasion had been a dour time for them all and her only offspring had experienced a cruel depression ever since. They all needed this to come good. But where was Charlie Cable?

Heather turned to her neighbour Marie and whispered. 'Where the hell is that bloody man? He should be here. His shift finished three hours ago.'

Marie shrugged her shoulders and spoke in equally hushed tones, 'Can only be a matter of time Mrs Jarrett. My Colin will find him. If he's not at The Gun & Glasshouse, he'll be at the Welfare or The Duncan.'

Anna Cable's face was enveloped once more with the gas and air mask. Her eyes closed tightly in her agony and Heather gripped her hand some more.

'You don't think your Colin will be having a pint with my bloody son in law do you?' Heather wondered.

Marie gave a tentative smile. 'Hardly Mrs Jarrett.... Colin hates Charlie. I had all on just talking him in to going and finding him.'

Heather nodded her head, a wry expression spreading across her wary face. She patted Marie's knee. 'I know love. I know.'

Even though it was gone 11pm, it wasn't expected that young Paul Cable would sleep through the commotion. With the agony of his mother and the rattle of the house taking a battering in the storm, he never stood a chance of sleep. And as well as that, this was a sibling on the way for him after all. It was a time of excitement for him. This time he was old enough to appreciate just what his mother having a baby meant to him. He was only four years old, but he was nearly five and he craved a brother more than anything in the world.

He'd been sat out in the corridor in his pyjamas on the bare floorboards for twenty minutes now; in the dark, peering through the crack in the door of his parent's bedroom. Although he couldn't understand why his mother seemed so poorly, he knew that she would be okay because his grandma was with her, and the lady who lived near grandma, and two other ladies who looked kind. He deciphered that his mummy would be okay.

The wind picked up outside and gusted against the house. It shook the wooden window frames and sent the echo of a high pitched whistled draft through the gaps between the front door and its frame. The noise scared him. It always had. He thought it was the scream of a ghost that raced up the stairs from the bowels of hell wanting to get at him. He stood, looking over his shoulder in to the faint gloom of the corridor. His heart pumped fast. He so badly wanted to go through to his mother's room and to his grandma, but he knew that his father had made it off limits to him. He'd tell him, "No children allowed in my room boy."

He didn't want to be shouted at like his mother was. That scared him more than the ghost.

He backed up against the door, nudging it sufficiently to swing it open a little more.

Marie came to it and smiled down at him before offering a smile and then a hand, leading him in to the sacred place. A fragrant aroma of incense filled the air. A smell like nothing he'd smelt before. He sort of liked it; he sort of didn't like it.

Heather took hold of Paul's hand and scooped him on to her knee whilst mumbling assurances to both he and her daughter simultaneously. He smiled at her and his mother and his mother even managed to stump up enough energy and will to return the favour.

He was as much interested in the room as he was his mother's welfare, scouting eager eyes around the dull mauve walls. Character was scarce apart from an old cast fireplace on the chimney breast which was painted black; and furniture was even more scant: an old rickety key-locked wardrobe with a full length mirror in which he carefully studied his own reflection, sat on his grandma's knee and a nineteen-fifties shabby chic distressed dressing table that his mother had tried to hide beneath an embroidered table cloth. It didn't seem so special in here; though that didn't mean that he wouldn't like to take a look inside everything.

His attention switched back to his mother. Her eyes squeezed firmly shut and her teeth clamped together as she roared in defiance. Her legs were apart and everyone was urging their approvals to her. Paul slowly scanned them all. His grandma in a faded red dress and grey cardigan now seemed to offer him minimal acknowledgement as she spoke directly in to his mother's ear. Marie was now at the foot of the bed, craning her body around the side of the plump midwife whose hands were inside his mother's gown. And the other midwife, who was in a stark contrast to her colleague, was holding a damp flannel to his mother's head with painfully fragile looking, bony fingers.

All of their voices seemed to stir in to a singular broth of distant noise to his confused ears.

Then he saw it in the hands of the beaming midwife; a pursed smile spread across her moon-like face. It was a purple mass of noisy skin. It was a girl and he wasn't surprised, as it looked very strange. He wanted a brother, but he'd got this instead; a funny looking sister that was suddenly getting all of the attention. Everyone was smiling and laughing apart from him. His mother now seemed ecstatic and miraculously pain-free. His grandma hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek.

Paul just felt incredibly disappointed as his grandma and Marie disappeared from the room for a Park Drive.

He sat on the corner of the bed, his legs crossed and his inquisitive face watching them together. He was baffled by what had happened. He had been convinced that he would have a brother. Someone to play with and to sleep with. Together they could hide under the bed covers when the ghost would race across the landing at night.

He couldn't comprehend ever doing any of that with a girl.

'Aren't you going to say hello Paul?' Asked Anna Cable.

'I don't want to' He murmured.

'What's wrong? She's beautiful.' She searched.

'Didn't want a girl.' He sulked.

'Don't be silly darling. You'll learn to love your sister more than anyone in the world. Won't he Alison?' She turned to the sleeping bundle.

He couldn't see that ever happening. And he didn't like the name Alison either.

'So that's what you and your mother have decided on is it?' A voice emerged from the dark of the hallway.

He was a powerfully built man. Six-feet tall and well proportioned. A square jaw and hooked nose that sat right with his broad shoulders and developed, tattooed arms. His fair hair lay pasted to his soaked head above dark eyes, and a cigarette hung from his thin, pointed lips. He was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt that hung to his wet body.

'Charlie. Where were you? I needed you.' Frowned Anna.

He stepped in and ripped the t-shirt from over his head, throwing it in the corner after rubbing it against his hair. He set his eyes on the boy who quickly diverted his gaze.

'Bloke needs and deserves a pint after a shift at the coal face.'

'Didn't Colin find you?' She asked.

'Soppy bloody Colin Rhodes?.... What's his missus doing here?.... Trying to do my job whilst I'm not here?.... Why would I listen to a bloody idiot like Rhodes?' A silence hung for a few seconds. 'I decided to stay and celebrate dint I.... Not that it's any of your business any rode.'

He reached inside the dressing table drawer and pulled on another shirt whilst watching the boy. 'What's he doing in here?' He snapped; enough to make the skinny midwife look up from her packing of the maternity bag.

'He's just come to visit his sister Charlie.... Paul's really excited about his new baby sister. Aren't you Paulie?' She urges him, and he nodded his head in agreement.

'Well, you know the rules lad. This room's out of bounds... It will be to her as well. You listening?' Again he nodded his head, but remained sat, legs and arms crossed. 'Off to your room then lad. It's bedtime.'

Paul rose and kissed his mother. On instruction he kissed baby Alison too, but he didn't like it. He was happy to go back to bed and before leaving the room he turned and spoke to his father, 'Night dad.'

Charlie Cable did not answer; he parked himself on the bed beside his wife and took the baby from her grasp after extinguishing the cigarette on the bedside ash tray.

The midwives cheerfully bid the boy goodnight, but he didn't reply, he walked back to his room and climbed underneath the covers, wrapping them tightly around himself. The wind had seemingly dropped and he could no longer hear the landing ghost.

He lay awake listening to the adults muffled sounds and the to-ing and fro-ing of bodies as they crossed the corridor outside of his door. His mind was awash with thoughts about his new little sister who was meant to be his new little brother. His plans would have to change now. He may even have to share his room with the girl. He felt annoyed and somewhat cheated.

He heard his bedroom door open and then close. His eyes searched and then adjusted on the face of his father who sat on the edge of his bed; the glow of a cigarette brightening as he inhaled and helped to illuminate his serious face. He sat close enough to make the pungent smell of Marksman lager on his breath make the boy crease his nose.

'How's it going son?' He softly asked.

'Okay dad.'

'Good.' He paused in thought and then blew smoke away from the boy. 'So what do you think of little Ali then?'

'Good dad.....I like her.' He followed, hoping that his answer would be the one that his father wanted to hear.

'Good....She's a beauty Paul. Just like her mother used to be..... A chip off the old block I reckon.' Again he paused in thought. 'I've always wanted a girl. Even when you were born, I wanted you to be a girl.... Now don't get me wrong, you're a good lad and I'm proud of you, but it's a girl that I've always had me heart on. Someone to protect and defend.... You have boys and they should learn to defend themselves; they're born to fight and provide.... Boys stand on their own two feet and either grow strong or weak....But girls are fragile Paul. They're easily abused and manipulated; they need to be looked after. By fathers.......Do you understand what I mean son?'

'Err...I think so dad.'

'Well it's not hard lad.' He inhales again on his smoke whilst staring at his son who is rubbing his tired eyes.

'I want you to make me a promise.' He lowered his head towards the boy. 'There's going to be times when I'm not always around. Your old man is a busy person. I have people to see and things to do. I can't always be here for young Alison and your mother isn't always the safest of hands. I need you to be my eyes and my ears. Do you understand?'

The boy remained silent.

'When I'm not around, that new sister of yours will need protecting.... She is precious to me... Everything that I ever wanted.... I'm going to have to rely on you to do your bit son; to protect my daughter, your sister, at all times.'

'Do you mean look after her dad?'

'That's exactly what I mean. At all times.... When I'm not there, you are to look after her.' He remained unblinking. 'Can you promise me that?'

'Okay dad.'

'Say, I promise to look after my sister at all times.'

'I promise to look after my sister.'

'At all times.'

'At all times.'

'Good. Now shake on it.' The boy reached out and held the large, abrasive hand that his father holds out in front of him and they shake. 'Never forget your promise Paul Cable.'

## Safed Koh Mountains, Afghanistan : 10th April 2007

Paul was glad to finally rest his aching mind. He was surprised at just how much he'd suffered in the thin air from acute mountain sickness. He seemed to hold a continuous throbbing headache, though thankfully his vomiting had ceased a couple of days previously. He was gradually managing to adapt, though more slowly than the others he reckoned.

He lay up against a boulder and rubbed baby oil in to his dry hands. It was dusk on top of the mountain and he had eaten from his cold ration pack and drank water from his flask before settling down for some much needed sleep. The darkening red sky washed all in front of them, 11,000 feet high up in the Safed Koh mountain range on the Pakistan border. The space they had chosen to camp the observation post was scarcely large enough for the six of them and all of their intelligence equipment: photographic and communications devices, telescopes and satellite phones, computers and sophisticated listening devices. They had cover from the hot afternoon sun in the shade of a crop of pine trees and a cluster of boulder formations, but now the temperature was dropping and within a few hours it would be freezing cold. He pulled on his thermal balaclava and then his woolly hat over that. He was snug in his sleeping bag but it wouldn't last.

While Dougie and Bubbles MacKenzie were on sentry duty, Fibber Murphy was busy doing observation with the American intelligence guy from the CIA; training their equipment on the plateau down in the valley. Piss-poor Paul was already asleep beside him. This mission was a nightmare for Piss-poor. Hushed silence was the order of the day for the mission due to the ease that sound could travel in this soundless place, and the Cockney liked nothing more than to waffle inanely to anyone within earshot. Even the smell of shit and urine had to be bagged up so not to give away their presence and he would curse under his breath at such an unrefined task.

The subject of their vigil was meant to be the location of a huge al-Qaeda training camp that spanned between two tiny hamlets and a small village. They'd been here for five days and it was looking like the mission would last out the rest of the week, and perhaps they wouldn't be back in base for another five days. Rations would have to be used even more sparingly. They'd seen hundreds of people coming and going, but still the guy from the CIA and special operations in Fort Bragg were unsure of calling in an airstrike until their minds were totally made up.

They'd yomped for sixteen hours in to the uncharted territory of the mountains to reach the perfect location. Once the road had run out and their transport could go no further they'd no choice but to walk the rest of the way. Laden down with 100 lbs of Bergen and their weapon it was a test of character as much as endurance and skill. For hours at a time they had to be on the move; beginning during the night using night vision goggles that strained at the eyes and ate away at the valuable battery supplies, then later on through the day. The ground passed from being loose stones to volcanic smooth rock.

The work could become unbearably difficult at times, but it was just the sort of challenge that Paul Cable had liked to test himself with, pushing his body to the limits and beating the elements. His body had been honed for this kind of work: in the gym and out on the lonely pounded miles of roads and forests. He was 200 lbs and 75 inches of pure lean muscle and even at thirty-six years of age he was the fittest soldier that any of them knew. Even the bigger guys like Kiwi Bob would regard him as 'The Beast' - always the one to go that extra yard and do that insane thing to achieve what some had regarded as impossible. Dangers never seemed to faze him and he would remain calm whilst all hell broke loose around him. It was as if he was in his own cool and calculated bubble and everyone liked the fact that he was around; he was unnervingly quiet and almost reclusive, but totally reliable, assured and unforgiving in a fire-fight.

Add to this the fact that he had managed to cheat certain death, not once, but two separate occasions, and it started to spawn him with an almost mythical reputation - one that meant whenever 'The Beast' was around, the odds would always be in your favour. The chiefs liked this fact and it would instill confidence in the men - that's why he would get chosen for operations like the one in the Safed Koh Mountains.

He liked it out here in the mountains. He was amongst people, but felt remarkably alone. The wild suited him and soothed his mental state of mind. The peace of it and the near crystal silence was something that he could live forever with. He was far from the towns and the hustle and bustle of people. It was an experience that he enjoyed and looked forward to repeating soon - a quiet life away from the cruelness of humanity.

As he closed his eyes he comforted himself with the thought that he was here. It was undoubtedly a very dangerous place, but he was closer to the heavens and to the people he missed the most. His mind wandered to thoughts of his family and of Kiyomi and Karatsu. They were so close now that his imagination could almost reach out and touch them.

## Ingoldmells, Skegness, Lincolnshire : 13th August 1980

DIARY OF PAUL CABLE. Wednesday August 13 1980 :

BRILIUNT DAY !!!!!!

mum and mamma took me and ali to the fare and let us spend sum of ar mony.

they got lots of rids and slots and it was mor fun than gowing down the beech sum mor.

me and mum wun a teddy beer for ali and she was so hapy and dint stop hugin me and teddy all day she as called it big ted the same as on play schol.

this is a list of stuf we did and got tuday

slots

rids

icecreem

pop

cow boy hat and gun wiv kaps

bingo

kandiflos

racin kammuls

dogems

and sum times we did thum 2 times.

ali wunt alowd on sum of the rids cos it meks her fel funy. i fel sorry for ali sum times but she stil smeles and laffs. we all laffd lots tuday and evry body wus hapy. it was the best and i think that skegy cud be the bestist plas in the hole world!!

SKEGY IS SKILL !!!!!!!

wen we got bak two the carravan the girl from the next carravan was playin out me and ali playd wiv her and went two the park two and her nam is andria and she is from leeds and i rely lik her lots and i wud lik a girl frend and i wud like andria two be my girl frend.

ANDRIA JONES      PAUL CABLE

## Ingoldmells, Skegness, Lincolnshire : 17th August 1980

Alison Cable was born with Childhood Disintegrative Disorder (CDD). She was growing and developing on the outside like any normal sort of little girl, but inside she struggled with motor skills, language and normal social functions. She had begun life quite normally, but at the age of four it became noticeable that her skills were regressing. She would simply forget how to do things that she had already learnt: saying words or to communicate, to pick things up, or go to the toilet. Aligned with her condition she also suffered from epileptic fits.

The set back had stunned the family and they had struggled with the realization that Alison would require care assistance for her entire life; CDD was incurable, it was a permanent condition and her chances of a normal life were remote. She would need behavioural and medical treatment via therapy indefinitely.

Charlie Cable's anguish was reaching breaking point. His daughter was his princess; the apple of both of his eyes. How could this beautiful auburn haired little girl suffer so much inside, whilst remaining so perfectly normal on the outside? Why couldn't she brush her own hair? Why couldn't she open her favourite book? Why the crap couldn't she remember his fucking name?

He'd arrived at the caravan site at Ingoldmells on the day before. Anna and her mother had travelled across to the east coast on the coach on Monday as her mother's 'treat' for the girls and Paul. He'd told them that he couldn't make it because he couldn't get the time off at work, but really he didn't want to spend the time with Anna and her interfering fucking mother. He despised the woman. The only purpose she seemed to serve was to get in the way. He called her 'Unlucky' Heather, for no other reason than he considered himself unlucky to be lumbered with her. Now she seemed to class herself as Alison's fulltime carer. Well they didn't need a fulltime carer; he was her father, and Anna and the boy were sufficient to look after her.

Whilst his family had been in Skegness, he'd put the rest days in at Silverhill Colliery where he worked and taken Veronica Morley to Blackpool for three days. They'd stayed at the Pelican B&B and he'd shagged her arse off during the nights after they'd got blitzed on booze together in the daytime. She was a filthy cow that had been around the block, but he didn't care, she was a fresh pair of tits and fanny and Anna deserved it for having the audacity to go away with her mother. On the third day Charlie and Veronica fell out and he sent her off home on the train before continuing on his bender and sleeping with another woman from Wales.

He sat and stared at the four of them from his deckchair, dressed in jeans and a Fred Perry shirt. They were meant to be driving home today, but he'd nearly finished his can of lager and it had given him a taste for more. The boy looked thoroughly bored. How could a kid be fucking bored at the beach? Either there was something wrong with that lad or he's an ungenerous little sod. Either way, he played the miserable bugger like a natural. Still, he played well with Ali and he doted on her nearly as much as he did himself, he thought.

Being in the company of Anna and her mother was starting to meddle with his brain. Their voices: the noises that they made, the comments that they uttered; it was screwing with his thought pattern.

He rose and told them that he was going to the pub, and when he was challenged about when he would be back, he said 'I'll be back when I'm bloody well back.'

He was gone for five hours.

When Charlie Cable returned at 4pm, marching at speed up the slight incline towards their pitch Anna and Heather were sat on a bench across from their locked caravan, surrounded by two cases and a holdall. Their expressions were of frustration and impatience. Paul and Alison were on the adjacent park playing with the girl from the neighbouring caravan.

Charlie had downed eight pints and wore a beetroot face of thunder. Anna stood to speak, but before she could find the words he poked them back in to her throat with a sharp finger pointing straight at her.

'Shut the fuck up. Get in the car.' He ordered.

She remained silent, picking up a case and walking towards the Austin Princess, like a timid kid sent to the headmaster's office for a case of mistaken identity. He unlocked the car and climbed in the driver's seat. Heather looked on open mouthed.

'Where's the kids?' He barked.

'There on tha...'

'Just get them, now, so we can bugger off home.'

Anna shouted over to the children whilst Heather struggled around to the boot of the car with a suitcase and the holdall, before getting in to the back seat herself. He started the engine and sat looking straight ahead.

'How many drinks have you had Charles?' She enquired harshly.

'Not enough.' Was his short riposte.

'Well you have your family in this car.'

He span around and stared sternly at her. 'Heather,...be quiet. In fact, be quiet for the whole trip home. I don't listen to you anyhow, and you no longer have Ray to threaten me with. So shut your hole or start walking back to town.'

'This had been a lovely trip.' She responded, her eyes full of contempt, 'Lovely until you turned up.'

He returned to the wheel and growled at his wife, 'Where are those bloody kids Anna?'

'They're coming love... They're coming Charlie.' She nervously tells him .

'Not fuckin quickly enough they're not.' He storms, yanking open the door and steaming across the grass banking towards the laughing children.

'Please Charlie.'

On seeing his father approaching Paul Cable's face becomes sullen and he takes his sister's hand before uttering a farewell to their new friend. In turn she cheerfully offers her goodbyes before dubiously noting the large, angry man who reaches out and shoves the boy to the ground before scooping his daughter up in to his arm in a singular swift motion. The girl squeals and Paul sits up quickly as his father barks in his direction, 'CAR!'

Paul hares to the car, never offering his glance to any other direction, whilst Charlie Cable quickly follows him.

'Hey, what's the problem?' The young girl's father emerges from their caravan and asks in a broad West Yorkshire accent. 'Mrs Jarrett?.. Is everything okay?' He turns to the two women.

Before he knew what was happening, he had been pole axed by the big right hand of Charlie Cable who had changed direction just a few yards to land a punch on him whilst still clutching his five-year old daughter.

He placed Alison in the back seat of the car and glared at Heather. Sat in the front Anna looked out of her passenger side window, whilst behind Paul stared sadly out of his own window at the girl that he'd known for a few days and fallen for. Charlie climbed back inside his seat, slamming his door shut as the neighbour was nursed by his wife and their sobbing daughter; his face dripped with blood.

As they drove off the site, Alison Cable leaned towards her father and softly spoke, 'What's wrong mister?.. Mister what's wrong?.. Mister?..Mister?.. Mister?'

Charlie kept his moist, drunken eyes on the road ahead. The car remained silent all of the way home.

## Safed Koh Mountains, Afghanistan : 13th April 2007

The morale amongst the boys isn't great. The hunger probably doesn't help, but they desperately wanted a kill as a reward for our discomforts. Discomforts that had began to include snow fall within the last few hours up in our observation post.

To spend seven nights on top of a mountainside, with the restraints that brought and to not get a result hadn't given us a satisfactory ending to our visit to the rooftop of the world.

The al-Qaeda training camp had turned out to be nothing more than a month long local festival. The mistake in Intel received on this job had ended up being quite horrific. Imagine if we'd have sent in a Spectre gunship to level that little get together.

Hearts and minds?... More like bags and packed, and with heads slumped lower than frogs whiskers.

I wasn't too concerned; there will be other days for a fight; and I'd actually enjoyed myself up there.

We've renegotiated the higher ground during the night, setting off at dusk and shaving a few hours from the original parallel journey. Now as the sun was rising, the colours of the landscape imitated that of an old, unexplored lunar world. We'd briefly stopped for water and a bar of chocolate, but were quickly off again. Quiet as it was, this wasn't a place to linger.

My face itches from a head full of thick stubble growth. Few smiles are shared amongst one another. We all need a bath. Everyone stinks and it's a wonder that the enemy can't trace us with the simplicity of smell.

There's been a number of falls during our descent, but thankfully no breakages to either bones or valuable equipment had occurred. We were now on the looser ground that would provide a more awkward test to wary bodies. Brain fitness was now dictating body fitness and SAS training was being stretched to its potential. The ascent had been a particularly arduous task: uncharted territory, difficulties with the acute mountain sickness, the physical strain of the climb and the mental pressure of being focused and alert at all times had taken its toll. But the descent when you can add the exhaustion and fatigue of our eight days of rationing and extreme vigilance means that you begin relying more on your auto-pilot than you'd wished to care for. We couldn't afford to be sloppy now that we were almost complete in our task - and you are always at your most vulnerable when you begin to think that the job is all but done.

I keep myself moving with the thought of a kip in a proper bed and a hot, cooked meal in my mind's eye whilst scanning the terrain for possible signs of human activity. My ears are as equally important to me as my vision is to the task of identifying any threat. Piss-poor Paul is just up ahead of me on point duty and we are spread out in to patrol formation; communication is strictly down to hand signals.

Our objective was to work our way back down the mountain and back to the point of our drop off eight days previously where the road had ran out and our transport could commence no further.

That extraction point was close-by, though it would be anyone's guess on quite how long we would be waiting once there. We recognized a narrow gorge cut in to the rock from our trip up the mountain. The rocks face was a barren brown in complexion, but with notable outcrops of green pines in its shadows and a dry riverbed running through it.

Before entering the gorge, Piss-poor Paul Wesley halts and drops to a singular knee, his hand aloft forcing us to an equally cautious stop. We pause for a good couple of minutes, surveying our surroundings and straining our ears. My finger rests on the trigger of my Diemaco and my eyes narrow as I try to focus on the shadowed gorge from my position above on the brightly sunlit trail. All seems quiet, but this is just the sort of location that an ambush could occur if we had in any way failed in our task of remaining inconspicuous.

Six tired and wary individuals, strung out on a stony thirty-five degree slope on high alert after days of hide and seek, seemingly with ourselves. This wasn't a time for complacency and I wasn't about to drop my guard. That guard had been permanently aloft for years now and it hadn't let my own personal security down so far.

Slowly Piss-poor was up and off again, straddling the outskirts of the cliff face allowing for a clear arc of fire, his weapon ready at shoulder height. One by one we follow in to the gorge and its delicate, tranquil silence, failing even to be broken by any strand of noise created by a British boot on its unfastened and unforgiving ground. My footsteps so blatantly suspicious and my concentration pattern so acute, that even I can barely hear their burden on the land.

I train my sight at every conceivable point of threat: large boulders, thickets of tree lines, clusters of rock formations and high advantageous observation points. In the shadow of the gorge, away from the direct morning sunlight, the temperature dips again and reminds me more of the cold discomfort of the mountainside when darkness would arrive in the late evening, prodding you with its eager finger of frost. This place cares little for the comforts of man; its climate prefers to remain receptive to his rude intrusion. I'm thankful that I left my gloves on.

I stay several paces behind my point man. One eye remains on his movements, whilst the other is forever altering its course. Before long we are leaving behind the cool relative darkness and being plunged back in to the gloriously bathed dawn sunshine in the downside mouth of the gorge. The welcome warmth tickles my face and a sudden breeze lifts my senses with a cool influx of fresh air. I begin to second guess what that first hot meal back at base could be.

Then, I am blown from my feet with a seismic change of direction. An uncontrollable force instantly confuses me. My vision is blinded by a total white flash. Everything seems to happen so slowly; yet everything seems to happen so quickly.

## 19th April 1981

They sat singing along to Kim Wilde and 'Kids In America' whilst eating strawberry jam sandwiches and Wagon Wheels at Heather's small kitchen table.

Sunday's had always been their favourite day of the week. They'd often stay at their Grandma's on a Saturday night whilst their parents went out in to town, or just down to The Gun & Glasshouse; then they would stay here by their own request for the main duration of the following day in Ladybrook in her company. Their father eagerly agreed that it would allow their parents to enjoy some peace and quiet on their own, but when their Mother would fetch them in the late afternoon Charlie had usually been down to The Gun & Glasshouse since lunchtime and gone straight to bed after closing time at three. The children would then pass him on his way back out to the same public house as they were climbing the stairs to bed at seven-thirty.

Heather enjoyed keeping them entertained at her middle terrace on Bonington Road where it was also the highlight of her own week too. Sometimes they would attend the Church of St Mary the Virgin off of Bancroft Lane and then divert to her tiny allotment that she used to share with Granddad Ray and tend to the onions, broad beans, carrots, kale and cauliflower. At lunchtime she would finish cooking the Sunday roast whilst the children would watch the early afternoon Western or feed and pet the pigeons in the small coop made from scrap lumber and chicken wire at the bottom of her small back garden. Her love for the pigeons was one inherited from Raymond; she found them therapeutic and continued to care for them once he had died, now young Paul – and to an extent, Alison too - had adopted a similar joy from being in their company.

But the real highlight was during the warmer months when Heather would walk them to Bleak Hills and they would sit pond side and fish for tench. The grandmother had brought a twelve-foot second hand fibreglass rod with an excellent Mitchell reel. They'd made their own quill floats at home that they had painted in orange and black Airfix paints to suit the reflection of the sun on the water. And for bait they would use sweetcorn, or cut up some chunks of luncheon meat.

They would sit on a tartan blanket on the long grass and eat a big picnic of sandwiches, crisps, cakes and lemonade, whilst the little transistor radio quietly played Radio 2 and they eagerly monitored the passing wildlife.

The peace and each other's company offered them all a security that they enjoyed, and seeing the quill sail away across the pond, resulting in a nice tench would have the three of them leaping with excitement on the banking.

The happiness of this particular Sunday was broken with the appearance of Anna Cable at the open kitchen door. She tried to smiled, but her lip was fat, the bridge of her nose was cut and as she took off her unseasonable sunglasses it revealed that an eye was inky black. The children stared in open-mouthed puzzlement at the sight of their mother. Normally slender, with good shoulder structure that always looked good in a plunged neck dress; her straight auburn hair would compliment her rosy completion and green eyes.

But today her face was raw and scrubbed, her fringe falling over her face and the confidence totally robbed from her posture. She was an average height woman of just twenty-nine years of age, but looked like a crooked little old lady with her best years behind her.

Heather rushed to her and ushered her through to the living room; asking the children to finish their tea. Anna began to audibly and physically sob as she tried to assure her children that their mummy had accidently walked in to a door.

Paul Cable wondered to himself quite how big this door was to have made his mum look so messed up. He told Alison that their mother would be okay. She's always okay; and grandma would look after her. Grandma looked after all of them.

## Somewhere Over Afghanistan : 13th April 2007

I feel numb; sedated like in a dream, unable to move any of my limbs. Even my eyelids are struggling to respond.

Am I asleep?

It feels like I'm asleep, but I want to wake up.

I make out shapes through the very vague haze of heavy, barely opened eyes. Or do I?

I can make out the noisy clamour of heavy machinery and loud voices conducting orders to invisible listeners.

I'm confused, though comfortable with it. I have a feeling of warmth throughout my core that makes me feel safe here in my dream. It's a dream that feels like a drowsy afternoon sleep in front of a loud, action feature film on the television.

Before me I can just make out the figure of a body sat alongside of me, though I cannot make out any features on this persons face.

I stop trying to fight my urges to awaken and tighten my eyes, letting the dream fade. I let the warmth take me deeper. It's not time to wake up yet. I try to think of Alison and days out at Bleak Hills with Grandma Jarrett, and about night fishing at Sherwood Forest Farm with Mark and Tom. I try to think about stepping out on to the dew sodden grass in our perfect garden overlooking the bay.

## 2nd May 1981

Steven Mulruyd sat quietly, slurping from an ice cream and observing from the park bench. He was used to being anonymous and it had its obvious advantages, though he hadn't always liked it. He was a loner and used to being on the periphery, but he'd always wanted to be at the centre of things, though his erratic persona and natural shyness had always affected any possibility of that.

He'd been in the same year at school as Anna Jarrett and had always had a crush on her, but she'd never notice him and probably didn't even know his name. If she was to walk over right now and sit beside him he doubted that she'd recognize him. Though time hadn't been kind to her and she was no longer anything to write home about. He found it odd that he would have even spent time in his room masturbating over thoughts of her; in fact he felt somewhat cheated over his wasted semen.

He recognized her husband as Charlie Cable. He'd been a character to avoid inside and outside of the school gates. A hard case a couple of years older than himself who would roam the corridors and cloisters with a distinct air of menace about him. Every year had a Charlie Cable, but Mulruyd would remember Cable as a thug above most thugs; someone whose name should have been inscribed on a wooden plaque for the hooligan elite alongside that of the names of head-teachers, head boys and girls and house captains. Mulruyd would dread the thought of ever having an unfortunate tangle with the likes of Charlie Cable, and he clearly still carried the threat of a powerful man with a fucked up head and a psychopathic thirst for hurting people. He could tell that by just watching his eyes that burrow in to his thick brow like storm troopers inside an advantageous pillbox. Despite the tenderness he was openly showing towards Anna, he towered over the woman and Mulruyd could just as well imagine the man snapping the neck that he gently cupped as easily as he drew a smile from her adoring lips.

Though he had to concede that they looked as though they are very much in love and Cable would probably defend her with every last breath in his strong body.

He could never have provided Anna Jarrett that kind of security, but he wasn't bothered; she wasn't worth the wanks.

What he'd become since those school days had devastated Mulruyd. It tortured his soul and he had tried with all his might to suppress his desires and the inner demons, but he couldn't help what he was. He'd satisfied his mind that he'd always been this way and there was little he could do about the way that the mechanics of his brain worked.

He could always blow his brains out.

He'd considered it. He'd considered all sorts of ways to do away with himself and to draw a line permanently through the monsters that argued amongst themselves in his muddled head.

He was sick; he knew it. He'd felt it for fifteen years. The things that he wanted weren't normal: he was perverted, an animal, a menace to society.

Yet he'd never done anything. They were just thoughts and they had never harmed anyone. Though they made him feel dirty and bad. He knew they were bad thoughts, but he couldn't scrub them from his mind; they just lingered and mocked him. At times he felt that everyone could hear the impure comments that his mind would produce. Voices would chatter away and clutter his thinking with perversion that he liked the sounds of, but wanted to dismiss and disassociate himself from.

The facts were that he liked the images in his head. They'd been imprinted there over time and it was only his own willpower that had left them remained there caged and locked away; though they tormented him and begged to be let out.

Cable pushed his young daughter, laughing on a swing whilst his wife tended to the grazed elbow of her son. Mulruyd wondered whether the lad was Charlie's. He looked nothing like the man and he found it hard to place an age on the boy. Seven? Eight? Nine?

He had none of Cable's brooding about him and he almost reminded him more of himself as an awkward youngster than of a monster like Charlie.

They made a happy looking family, whoever may actually belong to whom.

He couldn't understand why he'd always afflict himself by coming to these sorts of places. They fed his overactive mind with fresh blossoms of misunderstood ideas. He hated himself for being so weak. He wanted to talk to someone about it; someone who could reassure him that he was a normal human being, but the outrage and misunderstanding that he would create would just highlight the fact that he was indeed a coward, and he wasn't sure that he could handle the extra pressure of that.

Cable held aloft the pretty young girl and playfully shook her above his head. She giggled uncontrollably as the man laughed. He genuinely laughed. A real laugh that was meant and enjoyed; not the sickening, sneering laugh that he would employ after pounding another hapless kid that he had successfully cornered on the school driveway at 3:30. It was almost as if the brute was human. It irritated Steven Mulruyd greatly that Charlie Cable was probably more normal than himself. How could that be? It just didn't seem fair. A person with such a wayward set of characteristics as Charles Cable would be widely considered a more appropriate member of society than himself; it made him feel deeply depressed and saddened.

His standing in the world had just slipped lower than even he had placed it beforehand.

He threw the remainder of his iced cone on to the grass, lent back and narrowed his beady eyes through his spectacles. What was he to do about his urgencies; his cravings that gobbled away without remorse at his aching, overworked neurons?

Charlie Cable had made him hate himself even more than he had ever hated himself before. This was no mean feat. He'd chastised himself almost daily, but had never established himself as beneath the gutter.

Mulruyd felt lower than ever. It was time to put this entire nightmare behind him; very much sooner rather than later. He felt as though he were ready to explode. He was overcome with anxiety and panic. This had to end.

## Royal Centre for Defence Medicine, Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Selly Oak, Birmingham : 18th April 2007

## In The Waiting State

When he woke he lay there for several minutes staring directly at the white ceiling tiles. His mind thought of nothing, it was a vacuum of emptiness and soundless white noise.

When his brain decided to upload essential matter such as his name and who he was, his mind was an awkward muddle of questions with few answers.

He carefully adjusted himself and pulled up his upper body and rested on this elbows. He was lying high in a bed, covered with pristine white cotton sheets. He had an intravenous drip inserted in to his arm, a heart monitor attached to his finger and tubes inside of his throat.

He couldn't understand the situation or just where he was.

The room was small and relatively bare. A large window spread across the entire length of one wall, but the blind was closed enough to allow enough light through without bathing the whole place in daylight. A bank of monitors and machines sat alongside his bed, and a TV unit on an arm was swung against the wall. A painting of the coast sat on the wall opposite, and Michael Caine was sat silently watching his tentative movements from an armchair at his bedside.

The two men stared at one another. Paul Cable was even more confused now.

Caine was dressed in a comfortably loose blue suit jacket and a grey shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck. He jerked himself from the chair.

'Sorry Paul, I'm forgetting myself. Maybe you'd care for a drink?' He lifted a kettle from a small Formica coffee table hidden behind his armchair and paused, waiting for a reply that never came. 'Well maybe you'd like something stronger?.....Scotch?... A beer?'

Paul didn't know what to say. How could he? The situation was bizarre. He wondered if he was still asleep.

'You are still asleep. Well,..sort of.' Caine smiled as he intercepted his anticipated thoughts. 'Drink?' He chortled.

Paul looked around his environment again and winced.

'I'll have a glass of water please Mr Caine.'

Caine remained smiling and began pouring from a glass jug. 'Of course, how stupid of me. The demon drink is something your rather at odds with, sorry Paul?' He turned and hesitated with a glint of mischief in his eye. 'There's always time to break the habit you know. This is a special occasion.'

Paul screwed up his eyes and forehead. 'No thanks. Water will be fine.'

'Do you mind if I do?'

'Knock your socks off Michael.'

'I will, thank you.'

Caine sat back down with a large whisky double in a tumbler; smiling again and readjusting his cuffs.

'Paul, I'm not Michael Caine. I may look like Michael Caine but alas Michael Caine I am not.'

Paul remained unflinching, waited and then asked. 'So you are?'

The immaculate looking mature actor set himself. 'My name is Vincent Tua. I'm not Michael Caine, though it was a pleasant choice of a disguise. Trust me, some of my kind manage to get a much rougher deal.'

'Your kind?'

'I'm your life-guide Paul; a sort of guardian angel. I've been your life-guide for your entire life.'

'My life-guide?' Paul scoffed.

'That's right.' Vincent Tua gave his best, one hundred percent perfect Michael Caine smile.

Paul Cable sipped from his glass of water and looked up. 'Well, no offence Michael,....Vincent,....whoever you are. You've done a shit job of things.'

Vincent Tua immediately sprang to his own defence.

'To be fair Paul, a life-guide can't alter the course of a subjects life. He has no bearing on actual events. Imagine if he did? People everywhere would be winning the lottery, or cheating on exams and everyone would be a brain surgeon. There'd be no accidents, and rogue guides would have a field day... No,...it doesn't work like that Paul. We're just there to sit and watch and offer advice when you get to a point like this in your existence,.. A life-guide is a bit like a guidance councillor.'

'A guidance councillor for what?..... What do you mean ''this point in my existence?''...... And where the hell am I?' Vincent paused for reply before Paul started again. 'And why the fuck are you Michael Caine?'

Vincent held both of his hands aloft asking for patience.

'Steady Paul. Let me explain one question at a time.' He took a large gulp from his tumbler and sat back. Even though he was Vincent Tua, his actions mocked Caine to perfection.

'You're in hospital back in England Paul. You're in Selly Oak in Birmingham. You've been airlifted out of Afghanistan and are on a life support system in a deep coma. You've been in the coma for five days and your chances of survival are in the balance..... The good news is that you still have all of your limbs, but you have suffered significant head trauma.... Unfortunately your mate Paul Wesley wasn't so lucky... He stepped on a improvised incendiary device that killed him instantly,.. and the blast knocked you straight off of your feet. Luckily you were far enough from the blast to not suffer any superficial injuries; the injury to you came from the impact of your head against a rock. Nobody else was injured; but poor old Piss-poor never stood a chance I'm afraid.'

He paused for several seconds to allow Paul Cable to take in just what he had told him before continuing.

'Now why do I look like Michael Caine?... Well this is the fun part. The powers that be like people in your position to be greeted by a familiar face. This is an uncharacteristic showing of their sense of humour you see... It also kind of reveals the sort of person you are. A new arrival in the waiting state will always be greeted by their life-guide; so if you spend a lot of time in a darkened room, meticulously exploring the endless possibilities of pornography, then you'll probably be greeted by Pamela Anderson, or John Holmes; or if you spend your life fawning over reality TV shows and gossip columns, it's likely that it could be Kerry Katona or Davina McCall, so I'm thinking that it could have been worse for you Paul.... You're not swayed by celebrity. You don't care for sport. You aren't majorly in to TV, music, books, art or current affairs; so you're largely scuppered. But films;... a list of your favourite films is ultimately revealing.' He begins to count on his fingers. 'Zulu, The Italian Job, Get Carter, The Cider House Rules, The Children of Men, The Prestige;....have I missed any?'

'The Muppet Christmas Carol?' Paul smirks.

'A colourful career.' Vincent laughed. 'You like calm and excellence Paul. A safe pair of hands and respect. That'll be why I'm here as Michael Caine.'

'I can think of several more desirable people that could have fitted that bill.'

'The sense of humour Paul.....Never underestimate it......And besides, Caine fits you far more than some silly dolly bird with a nice pair of tits and fluttering eyes.' He smiled.

'So why not a loved one? Why not a member of my family? I'd have thought that they would have been the ideal candidates.'

Vincent Tua's demeanour dropped to one far more serious. ' I know Paul, but unfortunately family members aren't allowed. Emotions would get out of control and you have to remember that it's not really Michael Caine or your mother sat in front of you; it's Vincent Tua. Do you understand?'

Paul slowly nodded. 'I reckon so.'

'Good. Well hopefully that will explain that part to you. Now for the important bit.' He drank again and his face pulled on the effect of the liquid. 'You're in a place called The Waiting State Paul. You are neither dead nor alive. Your body is in Birmingham, but your spirit is in a parallel reality here with me. In Birmingham you are in this exact room; lying wired up to machines that are trying to keep you alive. Nurses and doctors are coming and going, but you are in a coma fighting for life; like you have been all of your life. You can't sit up like you are here in The Waiting State: talking, drinking or moving....The Waiting State is exactly as it suggests; a place where we wait and you decide which path that you want to take. Do you want to live and return to your life; or will you want to follow me in to the next life?' Vincent Tua held a serious look. 'This is a very special privilege for you Paul. Very few people get to this point. For most the choice is already made for them. But for a few, they get to decide their own fate. And if they return to their life, nothing about our meeting; or this place will ever be remembered.'

Cable sat in thought, his brain working quickly to decipher his situation.

'If I go back, surely I'll be nothing but a vegetable though?' He worried.

'Not the case Paul...You've heard of people making miraculous recoveries haven't you?..It has already been decided that you would return with full health. Okay, you'll require several months of physiotherapy, but you'll survive and have a full bill of health.' He grinned. 'Though of course, that doesn't mean that we can help you if you get hit by a bus whilst leaving the hospital.'

'Comforting.' Replied Paul with a grimace.

At that point a young nurse with short raven hair, a pretty face and a neat figure entered the room. Paul remained sat up in his bed, leaning against the head board. Michael Caine/Vincent Tua stayed sat in his armchair.

She read the moniters and scribbled down notes on her clip board before looking directly at Paul Cable's pillow.

'Very nice hey Mr Cable?' Vincent raised his eyebrows.

'She can't see us can she?' He asked.

'We're in The Waiting State Paul. Our young nurse is in the living world, studying the Paul Cable wired up to the national grid.'

'Unreal.'

'Exactly.'

'Then can I take away these fucking tubes Michael?'

'Be my guest.'

'Do you mind me calling you Michael?'

'You can call me whatever you like. You're the client; and I quite like it to be honest.'

'So what's the plan then Michael?' Paul asks with extra vigour in his manner.

'The plan?.. The plan is your future my friend. The choice may be simple or it may be difficult. It depends on your feelings and your desires. I want you to meet some people. This will be both a pleasant experience and a hard one, but I have to show you them to help you decide what your intentions are. The Waiting State sounds a totally pleasant environment Paul, but it's not always the case. It's a trial. Sometimes it can seem like a court, but with no judge or jury....It's a place where you come face to face with reasons to help you realise which path to take. The decision is meant to be a hard one. If it was so simple it would just be a case of you deciding one way or the other and the experience is over before you know it. Remember that sense of humour my friend.

The nurse crouches alongside Paul Cable's bedside, staring in his direction. She reaches out and strokes the hair of the Paul Cable entombed in his living coma and whispers. 'You're a hero. You're my hero and everyone else's hero. You'll pull through because you're strong. Strong and gorgeous I might add.'

She stands and quickly walks out of the room.

As she leaves through the open door, her place in the room is swapped with the diminutive figure of Alison Cable; the little six year old girl clutching her Big Ted tightly to her chest.

'I've missed you Paulie.' She says in a small voice.

## 29th July 1981

Paul Cable's face was etched with panic. He was ten years and one day old, and in a lot of trouble

The streets were littered in Union flags and red, white and blue bunting, and the news of Charles and Diana's wedding was everywhere. It was the only thing on everyone's lips. She was the new darling of the nation.

The last thing on Paul's mind was a silly royal wedding. He'd lost his sister and was beyond anything but upset.

All he had done was slip in to the shop to buy them both sweets whilst she stayed outside to mind his bicycle. He was only inside the place for a couple of minutes; though it may have been five whilst he flicked through a Tiger magazine.

He'd pedal the Raleigh Grifter that was far too big for him whilst she would sit on the crossbar with a tea towel folded on it to supply some limited cushioning.

He'd spent the afternoon tidying the outhouses for his mother whilst Alison had done her best to help out before she had to go to bed for a lie down.

Mum had spent the whole day with her eyes glued to the TV with their grandma and young Paul was glad to have something to keep him occupied whilst earning himself a few coppers to spend.

His father had gone out to the Welfare at lunchtime and hadn't been seen for the rest of the day. He wanted no part in the flag waving and the procession that went with the bloody royals.

He had spent over half an hour cycling the streets, scanning each and every highway and byway. Ali was nowhere to be seen and the fear of the trouble that this would put him in bothered him nearly as much as the welfare of his young and exposed sister. He was completely apprehension about going back home, but he wasn't getting anywhere in his search. He'd prayed that she would have got fed up of waiting for him and wandered all the way back home; but that wasn't Alison; she'd never just leave him like that.

His heart beat rapidly and he consciously panted. His brain was messy and a muddle. He would have to return home and face the consequences. If his father was home he would be in big trouble, even if Ali was safely there. If she wasn't there; well that was unthinkable.

Alison wasn't at home. Anna had shrieked in horror when he told her she was missing. She shook him by his shoulders whilst her eyes filled with water. How could he have been so careless? Against her better judgement she told him to cycle the mile over to Heather's house and to stay there. It would be better if he wasn't around.

As he rode off crying in heartbreak she ran next door to the Simpson's to ask for the use of their telephone to call the police. She was then helped by the majority of the near neighbours in a vain search of the estate and surrounding area. The jubilant air of national optimism had vanished from a small part of the town. A young disabled girl had disappeared and the local news was all over it like a rash.

When Charlie Cable discovered the news he flew predictably in to a seething rage. The fact that he was steaming drunk hadn't helped matters. He turned up at the door of Heather Jarrett at 2am on the following morning and demanded to be let in; she had locked and bolted all of the doors fast and sent the boy up to sleep in the attic bedroom away from the expected commotion of his father.

When the police arrived he was sat on the pavement cornerstone outside sobbing with his head in his hands.

On Friday 5th August 1981 at 07:16 Nottinghamshire Constabulary forcefully entered a property in the Oak Tree area of the town.

The body of Alison Cable was found dead by strangulation in the under-compartment of a divan bed in the tiny box room of a third floor flat. Forensic detectives deciphered that the little girl had been subjected to several terrifying hours of physical abuse. Many sickening reels of photographic film were found to substantiate towards the evidence of this theory.

The owner of the property, a Mr Steven Alan Mulruyd, a thirty-year old lifelong resident of the town was also found dead at the address. He had died from ossification and was naked with deep lacerations to his wrists. Several cans of strong lager and a bottle of scotch were found empty in the apartment. The words 'I KNOW I AM A BAD PERSON' were crudely written on a living room wall in the perpetrators own blood.

The verdicts were: Murder and Suicide.

Charles Cable went straight back to work after the girls much publicized funeral. He never spoke about the events again and would not entertain the subject in the company of Anna. Alison was gone now and he would deal with his grief in his own mind and only his own mind. His drinking got heavier and the times he spent at the family's home got less. It became a place where he would sleep and eat and little else. His relationship with his wife would become one by association only; any tenderness that they might have shared before vanished. She was the homemaker and provider of his meals.

Those unspeakable days in the summer of 1981 had destroyed a huge part of Anna Cable's soul. She was a broken woman who would never enjoy her life to any extent again. She would spend whole nights in the empty room of her daughter holding her favourite Big Ted and looking in to space, searching for some meaningful explanation to offer her clarity. She would often wake in that room, lying on top of her bed unable and unwanting to get up. She cursed her life and the cruel way that it had been dismantled by outside forces.

She had known Steven Mulruyd and that had made things even harder for her. She exhaustedly searched her mind to understand what they may have done to him to deserve such evil?

She wished him eternal damnation.

Heather Jarrett introduced her daughter to the church. It became an increasingly important symbol in their lives. In the Lord they hoped for answers and to find an inner peace. Neither woman felt that they had much more left than themselves, the church and young Paul. Heather never blamed Paul, even if in times of weakness Anna had. He was a good boy with a good heart that had only ever wanted good for the younger sister that he idolized. She knew that the burden on him would forever be the greatest. He would always blame himself for what had happened. It was a cruel time for them all, but especially Paul; he knew that individuals held him responsible for Alison's fate and it was Heather's job to be there for him, love him and keep him strong. Her role as head of the family had been enhanced greatly by the death of Alison and the subsequent choices of Charlie to pretty much abandon them.

Paul Cable became increasingly reclusive. He had never been the most popular of boys due to his shy and timid nature, and now happenings had made him furtherly insular. He only had three real friends in the whole world: Alison had been his best pal and they had been virtually inseparable for six years, but Tom Simpson from next door was the same age as him and their friendship had become increasingly stronger over the past few years; also Tom had a best friend on Cinnamon Street called Mark James. Jamo and Paul had got to know each other very well through Tom and they had bonded instantly – something that Paul wasn't used to doing with any other kids. The death of Alison had hit all three of the boys hard, but for Paul his friendship with Tom and Jamo would have to take a temporary backward step whilst he tried to deal with his grief.

Initially Paul lived with his grandmother for a while whilst his parents tried to adapt to the trauma of their new lives. It was roundly felt that Heather would be able to care for him better than they could. He gained solace in the company of her pigeons and Heather would take him fishing to Bleak Hills whenever it was possible to help soothe his suffering mind.

In early November Anna Cable had decided that she wanted her son back home with her and they walked slowly back home from Heather's as the fireworks of Guy Fawkes night lit up the dark sky around them. They both felt that the time was right, even if the event did hold some trepidation for the boy. Anna needed a goal in her life and had decided that the welfare of her only child would be it.

## The Waiting State

Never in twenty-six years had a day gone by without him thinking about her. Her smile, her warmth and her charm had lived on with him long after her death. He'd dreamt and longed for this moment for many long years. He'd wanted it so badly that at times it was as if she was still living and breathing and amongst him within the same few walls, wherever in the world he was. He had learned to stabilize his guilt at the situation, he had no choice, it was pointless to carry on living that way. Alison was gone, it wasn't him that had taken her away but he who had taken his eye away from the ball for a minuscule fraction of the time he spent with her and had paid for it by losing one of the great loves of his life

During those imperfect early days when his wariness with the world hemmed him in from all angles, she'd been a constant ally and a source of great serenity. She'd helped guide him through awkward, uncoordinated times when he was struggling to find an understanding about himself. He was an intelligent boy, who questioned everything and seeked comprehension in every aspect of his life. He laboured with trust, but in Alison he only saw good and it helped reduce his distrust of others. When she died it was himself that he empathized with the most. Who had he left to turn to?

His throat dried up to the point that he could feel it swell. He'd always imagined her dressed in her old purple corduroy bib and brace dress with the pocket at the front with an embroidered daisy on. Instead she was dressed neck to toe in a sleek black dress, tied at the back with a bow. Her hair was scooped back in to a single ponytail that sat on the crown of her head in a matching bow that loosely straddled her healthy long auburn tresses. She looked every bit the beautiful little girl that he unlocked daily from his memories.

She approached him boldly before diving in to his grateful arms. Her scent was incredibly fresh and her bare arms felt like silk under his worn touch. If this were a cruel dream, then it was the most extraordinarily intoxicating feeling that he had ever known. He never wanted to let go of the tiny youngster again. She looked real, felt real and smelt real; much unlike his experience of dreams. The pain of her absence after all of those years had strangely returned and it overcame him with emotion; reminding him of what he had been deprived of. Anger returned within him because of it, though he could suppress and deal with it; he'd been trained to channel his emotions, though he'd never expected them to have to come in to play in this kind of circumstance.

He held her by the arms, inches from him and smiled a joyous smile that he'd kept in reserve especially for her.

She beamed back at him. 'Big Ted has missed you too Paulie. Haven't you Big Ted?'

'I've missed him too Ali. Nearly as much as you,..though not quite.'

'We knew you'd come though Paulie. I said to Big Ted, ''don't cry Big Ted cos Paulie will come and then we'll have somebody to play with....And now we have haven't we?'

'Of course you have pal. I've missed our games: hide and seek, bat and ball, skittles, marbles, eye spy, acrobats.'

'Dollies?' She eagerly added.

'Well, not so much dollies. That's more your game that I have to join in with.'

'Don't be silly Paulie, dollies is our favourite; you said.'

'Did I?' He puzzles.

'We were lying in your bed and you were going to sleep and I said "Paulie, what's your favourite game?" and you said you was tired and wanted to go to sleep and I said "is it dollies?" and you said okay.'

'Okay mate, that sounds completely like what I meant, so I have to concede; dollies is definitely my favourite game.'

'See. I told you silly.'

'I'm glad you're okay Ali, I've been worried about you for a very long time. I'm sorry that I let you down. I've shouted at myself every day since you left me.' Paul offered the girl in quiet sincerity.

'It's not your fault silly. It was the bad man. It was his fault Paulie. I tried to shout you because I know that you would have run and helped me, but I couldn't. It's not your fault that I've missed you.'

'I've blamed myself for not helping you mate. I shouldn't have left you outside to look after the bike. It was wrong. Will you ever forgive me?'

She raises her eyes to the sky and groans playfully. 'Yeeees. Silly wally.'

'Thanks squirt.' He squeezes her tightly again and kisses her cool cheek, a weight that has hung for two and a half decades easing very slightly from off of his bones.

Vincent Tua remains comfortably seated, a thin smile etched across his lips. This was job satisfaction on a most unprecedented high. He felt naturally moved by the emotion that their instinctive relationship held. He had been dead for over four hundred years and had been doing this job for two hundred and forty-four of them and still moments like this melted his heart. He had been with Paul Cable all of his life. He had witnessed the suffering that the boy had endured through the absence of this young girl. She had been an important plinth that his life had been constructed around; when she was taken from him it rocked him to his very foundations. Just like Alison with her CDD Paul had to begin again. Everything he knew had been striped back and he had to learn again. His emotions and understanding never really fully recovered, but he was inching towards them. Perhaps the afterlife would reinstall his lost faith in humanity.

'Alison has been a very patient little girl Paul.' Said Vincent. 'She has spent a great deal of time watching her brother. You're her hero and always were.'

'If only I'd have known. If only all of us had known. All the grieving and suffering that we suffered. It could have been so much easier.'

'We aren't all blessed with faith Paul. Humanity is naturally sceptical. That's the way we are made and makes us who we are. The world can be a cruel place; you know that more than most. A little bit of faith can go a long way in helping us with the difficult things in life.'

'I don't buy that. Why should I have faith in a world that makes a little girl suffer so much? A world that confuses her by teaching her how to live, only for it to be stolen away from her and plays games with her mind? What sort of merciless rules are they?......And then for her to suffer the torture that she'd have experienced at the hands of Mulruyd.....It's depraved and wrong Vincent. Why give us a brain; a mind, let us think, and then screw it over with bullshit and torment?... Oh I have great faith in all of that, trust me.' Paul Cable spits an unease of emotions, his brain working overtime to comprehend matters.

The young girl breaks her brother's gentle grip and climbs under the covers beside him before snuggling under his arm and throwing a limb over his thick chest. He returns the favour with the comfort of his large arm cradling her in to position.

Vincent leans on his hunches, edging a little closer to them both. 'Faith is a strong taboo; it divides opinion and creates countless emotions. But in your world it's the one thing to grasp on to and attempt to trust. People are taught and encouraged to practise it from an early age; maybe in different ways, but it's an integral concept passed through the human psyche. It's the first lesson in the learning curve and although a primitive idea it's an essential aid to help guide you through the Foundation.

'Foundation?....What do you mean by Foundation?' Paul again looks puzzled.

'The Foundation is what you've been living in Paul. It's the first world; you're planet earth. Everything you know is classed as the Foundation. You're born in to this world and your existence and your learning begins. You may have family, you may develop friends, and have a relationship; you may have many relationships. But all along it is just the first tiny steps in to your existence as a human being. When your life on earth ends and you pass away, you move out of the Foundation and through to the next life; only this afterlife isn't what you would expect it to be.'

'Oh, the afterlife better be bloody good Michael.'

'It's better than good Paul, it's astonishing; mind-blowing. The world as you know it is known in the afterlife as the Foundation. It's merely a conditioning ground for the whole process of life. The Foundation starts with the blueprint of your life: a sex, a race, strengths, weaknesses. Take the lovely young lady there. Struck down in her most precious years; the years when every day is a lesson; a discovery. Cruelly she's robbed of the basic things that are a fundamental gift offered to almost every one of us. Why would that be Paul?'

'You're the storyteller here Michael.'

Vincent Tua's gaze switched to Alison Cable's. 'Why would that be Ali?'

The child looked up to meet her elder brother's eyes whilst Vincent continued.

'It's the way that she was made Paul. Call it pot luck if you like, but that is the set of rules that she was handed. Her dementia was a gift. Not in the first world, but in her second life. In her second life she was born readily adapted to the lessons that she learned from in her Foundation year. Have you not noticed that she was hugging her Big Ted?'

Paul looked on aghast. It hadn't even occurred to him.

'No,...no I hadn't'.

'When you saw her last in the first world she had forgotten how to even pick him up; but in this second life she has perfected and honed her motor neuron skills. She also has an unusually large capacity for storing information in her memory. So you see; Alison's disability has been established as an integral part of her learning process. In the second stage of her life, known as her First Understanding, it has become her niche; a strength in her make up.'

Paul lifts a hand and shakes his head. 'Slow down. You're making my head hurt..... Not only is it spinning me out that now my little sister sounds more intelligent than I am.' - he gives her a squeeze which makes her smile as she has begun to snooze - 'But you're telling me that the things that held her back before are now her strengths?'

'Not just her strengths; she excels in them.'

'And the things she was good at before?'

'They advance at a slower pace, but advance they do.'

'And this talk of an Understanding?'

'Arr,....the Understandings; they are the whole core of our existence; the infinite spinal column of human life as we know it.'

'In English please Michael.'

Vincent Tua holds aloft a soft hand and ushers a finger to his lips before pointing to the girl who has quickly dropped to sleep.

'All in good time Paul. Your best friend has had a hard day too.'

Paul proudly grins, his heart melting at her sight.

'I will leave you two alone for awhile my friend. I think you deserve some time together before I bamboozle your already aching head with the facts about the Understandings.'

Vincent pulled himself upright and began to make for the door. 'I'll return once you've both finished resting.'

'I'll appreciate that Michael. I really am thankful for what you've done for me today. This is the best gift anyone has ever given me,..and Michael.' Tua looks back as he begins to vacate the room. 'I promise to call you Vincent from now on mate.'

Vincent smirked. 'Get some rest Paul.'

The big SAS soldier slid back under the covers, his arms filled with a totally unexpected package. He spent many minutes simply looking at her before drifting to a short, satisfying sleep of his own.

## 6th November 1983

'That's your fuckin bed now. Fit for a dog. You're a dog, so get in your bed and don't leave it.'

Paul Cable cowered by his magnolia woodchipped bedroom wall; his ruddy cheeks strained with tear tracks and his eyes bloodshot and spoiled. The timber framed bed was splintered to pieces in the corner and his mattress had exited via the open sash window. Now it lay on the damp grass in the dimming light beside the dead Labrador with a pitch fork through its shoulder and side. The garden and the sky hung deathly grey, never hinting that spring or summer would ever return. It was a hermetically testing scene of utter grimness that could trial the essence of any soul.

His mother had bought him the dog the previous year, rescued from the RSPCA pound in Ratcliffe-On-Trent; an attempt at replacing a sibling. He'd loved the dog and they'd made an uncanny matching pair – both nervously shy, hesitant and mentally weak. He'd walk it every evening and it allowed him a good excuse to leave the house and walk around the Common in thought. For a year they had been inseparable and he'd felt more comfortable the majority of the time in the dog's company than in that of his only friends Tom and Mark.

The animal had taken to the boy after a previous lifetime of misery and neglect; it had finally found a companion of humankind to share a loving relationship with and despite the regular assaults from Charlie Cable, even its lost hair had grown evenly back until it was beginning to look moderately healthy.

Treading in shit and eight lunchtime pints of Marksman had spelt the end for the mutt. Charlie Cable had attacked it whilst it backed up against the outhouses, snapping in fright. Paul had screamed from the back door and was so heartbroken that although the tears spilt freely, his cries refused to be audible in his pain. He hated the man more now than he could ever have anticipated. He hated him more than he hated Steven Mulruyd – He hated him nearly as much as Steven Mulruyd.

His father had always been a drunk, and he was always capable of instantaneous violence, he'd been used to growing up with it for his entire life, but it was getting ever more frequent and he was getting ever more unpredictable. They were now all a target for his wrath; not just the mentally spent mother, but him too and now the dog that he adored was left dead in a pool of blood on the garden lawn.

Anna had said nothing. She'd initially consoled the boy, but she realized that there was nothing she could do to reason with the man and there were no words invented that could comfort her boy either. The dog was dead and nothing she could say would bring it back alive.

Maybe she would get him another one to fill yet another gaping void; but then probably it would be best if she didn't.

Charlie had launched his filthy shoe in the lads direction and only his reflexes prevented him from receiving a direct him. He then dragged him by the neck to his room. The place was a mess from where the lad had been painting plastic airplanes and Subbuteo players on top of old free press newspaper. Cable flew in to a fit of rage, tearing at the place with every scrap of anger that he could summon. Two minutes later the room was a broken shell and the boy was a terrified lamb expecting to be slaughtered by the big bad wolf.

She pleaded with him to not force the boy to sleep in the dog's basket; its mass collection of hair being the only remnant of its remains once she had dug a hole in the pumpkin patch for a shallow grave; but Charlie was in no mood for compromise. She wasn't sure what or who he'd fallen out with at The Gun & Glasshouse, but it hadn't helped in bringing him home in a foul mood. He was so adamant that his child would sleep in the basket that he didn't return to the pub for the regular evening session and instead he sat and swigged from a bottle of Bells whilst watching a re-run of Blake's 7, Mastermind and World In Action. They never exchanged a word whilst the boy was given an extra early night to toss and turn with discomfort in the bed that he'd not been allowed to clean first.

In the morning his neck was sore and stiffened. He had not slept easily and had awoken several times during the night. At one stage he had witnessed his father sat on the boy's small painted wooden chair in the dark smoking a cigarette. It had made Paul extremely anxious, but he had pretended to be asleep, hoping that his father would just leave him be; forty-five minutes later he left quietly through the door and could be heard creeping down the stairs. The boy eventually managed to fall back to sleep through the sheer exhaustion of his mind.

Paul and his mother sat and ate their breakfast in silence, neither of them wanting to raise the previous day's events, and both of them still shell-shocked from the power of Charlie's brutality. They both lived in great fear of the man now; the only difference between them was that although Paul no longer wanted to be near his father, remarkably Anna still did. Something inside of the woman still loved him and admired the power and fear that he instilled in people; even if that often included her scared self. Unbelievably, something remained intoxicatingly attractive about him to her, and it seemed that violence had become such a normal part of their lives now that she craved it. Even the sex that they had would leave her hurt and aching; as if she had been involved in a wild and irrational fight. Her body would throb from the aggressiveness of his 'love-making', as if he had declared war upon her. It made her tingle with excitement during the passion and she tried to give as good as she got, and it was more often his blood left on the sheets than hers; his flesh buried beneath her claw-like fingernails. When they had finished brawling over one another they would retire to separate corners of the bed and calm down with heavily beating hearts.

She still needed that in her life to prove to herself that she was still alive. It was the only adrenaline rush that remained for her. For the rest of the time she might as well have been living in a box, and if it wasn't for her needing the love of her son she would.

He walked to school alone. The gloomy murk of an early winters chill froze him to the bone and the trees, shorn of their leaves, threatened him with belligerent branches that ridiculed his presence. For once he was grateful to be going to the place, though he wondered to himself whether there was a point to being alive. Was life meant to be like this? He wondered whether his life were reaching its conclusion, just like Alison's had; just like the dog's had. He saw other children walking with their mothers and they weren't like him; none of them. His world seemed so harsh, whilst everyone else he encountered seemed so much more contented with things. Or were they all feeling just like him inside, only he couldn't notice it? Maybe he was normal after all.

'Oi! Gayble' He recognized the voice instantly but carried on walking without lifting his fair haired skull from the cracks in the pavement. To stop would be foolish; to answer back could be suicidal. 'Oi!....Don't friggin' ignore us, ya puff.'

Jason Doyliboy wasn't just a stupid name, it was attached to a kid with a reputation to match it; added to the physique of a boy more common with a kid of thirteen or fourteen. This was a cocktail that he had continually exploited to its full potential.

Paul, although a constant target of Doyliboy and his friends he never took the insults and threats personally; he'd seen him perform like it with most of the kids in the school. He was a law on to himself and was no stranger to either the headmaster's door, or the lido at the far end of the park, where he'd scrap with the older boys who were more of his match. Lads like Paul Cable would usually receive no more than a dead arm, or a boot to the shins because he didn't take their existence seriously enough. He wasn't the 'take your pocket money' type of bully, he never seemed to struggle with cash for sweets or football stickers; he much more preferred the stigma attached to folks knowing that he was in charge. He thrived on the fear factor, just like Charlie Cable did; but when Charlie Cable was your father, bullies such as Jason Doyliboy seemed insignificant in comparison.

Doyliboy barred his way, forcing his him to raise his head to meet his gaze. Steve Jones and 'Crack' Allen was his two best friends and quite a handy couple of enforcers to have as allies. They both stood on either of his flanks; towering over the much smaller boy.

'Why aren't you talking Gayble? You got out the wrong side of the bed this morning or summat?' The bully commented.

Paul is forced to a stop before their hostile wall.

'No.....I'm fine thanks.' He replies.

'Well you don't look fine gay boy. In fact you look a right mess.'

The other two boys laugh, before Steve Jones pointed.

'You been sleeping with the dog Gayble?' He asks.

'No.' Paul looks puzzled and embarrassed, before Jones reached out and took a lump of sandy, mattered dogs hair from the smaller boys head.

Doyliboy and Allen scream with hilarity.

'Haha. Dog shagger!' Doyliboy shouted and Paul's heart steadily began to pump faster in his embarrassment. 'I thought that you liked other boys Gayble, but I was wrong wan't I?'

Paul shook his head, his heart trying to force itself up through his throat.

Jason Doyliboy placed an arm around the boy, who flinched slightly in his nervousness.

The aggressor lowered his voice so it was just about audible for the four of them. 'Look Paul, we was only having fun with you about liking boys, we knew all along that you wasn't like that. We've seen ya lookin at the dogs on the Common whilst hiding in the bushes.'

Paul shrugs him off and squeezed between the other two before pacing off away from their howls of delight.

'Hey, where's your sister anyway Paul?.. Has she had another lie in?'

Again they roared loudly as Paul Cable bit his lip and trudged on his way towards the gates and the playground beyond, hoping that they would secure a different victim by first bell.

A passing mother scolds the biggest boy for his distasteful jibe, but is greeted with a chain of expletives for her troubles from the pack. The boys then chased after the sullen eleven-year old, ripping his exposed rucksack from his shoulder.

They proceed to throw the thing between themselves for a few minutes whilst Paul Cable stood rooted to the spot, unable to know exactly what to do as they flung the thing around him.

Passing girls giggle as they impassively observe whilst ambling through the school gates.

On the sound of the school bell 'Crack' Allen dispatched the bag high in to the branches of a neighbouring chestnut. It hung there like an apple ripe for falling.

'See ya later dog boy.' He hears them holler as they hare through the gates, bundling children like skittles in their hostile passing.

Paul stands with his arms by his side, transfixed by the gravity defying rucksack.

'CABLE!' He sharply swivelled his head to see Mr Jarvis, the callous looking deputy headmaster staring in his direction; his bespectacled eyes piercing like drills in to the boys face. 'IN THIS SCHOOL NOW!'

Paul half-heartedly looked towards his bag, and then back to the powerful teacher, but he was unable to muster enough courage to question his position regarding his predicament.

'MOVE IT BOY!'

Fatty Brown was an unusual sort. He could offer moments of spontaneously terrifying anger to the class or an individual that would leave them all mute until bell-time, but ninety-nine percent of the time he would remain silent, wobbling from his desk to the cabinet, then to the blackboard and back to his desk whilst the class would chatter nonchalantly amongst one another.

He had his favourites amongst his form class: David Archer was one; a very bright and a very ginger lad that excelled in annoying everyone with his baffling mix of intelligence, good manners and neat, unaccented voice – a prime, though apparently unshaken target for Doyliboy, Jones and Allen. And then there was the gaggle of female friends, Louise Young, Stacey Peach and Dominique Westerhaus; all bright and all pretty young things that would probably follow a similar path in to successful adulthood: either career-wise, or as the sharp trophy partner for a well paid husband. Was it in Paul Cable's imagination that Fatty Brown fancied the three of them, or was it because that he did himself and he had wished that he could offer fawning compliments upon them like the portly middle aged teacher did?

Paul wasn't too sure whether his teacher ever really knew whether he existed or not; apart from at register time and when it was his turn to read from Of Mice And Men. He liked his undistinguished status, though it also made him feel like an outsider in a class that had been his own for eighteen months. He was the kid that sat by the 'Art Wall' next to Peter Oliver - the other kid that no one else was too fussed in sitting beside. Even when his sister was murdered and he briefly became a school celebrity, nobody really spoke to him. They just whispered in hushed corridor voices; even the teachers.

Today was different though. The talk had quickly spread about the boy with dog's hair in his own; the dog boy that had sex in bushes with canines.

He'd heard all of their muffled jokes and jibes. Even Louise Young had smirked on hearing them. It made his heart sink, and his head even lower in to his English book. He wondered whether Fatty Brown were in on the joke too. He had clearly heard some of the barbed comments and chosen to ignore them and their users. Only Peter Oliver seemed immune to comment, but he couldn't miss them and was probably embarrassed himself at being adjacent to Paul Cable.

It wasn't the only thing troubling Paul's mind. He had had to find an excuse regarding the absence of his books that were in his rucksack that he prayed still hang from that tree on the street outside of the school gates. He'd pondered raising his hand to go to the toilet, so he could exit and retrieve the thing, but it would take far too long, and the school yard always seemed to be patrolled by some authoritive soul on high alert like a prison guard. Besides, for the 'dog boy' to cause further attention to himself would be foolish.

He would have to wait until a more convenient time, such as lunch. Even if he would be on show to half of the world and the likes of Doyliboy's gang would be keen for an update regarding the hilariously dangling bag.

His head spun with annoyance. He hadn't asked for all of this mischief. He hadn't even started the ball running in any of its unceremoniously undiscriminating quest to charge him down like the giant rock-ball that rolled after Harrison Ford in Raiders Of The Lost Ark; the film that he and Mark had enjoyed on Tom's dads new VHS video recorder. But he felt under increasing pressure from all angles. He wanted to cry, but he'd promised himself that he wouldn't. He couldn't allow everyone to see his upset, even if that was how he felt. If Louise Young saw him crying like a big baby, she would think that he was soft and weak. She'd never ever want to go out with him then; though the thought of being dubbed 'Dog Boy' for the remainder of his days at St Matthew's would probably see off that little dream.

He would save his crying for the cross-country run across the school field, up the jitty to the Common, the lap around the Common, the jitty back to school, and then he will have no crying left in him by the time that he had finished the exercise. In the cross-country he would lead the field by a mile. The cross-country that he would have to do in the school's spare gym kit if he didn't get back that hanging bag of unfortunate misery during the lunch break.

The list of wretchedness was mounting up on an extraordinary day of woe; even for Paul Cable and his brittle self-esteem.

He didn't retrieve the rucksack from the tree at lunchtime. To confirm his worst fears, it wasn't there. It hadn't been handed in at the school's office either he was coldly informed. He had indeed had to don the school's 'spare' gym kit for Physical Education double period. A pair of royal blue cotton shorts that must have been thirty years old were rescued from the bottom of Mr Rankine's draw. They were as stiff as the leather bound covers of the almanacs in the library and offered his frozen legs little comfort from the cold. Fortunately, the red and white hooped jersey of the school's football strip provided more comfort than of what he had been expecting. Alas, his Clark's that had been shined to a mirror finish by his mother were caked in the mud of the Common - Yet more uncomfortable explaining would need to be done. - He toyed with the idea of going straight to Grandma Heather's after school. If there was to be a sympathetic ear in the world for him, it would be his beloved grandmother.

As he rounded the top of the hill at the far end of the school field, the finish beside the pavilion within sight, he decided that he'd have to go straight home. The unease of another child not at home when he should be would just bring more needless anxiety on the shoulders of his mother. She didn't need that. And he didn't need the reaction of his unpredictable father.

He had beaten the next boy by over eighty metres. The pack that followed by over one hundred metres. And the best girl – Louise Young; the brightest girl and best athlete – by over one hundred and twenty metres. He hadn't cried once on the whole run. His head that could so easily have been distracted by all manner of thoughts had largely remained clear. He had decided to put his troubles behind him and set a personal best time instead.

Mr Rankine, the games master was impressed, though economic with his praise.

'Twenty-six minutes, fourteen seconds. Good lad. A real effort.'

Praise being something that wasn't quickly forwarded from anyone who wasn't his mother or grandmother, this seemed almost like a whoop combined with a deewoo to the ears of Paul Cable.

He lent with his hands on his knees, regaining his breath as Collins, the second placed lad finished, followed by the mad charge for the line by the pack.

Louise Young cantered in just behind; some thirty metres ahead of the next girl.

She grimaced and then smiled towards him; her harsh breaths exhaling in to the atmosphere. 'Well done Paul.' She quietly uttered has she wandered by, flexing her hamstrings.

'Thanks....Thanks Louise.' He replied quietly; knowing that she wouldn't want the others to be aware of her acknowledgement of him. But it raised his heart that she'd appreciated his feat.

The field trailed in wearing various states of discomfort and displeasure at the mandatory torture that was forced upon them. And even at the ages of eleven and twelve, there would be the odd advocate of a mid-run cigarette, who would provide the tail.

Once they had all finished Mr Rankine had called for order and for them to all gather around as he stood on top of the steps of the pavilion looking down on the whole school year.

He began to shout in regimented style from behind his thick brush of a moustache.

'Some outstanding performances and some performances that offer me deep regrets for the future physical welfare of some of you cretins. No names, but you know who you are.' His eyes fell upon the faces of those that had let themselves down and had personally let down their unforgiving teacher. 'This school has been invited to participate in the inter-schools county championships in Matlock. It is a prestigious event and will include all of the best middle schools across Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. Never before have St Matthew's been invited to this event and I want us to make an impression. I don't want us to make up the numbers. I WANT US TO WIN!...Not only individuals, but also as a team..Fortunately for this school and for this year, we have several individuals who can go on to serve this school with some pride and give us an opportunity of winning; unlike some of you, who arrreEE A DISGRACE!!'

He paused and allowed an uncomfortable silence to linger around their panting.

'We require a team of three boys and three girls to compete. This isn't an option. If your name is read out, you will attend the championships in Matlock, during school time, and in full school kit.' Rankine's eyes hovered past Paul Cable's, but stayed lenient. 'The names of the boys are: Collins and O'Rafferty. The boys captain will be Cable.'

The sound of his voice struck his chest like a hammer to the heart. His breath briefly stopped and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

'The girls will be: Jarvis and Waddell. The girls captain will be Young. The meeting will be on Friday the 25th of this month. Please let your parents know that you will be taking part and that your kit is esSENTIAL!........Now, boys to the football fields, girls collect your equipment from the stores and make your way to the hockey fields. MovE IT!!'

He caught a glimpse of Louise Young punch understatedly in the air and offer him a knowing glance.

He could not believe it. He had never been chosen for anything in his life and this had come completely out of the blue. Not only had he been chosen to represent the whole school, but he, Paul Cable, had been named team captain; alongside Louise Young!

It seemed like an incredible breakthrough to him. Something he could be rightfully proud of telling his mum and dad, and his grandma. Would he get to sit alongside his fellow team captain in the minibus to Matlock? His mind rushed with possibilities.

Someone's boot tripped him over as he jogged to the football fields. They all laughed.

He arrived home a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He found it typical that on a day like this, with genuine proud news to offer, he had also lost his rucksack. Not just his rucksack itself: but five school books, his library book and his school sports kit and those nasty, horrible Dunlop trainers that he didn't like anyway, but would kop a whole heap of trouble for losing anyhow. Add to the mix, the shocking state of his Clark's and it was a return home that could have resulted in all means of trouble.

His father was on the morning shift and had thankfully not returned home from work yet. He felt far more at home drinking Marksman from his stool at the bar in The Gun & Glasshouse in the afternoon lock in, than spending the extra time available to be with Anna.

The joy Paul felt when he discovered that his bag had been found at the side of the road by a lady that knew his mother was unprecedented. She had seen his name on the school books and had dropped it in to their house on the way back home. And to top even this, his mother forgave him the state of his shoes when she found out about his athletic feats.

She sat scrubbing them clean at the kitchen worktop as he munched on a packet of crisps. Repeatedly she would look over at him and shine him with a beaming smile that required no words of love.

She had felt massively guilty about what he'd been through in the last twenty-four hours and wasn't going to begin adding to his problems. She felt for him and knew that it hadn't been an easy day for the lad, but he had risen above it and achieved something that would surely tug on even the stiffest of Charlie Cable's strings of pride.

Her boy was a winner already in her eyes.

'No way!....... I forbid it!....... He stays off school that day.... I'm off work then. He can help me with jobs.' Yelled Charlie Cable, inebriated again; leering and ravenous to upset. He was enjoying himself and comforting in the distress taken by both Anna and the lad. For the second day running he had made him cry uncontrollably; confirming to him that the lad was as soft as shit. He was a weakling and was easily manipulated in to a roaring tangled mess of pathetic emotions. It made him laugh uncontrollably inside. The kid was getting everything that he deserved and it made him feel much much better.

Hopefully one day the boy will pluck up enough courage to take a swing. He'd crush him like a fly against a pane of glass.

'What jobs?..What jobs do you need to do?.. What jobs are so important to make him stay off from school? For something that is so important to him....... He needs this Charlie.' She sobbed at him through quivering lips that ran with disorderly spit.

'I'll find jobs.' He growled.

'That's not fair Charlie. You're not being fair to him. He's still grieving too......He needs something to focus on.'

He walked slowly up to her, his eyes ablaze and his face wearing a fixed contorted sneer. He pointed directly at her before he turned and remained pointing, but this time at the boy.

'Outside!' He growled with calm authority.

The boy looked puzzled and wasn't sure what he was meant to do. He was frozen to the chair, his eyes darting between both of his parents.

'FUCKIN OUTSIDE YOU LITTLE SHIT!!' He screamed frighteningly.

Anna Cable collapsed in to a dining table chair, her anguished head held in a hand from an arm that elbowed the table top.

The boy sprang to his feet and quickly made for the door.

'THAT SHED IS A FUCKIN DISGRACE WITH YOUR CRAP!.....GET IT TIDY!'

Paul stopped at the door and looked at his father for compassion. 'But it's dark outside dad.'

His father crept towards him, his teeth clenched and his knuckles white in the fists that they occupied. He lowered his voice to a hushed tone. 'You will go outside. You will tidy that shed by the light of the moon if you need to, and you will make an immaculate job that I will inspect in the morning....... You can put on a coat, because you are going to sleep in that dog kennel tonight, where you belong...... If I am not happy with the job you make of that shed, you will sleep in that kennel again tomorrow night, and then the next day and so on until I am happy with it....... You can get any ideas of running for the school from out of your tiny little, stupid, sister-forgetting mind..... You will not entertain ideas like that from underneath my roof. You are a dog and dogs only run for exercise, not competition......NOW FUCK OFF OUT OF MY SIGHT!'

The boy needed no second invitation and bolted from sight. His mother cried out loudly 'NNNOOOOO!......CHARLIE!!......Why?......why?...why?....why?......It's not his fault.'

Her tears dripped directly from the creases of her eyes on to the table top. She felt as though she was going mad.

He lent on the opposite end of the table, his palms flat and his stern brow narrowed and meaningful.

'That boy made me a promise on the night that Alison was born.....He broke that promise and she paid the full price....That little girl was everything to me, and that boy took her away..... He is nothing, a nobody, an irrelevance that is under my roof by association and nothing else.'

'He's just a child Charlie.' She stammered through broken English.

'He's a dead man walking you stupid cow.'

'How,....how,....how can you be so cruel to your own flesh and blood?'

'Not my flesh and blood Anna....Your flesh and blood....Not a Cable,...but a Jarrett.... A cowardly little wanker, just like your dad..... Just like Ray fucking Jarrett.'

She sniffed but never looked up. Her ears pricked, but her tongue tied.

'That boy is on borrowed time.... He'll get his comeuppance, mark my words Anna Jarrett......He's on borrowed time. I've done it before,..........I'll do it again.'

## 25th November 1983

He sat eating egg, chips, sausage and beans. It was his favourite and a much deserved reward

The Nottinghamshire & Derbyshire Middle Schools Cross-Country Running Championship – Boys Winner 1983 Cup sat proudly in the windowsill of Grandma Heather's front bay window as the boy ate enthusiastically from his plate as both his grandmother and his mother looked proudly on at him.

He was dressed in his school shirt and tie, but still wore his shorts, football socks and the tired pair of Dunlop's that had seen him home, six seconds ahead of a boy almost twice his size from Chesterfield, who hadn't got the stamina to contend with him up the sloped finish to the line.

Mr Rankine had called it a performance that they could all be proud of; even the boy Jarvis who had finished fourth from the rear in the boys event, and the girl Waddell who had come home breathlessly struggling from the testing course with stitch, dead last.

Louise Young had finished in a creditable thirty-third, and the school a team result of fifteenth thanks in the main to Paul's win.

The day had enhanced the contentment that Paul Cable was feeling in his life all of a sudden. The outcome of the cross-country result had certainly benefitted from his new ease.

His mother had sent him to his grandmothers with a small packed case. She could no longer guarantee his safety under their roof. Charlie's drinking was getting out of hand and he was beginning to act like a man possessed in the boys company. She felt as if she could handle the situation herself, but she could not protect the boy if her husband was to ever fall in to one of his many rages in his company. Making him sleep outdoors in plummeting temperatures had been the final straw. If Charlie didn't kill him, the elements would.

She didn't want more of her own young blood at her feet.

Anna provided him with his own house key and on the occasions that his father was on day shift, she would leave him a simple meal in the fridge for his lunch breaks from school. The rest of the times he would have to walk the mile to and from his grandmothers to school and stay for packed lunch.

When Charlie was on the afternoon shift, Paul would have his dinner with his mother before she would walk him back home.

Anna had not told her mother of Charlie's threats, only that she felt that it would have been better for the boy to be somewhere away from the hurt and the memories that still lingered. The mother had hated being apart from her boy, he was everything to her and she would see him on every available occasion. But her head was still in a unreliable place, and Paul wouldn't be much use to her should he wind up dead one morning because of Charlie's abuse of alcohol.

Heather wasn't stupid. She knew exactly of the threat that her son in law posed. He was a brute; a brawler of some ill repute who she felt would be just as comfortable in giving a woman or his own son a good hiding, as he would someone down at the Welfare, or in the pit car park.

He was scum, of bad stock. It had filled her with dread from the day that Anna had first bought him through their door; his granite-like head balancing sturdily on solid shoulders. Her Ray had been equally nervous about him. Here was somebody that he'd struggle to contain if he'd gotten out of control. Initially Cable's wild ways had been kept in check by Raymond Jarrett – who was no shrinking violet himself – but after a while he grew tired of being on eternal watch and began to turn a blind eye to events, just for a quiet life; much to the increasing annoyance of Heather.

When Ray unexpectedly died at a youthful forty-eight a strong Heather made herself a promise to never let Charlie Cable run roughshod over her and her family like what was becoming regular practise.

She'd done her best, and with the help of Charlie Cable's father Derek, they had helped address the devil that sat inside of the man somewhat. He was still capable of trouble-making, but he seemed to listened to his father and take heed of his advice.

That was until his father disappeared one week in September 1976 and was never seen again. All trace of the man had vanished. His possessions remained. His dog, Bertie was left behind, but Derek Cable was gone. Rumour had it that he'd been seeing a Scottish woman who had returned back to her home town of Brechin and Derek had gone with her. It seemed unlikely, but nobody had seemed to care enough to check. His wife had run off to be with a man from Sussex when Charlie was just a teenager and it had a similar feel of events about it.

Heather had never really questioned where her ally had gone, and Charlie and Anna didn't seem to care. The young couple took over his possessions, the council took back his house and Charlie took Bertie the dog out in to the north Nottinghamshire countryside and stoved his head in with a shovel.

What mattered now was that Paul Cable was safe in a positive environment where hopefully he could flourish. He was living quite a way from his two best friends, but whenever it was light outside, and as long as he was careful on the roads, Paul was free to visit them whenever there was time. He needed to develop some firm relationships with boys his own age and with Tom and Mark he was beginning to get that. On occasional weekends Heather would begin to allow the boys to stay over.

Paul was still timid and impossibly shy, but at Heather Jarrett's house, he had a chance.

## 22nd January 1984

'DIVE BOMBER!' – Cried Mark James as he curled in to a ball and plunged in the deep end of the competition pool of Sherwood Baths.

Paul and Tom laughed as the water splashed in to their faces and covered a disgusted older couple attempting to breast stroke lengths alongside one another.

When he emerged, spitting the water from his mouth and rubbing the chlorine from his eyes the lifeguard had appeared again; as if from nowhere.

'Is there something that you lads don't understand about the rules around here, or are you trying to push my good nature?... The rules are clear...No Bombing. Other people are trying to enjoy their swim and you little buggers are fuckin that up for them.' He hushed whilst hovering on one knee and leaning towards the boys who clung to the edge of the pool.

'Sorry mister. We won't do it again.' Tom Simpson pleaded.

'Make sure you don't. Translate that to your mate there. Either he doesn't understand the language or he's just plain thick.' The guard nods his head in the direction of the half-caste boy; his afro hair coiling down in front of his eyes.

'Okay mister.' Replies Tom as the guard strides away, craning his neck to make a point of the fact that they would be in his sights for the remainder of their swim.

As soon as the colour of their wristbands 'barped' its signal on the board high on the wall there would be very little chance that they would be able to sneak a crafty extra ten minutes now.

'Well done Mark, you divvy.' Tom winced.

'What?' He giggled.

'You'll get us kicked out by him.'

'Pissin slaphead.' Mark comments as he makes it to the side of the pool to join them; eyeing the lifeguard and sweeping the hair from his eyes. 'Top bombing hey Cabo?' He nudges Paul Cable.

Paul just nods silently; his line of sight fixed elsewhere. Mark swings his head around and picks up his friends point of interest; Louise Young.

Mark laughs, 'Louise Young? Very nice hey mate?.. She is mint she is.'

'She looks even better in a swimsuit.' Tom added. 'Think what you could do with a lass like that.'

Mark James laughs, 'You wont know where ta begin Tommy.'

'Piss off will ya? Like you would?'

'I'd know better than you mate, that's a fact.'

'How do ya work that out then?'

' I'm experienced with birds aren't I?'

'Hey, like when?'

'So you're denying that I fingered Mandy Bennett on the park?'

'When on the park?'

'On bonfire night in the bandstand.'

'Hey?.. So you reckon, but I've seen no evidence.'

'Bollocks.'

'You bollocks.'

'I put my finger right in her fanny. And I touched her tits.'

'Did you though Mark?'

'Yeah.'

'I don't think so, cos you'd have gone on about it ever since. You're full of crap mate.'

'You jealous Tommy?'

'Of you and Mandy Bennett. I don't think so.

Mark laughed and raised his eyebrows.

'Get out Mark. Mandy's a right slag anyway. You'd hardly be the first would you?'

'Oh, like you've ever got a feel of a lasses tits then Tommy boy.'

'I'm a bit more choosey. When I touch a girl up, it'll be someone class; like Louise Young.'

Mark roared with laughter and jumped with all of his weight on to his friend, dunking him under. Paul Cable had remained quiet as he admired Louise from afar. He had no real opinion about Mark's claim, though he indeed had his doubts. Mark would have certainly have rubbed their noses in it if he had done the things that he proudly boasted about.

Paul accepted that Mark probably had had a snog with Mandy Bennett in the bandstand, but a feel of her private parts? Unlikely.

Louise seemed like a mythical figure to Paul; a goddess from his own fantasy world. She was his vision of true perfection and sparkled with an invisible glow of radiance that seemed to attract the light from the skylights above the pool. With even more of her pale flesh on display than normal it only went to enhance his opinion of her. He'd seen her in her costume before during swimming lessons with the school, and he felt that his advancement had struggled simply because his focus had been more upon her than of that of his own performance.

She'd quickly advanced to another group, whilst he'd stalled. Swimming, although enjoyable, really wasn't his field of expertise; for Louise Young, she took to it as expected, like a duck to water.

Paul felt a stirring in his trunks. His penis was getting larger and harder, like it had before at the swimming baths. He didn't understand why it did it when she was around and it made him feel very awkward. It made a bulge that he was unpleasantly mindful of and he wished that it would go away.

Paul suddenly became conscious of his state of undress. He hated being in his trunks. He was one of the smallest boys in his class and never did this feel more underlined than when he was in his trunks. Even before Louise had turned up he had felt uncomfortable alongside Mark and Tom, who despite being the same age, were physically bigger than he was. He didn't like being compared to the others; he felt ever more inadequate and he'd want Louise Young to see him, Mark and Tom as equals, but he didn't feel that way at all.

He tried to remain small, hidden beneath the lip of the pools edge. He'd like to carry on viewing Louise from afar, but didn't feel as though he wanted to be seen.

'All you're doing Tommy is admitting that you've never even come close to touching a girl.'

'How do you work that out then?'

'Cos you're choosey.' Mark mocked.

'I just don't want to waste my time on slag bags like Mandy, that's all.'

'But it's better to get some practise in on slag bags like Mandy mate, cos when I get a go on something like that.' Mark indicated towards Louise Young, 'I'll be pushing all the right buttons cos I'll be experienced... You'd just wet your pants mate.' He smiles.

'Jamo, you've got no chance of ever getting a lass like Louise.'

'You reckon?'

'Lads like us aren't supposed to go out with girls like her... Besides, she goes out with Morgan and he goes to QEB's... As if you're going to go out with someone who already goes out with a lad from upper school.'

This comment finally stirs Paul Cable in to the conversation. 'She don't go out with Morgan. She talks to him and that, but only cos she knows him from off her street.' He claimed, almost in defence.

'Who rattled your cage Cabo?' Tom Simpson commented, the boy glad that his friend had at last spoken and taken the conversation momentarily away from his alleged inadequacy with girls.

'Yeah Cabo... How come you know so much?' Followed Mark.

Paul paused for a moment, taking his eyes away from Louise to dart them rapidly between the faces of his two friends.

'I know her don't I?' He said. 'We're sort of friends.'

The other two boys glanced at one another before laughing their rejections of the claim.

'Good one Cabo; like you and silky tits are best mates aren't you?' Mark guffawed.

'I didn't say that Jamo.' Paul snapped.

'Like you chat all the while don't ya Paul? Tom added. 'Ya talk on the phone all the while.'

'Piss off Tom.'

'His mamma hasn't got a phone mate.' Mark tells Tom.

'Oh yeah, they must write letters to each other then.' Tom agreed.

'Love letters.' Mark laughed.

'Piss off will you.' Paul looks on with a sour, annoyed look to his face. He didn't like it when they ganged up on him and made him the butt of their jokes. 'Me and Louise were captains of the cross-country team weren't we? That's how I got to talk to her.'

'Are you in love with her Cabo?' Tom tormented.

'No' Paul snapped back in an instant. Of course he was in love with her. He was totally infatuated by her, but he wasn't going to embarrass himself by letting them know that.

'It's alright Cabo mate, just admit it. She's proper fit and I love her, that's a fact. She's proper ace.' Mark admitted.

'Thinking about it, she might go out with Morgan.' Paul says, trying to deflect away the talk which made him cringe inside.

'Come off it Paul. You just said that you talked to her and said she dint.' Tom claimed.

'I got mixed up.'

'Are you sure, cos I'm thinking of swimming over there and talking to her?' Mark hinted. 'I was hoping that my mate, whose good friends with Lou would be able to put a good word in for me.'

'Don't be daft. I'm sure she goes out with Morgan.' Paul Cable defended under pressure.

'And whilst you're at it, are you mates with Dominique Westerhaus too?' Asks Tom who is eyeing up Louise Young's best friend. 'In a way, I reckon she's even fitter you know.'

'FUCK OFF!' Mark and Paul say in unison; their reaction making all three of them laugh.

'Well I'm off over there. Last one there has crabs.' Mark James joked before pushing off the wall with his feet and submerging himself under the water.

'Come on Cabes, let's have him.' Tom urges quickly before piling a furrow in the pool after their friend who is already a couple of lengths from them.

Paul remains clinging to the side of the ceramic tiled pool edge, so wanting the courage to follow them over to the girls, but so afraid at what might be said; his friends winding him up at his expense to impress Louise and Dominique Westerhaus.

He'll become tongue-tied in front of them all; he was bound to. Having to speak in the company of his two best friends and the girl he fancied would leave him a nervous wreck.

Mark James and Tom Simpson crawl at pace towards the shallow end of the pool, producing the mother of all splashes at the commotion they created with their individual competition; the bantering lads continuing to argue the toss on who touched the wall first.

Louise Young and the lofty, blonde haired Dominique Westerhaus watch on at the side of the pool whilst acclimatizing to the water.

'Alright ladies.' Mark greets them.

Silence is their reply.

Tom remains tight lipped, allowing his more confident friend to be the diplomat in this particular affair.

'Do you come here often then.' Added the boy; his wayward curls spiralling before his eyes.

The two girls look to one another before giggling in each other's surprise.

Paul Cable stealthily floats up to the group; his ill at ease approach being a stark contrast to his friend's efforts.

A slightly flustered Mark James points to his friend, able to exploit his presence.

'You'll know Cabo then Lou?' He offers.

Paul raises a shy hand that barely leaves the water.

'Hi Louise.' He timidly adds in his embarrassment; greatly regretting his claim to be her friend.

'Oh, hi Paul; fancy seeing you here.' She greets him with a smile. Dominique remains mute, but raises her eyebrows at her friends surprise alignment with the boy.

A predictably tongue-tied Paul fails to reply.

'So you guys run together then?' Mark furthers after a moment of quiet.

'Yes we do.' She replies eagerly. 'And we're pretty good too. In fact Paul isn't just good, he's brilliant.'

Paul's heart skips a beat and a lump quickly develops in his throat.

'Shame he can't swim for crap though.' Mark followed.

'Yeah, he's not used to the water are you Paul?...He's allergic to it.' Winked Tom who was eager to quickly join the conversation before it leaves him behind and looking awkward.

Louise looks towards Paul quizzically. 'Really?... Are you allergic to water Paul?'

Paul remains speechless; he knew that the conversation would head this way. They were his friends, but once they started on him, he was always the victim of their friendly banter.

'It brings him out in a rash and makes his knob go hard. Don't it Cabo?' Mark smirks.

'Urrgh!' Remarks Dominique whilst looking towards the withdrawn boy with distaste.

'Ignore them Dom, they're having you on. Aren't they Paul?' She asks doubtfully.

Paul Cable can feel that his penis is still stiff in his trunks and is even more conscious of its presence now. He hoped that none of them could witness it through the distortion of the water.

'They're just messing with you.' He looks towards the two of them. 'They're always messing with people...Normally me.' He adds regretfully.

'Come off it Cabo, you can't deny the thought of a bath gives you a hard on.' Mark mocks.

'Piss off.' He snaps back scornfully.

'Doesn't happen very often then?' Tom Simpson cackled.

Tom, Mark and Dominique hysterically fall about laughing whilst Paul splashes the pair of his friends, his face turning crimson in such embarrassment.

'Ignore them Paul.' Louise injects. 'They're probably just jealous. I bet they've never had one.'

'What?....A hard on?' Mark enquires dismissively.

'A hard on and a bath I reckon.' She smiles and Dominique Westerhaus continues in her snorting.

'I only get a hard on for you Lou.' Mark responds after a pause.

'You're disgusting.' Dominique says, looking at the boys in horror. 'C'mon Lou, lets swim.' She follows, moving away from the pool edge and the boys who have disturbed them.

'Well that'll be a waste of a hard on then won't it.' Adds Louise as she moves after her friend. She looks in Paul's direction and glowingly smiles. 'See you in class tomorrow Paul?'

'Yeah. See you tomorrow Louise.' He stumbles as she floats away.

Tom paddles slowly to Paul's side as they all watch the girl swim ever further away from them. 'Kin' ell mate. She wants you to shag her...... Louise Young actually wants your pee wee.'

Paul sniggers, never blinking as he admires her from the safe distance that he felt far more comfortable with.

'In fact, Paul isn't just good, he's brilliant.' Mark sends up in a ridiculously teasing girl's voice. The two boys laugh before he continues. 'Have to say Cabo, there's something a bit weird going off; I think she actually does like you. I really can't get me head around it.'

'There's only one thing for it.' Tom adds, looking on at the half-caste boy.

'Dunkers?'

'Dunkers.' Tom replies before both boys pile on top of their friend, submerging him under the water.

The bitter cold temperature bit in to Paul Cable as they trudged back towards home. He was deeply regretting his grandmother's advice at not putting on a woolly hat and a pair of gloves. His hair still dripped where he hadn't dried it off properly and his head felt frozen as a result. The sky hung low and grey, casting the streets in to an eerie half-light that gave the Sunday a depressing linger that suggested that the day wished to end prematurely; though in a stark contrast to the conditions, all was colourfully sunny inside Paul Cable.

Mark and Tom were still digging away at one another jokingly, but they seemed to be laying off Paul. They both held an unexpected and begrudging new respect for him now; though it was a puzzle in what Louise Young saw in him.

Paul's imagination was awash with thoughts. Should he ask her out? Would he be laughed at? She'd only been nice to him after all; she hadn't exactly invited him in to asking her out? And after all, he dreaded looking foolish more than anything; even in just her company, like during their lunchtime walks to school.

He decided to let things ride and to stop being so silly. Louise was just a nice girl and was far more interested in bigger and older boys. He'd play it cool and see what developed.

Tom suggested that they divert in to the paper shop. He wanted to purchase some Panini football stickers and he and Mark had a count up of their remaining coins before entering the shop and heading straight for the counter and fingering through the box of Panini's in front of the vigilant shopkeeper. Echo and The Bunnymen's The Killing Moon played quietly on the radio and the boys mumbled along to words that they didn't properly know.

Paul had no interest in football and especially football stickers; they seemed a waste to him and he preferred to save the little cash that he earned for sweets or a comic that he could read under his bed covers with the light of his Spiderman torch. His favourites were Tiger, The Dandy and war comics like The Victor, or Warlord with the character Union Jack Jackson, the British marine who served with the US Marine Corps in the Pacific and painted a Union Flag on his helmet to distinguish himself. Union Jack Jackson was about as close as he ever got to having a hero. Mark and Tom idolized Kenny Dalglish and Bryan Robson, but Paul failed to see how their onfield heroics could match Union Jack Jackson's feats in whichever theatre of war he would find himself in on any weekly occasion.

Paul picked the latest Warlord from the shelf whilst sneakily eyeing the top shelf Fiesta, Playboy and Escorts' that he really desired a glimpse of. He reached in to his pocket to see what money he had remaining.

The shopkeeper became increasingly impatient with the two boys who squabbled over which packets of stickers to acquire. The row of neat, brightly coloured packets with photograph's of the season's biggest stars on them were identical, but the boys were both in deep conversation regarding which would contain the most prized assets to add to their valued collections beneath their hidden paper cloaks.

'I can smell Sammy Lee.' Mark teased. 'Sammy Lee and my Liverpool page is finished innit?'

'Who cares about that? I've had Man U finished for weeks.' Tom replied. 'I give Liverpool players away or rip them up.... If I get a Sammy Lee you can have it for every one of your swaps.'

'If you get a Sammy Lee you can have all my swaps. It's only Liverpool I'm interested in finishing.'

'I finished Man U ages ago.' Tom pokes fun at.

'Tom. It's easy to fill out teams like Man U or Everton or Forest; their stickers are everywhere. They fill these things with their players all the time; and Coventry and Spurs and Watford cos nobody wants them. Liverpool stickers are rare cos everyone wants them.'

'What a load of rubbish.'

'It's not rubbish.... Think about it. Liverpool win everything so Panini don't put their stickers in as much cos they know most fans want to complete their page and will keep buying them.'

Tom stops fingering through the box and faces his pal with an increasing look of exasperation. 'You talk rubbish at times. Why would a Man U fan want to collect Liverpool players?'

The shopkeeper who is bored of listening to their jibes attempts to create some urgency in the two of them. 'Look,.. how many packets are you going to buy?.. If you're going to buy any at all? Instead of jabbering on, either chose some, or move aside and let me serve other customers.... I'm sorry sir.' He offers his apologises.

'That's okay, I know this lad. I know he can be a bit troublesome, hey young Tommy lad?' The customer stood behind them replied.

Tom Simpson spins around to be faced with Charlie Cable who glares down at him through glazed eyes; his lips pursed together in a upturned pout that made the boy nervous.

'Oh, hello Mr Cable.' He sheepishly utters.

'How's your dad?' Charlie enquires.

'He's okay thanks.' Tom quickly decides which three packets of Panini stickers he wants and swiftly turns back to the shopkeeper. 'These three please.' He tells him, eager now to conclude the sale.

'Finally.' The shopkeeper replies. 'I thought we were going to be here til I closed.' He joked.

'Say hello to your dad for me will you Tom.' Charlie asked.

'I will Mr Cable.'

'And if you see that son of mine, you can say hello to him too.'

'Oh, Paul's in here Mr Cable.' Tom remarked, eager to please.

'Is he?' Charlie rises in surprise before searching the aisles with his exaggerated glances. 'Looks like he must be hiding from me then lads.' He sniggered.

'He was here Mr Cable, I promise.' Tom responded quickly.

'Don't worry yer'sen lad. It don't matter. I'll catch up with our Paul eventually.... He knows that.' He places a hand on Tom's shoulder as the boy slowly makes for the door. 'Just say hello and remind him of his dad and tell him that he's only in Ladybrook, not the other side of the world.'

Paul Cable returned home in a pant. His grandmother was laid on the sofa wrapped in a blanket in front of a fire that was the only light in the darkened room. It was soothingly quite apart from the crackle of the fire that played out to itself as his grandmother slept.

He didn't disturb the woman who hadn't been herself lately. Normally she was up and around; always on the go and completing the stack of jobs that she would provide herself with. She was a one woman machine that would be up with the crack of dawn to make the fire, prepare the days meals and get the wash on. When he returned from school she would still be completing all manner of tasks, as if she hadn't stopped the whole of the day.

He didn't know how she did it. It made him feel exhausted just watching her. He'd never seen such a hard working person, yet over the last few days it was clear that she was under the weather and she'd slowed down to the pace of the rest of humanity.

He sat in the armchair and looked at her immobilised; unknowing of his presence. His thoughts turned back to those of his father who he had snook past when he'd seen him walk it to the shop; no doubt to pick up a packet of fags. He'd nearly shit himself at the very sight of the man. He suddenly felt scared for his mother. Seeing him reminded the boy of her and the terrible torment that she lived in in that house with this man who was a threat to her on a daily basis.

He wished that his mother would leave his father and come to live with them at his grandmas. They could be together here: him, his mamma and his mum. Nothing would please him more than that. He would share his room with his mum if she wanted to. He just wanted her safe with him.

Only having Louise Young for his girlfriend could make life any more perfect than that.

He sat back and daydreamed in to the flickering, comforting fire about his own private Utopia.

## 14th May 1984

Was the headmaster the right person to address an assembly hall full of disinterested nine to thirteen year olds on the logic of the miner's strike? Especially when he was a rabid Socialist like Old Man Macbeth, a man that had clearly enjoyed his rant and had made assembly run twenty-five minutes in to the first period of the day?

The children had left the dusty old hall with faces like liberated survivors of concentration camps. Any joy that they may have woken with on a sunny Monday morning in May had been sucked from their exposed pores, leaving brains paralyzed and judgements unruffled.

If sedation of two hundred and thirty-six pre-adolescents hadn't been properly considered before, it had been a threshold moment of learning.

It had left Tom Simpson confused regarding his father's standing; Old Man Macbeth clearly hadn't been enamoured with working miners – as far as Tom was sure, his father was still working; he hadn't really paid much attention. Paul Cable was even more confused than Tom Simpson – was his father working or not? Fortunately he hadn't seen the man for months. And Mark James? His dad worked as a lorry driver for Pretty Polly – did that make him a scab or not? Had his father demanded a referendum before he joined the miners in their strike?

They sat in the lofty, wooden panelled mountain slide box and contemplated the morning's events. There was a major rally taking place in the town and it was expected that tens of thousands of men would march on its centre to be addressed by Arthur Scargill. Their school was vaguely in the path of the marchers proposed route and it was decided to allow them all to go home early for safety reasons.

The boys had decided to ignore the pleas to head straight home and made a beeline for the park on the Common. If Arthur Scargill was as boring as Old Man Macbeth, then they determined that few would want to attend the rally anyway. At least these people had a choice to listen or not; unlike them that morning.

'So is your dad a scab or not then?' Tom cornered Paul; him unable to avoid the question within the tight walls of the mountain slide box. He hoped that Paul's dad was a scab because he was pretty sure that his own father was and it didn't sound particularly nice. He didn't want to be the only one of the three of them to have a scab for a father, even if he didn't understand its meaning.

'I don't know. I've not seen him in ages have I? How could I tell?' Paul replied in genuine confusion.

'Well he does work at the pit dont he?' Tom followed.

'Course he does. You know that.'

'Well he must be a scab then, mustn't he?'

'I s'pose so.'

'He's a scab then.'

'S'pose so.'

'Well what about my dad?' Added Mark James, with his school tie wrapped around his head like a member of an LA street gang; though similar to his ignorance for the miner's strike, he was unsure of whether he was a Crip or a Blood. He preferred the sound of the Bloods though.

They both stared at him with blank expressions.

'Well?' Mark urged.

'Does your dad work at pit Mark?' Tom asked in confusion.

'He drives a lorry don't he?'

'Well how can he be a scab then?'

Mark James shrugged his shoulders.

'If he don't work at pit he can't be a scab can he? Are you thick or summat?' Tom completed, unsure of his own advice.

'What do you think Paul?' Asked Mark, desperately seeking absolution from his pondering friend perched on the top on the slides steps, looking out over the sun drenched, blue-grey slated spring rooftops.

'I'd listen to Tom if I were you. I didn't really understand it all.'

'Well I dint either.' Tom quickly springs. 'I wasn't even listening properly.' Tom replies.

'Were you listening properly Paul?' Mark pushed.

'If your dad works at the pit he can be a scab.....Your dad don't work at pit Mark, so he can't be a scab.' Paul reassured him.

Mark looked relieved, though a little aggrieved to be left out of things.

'If your dad works at pit and goes to work, he's a scab. If he don't go to work, but works at pit then he int a scab.' Paul continued.

'But if he don't go to work then he don't work at pit does he?' Tom questioned; his confusion increasing.

'They still work at pit; they just don't go.'

'How can they work at the pit then?' Tom enquired heavily.

Mark looks on, eager for a quick answer from Paul. 'Yeah, that's like us going to school but deciding not to go to school.'

'Dont they get told off then?' Tom shakes his head.

'Let's go on strike.' Laughs Mark; Tom accompanying him.

'I don't think it works like that.' Smiled Paul, wishing it was that simple.

'Well it don't make sense.' Tom bemused, pulling a tight face with his thin features. Before today he'd heard of the miner's strike; he hadn't been able to avoid it, living in the house of a miner, but he'd paid barely any attention to it at all. He'd heard the phrase scab. He'd heard Charlie Cable say it to his dad. But until today, nobody had attempted to explain it all to him. He wished that they'd not bothered now.

'It's grown up stuff. My mum told me that I shouldn't worry about it.' Mark pondered. 'I told her I wasn't anyway. It's nowt to do with us, is it?'

Paul gulped and tried to find explanation and the correct words. 'Well, I heard my grandma say to my mum that it was important. It's something to do with blokes losing their jobs for some reason.'

'Well is it any wonder when they don't go to work?' Mark replied, his face distorted in mystification.

'Yeah, thick twats.' Tom adds before spontaneously turning and sliding down the slide; stalling with the friction before reaching the very end. 'If you don't go to work, then they can sack you. Even I know that.' He shouted up to them as he made his way around to the steps, ready to climb back up.

'It does seem pretty stupid, don't it?' Mark asks Paul.

'I don't know. There must be a reason.' He replies.

'The referee?'

'Do you mean referendum?' Paul asked, looking puzzled.

'Yeah that.'

'I don't know what that means, but I reckon that's important. I don't think that's why people don't go to work though.' Paul tried to understand.

'Macbeth reckoned that it dint matter.' Tom said as he squeezed by Paul, reaching the summit of the steps and sitting back down on the slide edge.

'Well we don't reckon Macbeth counts, so ignore what he reckons.' Mark smiled.

'He seemed pretty pissed off at scabs.' Paul thought out aloud.

'He seems pretty pissed off about everything.' Mark acknowledged. 'He's pissed off with you and your dad now Tommy.' He giggled.

'Stuff him. My dad would kick his head in.'

'Your dad couldn't kick Miss Stevens' head in, never mind Macbeth's.' Mark laughed.

'Yeah, righto.' Tom scoffed.

Paul stood, readying himself for the slide. 'Well whatever it all means, I'm not going to worry about it. It don't mean owt to me cos I don't live with me dad and I'm never going to work at pit. If you're never going to work at pit it's not going to bother you is it?'

'Macbeth reckoned it would mean no jobs for us when we leave school.' Tom said.

'I'd reckon that there would be loads of jobs if blokes don't go to work.' Mark added.

'Not if pits shut.' Paul commented. 'Weren't you listening? Macbeth reckoned that they'd all shut.' He clambered over Tom and hung from the crossbar, ready to launch himself down the long glimmering length of steel. 'But I'm not going to work at pit, so I'm not bothered.' He released his hands and sped down the incline.

Tom Simpson slid straight down after him; clattering in to his back. 'What you going to do when you leave school then Cabo?' He keenly asked. 'I don't think they pay you for being a puff.' He laughed.

Paul grabbed him in a headlock and they playfully grappled whilst throwing insults.

Mark James joined them on the ground and was happy to add his own comment. 'He'll live in a fairy castle and shag Louise all day long... Won't you Cabo?.... Why would he want to get dirty? Lou wouldn't like that.'

' I get dirty thoughts about her all the time.' Tom replied as they came apart gasping.

'Hey, that's Paul's girlfriend you're talking about there.' Mark joked.

'Piss off.' Paul snapped in annoyance.

'C'mon, let's go and get an ice-pop and go back to mine.' Mark urged them with the glint in his eye remaining. 'We've got a pirate copy of Thriller video and Porky's II.'

'Why dint you say sooner?' Tom gasped. 'We've been pissin about wasting time talkin about that shit whilst you've got that at home?'

'Yeah, sorry.'

'Ya dickhead.' Paul loudly commented. 'What we waitin for?'

They raced off towards the shops and on to the delights of the still new technology that had gripped them.

It was a sea of men for as far as the eye could see. Noisy, serious looking men carrying placards that declared VICTORY TO THE MINERS. The odd drum could be heard over the chattering of voices and the clomping of footfall. Thousands of feet marching in unison for a cause that the boys struggled to understand. They wore bright orange stickers proclaiming Coal Not Dole and carried colourful crimson banners with golden decoration that proudly shouted the names of places that they had never heard of; places such as: Orgreave, Kellingley, Daw Mill, Mexborough and Kiveton Park.

Some old men clapped hands from the pavement, whilst other folk shut themselves behind tightly closed front doors. Paul, Tom and Mark watched the sight before them, transfixed by the sheer sight of the marchers of the rally that headed in towards the town. Forty thousand people from all over the country descending on the centre; some jovial and humorous in appearance, whilst some looked sombre and intense.

Mark James sucked deeply on a cola flavoured iced pop, mesmerised with startled eyes as the boys parked themselves on the kerb, their legs rooted to the spot. A middle-aged man in a flat cap smiled at them. 'Come on lads, let's be avin ya.' He cheerfully engaged them before sticking an orange sticker on each of their school shirts.

'Thanks mister' Mark pronounces proudly before whispering to the others. 'Where do you think they're heading?..Should we go too?' He asked.

The other two boys fail to answer the question, shrugging shoulders and holding blank expressions that never waver from their fixed positions out in to the duel carriageway that was usually car-filled, but was now the domain of human traffic.

They had never seen so many people in one place. From one end of the road to the other, for as far as they could see were heads, flags and banners bobbing up and down in their movement.

A short man with stern jaw line and a significant forehead approached them from the fringes of the march and snatched the ice pop from Mark's grasp whilst sneering down his hawk-like nose towards the stunned youngster from over his shoulder as he carried on in his path.

'Hey!' Cried Mark once he regained his composure and slowly followed alongside his unprovoked aggressor; hoping to be given back his lolly.

'Fuck off sambo.' Another man growled at him closely from out of the crowd.

'You heard ya scabby wog shite,.. fuck off.' The short man added with a scoff.

Mark was no stranger to racism, he fielded comments every other day, it was the nineteen-eighties and he lived in a town with few black faces. He'd always known that he was something of a novelty item, but most of the abuse came from other kids, he wasn't used to adults openly mocking him.

'Hey, piss off.' He answered. 'What's your problem?'

'Being a scab is one thing. But being a coon and a scab? That's fuckin careless son.' Another person voiced from out of the heaving crowd.

Men laughed around them as Tom came to his friend's side and pleaded for their leniency. 'Leave him alone will you? He's done nowt to you lot.'

'Shut it scab!' A far larger man wearing a thick moustache and a clinical mullet haircut commented. It was a man that they all knew; though he looked bedraggled and scruffy. He also looked intimidating. It was Charlie Cable.

Paul Cable froze to the footpath, his father's eyes surveying them all through poisonous, fire spitting eyes and Marksman fuelled lips. His look was one of sheer hatred for the three of them, but oddly his fiercest booze spiked glare was for Tom Simpson.

He swigged from a silver can of beer before crushing it and dropping it to the floor. 'Being a scab is worse than being a nonce... Being the son of a scab is as bad as being a scab yourself..... That makes you a double nonce you scabby little wanker.' Charlie points a stabbing finger in the direction of his fair-haired young neighbour, holding the aggressive stance for a couple of seconds that seemed like an age to all three startled boys. Swiftly he switched and unzipped his Lee jeans, producing his cock. Equally as rapidly he began urinating on the tarmac before aiming it in their direction. 'PISS ON THE SCABS!' He roared. 'SCABS! SCABS! SCABS! SCABS!'

His cry is momentarily joined by several other voices, before he is calmed down by other marchers; some of which shake their heads in disgust.

'Save your energy for the men crossing the picket line comrade.' An older, wiser man suggests to Charlie, placing an arm around his shoulders. 'They're just kids; it's not their fault.'

'They're the same blood.' An obedient Charlie pleads as he is led away. 'Scab blood is scab blood.' He bargains whilst being quietly dragged from the scene.

Mark and Tom stare open mouthed in the direction of Paul Cable; amazed at what they had just witnessed. Paul was speechless, as if his tongue had been ripped from his mouth at the root. His head was fuzzy and his body felt detached from the hundreds of eyes that watched them as folks trundled slowly by.

Was he to feel shame at his father, or was it them who should be ashamed? What had they to feel ashamed for? Was it even his father that had confronted them? He looked different; madder than ever. Almost as if he was on the verge of some sort of insanity. Maybe it wasn't his father, but was someone who looked like him. He'd never known his dad to have a moustache anyway.

Why would he talk to Tom like that; he'd known him for years? They'd never fallen out before. It must have been someone else; not the man he knew. Just some man who looked like his dad, but in some crazy reckless nightmarish dream.

He felt nauseous. He felt he wanted to be sick right there and then, on the shame footpath that the man who looked like his father had just emptied his bladder with yellow, stinking fizzy lager.

They moved away, back in to the side streets, away from the very march that they were sent home early to avoid.

Paul wished that he had gone straight home. He wished that he had run faster than he had in Matlock in his Dunlop's. He wished that he'd have legged it home and slammed shut the door to the attic bedroom and read about Union Jack Jackson from the light of his Spiderman torch under his bedcovers, where nobody could find him. Anywhere would have been better than being in that street, with his two best friends, being challenged by the father that he feared more than anything else in the whole world.

He wanted to vanish; for the ground to swallow him up and hide him from all of these strangers that had intruded on his life, and from the two boys who would expect an explanation from him.

He no longer cared for Michael Jackson and Thriller, or for Porky's II. He wanted safety and explanation. His father had again entered his world and created chaos.

He no longer hated the man. He was too busy being scared by thoughts of him to enter in to hatred.

Paul Cable didn't enjoy Porky's II. He thought it was poor compared to the original, and he hadn't had the time to enjoy it anyway thanks to his angst filled mind. Thriller? Well that was definitely overrated.

Fortunately his friends gave him an easier than expected ride regarding the behaviour of his father. In truth, they knew that his old boy was a weird sort. Paul might not have discussed him much and had never divulged a deal in the goings on behind his families front door, or why he had really moved in with his grandmother. But Tom had heard plenty through the walls of their terraced house to have some good ideas of his own.

He'd heard the shouting, screaming and clatter of that house. It was a mainly silent place, but occasionally pandemonium would ensue. His parents had told him to try and ignore the commotion. Everything was okay; Paul's mum and dad were just having another disagreement. Though to Tom, it seemed that it was more Paul's dad having a disagreement than his mum, who was a nice lady.

Of course Tom and Mark would talk about Charlie Cable, but only when Paul wasn't around. He was their mate and a good lad, his dad though was a nobhead.

Paul's grandmas cough seemed to get worse. It was more vocal and coarse. She seemed to be constantly out of breath and it exhausted her.

He felt as though he should do something, but he didn't have a clue where to begin.

He helped more with the dishes and the sweeping up with the Ewbank. He dusted when she was laid up in bed, and he cleaned the grime and soot from the downstairs windows with steaming buckets of suds that would leave them cloudy and stained. He tried to do her breakfast of toast and butter and strawberry jam, but always seemed to burn the huge clumps of bread that he'd roughly saw in to slices that could barely fit beneath the grill.

Her cough never seemed to go away and he worried about her. His mother worried about her too, but she told him that his mamma would be alright; she was a fighter and wouldn't let a little cough worry her. She also batted away his questions about the miner's strike. It was for the men to worry about, not for boys.

His grandma told him the same.

## 28th July 1984

They had agreed on a tree. That was the easy part. Everyone already knew about the 'Old Faithful' - the king of trees in Pleasley Vale. Kids swarmed over the grand old fellow, gradually throttling the life out of the ancient thing like a pack of torturing lions around the carcass of a downed wildebeest

This tree was off the beaten track, surrounded by a thick canopy of leaves that hid them from view of the ground and from the beating heat of the sun; though a break amongst the branches allowed a majestic open window that cast a splendid panorama across the slumber of waving golden fields of corn in the left hand field, and the gorgeously sparkling saffron coloured rape seed in the field to their right. The only possibility of being 'scouted' from this tree would be by the farmer on his tractor. They'd construct a hide to eliminate that possibility. Nobody would notice this place and they had almost six weeks to build a base that they could be proud of.

They'd found some porno magazines in the bushes down by the park and could sit and scan them from twenty feet up there. Tom had plans to pin pictures of Mark Hughes and Norman Whiteside to the trunk. Mark had plans of pinning up Bruce Grobbelaar and Ian Rush. Paul just wanted to sit astride the giant branch and watch the fluttering of the fields. He could pretend that he was on board a ship, up in the crow's nest seeking out enemy vessels from his lofted vantage point; the drifting of the crops supplying gentle waves.

Paul didn't much like the pictures in the porno magazines. The women's privates looked odd and all hairy and unfinished. They didn't arouse him one little bit like they were supposed to and even Mark and Tom would wince and scoff at some of the unearthly looking sights in those magazines. He very much liked their faces and breasts, but he didn't understand fannies at all; there was nothing attractive about them and he couldn't imagine the pretty girls at school having them; especially Louise Young – "As if!"

They would 'rescue' timber from wherever they could locate it. They had already found a pallet, abandoned at the end of a country lane and it had made a perfectly shaped first platform; if they could get hold of another for the natural shelf of the next three branches along it would be perfect. Tom had eyed a small panelled fence at the end of an old broken down cottage that could be poached and split up for construction, and they had devised a plan to investigate the farmer's barn when they had agreed on an ideal time to raid it. A hay bale could provide a nice carpet if it was used properly.

It gave the boys some focus on the summer and kept them away from the repression of the town. Over the summer fields to the Vale provided them peace and quiet away from the troubles that brew surrounding the strike.

They'd successfully hid from forays made by gangs of kids wielding sticks from Pleasley and Woodhouse who would be all too happy to relieve them of their treetop oasis if they could find it. They would keep still as mice as the mouthy lads would wander by, only fifteen metres from their perch.

It amused them that they could spy on these kids and any other passersby who hadn't a clue of their presence. They'd wink and silently giggle. Nobody had an idea and they were so clever.

It was Paul Cable's birthday. He was thirteen years old and now they were all teenagers.

He didn't feel any more grown up than before. In fact he felt even more awkward with the weight of the landmark on his shoulders. He only looked about eleven and he was still one of the smallest boys in his year. Add this to the fact that their days at St Matthews had passed. From September they would move up to the Comprehensive and Paul felt very uneasy with the whole process. He didn't like St Matthews, he never had, but he had grown familiar with the place and developed a tense comfort in the school.

It seemed to him that just as he was beginning to adjust to life at that school, he was going to have to move to a new one; one with many new children from other schools that he didn't know and didn't want to know. He felt very nervous about having to get used to another set of strangers and prayed that he would fall in to a class with people that he knew: obviously Tom and Mark, Louise and even some of the kids that he was only on nodding terms with would do.

Developing friendships had proven a task that he had an unenvied difficulty with and he knew that this new school would be as difficult as it ever had been elsewhere. It sent butterflies crazily fluttering in the pit of his stomach to think about it, even with six weeks of the summer holidays as a cushion.

Their tree house would be a good place to hide out from the newer, bigger school if he decided to run away from it.

When he turned up at home he was greeted by his mother and grandma Heather. They had made him a ice covered sponge-cake dressed in thirteen candles that would relight themselves once blown out. It was a source of great amusement and wonder for the three of them – like the invention of electricity or watching Paul Daniels sawing the lovely Debbie McGee in half again.

They sang happy birthday to him and produced a pair of Adidas Samba trainers and a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit as presents that had his heart skip a beat; how had they afforded them? They were exactly what he wanted and both women had enjoyed the excited, loving embrace that he rewarded them with. Money was supposed to be tighter than ever and he couldn't understand how they'd afforded such lavish presents.

His grandma quietly wept at the happiness the boy displayed as he quickly dispensed with his jeans that were worn at the knee and his old Dunlop's that were rapidly cast aside in favour of the sparkling new black and white ones that he'd craved for.

She held her chest to help prevent the coughing and tried not to swallow in her agony. The boy was joyful and the outlay had been very much worth it. Heather felt almost as if he was her own and it provided her with great solace to see him buzzing around the room in such glee.

They'd done good.

At 7.16 that evening the boy got an unexpected visitor. He was sat in his attic bedroom reading Look-In magazine and listening to Radio One on his small transistor radio. Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel was singing White Lines at a low volume.

His new Adidas Samba's had been carefully placed on his dormer windowsill. He tried to display them to the world in the best way that he could and he was determined that they would be the first thing he would see in the morning too, when he would get up and dress in to his tracksuit, go down to do his grandmas toast and then off out to meet the lads.

His father walking in to his room was the last thing that he had expected on what had so far been the perfect day.

The man looked timid and dishevelled; very unlike when he had last seen him two months previously at the rally. He was in a surprisingly sober state, though his face was filled with a scruffy mess of stubble that gave him an unkempt appearance.

Paul Cable's bowels had very nearly followed through at first seeing him.

How had he got passed his grandmother? Had she allowed him up to see him?

He spoke softly and quietly. 'Happy birthday son.'

'Hello dad.' Paul gulped.

'Bet you're surprised to see me aren't you?'

The boy nodded shakily.

'Don't worry. I've not come ta give ya grief lad. That's not what i'm here for. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'I needed to talk to you son. I needed to let you know something important and I thought that today would be perfect cos it's your birthday, yeah?'

The boy remained nervously silent as the man produced a tennis ball sized parcel wrapped in gift paper from his jacket pocket; it was furtherly covered in a roughly tied bow of twine.

'This is for you son.' He smiled meekly. 'Happy birthday to you.'

Paul Cable tentatively took the package from his father who had bowed to hand it to him before springing upright and surveying the cosy bedroom.

'Nice room Paul.'

'Thanks.' He returned tensely before focusing on the wrappings.

'I like it.' Charlie continued. 'It's better than home hey?'

The boy didn't answer, afraid to say the wrong thing and instead he slowly began to open the paper.

'You're better off here I reckon son. Old Unlucky Heather likes to think that she's in control and since old Ray died, she's needed a bloke to push around. You're heaven sent perfection for her.' He forced a giggle. 'Yeah, granny knows how to spoil her special little man, she does. You've got it pretty good here..... Good luck to you I say... Be spoilt by the soppy old bugger I reckon,.. whilst you can any rode.'

Carefully tearing away the paper and unfolding the several layers of wrappings revealed a light, unshapely ball of dusty black sedimentary rock that filled the boy's hand.

He paused and rolled the object around in his palm before looking quizzically over at his father who fingered a small china seal ornament from the lads shelf, his eyes locked on to his sons hand.

'You know what that is lad?' He spoke slowly, but with more purpose than before and with an effortless enthusiasm.

Paul hesitated, not wanting to be tricked. His mouth and throat dried and he wondered where his mamma was. Was it a trick question?

'It's a lump of coal dad.'

'Wrong!' Charlie almost joyfully replied in quick succession; pleased that the lad had answered in the expected way. 'There's so much more to that little rock than it just being a lump of coal son.... That's your future.' He stopped as if waiting for a reply but knowing that his son wouldn't know what to say. 'It's your future and all of your generation's future. It's the next generation's future and so on..... Without that little rock you've got nothing and your kids will have nothing. This whole town; this community will have nothing.'

Paul himself said nothing.

'You know why you'll have nothing?'

His head shook.

'Because of a fuckin whore with a handbag and a whole cast of greedy, dirty, treacherous scabby bastards that have whored themselves for the pounds in the whores handbag; that's why.' Charlie Cable exploded in a quiet and restrained control.

Paul's throat was now tight and he couldn't swallow. Why was his father telling him this? As his words became more unpleasant the boy felt ever more claustrophobic, cornered in his own tight safe haven.

'Never trust a scab Paul. Avoid them at all cost before they fuck you up...... Your little mate Tommy Simpson......'

He glared at Paul, his eyes blank and his lips poised. Was the son meant to answer?

A pause held in the boy's arid throat, but before he could decide his next move the man continued.

'Scab!......Son of scab. Son of a scabbing worker and crosser of picket lines. Enemy of the workers. Enemy of the coal industry. Sucker of the whore with the handbags golden tit.'

Paul Cable could feel his eyes well up. He didn't want to cry again in front of his father, but he didn't understand why he was here or why he was talking to him like this. Where was his grandmother? Should he call her? Had she invited him up to his room?

'Your friend Tommy Simpson is a scab. You are my son; the son of a proud striking miner. That lump of coal,.. that rock is your future. That mate of yours is scabbing for the Tory pound and you've got a big decision to make.' Charlie Cable licked his top lip slowly. He hoped his message was sinking in to the lad's thick skull because this was important shit that they were dealing in here and the boy needed to understand the severity of the situation. 'You stop hanging around with that boy. Do you listen?'

Paul just wanted him to leave. Today had been a day as close to perfection as he could have known.

His father continued in calm, hushed tones. 'You've let me down before... Do you remember how you let me down before?' Silence. 'You're a very lucky boy to still be walking around.... I wanted to rip out your dopey, sleepy fucking eyes when you let me down so very very badly before.... It was the simplest of tasks that I gave you, but you failed and the thing that was precious to me was lost,.. because of you,.. the girly, weak little waste of a fuck that should have been a wank.....And now you mock me by friending with a scab.'

Charlie stared at him pensively. He could tell that his message had cracked open the kids stubborn skull and was loitering with intent.

He placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a match; flicking the lit torch in the direction of his son. 'Remember a word. A small but simple word with a big meaning,.. loyalty... Loyalty means, don't trust scabs... No scabs... Don't play with sons of scabs... Play with sons of scabs, get your kneecaps broken.. Simple.'

Cable turned for the door. He was gasping for a pint of lager. It was a very pleasant evening and he would stroll to The Gun & Glasshouse with his head held high; proud of who he was and of what he stood for. He felt sure that the boy would severe all of his ties with the scum from next door. He was too much of a wimp to defy him.

'Happy birthday Paul. It's been good to catch up for a chat... You put that piece of black treasure up there on the shelf where you can see it every day. It's the most valuable present and the most valuable lesson that you'll ever learn.'

He left as quietly as he had arrived. Paul Cable remained sat at the foot of his bed for twenty minutes until he was sure that he would have gone. When he entered his grandmother's living room he found her fast asleep under a thin woollen blanket. He stroked her hair and woke her. She spent a few moments focusing on him before smiling. 'Are you okay?' She asked and looked at the clock. 'Is that the time? What have you been up to Paulie?'

'Do you want a cup of tea mamma?'

## The Waiting State

When Paul Cable came around his sister was gone. He could still smell her hair on his pillow and the creases in the sheets that her tiny body had created were still visible, but she had vanished. At first he panicked, but noticed that the Michael Caine character, Vincent Tua was back sat at his bedside, sharing a cup of tea with a woman who looked remarkably like Heather Jarrett.

Tua glanced across to notice that he had awoken.

'Don't be alarmed Paul, Alison has stepped out whilst you were sleeping.' Tua acknowledged.

'Will I see her again?' He asked in a little urgency.

'You'll see her again Paul, please don't worry.' Tua smiled. 'It's time that you met someone else now.'

Grandma Heather looked remarkably younger than he had remembered. She had always been a slender woman, even in to her middle ages, but her look had an added zest to her now, as if she had been on an incredibly long holiday that had been very good for her. The lines on her face were minimal and the hair that was greying was back to its natural dark brunette. Like Alison before her, she was dressed in a black sleeved dress that flattered her.

She looked extraordinarily radiant and luxurious; like pampered royalty. She still looked in her fifties, but as if she had lived a good life of expensive tastes and opulent treats. The grandmother that he knew had worked hard every day of her life for very little and this vision in front of him looked the polar opposite by comparison. Her greatest tool had been her hands; he remembered them more than even her face. They were raw, rough hands that suffered from dermatitis and would glow red when she'd peeled potatoes or hand-washed the whites in detergent. This version of his grandmother had extraordinarily good looking hands, decorated with plain gold and tiny sparkling stones – things that his grandmother had always wished for.

Heather Jarrett looked a picture of perfect maturity; a lady of outstanding natural beauty that would turn the head of many men, young and old.

Paul Cable had to check twice, and then a third time to be certain that it was her. Her smile was unmistakable; she had always possessed a sagely confident one that turned up on one side of her mouth. Beneath the exterior of a hard-weathered, well-worn woman, it was a window that offered a glimpse of sexiness in a female that had been a stunning looking teenager with no photographs available to prove it.

In September of nineteen eighty-four Heather Jarrett passed away with cancer of the throat and stomach. It had been a short illness that had been identified too late in the process to deal with. For the last two months of her life at home, her daughter had come to stay with them.

At first Paul was overjoyed that the three of them were reunited; his life at home could not have been fabricated any better and it gave him great source for optimism before his move to the comprehensive, but his dear grandmas condition rapidly deteriorated and by the middle of August she was bedridden and his mother had to explain to him that she hadn't long to live.

Paul was devastated. He had just begun to enjoy life a little and now someone else he loved was going to be taken away from him. He spent long hours by her bedside and would read her his school books, the newspaper and even stories from The Victor. Even when she slept he would remain on duty and attempt to master his Rubix cube.

The pain she was in was evident and he hated seeing her in agony, but he so badly wanted her to live out of his own selfish needs.

Not only did he need her in his life as a confidant and companion, but he knew that the longer she survived, the later he would have to return back to the house that his father ruled with a rod of iron.

He had wondered whether his grandmother could hang on until he was sixteen. Then he would be able to live elsewhere and not under his repressive roof. If not, he could only see himself running away from home. Where he'd go he wouldn't know, but it was something that he would have to seriously consider.

She died in her sleep, eight days in to his new school term. She was fifty-six years old and he cried in to his pillow for two days; grieving for both her and himself. His new life was over so soon.

Within the space of four days the family were back under the same roof and he mourned the loss of his attic room as if that too was a passing relation. He hated their house and that old room of his; that room that was stripped bare of all of its wares. Everything was gone: his wardrobe, his draws, and his fluffy moon-shaped rug that was his only comfort from the coarse floorboards. All sold off to fund the strike effort and put food on his parents plates and beer in his father's belly.

On his first day back in the house Paul was sat cross-legged on the living room floor watching the television in his football shorts and socks. His father appeared with another man from the pub and told him to "shift it" before he proceeded to take up the carpet, roll it up and carry it out of the house. The man gave his father thirty pounds for it in five pound notes and said that he'd make it up to a hundred if he threw in the TV. After ten minutes of wheeling and dealings Paul was eventually sat in his football shorts and socks with only the bay window to stare at. His father returned to the pub.

Heather Jarrett's possessions passed over to her only child, Anna. Some of it went to help refill her son's room – she insisted that if he was to sell off the better items, she wanted the boy to keep a proper bed; he couldn't be expected to carry on sleeping on the floor.

It was like five Christmas's rolled in to one for Charlie Cable. Anna kept certain things secret, but allowed him to pawn off things that he'd long had his eyes on, such as the Waterford Crystal and the Wedgewood figurines that proudly decorated Heather's cabinets and dresser. It broke her heart to see these things that her mother had saved all of her life for sold off for a minimum price; but it was a necessity in their survival and her cleaning job at the old people's home couldn't fund all of the household bills and feed them too.

Even after accumulating that array of inherited household goods from Heather Jarrett, the house at number 71 was still a sparse shell that held a desperate air of poverty. The one bonus for Paul Cable and his mother was that with the extra money came the relief of seeing less of Charlie Cable who frequented his three favourite public houses and the bedroom of Paula Shaw more often.

'It's been a long time Paulie.' Heather Jarrett said, her face brightening The Waiting State further.

'Grandma, I don't believe it. You look amazing,.. just amazing. I've missed you so much.'

She stood and stepped forward to embrace him. She smelt good too and he felt that although he knew her he was actually holding someone else; so detached was she from the memories that were familiar to him. He felt a tinge of guilt that he remembered her as an old lady in budget clothes, rollers in her hair and a touch of the ancients about her features. She'd not even been that old when she died, she'd just lived the classic hard life.

'You've stuck with the fishing?.. I'm pleased about that.' She declared after breaking her grip. 'You're a fine young man Paul. I'm very proud of what you've become; even including the obviously regrettable things. I don't hold you totally responsible for those.'

He held his head in shame of what she spoke about and he didn't feel as though he could talk about it right now and he was relieved when she changed the subject.

'I bet you were pleased to see our Alison weren't you?'

'I couldn't believe it grandma... It's so much to take in... Seeing both of you has been a big shock. I thought you were gone forever.'

'That doesn't have to be the case Paul, we can all be together again,.. sooner or later it will happen and that's a fulfilling thought isn't it?'

He nodded and gave a wholesome smile that needed no words to accompany it.

He composed himself and looked her over again.

'Grandma, don't take this the wrong way, but what happened to you; you look amazing?... Not that I haven't always thought that you looked good, obviously.'

She turned to Vincent Tua. She wasn't sure how to reply to her grandson's question.

Vincent Tua ushered her with a hand back in to her seat. 'I'll try and explain Heather.'

Vincent smiled and faced Paul. 'This is The Waiting State Paul, and Heather Jarrett,.. your grandmother is from something that we call the First Understanding. In this First Understanding this is how your grandmother looks. Fundamentally she is exactly the same person. She is fifty-six years old; exactly the same age that she was when she died Paul. For the sake of familiarity in The Waiting State, you are greeted by your core relations to the greatest degree that you knew them by... Your greatest and fondest memories of Heather Jarrett was during the times that you lived with her, so that is the form that she takes here.' He explained.

'But... And don't take this wrong grandma, cos I love you more than anything; but again, you look disturbingly incredible.'

She proudly grinned. 'You always had an art for flattery as a boy Paulie. You were always the kindest of boys; polite and gracious, and you always had time for your old mamma.'

Vincent Tua paused for the right words. 'This is the beauty of the Understandings Paul. The facts are, your grandmother was a beautiful woman. As a young lady she was a head-turner and was quite a glamorous looking thing.' He smiled in her direction.

'Thank you very much Vincent.' She giggled.

'You're welcome Heather, I say that to all the girls.' He smiled.

Paul Cable could not believe the bizarreness of the situation. Here he was sat in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines as an elegant version of his grandmother was flirted with by Michael Caine.

'You see Paul, things change during an Understanding. Things evolve and gradually improve. Heather's appearance is just an example of the learning's from the Foundation on to the First Understanding.' Tua continued.

Paul looked on being both frustrated and exasperated.

'I hope you can understand my confusion here Vincent?... Everything just seems a muddle to me.'

Vincent Tua looked on with genuine sympathy. It had never been easy to explain this part in a form that people from the Foundation would readily understand.

'I'm sorry Paul. I realise that this is a lot to take in; especially with the trauma of what's gone off and also with your reunion with Alison and Heather. I'll try and explain it as clearly as I can and in a way that you'll understand.' Vincent replied and steadied himself. He paused for thought, placed a hand on top of Heathers and then he settled back in to the comfort of his armchair.

'You currently find yourself in The Waiting State. It's a place that a lot of people consider the doorway to the afterlife; only there is no such thing as an afterlife. It's a fallacy; it simply just doesn't exist. Life is one infinite continual thread with no known ending that we can establish, so to call it an afterlife is plainly ridiculous. A human beings life moves in stages or what we have dubbed them as Understandings. For example, Heather here is in her First Understanding; the life after yours. If you decide to move on, then you too will begin your life in the First Understanding. This world won't be what you're used to: people are different, attitudes are different, and expectations are different; there is slightly less emphasis on close relationships because there is less reproduction, with only those that couldn't reproduce in the Foundation beginning to have children; and even then it isn't a process that is guaranteed to work for them until maybe the Third or even the Fourth Understanding. Are you getting me?'

He shrugged, deep in thought. 'Sort of.'

'The relationships that you make in the Foundation can stay with you for many many Understandings. You will step in to the First Understanding with Heather and Alison; you may have a few days together; the chances are, like many lives, that you will have a great many years together. When you pass away from this First Understanding, the chances are that you will both be together again in the Second Understanding and so on. Your lives will change, your attitudes will change, you may grow apart, you may become closer; our mortal coil is always evolving and it will take you on precisely the journey of learning and understanding that you are meant to tread.'

Paul Cable blows and tries to consider things.

'So the important thing that you are telling me is that once I'm in this First Understanding, I can find Steven Mulruyd and cut him in to a thousand little Steven Mulruyd's.' He coldly enquired.

'I'm afraid that won't be possible Paul. Whatever you learn here today will be totally forgotten once you begin life in the First Understanding.'

'But Grandma Heather is here; and she's supposed to be from this First Understanding?'

'Unconsciously she is here, but back in the first world she is completely unaware of your meeting. This meeting is here for you both to make your peace with one another and to allow you a greater knowledge of things.'

'So you're telling me that this is all a waste of time?'

'Not at all.....How do you feel about meeting Heather; and Alison?'

'How do you think I feel? You're my life-guide you should know these things,.. I'm elated of course. But then you tell me I'm not really meeting them.'

'I didn't say that. You are meeting, but unconsciously.'

'So like a fucking dream then?'

'Sort of; but how many dreams have you had that feels this real Paul?'

'And Mulruyd?..... How am I to know that he's not stalking my sister in this Understanding.'

'Because he has evolved from the person he was in the Foundation.'

'What, so he's fucking mother Teresa in the First Understanding is he?'

'I can assure you that Steven Mulruyd is not Mother Teresa in the First Understanding Paul; but he is a very much more understood individual with far more clarity of mind, who will never intentionally physically harm another individual again. His first lesson is learnt.'

Paul holds his brow with a hand. His head spins with complicated questions and unfathomable theories. He is unable to fully calculate the overload on his brain.

'Do you want a rest Paul?' Offers Vincent Tua.

Heather Jarrett sits sipping from a cup of tea, just in the way that she used to, with a saucer and her cup resting on her fingers, and he cannot deny that she seems so real that it would be beyond his intellectual capacity so find any other explanation other than she was really here with him.

'I don't want a rest Michael. I want you to be completely honest with me.'

'Of course, I have no desire to trick you or give you false hopes Paul.'

'Has this bang on the head made me have visions of the very things that I desired to see more than anything else? Whilst meanwhile, I'm in hospital somewhere and you're some nutter that's strayed in here from the mental ward?'

Vincent Tua laughed out loud. 'No Paul, I'm perfectly real and so is Heather here, and so was young Alison... Enjoy their company, it's been a long time coming and you deserve it.' He gave a huge Michael Caine smile that he hoped was trusted and appreciated.

'Why don't I tell you a little about myself Paul? To try and help you get a better awareness of what I'm trying to tell you.'

He took off his spectacles and placed them on the table before rubbing his brow.

'I am from the Second Understanding Paul. I've lived through the Foundation the same as you, and the First Understanding, and the whole of my Second. I was born in 1572 in Turin during the Renaissance years. In the Foundation I spent a great many years in prison. I was a young tearaway that cared only for himself. I got in to a lot of trouble and hurt a lot of people and as an adult I continued a criminal life until eventually was I hung for my crimes. In my existence in the First Understanding I studied criminology at the Universita degli Studi di Firenze in Florence and eventually I moved on to specialize in people: studying them, understanding them, guiding them. When I passed away at the end of my Second Understanding I was greeted in a room very similar to this one; only you have to understand that an eighteenth century in the Second Understanding was nothing like the one that you've been told about; a far more advanced place than even what you've known in the twenty-first century.... I had lived a life in the Second Understanding that was far far away from that one in Turin. My learning's and evolution had advanced beyond my years and I was totally at peace with myself. I had an idyllic lifestyle and a beautiful cabin on the banks of the River Shard. I was never married in my Foundation years, but had met a woman in the First Understanding and our relationship continued over in to the next one; but as your understanding of your existence expands, your reliance on personal relationships and partnerships recedes. It's seen as almost an ancient way of thinking. So at the dawning of my Second Understanding I was met by the person that you would regard as a guardian angel and I was offered the opportunity to become a Guide, the same as himself. It meant staying in the Second Understanding for the remainder of my days and my career would be dedicated to passing people from the Foundation, through to their First Understanding; just as I have with your own passing. That's where I get my fulfilment from Paul. I guess in the language of the Foundation world, you would call it achieving my Zen. Life is a far more powerful thing than the human brain can ever fathom in your world Paul. The human brain is the whole basis of our existence. Its capacity is almost infinite. Nobody in this room can begin to acknowledge its potential. I just reached a stage where my brain had reached the requirements that it needed to rest and be at ease with itself. '

Paul blatantly blew out his cheeks with exasperation. ' And I'm not sure that my brain has the capacity to take in all of this shit.'

'I understand.'

'It all sounds a bit Matrix to me. A bit too Sci-Fi and believe me,.. I fuckin hate Sci-Fi.' Admitted Paul as he looked towards his grandmother and signalled an apology for his bad language.

'It's much simpler than you think, and remember that I'm bombarding you with this rhetoric when really bite-size over a longer period would be more appropriate. Remember that once you leave this room, none of this will matter to your life for a very very long time; your life or lives will continue perfectly normally. There will still be good and bad things in life as humankind strives for ultimate perfection, but take comfort from the fact that even though there will be instances in every Understanding that makes you question it, life will always be getting that little bit better as we begin to establish the maximum potential to our brains.'

Paul Cable's head hurt like hell, and he was supposed to be unconscious at that. Wasn't he?

## 21st September 1984

Charlie Cable had paced the ground, hopping from foot to foot on the early morning dew that had settled on the grass verge outside of Rainworth Colliery. His veins were still spiked with enthusiastic bitterness and resentment. He had woken fully fuelled on every single morning for months. His head had felt like a ticking time-bomb; and it had exploded on a few occasions already.

Their numbers were still strong, though they were notably in decline as reality had begun to bite hard on all of their lives. For Charlie there was only one person worse than a scab, and that would be someone who he had stood shoulder to shoulder with throughout the springtime and the summer to then give up on the cause and return to work. For Charlie Cable, that was unforgivable. How could you be firmly on one side of the fence on one day, with all that you'd stood for, and then the next day be on the other side of the divide scabbing for her? Thatcher.

It made no sense to him and it had screwed with his mind; how could these people call themselves men? They were weak-willed frauds with no stamina for a fight. Yes times were hard, but to turn coat and break the strength of the union would only enforce far harder times in the future. The jobs that were there birth right, passed down through the generations would be lost. How could they all be so short sighted? Together they could break this government and close the whole country down. The power of the miners was in their unity; a power that could topple leaders and drain the Isles of its energy. But this power needed strength and how could that strength stand strong whilst pissing bastard fuck cunts went back to work and abandoned them?

He stood on that grass verge in his NCB donkey jacket, bleached jeans and Dr. Martens sized tens; his hair laid Byrlcreemed back and his beard failed to disguise his ever madder eyes. He was at a different pit every morning and most of the other men had learned to keep an arm's length from him. He was dangerous to know, always the most vocal and always the first to pile in when in kicked off. Add to this the fact that had any of them the inclination to return to work, they hadn't wanted to get to know him well enough to suffer his own personal wrath. Charles Cable was bad news. He was the sort that gave them a bad reputation; though he was a very handy ally to have when you wanted a volunteer to do the unexplainable.

Nothing had kicked off that morning. Cars had drifted through the gates of the colliery largely unopposed apart from the usual tirade of abuse and Charlie was becoming less satisfied with just yelling at windows where men would only look straight ahead.

He hated them. He hated every last one of them. He was ashamed to call them miners; Notts miners. He was a Notts miner; many of his comrades were Notts miners; what inside these people's heads made them different? How could they gamble with all of their futures?

He wanted to smash things, tear things, destroy things in his anger.

He'd clench his teeth and clamp his fists knuckle-white in his anger.

He'd paid the price for it. He had been arrested three times already. He was a marked man and the police had his number alright. Now they just waited for him to make another mistake, a mistake that would see him slammed up. They all expected it. The cops expected it, the union expected it, his comrades expected it, his wife hoped for it, his neighbours hoped for it, the regulars at The Gun & Glasshouse and the Miner's Welfare hoped for it and even Charlie Cable himself was waiting for the day when he awoke and was fully fuelled with rage inside a prison cell instead of being able to make himself a flask of strong tea and to march across to whichever picket line they had chosen that day.

He walked everywhere and he'd observe everything. Very little passed his watchful eyes and he was ever-mindful of scab activity, as well as always being on the lookout for things to rob: milk from doorsteps, eggs from the green grocers display, a cunt book from the newsagents, stray pints of lager in the pub, clothes from washing lines, piles of sticks from the back gardens of old ladies with broken backs from all of their chopping. These were desperate times and actions were required to fund his involvement in the cause. He was indiscriminate in his thieving. He hadn't got time to develop a conscious; it was survival of the fittest and he was surviving fitter than most.

He couldn't grumble, his days were filled and he got by with consummate ease. He had forty quid in his pocket from shifting furniture for the Johnston's from next door. The old couple had needed an old dining table and chairs taking to the skip ready for a replacement set that they had been given. Charlie had borrowed a van from Brett Nipwud who frequented The Gun & Glasshouse to move the furniture that was little good for anything but scrap. He talked another old couple from High Cross in to buying it off of him for a fiver and he also walked away with a gold pendant that he slipped in his pocket and pawned in town. They wouldn't miss it and they seemed to have a healthy stock of coal in their bunker going in to the autumn. If they had enough money for fuel, they wouldn't miss an old bit of scrap was Charlie's philosophy.

He popped in to the bookies on Elm Tree Street after the long walk back in to town from Rainworth. He preferred to walk and would usually decline a lift. He liked to be on the prowl. He liked to watch people and make sure that they knew that he was watching them.

People needed to be kept on their toes and know that there was a miner walking around in his NCB jacket during what would be a normal shift time. Curious looks would be countered with menacing ones.

In the filthy blue smoked half-light of the bookmakers he would place a five pounds bet on Montecristo to win at Kempton Park at 6/4, a three pounds each-way bet on Sligo Express at the same meeting at 14/1, and two pounds on a three bet accumulator at Exeter – Imperial Ballet, Martha's Lad and Mr Wantaway - all to win at odds of 33/1.

He sat with the grizzled old men with tired eyes and missing teeth, wrapped in their forty year old suits that no longer fitted them and flat caps that exposed the size of their ears and the forest of hair that sprouted from them. These men had survived wars and gone on to be rewarded with tough lives down the mines, their backs made hunched and their faces turning hard and weathered. They'd more tales to forget than most today would remember. They'd sit, chat and smoke with the draymen from the Mansfield Brewery across the road at Littleworth who would pop in for a quick gamble before taking their casks of ales to places afar: Hull, York, Lincoln, Leicester, Wakefield, Peterborough or Doncaster.

Charlie Cable would pour tea from his flask and smoke Benson & Hedges whilst the old men would recount tales of glories on foreign battlefields and memories of stories and folks from the mines across the district.

He admired these men and envied their history. He wished their proud tales and boasts were his; he had no real rewarding chronicles to tell. He had scraps in schoolyards and bars, the gasping death of an industry, a murdered daughter and a treacherous son to show for all of his hard work. It made him seethe inside from his lot in life. He had no real friends to call his own and his relationship with his wife had been a sham for a very long time. Her nosey, interfering mother dying had given him his first reward for sticking with her for quite some time. The woman had snuffed it and left a tidy little trove of collectables and trinkets that could be shifted on to fill his already heaving war chest with.

Yes he admired these ardent former war heroes like they were his own father; only he'd calculatedly managed to put his own father in to the ground and he didn't admire these part-time friends enough to not steal their cigarettes when they got careless.

He would walk across town, up Church Street and across the Market Place sucking up lung-full's of air through his sharp edged nose, scanning the pavements for faces that he'd know on his hike to The Gun & Glasshouse. In The Gun & Glasshouse he would park his backside on the stool nearest to the dartboard in the tap room and exchange casual chat with the bar manager and more retired old men whilst watching the racing on the small portable. Few would frequent the bar when Charlie Cable was sat there; the strike had reduced an argumentative, snappy and intimidating man in to an even more erratic individual. He had been bad for business during the troubles. He had been in the place on most days because he had been barred from the Miners Welfare and The Admiral Duncan; but he'd been careful not to get too involved in any bother and suffer the same fate in his favourite establishment. It had disappointed the regulars, many of whom now decided to spend more time in the other two local bars, and it disappointed The Gun & Glasshouse landlord whose takings were suffering.

He would suck mouthfuls of Marksman through his teeth and lean with both elbows on the brass rail, fingering through a newspaper that had been left on the bar until the three o'clock bell sounded for last orders. His emotions when Sligo Express romped home by seven lengths never altered. He had supped seven pints of lager and a whisky double before sparked a cigarette and yomping up the hill towards the parade of shops. He noticed that the White Arrow logistics icon, with its blue background was perched in the bay window of Kenny and Paula Shaw's house. It was her indication to Charlie Cable that her husband was out of the house and probably at work in his office, or at the golf course that he spent far too much of his spare time on.

Charlie continued past the house and on to the newsagent. He brought a pack of twenty Benson & Hedges and a box of England's Glory before strolling back to Paula Shaw's and letting himself in through the back door.

Although she'd expected that he'd come around she still gave the impression of being startled when she saw him. She'd coated her face in layers of makeup and sprayed her neck with Anais Anais. Her jeans were tight, her t-shirt was tighter and her perm longed to be in the same company. Her face bore a dirty perma-scowl that made her look slutty or sexy, depending on your persuasion and she ached all day to be abused and taken anally by Charlie Cable; a man that satisfied her need for the very rough sex that Kenny could never supply her with. He would rather make love to his golf bag than to her she reckoned.

Paula Shaw hadn't got the reputation that her image suggested. It had been rare that she would go to town with her war paint, but meeting Charlie had bought it out in her. She knew very little of his character or his history, she wasn't a native of the town. She'd met Kenny at a seminar in Northampton nine years previously and she'd found him charming, intelligent and exciting. His visions of the future that he planned for himself and his business had stolen her head, his romantic nature had stolen her heart and his above average wealth had been the deciding factor in her making the move from her hometown of Cambridge.

Within six years Kenny's business had gone bust and he had ended up with a job as an office supervisor with modest wages and a sorely battered pride. The hunger evaporated from him and when they had to sell their nice semi-detached house at desirable High Oakham and move here, her hunger for him evaporated inside. She hated the town, she had no children or ties to the place and longed to leave, and she would once the correct opportunity came along.

Then she met Charlie in the newsagents one afternoon they'd smiled and talked and ended up in her marital bed. They had no plans to be together and neither of them wanted to. They weren't even sure that they liked one another. He saw her as a snob with a slight plumb to her voice. She would sometimes be dismissive of him when they talked; he'd just fuck her harder. She thought that he was something of a caveman, though he wasn't unattractive with it. He was quite statuesque, lean and well-boned. She could imagine him in another life as a model; but this version stunk of booze and cigarettes and had a threat to his eyes that both scared and excited her. When they were together she felt both safe and vulnerable. She would hear his ramblings about the miner's strike, but she didn't listen or care - she wasn't planning to stick around much longer in this dead end town that suffocated her enough to give a shit.

She would grip the metal-framed headboard tightly as he rammed his cock deep in to her arse. He had a masterful grip of her hair in his fist and yanked back her head; her teeth clenched tightly as she growled a lingering defiant moan, knelt on her knees with her large breasts flapping wildly. He grimaced and admired himself in the wardrobe mirror. His overgrown hair and untidy beard, coupled with his pale complexion gave him the look of a Greek alabaster statue. He tensed the muscles in his arms and shoulders, more keen on his own appearance than that of Paula Shaw, whose efforts to look good for him had been spoilt by their wild kissing and his intense enthusiasm that she tried her upmost to equal. She often wondered whether Charlie Cable's own wife could compete with her in the bedroom. She'd secretly like to watch them together to weigh up the calibre of her rival.

He came inside of her and growled a groan of his own as he pumped the last of his remaining energy. She was relieved that the severe pain that she'd yearned for in her most perverted thoughts was over with and he could withdraw from her and allow her battered anus to ache alone.

She collapsed from her all fours on to her belly and gasped exhaustedly. Charlie Cable rolled off of the top of her on to his back; he felt a disgust for her. He thought she was a dirty cow; a dirty cow that was desperate and who showed her weakness by allowing him to exploit her body in such a violent fashion. Okay, she fought back, but he was always in control.

He wasn't sure whether he wanted to see her again and a sort of gloom at his sordid affair with her made him feel even more depressed. He turned his head to the side to look at her reddened back and her unruly curled blonde trusses. She looked so unattractive to him after their sex; even from the back.

Kenny Shaw stood at the gaping bedroom doorway with a golf putter in his hand. Paula had opened her eyes and stared at him whilst feeling emotionless. She was pleased that he'd caught them and it was the perfect excuse to finally draw a line under their union. The fact that Charlie was such a rough and uncouth conquest would hurt her husband even more so and Kenny deserved that. She would pack a suitcase and leave for her parents that evening. He would break down and sob uncontrollably, but she promised herself that it wouldn't affect her. In a fortnight he will be back on the golf course and getting on with the things that really mattered in his life.

Charlie Cable was across the bed and wrestling naked with the man before Shaw could fully acknowledge it. Kenny Shaw was not a hard man, quite the opposite. He was also a few inches and several pounds smaller than his rugged aggressor. He wasn't sure why he'd gone back down to the kitchen and returned with his new putter after seeing them ripping away at one another, but once he was laid prostrate on his own bedroom floor with the head of the club partially embedded through his cheek he regretted it. Even she was shocked at the furiousness of the attack.

As Charlie Cable quickly dressed he let her know, "You don't know me" and she realised that her plans to leave that evening would now be temporarily put on hold due to his violence.

He chain smoked as he strode home, his head unusually down and his head buzzing schizophrenically from his experiences. He too was glad that they'd been caught. He was glad that she was out of his life and he was glad that he'd given her husband what he had deserved.

It had satisfied his needs more than the sex had and he felt high on his the chemicals that his emotions had created.

When he stepped through the door Anna Cable and the boy were sat solemnly drinking tea and trying their best not to look him in the eye. He kinda understood their mood; they'd been to the funeral of Heather Jarrett and were dressed mournfully to match their miserable faces. He could understand why they were low, even if he despised the late woman. Even so, he felt elated personally and Anna could do herself a favour to help soothe her grief by starting to do his dinner.

## The Waiting State

The three of them laughed at her anecdote of the time she'd fallen back in to the fountain at Great Yarmouth with baby Paul and an ice cream cone in her hands. She'd gotten soaked completely through, yet the infant and the ice cream somehow managed to stay dry at a rigid arm's length

Despite the years of hardship Heather Jarrett had always preferred to linger on the highlights and positives. She wouldn't begin to usher the names of Charles Cable or Steven Mulruyd here; they were dirty words to her and to stain her reunion with her grandson with talk of them wasn't something that she had freely planned to do.

She had moved to sit beside him on his bed, wanting to be closer with him and he was glad of it as she rested a soft hand on top of his.

Her euphorically rich mood had reminded Paul Cable of the special times when his mamma would let her hair down and enjoy a rare drink. It was usually at Christmas and would include the company of her two brothers and their families. She would get tipsy and jovial and usually end up dancing to tunes, like when she was a teenager. She was a special person to be around, but during those family gatherings the lighter, more wondrous Heather would make an all too irregular appearance. As they sat there in The Waiting State and she recounted her tales, Paul wished she had been afforded the time to be like this more often during her life.

Oddly for Paul, Vincent Tua joined in on their personal conversation as if he had always been there himself. He knew every minute detail of every story, and even suggested relevant ones of his own. He found the whole experience bizarrely surreal; as if his whole life had involved an intimate eavesdropper who'd spied on his every moment. He was briefly lost in consideration, would Vincent Tua have witnessed his every action and thought? Whenever he had performed acts of malpractice, Vincent would have been there. When he was physically or mentally hurt, Vincent would have been there. During his most intimate moments, Vincent would have been there: fear, thrills, charm, death, loathing, joy, bitterness, revenge, romance, murder? Vincent Tua had sat through the whole back catalogue of Paul John Charles Cable's life. The thought didn't sit comfortably with him and he wondered how Vincent really felt about his subject. He'd explained about his own less than noble existence during the same period of his fledgling life, but even a man of some ill repute like Vincent Tua of Renaissance era Turin hadn't experienced some of the things that Paul Cable had.

His head still swam with many fathoms of questions about what Vincent Tua had told him. He struggled to know what to make of the alleged revelation about life being a continual cord of learning's. It wasn't that he didn't believe Vincent, and he was coming around to the fact that he most probably wasn't dreaming this. The reality of his surroundings and the clarity of details were just too acute to be a figment of his imagination. Vincent Tua was real and meeting Alison and Grandma Heather had been genuine events, of that he was now almost completely sure. It was the intricate strands of life that he wrestled with.

Why would Vincent Tua be sent to prophesize about the meaning of life at this stage of his existence? And why did only certain individuals get an opportunity to discover themselves in The Waiting State? Not to mention the point in revealing all of this and having delicate, soul cleansing meetings with loved ones thought lost only for it all to be wiped from his memory once he had made a decision?

Nothing made sense to him.

Vincent Tua had been involved in every aspect of Paul Cable's life in the Foundation, he noted every event and could read his mind; but in The Waiting State they were equals and Vincent's powers followed the familiar pattern that we were all used to. Though Tua could still anticipate Paul's musings and offered him a look of security. He allowed Heather to finish their conversation, and then a lull to develop before he confronted him about them.

After his client had conversed with him in his many queries, he poured two small glasses of Meursault Chardonnay for himself and Heather.

'You shouldn't be alarmed by your struggle in understanding what you're finding out here Paul. The human brain is a magnificent tool to be blessed with. Its power is immense, though its development is slow. During your Foundation life it is merely in its infancy. Your brain is just too underused to understand everything that you'll discover here... That will all come in good time my friend.'

Vincent sat down his face becoming notably sterner.

'A human's body is so reliant on its brain that its condition is imperative on an individual's progress through the Understandings. For instance, a brain can be damaged like yours and make a recovery in the next Understanding. But if it is physically damaged beyond repair; I'm afraid there is nothing that can be done.' He expressed with regret.

'What do you mean?' Paul asked. 'Are you saying that if a brain is destroyed, that's it?...Like if its smashed to pieces?'

'Yes I am.'

'And the people I've killed?'

'Bosnia, Basra and Faisalabad; all clinically irreparable head damage; all existences ended. Brains turned to mush... When you put a .50 round through a man's skull, it's game over for him regarding breathing in the next Understanding. Without a brain, you've lost the very tool that makes everything as we know it possible.'

'That's not going to sit well with me then is it? Knowing that these people won't get a second chance.' Paul pained.

'That's the line of work that you were involved in Paul. You're an assassin and aren't allowed emotions. You've been trained to kill as a common good for your country. In your head these people needed eliminating.'

'But you've told me that imperfections in people gradually get ironed out.'

'Every system has flaws Paul.'

'So what happens to these people whose brains are damaged beyond repair?'

'I can't answer that I'm afraid.'

'So what you're telling me is that for all this "learning" and "understanding" bullshit, man still hasn't got a Scooby Doo about where people go when they really really die?...Well that's shite then int it?' Paul bemoaned.

'It's expected that they just die and decompose.'

'No going to a big man in the sky with a white beard then?'

Vincent Tua smirked 'That's a very old belief.'

'So more bullshit?'

'It's a belief if that's what your brain wants you to believe in.'

'My brain tells me that it wants my hands to rip it from my head and flush it down the bog.' He shook.

'I understand your scepticism my friend, trust me.' Vincent agonised.

'I've not said that I don't believe you Vincent. What I'm saying is that I'm struggling to understand you... It feels like the first day at school and I can't read, write, piss, shit or talk.'

'Everybody in The Waiting State is the same mate. Never has anybody ever totally understood or believed what they are told here; but when the brain is damaged in some way and it is nursed and repaired, this is all part of the therapy required to recalibrate it. You see, you are right, you are learning to read, write, piss, shit and talk; here in The Waiting State. If you wanted to return to the Foundation world, you need us to work on your brain to return in fully working order.'

'So what about people that come out of a coma but are vegetables? What shitty choice did they make?... I think I'll go back to the Foundation; no hang on, the First Understanding I reckon, no the Foundation I think,...err.' He sarcastically mocked.

'That's a very good question.' Vincent Tua nodded. 'Listen Paul; not everybody wants to leave their world. Everybody who has the choice makes their own decision. Not all brains can be repaired; some are damaged beyond repair; but not many. People are faced with a choice of going on to the next Understanding with an improved but not fully functioning brain, or they can return to the last life and see it out with the people that they want to be with. Everybody's choices are individual. Everybody who has ever returned after being offered the choice has done it for a reason; The Waiting State is a place to learn and ultimately be in control of your own destination.'

Paul Cable looked at the Michael Caine figure blankly, as if seeking relief from this mental onslaught. He then turned to Heather Jarrett who spoke softly to him.

'We want you to follow us in to the First Understanding Paul. It's a better place and we will be together; a family again, but with much fewer flaws. You'll be born the same as before, but with slight alterations. Your sister will be slightly older than you, not the twenty odd year's difference that you might expect, but maybe a few years. Everything moves in respect of one's own brain allowing it... I won't be this old for example. Life will begin and carry on, just like life begins in the world where we were last together. You don't even notice a seam.' Her voice was slow and direct.

'I've got a question though.' Paul said. 'A pretty bloody important one.'

'Go for it.' Vincent returned. 'I'll answer whatever I can.'

'Charlie Cable?'

Vincent paused, pursed his lips in thought and replied. 'What about Charlie Cable?'

'Does Charlie Cable follow us in to this First Understanding?' He bitterly countered.

Again Vincent paused. 'It's possible Paul, I have to admit to you; but you have to understand that he would have gone through extensive change and the balance in his nature and personality will be largely corrected.'

'So there is a chance that that man will return to us in the First Understanding as the father of Alison and me; the husband of my mother and the son in law of my grandparents?'

'It's possible, of course. Maybe he will, or maybe his existence will move on to another area.' Vincent Tua answered.

Paul bowed his head, deep in great thought at the information he gleamed.

'That's a very interesting thought,..thanks Vincent. I think I might have a glass of that wine now.' Paul Cable replied coldly, his eyes a sea of emerald mischief.

An apprehensive looking Vincent Tua did not feel at ease with Paul Cable's tone.

## Phang Nga Province, Thailand : 31st December 2004

Kiyomi Sasaki found herself emotionally and physically drained. She had worked for sixteen hours finding whatever work she could seek to help out with the massive humanitarian effort after the huge reckless waves had struck so indiscriminately, massacring like a gigantic merciless ball and chain sweeping all before them.

She had helped in the makeshift UNICEF canteen serving rice and soup with bread and had assisted the doctors and psychologists with their equipment and paperwork. Though her hardest and most wretched task had been to assist in the aid to traumatized children left orphaned; separated from parents vanished from the face of the globe. These most vulnerable of individuals left visibly distressed by the sight of bodies being washed ashore on the mangled wreckage of a coastline.

It was only when she stopped, exhaustedly, and had time to think about her day that she would break down and cry about the devastation that she had witnessed and been a part of for five days.

She had needed the vacation and the timing fell perfectly for getting away and being alone so she could relax and think. She had instigated her divorce to her husband Masato and was glad to get away from her hectic life in overpowering Tokyo for a week. Family was still the fundamental institution it always had been in Japan, but headstrong Masato had insisted on his work and always put it before her and any notion of ideas of children.

Autonomy wasn't something that scared Kiyomi, she was fiercely independent and had lost her patience with him more quickly than even she had anticipated. Once she had decided to leave and found a place to temporarily bunk at her friend Natsuki's cramped apartment, it was all over with inside a couple of days.

When she filed for divorce Masato had seemed almost as unobjective to the idea as she was. The quicker it could be concluded the better they had both amicably agreed.

She was thirty-four years old and very conscious that she wasn't getting any younger. She desired children and time wasn't on her side. She hadn't formulated any particular plans, but she felt strongly that she would happily return to her home town of Karatsu in the Saga Prefecture of Kyushu in the near future if the opportunity arose. Tokyo had been an amazing adventure that had initially started at University; she had enjoyed and thrived in the capital and had made great friends who she enjoyed a happy social life with that she could never have matched in Karatsu. But now she desired the quieter life of her childhood beside the crystal waters of the Genkai-nada Sea and the serenity of the forested mountains. She would still have the bustling coastal city of Fukuoka on her doorstep to enjoy a social scene that she'd developed a taste for. She felt sure that back there she would find the partner that would give her the child that she wanted to fulfil herself. If not she would accept comfort in the fact that she had tried all she could to give herself the chance of completion.

She was a lecturer at Sudo Gakuen College in Kita teaching advanced English. It was a profession and a standing that she felt sure would easily win her a place on the staff at one of the high schools of her home town should a vacancy become available there, or in the neighbouring towns. Hopefully in time she would win her dream job as a lecturer at the University of Fukuora. When she returned home she had decided that she would apply to the schools and colleges that appealed to her. And she would inform her parents of her plans; they would be overjoyed at the return of their daughter

At this moment her deep will to bring another small life in to the unpredictably cruel hazards of the world had taken a minor backwards step. The despair that she had witnessed had left her heart a hollow tender organ.

It was Omisoka - New Years Eve - but Kiyomi Sasaki had no thirst for celebration. What was there to celebrate about? Her hotel in Khao Lak had been left remarkably unscathed and when her vacation period ended she had decided to stay in Thailand and help all that she could with the relief effort. The hectic organisers from UNICEF were happy to have another able body to assistance; her fluent language skills would be a great source of help for them. She had agreed to do all that she could; how could she consider going home when all around her needed such help?

Despite her exhaustion and her attempts, she could not sleep. She pulled on the freshest t-shirt she could find - a burnt orange Hot Tuna one that she had brought on a holiday in California years earlier – and a pair of skinny olive cargo shorts to the knee, with her Nike's completing a couldn't care less outfit.

She brushed her long, kinked dark hair, feeling guilty to be so clean and smelling so freshly. The water supply to the hotel remained and a soak in the hot shower had helped ease her throbbing body. She kept her beautiful, though sombre looking face naturally free from makeup and made her way to the hotel bar.

It was only five days in from the Tsunami, yet she found it kind of perverse that the hotel was going about its business much as normal, but she felt so restless that she fidgeted with the ache of wariness and wanted a drink to ease her pounding head.

The bar was far from busy, but a smattering of staff, holiday makers and emergency workers filtered in and out of the place; keen to find a place to alleviate the horrors from their tormented minds and restore a little required normality. Kiyomi found a stool at the bar and ordered a large glass of red wine. A member of Her Majesties Special Air Services had holed up in the reception of this four star joint after abandoning his coast to coast mountain biking holiday. Instead he had favoured to detour and help out with the efforts; much the same as Kiyomi had. He sat on the adjacent stool to the one that she had chosen.

He found it unusual that she had chosen it instead of one of the many other empty ones that surrounded the bar. He offered to buy her drink for her and she happily agreed with a much needed smile.

Paul Cable smiled back as equally wary; she was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen and he paid little attention to her casual attire; his eyes fixed on her delicate oval face with her perfect complexion, her fulsome lips and her sleepy dark eyes.

She insisted that he shouldn't sleep on the hotel reception floor any more.

## Karatsu, Kyushu, Japan : 16th May 2005

He was glad to be out of Tokyo, he'd found it suppressive and claustrophobic. She was keen to show it to him and he'd been eager to please her; but he wasn't a big city person, and that was one big city

They caught a flight down to Kyushu and hired a Toyota to drive the twenty-five miles alongside the Matsuura River from Saga, through the lush green pine forests and stepped fields up to Karatsu. She was proud of her home district and would enthusiastically point out the local highlights of Saga City and the local landmarks on view from the highway between the two towns. When they reached Karatsu she had seemed to wear a veiled embarrassment about her simplistic home town; after Tokyo and to a much lesser extent Saga, it was a distinctly modest place. Paul Cable was pleased that she was a small town girl herself. It had relieved him as he'd been slightly conscious of his own background and had felt somewhat inadequate next to the comfort that she'd shown with her surroundings in mammoth Tokyo. She was at ease with the hustle and bustle, but had spoken with passion about her ambition to return to her home island in the south-west corner of the country.

He'd instantly liked Karatsu. He felt it had a hidden charm with its tree lined roads that sparkled in the early morning sun, the almost apologetic crouching light grey houses, the splendid castle on the hill that kept watch over the town with its skirt of green trees, and the glittering flicker that reflected back off of the sea in the majestic wide bay. It was a working class town with fishing, agriculture and ceramics being the mainstay of its economy and its pace of life was relaxed and it immediately soothed his soul and calmed his core. The smell of the place and the friendliness of its people towards this westerner induced a peaceful feeling of homecoming that he'd never felt before. He experienced a kind of contentment that he'd not experienced in a very long time. Meeting Kiyomi in such tragic circumstances had peculiarly given them both a remarkable zest for life and a recharging impetus.

When they'd met they'd both given each other a much needed remedy. Kiyomi in particularly was waning emotionally and had allowed herself to fall in to his big arms far more effortlessly than she would normally allow herself to be. She would normally feel some shame for her weakness, but they had chatted for hours on her hotel bed and she became instantaneously smitten with the attractive soldier; after the nightmarish scenes in Phang Nga and her loveless days in Tokyo she needed to feel the close comfort of another individual more than ever. Her sanity and her body yearned to be soothed and he provided it. They silently made love and he caressed her beautiful body with a kind of adoration that she had never experienced before. He was tender and forgiving and explored every inch of her as if it was the most important inch of humanity. She melted at his gentle touch; such a large, strong man who had no doubt seen insane aggression in his life – his scars proved that – but he could be so skilfully aware when it came to loving someone. She was a tough person, but her body was a sensitive entity and he treated it with a great awareness during a sleepy dreamlike night that was like no other for the pair of them.

For six hours in room 103 of the Ocean Palm Resort in Khao Lak, Paul Cable and Kiyomi Sasaki enjoyed a sensual New Year that neither of them would forget.

They were together in Thailand for eight days. Separating at breakfast to go about the duties they were given; his mainly centred on manual work that he could excel in, like an incessant machine that the authorities exploited hungrily. He was only happy to help and was pleased that he could be of some use. Since meeting Kiyomi he even managed to push himself that little bit harder. He wanted to payback for the reward that he had been given for deciding to come here to Phang Nga. He would slog himself all day with thoughts of her flooding his excited mind. She was like a powerful drug that had hooked him and balanced his mind with the kind of high that he wasn't at all familiar with.

When he would get back to the Ocean Palm Resort he would eagerly seek her out, but usually he would return before her. It gave him time to shower the stench of death and destruction from his pores. He felt that she deserved him at the best he could provide; though in reality, she would take him whichever way he came.

She'd greet him with a smile, but her mood remained tense. She was unsure at how much more of the assault on her senses she could handle and it was only him and the realization that she was helping to make a difference that kept her from going home.

He would tell her how he admired her and would emphasis in simple words what an important person she had been in helping those people. But he would also tell her that if it was affecting her health, she should return to Japan.

She would ask him if he would miss her if she did catch a flight home. He told her that he missed her whenever she left the room. Her heart would rise and she would embrace him. She was tiny in comparison to his bulky frame and it saddened her heart that eventually she would have to return to Tokyo and her job. She would have to search for a place to live because it was unfair on Natsuki to remain an intruder in her home; even if she was made to feel so welcome. And he would have to go back to England or Iraq. She dreaded the thought that she would never see him again. He'd promised to see her again and she trusted his word; he had an honesty and an honour about him that she trusted wholly. That was all well and good if he was killed in Iraq though. It gave her something else to worry about.

They would write to one another every day via email, and occasionally by post to provide each other with something physical to treasure. As soon as Paul arrived back in base and knew of the extent of his duties he had made plans to visit her in Japan. She had been overjoyed when he rang her and gave her a date and had asked for a place to stay. She had just taken over the lease of an apartment in downtown Adachi City and although she had hoped that her stay here would be relatively short, it was somewhere that she could be proud of and would have no qualms about him staying in.

For three months she prepared for his stay with baited anticipation. She was like an excited school kid and would ramble endlessly to Natsuki, Miki and Ayano about the cute Englishman with the cropped fair hair and big muscles that she had met during the disastrous Indian Ocean Tsunami. They were all extremely envious, but happy for their good friend and they would insist that she would show them his photograph every time they would meet up for drinks.

She would spend her pocket money on items to spruce up her apartment, and put money aside for when he came. He had told her that money would not be a problem and that he would cover the costs of whatever she wanted to do, but she had insisted that she would pay her way. She desperately wanted to show him Tokyo and her favourite places: Ginza with its shops, bars, dance clubs and galleries, the National Gardens at Shinjuku-Ku and the East Gardens at The Imperial Palace. But she also wanted to take him to her home island of Kyushu. It would provide a perfect chance to meet up with her parents and to express her plans to permanently return. Her mother and father were a kind and gentle couple that cared greatly for their three children; they were also open-minded and were pleased for Kiyomi when she had told them of the Englishman. They were keen to meet him and were happy to extend their hand of friendship in letting him stay at their home. They also actively encouraged her to explore Kyushu with him; to show him the coasts and mountains, the sacred Onsen of Beppu and the active volcanic peaks of Mount Aso.

He had money put away. He'd been putting money away for years; for a retirement that he had no firm plans for. He had thousands of pounds stashed away in several bank accounts and had no fears of spending a chunk of dough on an expensive trip to Japan. He could easily afford extravagance and he was looking forward to it so much that his much vaunted concentration would occasionally wane when he would least expected it. It hadn't made him any less reckless, but he would sometimes have to shake her out of his head when matters at hand were important, or a clear and present danger arose. He desired to see her and Japan greatly, but that desire wouldn't be much good to him or her if he wound up dead due to a lack of concentration.

She had mapped out her ideas and he'd been impressed with her organisation and enthusiasm. It was as if he had only to turn up and fall in to her extremely capable hands; like his own tour guide/interpreter/chauffer/lover.

He'd flown Emirates from Manchester and met here at Narita Airport where she met him in smart casual clothes and her short brown leather jacket; topped with a full blown gorgeous smile that welcomed his whole body, starting from the heart. She had looked a different woman to the exhausted one that he remembered in Thailand. She looked modern and vibrant, recharged and radiant. Her healthy black hair glowed and her face was giddy in the exhilaration of seeing him. They embraced for a couple of minutes as he held her closely and from off of the ground, examining one another intensely to reassure themselves that the other still existed.

To him, she had a foot firmly planted in two ways of life, but was easily comfortable with both. Her image was fresh and advanced and she enjoyed the trappings of successful modern living, but her values were deeply established in time-honoured traditions.

After three days it had become clear to her that he didn't enjoy the vastness of Tokyo. He was trying his best to please her and not hurt her pride or self-worth. She liked that and understood his discomfort in the city. He'd shown nothing but respect towards her and her friends who found him almost otherworldly. Kiyomi's heart was gladdened to know that their impressions of him had been nothing but positive. They were notably green with envy.

She had hoped upon hope that his opinion of Karatsu and Saga would be different. This was the place she was from and was fiercely proud of. It was the place that she intended to settle back in and it was important to her that it made a good impression on him.

The fact that he didn't just enjoy the place, but quickly fell in love with it had delighted her. He preferred the semi-rural life, despite being from an industrial town; the smell of the crisp clean air and the open spaces softened him.

His obvious lack of Japanese hadn't stopped him having conversations in great depth with Mr and Mrs Sasaki through the interpreter who barely ever left his side. They were enthralled with his army tales, though he was clearly purposefully careful with the true details of most. Mr Sasaki was impressed with Paul Cable; he seemed to him a thoughtful yet formidable man. Paul was from a foreign culture that he knew little about, but there was something dependable about how he spoke and acted, and the devoted glow in his daughter's eyes told him everything that he needed to know.

It was the twelfth day of his trip and they walked hand in hand along Hamatama Beach, bordered by the calming tide of the sea from one side and enchanting Nijinomatsubara forest on the other. They walked her families Akita in the near dusk. Paul had never felt so content and his life in England and his work abroad had almost been forgotten. It wasn't a thought that had disturbed him.

Kiyomi was joyous. That morning she had been almost immediately offered a full time job at a college in the town. She had told him about her ambition of eventually working at Saga University, but this was a fantastic first step to achieving that goal. The money was ¥50,000 a month less than what she currently earned, but the costs of living were less in Saga Prefecture.

They had shared a small drink in celebration whilst sat watching the sun fall deeper. They had only spent an entirety of twenty days in one another's company, but it felt as though they were celebrating something that was important to both of their futures. Paul wasn't quite sure why he felt this way. He'd spent many years of being scared of love; of feeling it and accepting it; it had been a thing of jeopardy that he'd shied away from. But with Kiyomi Sasaki he couldn't help himself. She was a thing of great beauty who had quickly become his soul mate and confidant. He would trust her with his life, and as he looked longingly in to her bottomless brown eyes he could feel nothing but a profound adoration for her; a worshipfulness that he could only find comparable with that he had felt for his sister Alison in her absence. But this was different, she felt a part of him; a part that he wasn't sure that he could ever succumb to ever losing.

He was a man that found giving away his deepest emotions challenging, but he had felt telling Kiyomi, "Aishite Imasu" the easiest thing in the world to say.

She had found saying "I love you too" as equally undemanding.

Time stood watching as a breeze tickled their skin and lumps in throats fought for the attention with melted hearts.

They kissed and he asked her what her opinion of him eventually leaving the army and moving to be with her in Karatsu would be? She smiled and quickly embraced him and questioned whether he'd do that for her. He said he would gladly do it for them both if that was what she desired. She desired it more than anything in the world.

He reached in to the side pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a cheque made payable to Kiyomi Sasaki; it was for the sum of £20,000. He told her that they would need somewhere to live and it was hers to use to find a place to rent for them and to help create a home; he would make it over whenever he got the free time and would leave the army as soon as his contract expired.

He'd never needed a reason to ever leave the army before, it had been his family, but now he had a purpose in his life and when his contract expired in the summer of 2007 he would learn the language and settle in Japan.

It was an impulsive decision and very unlike him. He'd always scoffed at the thought of the whirlwind romance but this sensation had lifted him and strengthened his spirit.

Kiyomi Sasaki felt that the reasons for her decision to leave Masato had been answered incredibly quickly; almost as if some kind of divine inspiration had taken place. He had offered her his trust with an investment that she had never anticipated. It was typically Paul Cable she thought.

She would find them a place that he could be proud of. She would have to be patient, but eventually they would have a home fit for a family.

## 27th February 1986

The dark evening was still and the air was moist, a tiny smattering of drizzle filled the atmosphere. The dull orange glow of streetlights lazily tried to subsidize for the lack of moonlight as Paul Cable tied twine around the steel handle of a dustbin lid with a knot of his very own design

The three of them crept stealthily around the triangular courtyard of the old people's warden controlled bungalow community. Bright light shone from kitchen windows, but not a soul was to be seen. There were eighteen small council run abodes that provided the pensioners with a safe harbour and with the comfort of an onsite warden who was accessible from a similarly arranged tiny home that sat in the low westerly corner of the grassed courtyard. It was a criss-cross of washing lines and concrete paths, with a small fish pond in the middle that was encircled with wooden benches and a small, bare greenhouse that was stripped of its summer fruit.

Mark James lifted a thumb from across the way; his yellow cagoule was hardly the stuff of efficient covertness. Tom Simpson was knelt beneath a kitchen window with its light a beacon that lit his corner of the courtyard. They were all ready and nerveless, full of animated gesturing at their cunning.

Tom leapt to his feet and scampered to the nearest back door, wrapping his knuckles against its timber. Thirty metres away Paul Cable copied his actions; as did Mark James. Sprinting counter clockwise they rattled their fists quickly against every subsequent door.

Speed was of the essence and was something that they all had in abundance.

The last door that Paul knocked on was that of the warden; a rotund middle-aged woman with thick national health glasses and trunk-like legs that walked without much bending at the knee. She looked a humourless battleaxe with a huge chip that carried on her shoulder like a despondent past. She had always viewed them with a deep suspicion whenever they passed by her small estate; stopping in her tracks to make sure that they kept moving on.

The boys never took her interest with seriousness as she viewed everyone as a potential threat.

The three of them scooted in to the alleyways that provided an exit from their courtyard playground, dipped in to the dark and waited with puffing breaths that clouded the air.

They would have liked a little more synchronization to their trick, but was satisfied with the steady trickle of flying dustbin lids that shot from their holdings and scraped noisily across the concrete footways towards the back doors of their startled and frightened operators.

The warder yelled out loudly from the opening of her door, dressed in a vast nightdress and carpet slippers. She grabbed a nearby rolling pin and marched sluggishly out in to the night.

But the boys were away down the driveway and over the fence and in to the allotment, cutting through to the car park of The Gun & Glasshouse and back on to the main road that led back to the estate.

It was the kind of mischief that bored boys thrived on, and it had given them a giggle. The 89p that they'd spent on twine had been worth it they all agreed.

'Fuckin legend' Tom clapped his approval of them all.

'Her face was a picture' Mark announced.

'I couldn't see her from where I was hiding.' Paul groaned with disappointment.

'Trust me Cabo, it's a good job that she's fifty stone and you're a good runner, cos you'd have bin toast mate.' Mark raised his eyebrows.

'Serves the cow rate.' Tom quickly added.

'MMMOOOOOOOOOO!!! MMMOOOOOOOOOOO!!' The three of them roared loudly before laughing their congratulations.

Paul had settled slowly in to life at the Comprehensive and was well in to his second year there but he still felt an outsider. Tom and Mark had typically been paired together whilst he'd been dumped in to a class of largely kids from the other satellite middle schools. There was no Tommy and no Jamo, and no Louise either; his reward had been a reunion with Jason Doyliboy and his ever disturbing friend, Steve Jones, who had been awarded the dubious new moniker of 'Fruitcake' - though Jones had recently been expelled for a few weeks due to smoking in art class.

The teacher had seen the obvious trail of tobacco smoke drifting from beneath the lift-top of his wooden desk and making an exit towards the nearby open window.

When a cry came down from the front of the class. 'JONES, ARE YOU SMOKING BOY?!'

All that could be heard was a snigger and Jason Doyliboy's smart alec comment of

"He's not smoking sir; he's electing a new Pope."

Only a strict Catholic boy like Doyliboy enjoyed the significance of his jibe. He got away with just a detention.

And of Louise Young, his acquaintances with her were now all too brief. There was an occasion when Doyliboy had pushed him in to her in the corridor as she passed in deep conversation with Dominique Westerhaus; she'd looked at him with a glance of sheer disgust and although he vigorously talked himself out of the situation, it had made him feel embarrassed and awkward.

His school life had turned more miserable than he had guessed it would and only the cross country kept him sane. He was easily the best in the year; even amongst a far larger base of children, and he continued to compete for his newer school. Though he found recognition here still eluded him despite his success on the mudded fields of the county.

As a result of his unsettled unhappiness, his schoolwork had suffered ever still. Not only did his lack of concentration hold him back, but the older he got, the more introverted he seemed to become. It created a student that was widely regarded as below average. The teachers who managed to even acknowledge his existence had in the main given up on him. He was destined for a life of laborious manual work that would require a minimal use of his underused brain: a council house and a family of equally underwhelming kids who he'd struggle to feed with his low paid job was in the linear pipeline that had been the path of his sort for decades. His type would normally head straight for the mines or the textiles factories, but they were on their way out so his future looked even bleaker. Once Paul Cable had left the halls of this particular school he would be replaced by a carbon copy replacement to fill his equally pointless seat. They might as well have kept the school leaving age at fourteen to turn them over quicker.

His puberty hadn't helped. His face began to blister with acne and his voice would waver at every opportunity as it broke. His two best friends had both had girls on their arms – although briefly – and he felt as though he was already being left behind. It wasn't meant to be this way.

His grandmother had died and thrown another spanner in to the works, but then he had had the biggest stroke of fortune in his short life.

On an unusually cold early November morning in November 1984 Charles Cable was sentenced to two years in HMP Lincoln at the pleasure of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II for Actual Bodily Harm to his love rival Kenneth Shaw. Mr Shaw had required fourteen stitches in a cheek wound and lost four teeth caused by a vicious attack by Charles Cable with a golf club.

Mr Cable had been warned about his demeanour leading up to the incident and had been a regular face of misconduct to the police of Nottinghamshire Constabulary. The judge had told Charles Cable that his behaviour was becoming an increasingly worrying threat to those that he came in to contact with, and although he understood the pressures that he was under regarding his working situation and with his ability to feed his family and pay his bills, his erratic and intimidating behaviour could no longer be tolerated.

On receiving his sentence Charlie Cable remained utterly silent. He was led from the dock with no family present to support him. He didn't want them there.

Anna Cable felt that a noose had been temporarily removed from her neck and she and her boy could breathe a little in that house which was barely a home. She didn't quite know how to feel. The relief at not having him there to keep her oppressed created more tranquillity than she'd known for some time, but amazingly she still missed his presence and brief company; to hold him in their now empty bed.

It wasn't just a hold on her in bed that he had; he had a firm grip on her life. For some unfathomable reason, she loved him: despite the affairs, despite the violence and pain, and despite the horrible way that he treated their timid son. She had tried to push her affection for him away but had failed on every occasion. She wasn't the smartest, and she had hated the way that people would stare and point at her in the street, but what could she do?

Doctors had recommended that she would be an ideal guinea pig to try out the use of a new wonder drug that had not yet been made available on the market. She was clinically depressed; a walking zombie of a woman that the child protection people were monitoring. They were sure that there had been abuse in the home, but possibly not from Anna Cable; she just wore the signs of a distressed parent struggling to cope with life and the pressures of maintaining a home during times of great strife. Fortunately and unfortunately her mother had passed away and left a sum of money that allowed her to keep the house above the waterline. She worked longer shifts and the boy had seemed keen to help her out. In fact the boy seemed the homes most rounded and secure individual who did clearly love his mother.

Anna Cable began a course of antidepressant drugs that would engage her with an immediate up, providing a neurological utopia that was believed to be an entirely safe answer to the prays of the despondently low everywhere. She was given the drug Fluoxetine; later to be renamed as Prozac. Everyone thought that it had helped her immensely and her treatment was deemed a success. When her course of Prozac was completed, it was agreed that she could remain on them for the foreseeable future. She was relieved as she had become completely dependent on it in her own mind.

When Paul Cable returned home ten minutes late after laughing and joking with his friends on the pavement outside of his house he was greeted with an unexpected sight that he had almost forgotten.

Sat in the comfort of the living room armchair - part of a donated three pieced suite from a charity that Anna had been put in touch with - was Charlie Cable.

He said nothing to his son and didn't even veer in his direction. In turn the boy said nothing either until he was encouraged to by his mother who seemed cautiously elated at her husband's return.

Charlie did not note his son's small 'Hi dad.'

Cable was clean shaven and his long hair had been cut to ear length. He ate a hot meal from a plate that sat atop a metal tray that balanced on his knee. He munched slowly with his eyes trained on the tiny black and white portable TV that sat on the coffee table in the corner of the room. A silver can of Marksman with its blue logo of a barrel resting on top of the sturdy base of a capital letter M sat in the hearth next to the stainless steel ashtray stand that a Benson & Hedges lay, wisping nicotine in to the room.

Paul Cable had visited him on the inside, but again they had never exchanged words. Charlie hadn't asked the boy how he was, or how things were going. He displayed no interest in him at all; with a similar display to that of some of his teachers, it was as if he didn't exist.

Paul went to bed early that night, without a bath and forgetting to brush his teeth.

He lay in his bed wide awake with his ears pricked for noise. His face ached from the birth of a fresh bout of spots that were about to erupt on his chin and a tear slipped down the crease of his eye and on to his ear. He wasn't a boy that regularly took a vocal part in the prays that took place before the school assembly every morning, and when he'd attended church with his late mamma it had been an unwelcoming chore for him; but on this night he whispered a little pray for god to keep him and his mum safe.

When the morning came and he had slept very lightly his prays had been observed and answered.

## 28th February 1986

Charlie Cable stood to attention at the net curtained bay window of his home.

He had been watching and waiting for two hours.

Cable had had a restless night's sleep and had shrugged off the eager advances for intercourse from his wife. He had lay there in deep thought and yearned for his bed back at the prison. She restricted him and he'd pondered whether to go and lay on the sofa whilst sucking from the tar of a cigarette as he sat on the edge of the bed.

When the morning came he remained in bed as she got up to do the breakfast and sent the boy off to school before leaving for work at the old people's home. She'd extended her hours whilst he'd been on the inside and she wouldn't be back until around four o'clock.

He could have gone to work himself. His job had been left open and he could return when he was released, but he had no thirst for the colliery. They'd ended the strike whilst he'd been locked away. They'd lost and Thatcher and the scabbing miners had been jubilant.

He was glad that he'd missed it; he couldn't have imagined himself throwing in the towel, and as he'd sat on his bunk listening to the news of the defeat on his transistor radio he had quietly fumed; simmering away like a kettle lit over a lowlight.

He'd held his temper and stored it away. He was fully aware of his anger issues but was reluctant to feel the need to address them; it was the way that he was made and occasionally a switch would flip in his brain and make him go out of control.

It was this control that he would try to manage better. Prison hadn't bothered him. He hadn't liked it, but it hadn't been something that he couldn't handle. It was the freedom part that he'd struggled with; the fellow lags were easily handled in comparison.

From now on he would attempt to endorse more control to his emotions. He would still get angry, but if he could hold his temper enough, he could still exact his retribution in a more organized fashion.

He had gone out to the car in the chilled mid-morning. He'd left a wad of cash stored in the spare wheel compartment and he wanted to retrieve it without her knowing. He was relieved to find it was still there and he had had visions of the car being stolen whilst he was locked away - but then nobody would have dared.

As he locked the car back up he'd noticed that that the vehicles nuts had been loosened on all four wheels. He stopped and scanned the quiet street for faces in windows or bodies lurking in alleyways. He remained calm and still, the goosebumps protruded on the exposed bare flesh left uncovered by his white vest. He returned to the boot and took the wheel brace and retightened every nut before retiring back indoors with the wad of cash and the brace.

Charlie took deep breaths. There was little point in going around there now, his car wasn't to be seen and he would have most definitely been on the day shift. He hadn't seen Roy Simpson loosen his wheel nuts but he had decided in his mind that it would have been him. Charlie had painted the words 'SCAB SCUM' on his next door neighbour's front door on two separate occasions and this would have been some kind of attempted revenge; he was sure of it. He'd flicked the alternative options through his mind for two hours and still couldn't find a more palpable answer to resolve his questions.

When Roy Simpson arrived home and parked his motor car on the street outside he quickly slipped down the alley between his house and the neighbouring one, he was quietly pursued by Charlie Cable and knocked to the ground in the darkened passageway, hidden from any local prying curious eyes.

Simpson struggled as Charlie climbed on top of him, a giant hand clasped firmly over his mouth. He smashed him in the ribs with his fist, the force making Cable's neighbour wince with its power.

Charlie bought out the L shaped wheel brace and forced the shorter end in between Roy Simpson's teeth; he exuded pressure upon his mouth, forcing his teeth to clamp down on the steel.

Charlie took a hold of the other mans hair and pushed his own face closer to him.

'I know you did it Simpson... Simpson the scab trying to get one over Charlie Cable?... Are you fucking insane?'

The terrified man lay unflinching, his eyes startled and unblinking; his fate in the hands of a convicted brute.

'I'm going to let you get away with it this time Simpson. You're a scab and I don't expect any less of you. You can keep your ugly fuckin face intact for today. I've been inside and I'm not ready to go back yet... Though don't think that that scares me... You listening?'

Simpson never budges.

'You have a boy... A boy that is too close to my boy for my liking... That boy is a scab, just like you... Now my boy is a useless little fucking shit who goes back on his word, but I don't want your kid anywhere near him. You listening clearly?' Charlie snarls in a quiet coolness.

'Do you love your kid?... Cos if you love your kid, you will keep him away from mine... If I see them together,.. If I even see them in the same street... I will break in to your house one night and I will tie your kid to the spindles of your stairs and make my kid fuck your kid in the arse... I will make you watch him violate his filthy, scabby backside and I'll make your missus cry at the pain it causes him... Do I have your full attention?'

Roy Simpson murmurs as best he could through the force of the brace.

'I'm one for the word of a man Roy, and I take very unkindly to people that go back on their word... I don't fear prison; prison is easy... So have a very stern word with your boy and set out the rules... I will make you suffer, and I'll make your family suffer too... I'm a changed man now Roy. I've been on the inside and I've learned my lesson... My lesson was, don't get caught so easily. Be smarter and be harder on my enemies... That includes you... I could fuck you over right now with this here brace, and you'd deserve it for the silly stunt you've pulled, but what's the point when I can get my little shit to fuck your little shit.'

He pulled away and rose to his feet; the brace clenched tightly in his fist. He badly wanted to stave in the head of Roy Simpson, but he'd successfully held his anger and got his point across. Simpson lay there shitting it; shivering like a pirate's timber.

He glared at his pathetic foe and spat in his direction. 'Do what you need to do... You don't get another warning.'

## 9th March 1986

It was Mothering Sunday and Anna Cable had made a promise with herself to make an effort in visiting her mother's grave each year to mark the occasion.

She dressed in a strapless green dress with a ra-ra skirt and a matching beret, and she covered her bare flesh with her short white leather jacket.

Her figure had begun to descend in to farce, but despite her clothes making her look even more irregular she had no better alternatives if she really wanted to look her best for her mother. She was ever mindful that the way that she looked was falling apart. She was a wretched mess; painfully gaunt and with skin so pale and pockmarked, and hair showing signs of receding with its thinness and loss of richness.

Trying to dress to look the part just made her feel even more depressed because she was clearly failing and she would attempt to compensate with an outrageous layer of orange foundation, pink blusher and blue eyeliner; a combination that only managed to underline her state of ridiculousness.

It was no wonder that Charlie would seek the charms of other less screwed up women.

She had planned for them to walk all the way up Nottingham Road to the cemetery, but fully conscious of how she looked, they caught the Sunday service bus, using the blustery conditions as a weak enough covering excuse.

They looked an ill couple, her in her odd regalia and young Paul in his lemon, white and brown Sergio Tacchini tracksuit and his sports bag.

At the top of Nottingham Road she removed her white heels and barefooted up the hill to the cemetery, with Paul being a few steps ahead in his eagerness. The place gusted with a cool wind that displayed a life of its own and made it hard to have a conversation from a distance.

Anna disposed of the dead flowers from the marble stone, turning up her nose at the rank smelling water and Paul took an old bread bag from his holdall for her to collect the waste together. He began wiping the headstone down with a cloth to make good his dear grandmothers resting place.

Paul whispered intently to Heather Jarrett whilst his mother knelt on a thin mat of rubber with eyes of moisture and tender raw hands that fixed a new arrangement of Six Stolen Kisses; large headed yellow and orange Roses with a green foliage of Salal. Heather had been her rock. Through the bad times she had always been the fixture that she could depend upon, to keep her safe and give her advice. She wouldn't always take that advice, but it was comforting to have it anyhow.

Since she had left them eighteen months earlier Anna's mental state had imploded and had only been kept stable by her reliance on the Prozac that held her together like the loosest of sticking tape.

She missed her mother so much that it physically hurt her to even consider the rest of her life without the woman. The boy was the only thing that remained that was worth living for.

He rested an arm around his mothers shoulder as she openly wept and he pulled her tighter. He told her that it would be alright, but she held serious reservations regarding the strength of that notion.

They detoured a short distance to the graveside of Alison Cable. The little girl was buried amongst the heartbreaking rows of children's graves that were littered with favourite toys and teddy bears, trinkets, flowers and hand-written letters of poetry.

Some would linger here for hours, but Anna Cable thought that if she stayed here long enough she would cry herself in to the earth. She never forgot Alison, but she had tried her best to block out what had happened to her; if she didn't it would only succeed in tipping her completely over the edge.

To have the best part of her dearest loved ones placed in the ground on that green windy hill tore at her flickering sanity and meddled with her diminishing faith. Anna Cable was wrapped in a poisonous invisible cloth of destruction and it ate greedily from her soul.

They caught the bus back in to the town and began to walk the rest of the way home. Her heels killed her, but she'd walk as far as she could before she removed them. She was in no rush to get home, the dinner was prepared and there was no point in rushing it anyway as Charlie never ate his until teatime.

Paul dragged her towards a nearby cafe. She begged that they couldn't afford to go inside, but he reassured her that he'd had a surprise for her and wanted to pay and wouldn't here another word about it.

They sat at a wooden window table and he ordered a round of tea before asking his mother what she would like. She told him to not be silly, but he insisted and said that he'd planned it and had the money. She kept it simple and they both decided on bacon and egg on a crusty cob.

He got up and went over to the counter, the woman in her forties behind it mused over this odd looking couple. The woman looked like a back-alley whore to her who was probably on drugs and taking money off of young boys to supplement her addiction. It was a first impression that she wasn't proud of thinking, but if a woman was willing to step outside looking like that, what was she meant to think? The boy asked in a whisper if she had a vase with some water that he could lend. She looked at him warily before disappearing and returning with a milk bottle half filled from the tap. Paul Cable dipped his hand inside of his bag whilst his curious mother strained to see just what he was doing.

He approached the table with a smile on his face and his hands full with a card, a bar of Daily Milk chocolate and a milk bottle crammed with a bouquet of yellow and white Carnations with Solidago and Gypsophila.

Her eyes lit up and she put a hand to her openly shocked mouth.

'Happy Mother's Day.' He proudly announced.

Again her eyes reddened and she couldn't control her emotions.

He placed the milk bottle on their table and she held his hands tightly before, a glow of admiration in her look.

'Baby, I'm so proud of you.' She gushed.

'I'm proud of you too mum.'

'Thank you Paulie. You don't know what that means to me. I don't know what I'd do without you.'

He smiled and she eagerly ripped open her card. The cover had two bears hugging one another and it proclaimed - I Couldn't Bear To Be Without You Mummy.

The word mummy embarrassed him; he was nearly fifteen and it had seemed like a babies word, but he thought that it got the message over that he wanted to reveal to her.

Their food arrived and they devoured it ravenously, as if they hadn't eaten for weeks. For the woman behind the counter she likened it to those Ethiopians that she'd seen on the telly. These two, like them, were all skin and bones. She tried not to image that they must have found a five pound note in the street and made a beeline to the first place that served food.

They ate quickly and silently and occasionally they would look across at one another with mouths filled and grins to express their happiness with the situation attempted.

Anna finished first and wiped her glossed lips carefully.

'Well that was lovely darling, thank you very much, you've given me the best Mother's day present ever.' She said with an uplifted glee.

'You're welcome mum.' He forced through his own hard worked lips.

She cupped his palm and looked around the cafe which was empty.

'I've not always been the best mum; I know that. There's been times when I should have done more to protect you and keep you safe... There's been times when I know it was my responsibility to change things but I haven't. I hope you'll forgive me that one day.'

'Don't worry mum,.. you've always looked after me good.'

She shook her head in a fluster.

'No. No I haven't. The way that you've been treated in that house has been wrong at times and I've made mistakes in keeping us there. But I think that things are about to change. Going to prison seems to have changed your dad and its given him a shock... I've seen a difference; haven't you?'

'I suppose so mum.'

She smiled and hoped that he'd be a little more positive; though she understood his wariness.

'We can give it a little bit more time can't we?... See if things have changed... You've been through a lot of bad stuff in your life already and I know how hard it's been, but in nearly a year you will be leaving school if you don't stay on...'

'I'm not staying on.' He scoffed.

She smiled and nodded her head. 'I understand, I couldn't get out of the place quick enough either.'

'I know. I'm counting down the days.' He sharply said.

'I've seen your chart.' She giggled. 'But listen, I'll make you a promise... Lets both give your dad one last chance... Let's see how he goes from now until you leave school... Let's see if he really has changed for the better, and I promise you now, if he stays the same man as he was before prison, me and you will leave.'

He looked up from his plate and his heart bounced.

'Where would we go.' He asked with small enthusiasm.

'We'd get our names down for a council house... We'd move away from your dad so you wouldn't need to see him again.'

He stared and hoped that she would be good for her word. His father had returned a much quieter individual, but he would still catch him staring at him; voiceless and with eyes that would sting his nerves. He felt that he could never trust the man, even if he did show signs of change.

She sat back and lit a cigarette. 'I love you with all my heart Paulie... You're my greatest possession and I've realised that I have to look after you with more care. If something happened to you I'd just die. I couldn't go on if I lost you too. I promise that from now on I will do what's best for the both of us and not be selfish like in the past... The first finger that he ever lays on you, or the first time that he wrecks your room or threatens you and we're off... Paulie? She looked at him lovingly. 'Life will get better. I can feel it in my bones.'

## 10th March 1986

He couldn't be sure, but it was as if he was avoiding him

Mark had been at his dads on Saturday and Paul had suggested to Tom that they ride over to Bleak Hills with the rods and have a day there as it was just the two of them.

With his father back in the fold and with his mother doing all she possibly could to bend over backwards for him, Paul felt that he needed to get out of the house and the weather had been offering kind temperatures to make it a serious possibility for the first time this year.

He'd finished delivering his newspapers by 7:45 and had popped home to watch cartoons whilst his parents stayed in bed. He waited for Saturday Superstore to start and anxiously masturbated in to kitchen roll whilst watching Sarah Greene; tentatively listening out for movement on the floorboards above.

Once he'd cleaned himself up and drunk a glass of Tizer he collected his rods and bait box from the outhouse and precariously wheeled his Raleigh Grifter around to the house next door.

Nobody had answered the door at Tommy Simpson's, though it was clear that they were in; his dad's car was out front and he could hear Rod Stewart playing. He'd banged louder, but still nobody came to the door; so he scribbled down on a piece of paper and posted it through the letterbox:

Hey up Tommy, have called for you, but no answer.

Have gone up Bleekhills with fishing stuff if you want to meet us there.

Hope you ok mate. See you in a bit,

Cabo.

Tom never showed up at Bleak Hills, which was a shame because Paul was getting bites all day and he'd wished that his friend could have been there to have enjoyed it.

Paul wondered whether he was ill, or if something had gone off in the family. It wasn't like Tom to not show up for fishing; he was nearly as in to it as Paul was.

Paul had spent the Sunday morning with his mother for Mothering Sunday, but again there was no sign of Tom, or any answer at his door again. And when this was repeated on Monday morning as he called for him to go to school, Paul had concluded that Tom Simpson must be very ill or something had gone off.

His surprise when he saw him in the school yard had taken him aback. He was with Mark and when he approached, Tom had slipped inside the school block with an excuse that he'd got to see Mr Harris, the Head of Year.

He felt it strange, but Mark reassured him that everything was okay and he'd taken his word for it.

It was now lunchtime and there had been no sign of Tom. They normally ate their packed lunch together in the dining hall, but Tommy was nowhere to be seen and Mark was clearly agitated by it and showed it with his snappy answers and odd body language. It was as if he was angry with something; though Paul felt for sure that it wasn't him that Mark had the problem with.

Paul struggled to understand what was going on. The three of them were usually so tight and hardly ever coy with each other, but something seemed different about the other two and they weren't letting on.

He wracked his brain to try and remember whether he's said or done anything out of turn, but could think of nothing unusual. He'd always been ultra careful not to really upset them; they were his two best mates – his only mates – and without them he would be unsure of who else he'd turn to for fun.

The only talk that Paul and Mark exchanged was small talk, but he didn't ask why Mark was acting strangely. He felt that if it mattered to him, he'd tell him.

When the bell went for the end of dinner it was almost a relief to break the surreal tension that hovered above the two boys.

They lined up with the crowds to file back through the double doors back in to the school.

Jason Doyliboy was larking around with Crack Allen, lifting girl's skirts and flicking smaller boys ears. The discomfort of their victims was a great source of amusement for the two and they had been happy in their childish games until they spotted Paul Cable.

'Hey Gayble' Doyliboy yelled with eyes wide.

Paul tried to ignore him.

'I've heard your old man is back home from his holidays.' He grinned. 'You know about Gayble's dad don't you Crack?' He asked the tall blonde boy with the hooked nose whilst elbowing his side.

'Everyone's heard about Gayble's dad... He's the number one loon, int he Gayble?' Replied Crack Allen.

'The whole families a bunch of loons: Lunatic for a dad,.. gay boy son,.. weirdo mum,.. maggot bait sister...' Jason Doyliboy cruelly jibed.

'Fuckin Addams family.' Snapped Allen before they both loudly belted out the tune to the TV show.

The corridor erupted in to guffaws of laughter and it seemed like every child had their eyes focused on Paul Cable. He was close to tears with embarrassed frustration.

What had he done that was so wrong as to warrant this kind of behaviour from all of his contemporaries; especially Jason Doyliboy and his crew of backslappers? Even Tom and Mark seemed to be deserting him; until.

'What your friggin' problem Doyliboy?' Came a voice beside Paul Cable.

The corridor went instantly quiet; the only evident noise being the squeak and eventual slam of the external door behind them.

Mark James was fuming. 'What's your problem with Paul?.. You've been havin' a go at him for as long as I can remember. What's he ever done to you?'

Jason Doyliboy looked on aghast. Crack Allen blurted out a stunned chuckle.

'Are you talkin to me Hot Chocolate?' He asked, genuinely unsure of what he'd heard.

'Yeah I'm talkin to you. I think you're a wanker... Cabo's dad is a headcase, but that's not his fault. And to slag off his sister is well out of order ya dick.' Mark spat in a temper.

Doyliboy saw red and hared across the corridor at precisely the moment that Psycho Morrison, the huge history master came out of his form room door and in to the crowds.

The boy instantaneously halted in his tracks, his face an image of pure thunder.

'What's all this; haven't you all got classes to be going to?.. Come on, move it,.. stop blocking the corridor... You're creating a hazard.' Boomed Psycho Morrison; causing an immediate response from the dozens of startled kids who silently split off in to various directions.

Doyliboy moved towards Mark James and Paul Cable. 'Lido straight after school Hot Chocolate... You're so fuckin dead.' He snarled. 'And don't shit it.' He added.

'I'll be there dickhead. I'm not scared of you.' Mark instantly rapped.

'He's pappin him'sen.' Crack Allen added.

'He should be. He's going to get booted all over the place.'

'Bring it on Doyliboy.'

Jason Doyliboy and Crack Allen backed away down the corridor, refusing to release eye contact until they were out of sight.

Mark and Paul remained silent; the adrenaline inside of them both reaching dizzying heights.

Once Mark calmed down he instantly regretted his outburst. He hated Jason Doyliboy, but they had always managed to keep out of each other's way. Mark was one of the bigger lads and he'd always assumed that with his size being very similar to Doyliboy's it had kept his attentions mainly at bay.

'Thanks Jamo.' Paul meekly commented. 'You didn't need to do that.'

'Too late now though mate. Int it?' Mark replied in a hesitant laugh.

'Sorry mate... But I appreciate you sticking up for me.'

'No worries Paul; you're my mate and he's a nobhead for pickin on you.' Mark said as he turned to face Paul Cable. 'We ave to stick together. That's what mates do.'

'What you going to do now though? Do you reckon you can get out of it?'

'No... No chance. Doyliboy not let this go... I'm going to meet him at the lido and I'm going to kick his head in.' He looked at Paul with a steely determination that convinced his friend that he really could take on and beat Jason Doyliboy at his own game; and on his own turf. The lido was somewhere that Doyliboy and his pals had scrapped for fun and never lost. But Mark was a big boy and something inside Paul told him that Mark had a real chance.

'All i ask from ya is that you and Tommy back me up Cabo.' Mark asked. 'If I'm going down the lido to fight him I want you both there with me.'

'Okay... I will.' Promised Paul through the dry throat of realization of just what they were getting in to.

Mark James' emotions were waltzing around at a thousand miles an hour.

He'd not only been beaten by Jason Doyliboy; he'd been humiliated. He thought that it had been a lucky punch, but it had also been the first one thrown and it had knocked him to the ground. From there, all he could do was cover up and make himself a tight ball as Doyliboy reined in kicks from all angles until he had had enough through exhaustion.

The great crowd of kids had gone home disappointed; they'd expected a far closer contest, and plenty had hoped that Doyliboy might just have met his match and ended up on his backside.

Mark had sat there in the middle of the concrete lido crestfallen. Any reputation he may have had was smashed to pieces and he knew that he'd have to live with this for the remainder of his school days.

As he and Paul walked slowly home across the Common, his eye had ballooned up and was already showing signs of bruising.

He wanted to know where his other friend was. Tom had promised him that he would be there, yet he'd failed to show; like a chicken. If Paul could be there with him and not chicken off, how could Tom? He had a lot to answer for.

'Maybe he had to get off home?' Paul tried to reason.

But Mark never replied. His head throbbed.

'He seems to have had a lot on at the moment... I've hardly seen him since last Friday... Maybe he had some jobs to do at home?'

Mark continued plodding. The early days of a headache were knocking at the door.

'He's not been him'sen in the last few days...It's like he's been ignorin me, don't know about you?'

Mark booted a Coke can against the alleyway wall as they sloped from the turf of the Common towards the shops that emerged on the busy street.

'Well?... Has he been ignorin you too?'

Mark stopped to face Paul. His face looked odd; odd and very sore. The left side of his forehead and eye socket was deformed and he winced as his whole body ached.

'Tom's had his orders ant he.' He finally answered.

Paul looked puzzled and shrugged his shoulders.

'Look Cabo, his old man don't want him hangin around with you anymore.'

Paul greeted him with a forlorn frown. 'Hey?...Why?...I don't get ya.'

'It's ya dad Cabo.' A wound up Mark puffed.

'Me dad?'

'Yeah, your fuckin mad dad.'

Paul Cable said nothing, he just stared straight in to space.

'Your dad's a fuckin nutter Cabo... He's loco... A sandwich short of a picnic... Mad, bad and dangerous to know... He's a berserker and someone to avoid... Don't you understand that?'

He remained tight lipped.

'Fuck me Paul. I'd have thought that with you livin in that house, you'd actually realise that your dad is a ravin' lunatic... A lunatic that's just come out of prison and one that our Tommy has been warned to keep away from.'

'But I don't understand... What's that got to do with me?'

'Mate, you're a good lad. But Tom's folks don't want him going near you because of who your dad is.'

'But I'm his mate.'

'I know, but his dad won't have that.'

'Well can't he just play out with me and not say owt?'

'He's just bein careful mate.'

'Well can't you say owt to him?'

'I've tried. I've tried all day... I was still trying when knob jockey Doyliboy got in me way.'

'Maybe I'll write him a note.'

'Like his mum and dad won't see ya love letters?'

'How will they know it's from me?'

'Cos you write like a right spazz Cabo.'

'Piss off.'

'You do... Your writing looks like you've stuck a pencil up your hole and wrote with your arse.' Mark smirked.

Paul looked disconsolately at him.

'Look Cabo, I'll talk to him again and I'll keep talking to him until he stops being a puff. Us three are mint mates and he shunt let summat like your axe-murder dad get in the way of us, hey?' He patted his arm and headed off home.

Paul stood and watched his bruised friend head past the shops and across the street. His brain disharmoniously clanked with its new unwanted information.

'THANKS JAMO!' He yelled as Mark began to slowly trot. He wanted to get swiftly home and out of eyeshot.

Mark raised a thumbed hand without turning around.

## 21st June 1986

The start of the fishing season had seemed to take an age to finally come around.

It was only closed for three months but he'd missed it like mad, and during an awkward time for him too.

Mark had been trying to balance his time between the two of them and Tom had flatly refused to entertain any ideas of them all knocking around together. Mark had felt that Tom was scared of something. He wasn't the type of boy to admit it, but Mark had a firm inkling.

It had taken him several days to calm down and accept an explanation from him for not turning up at his fight at the lido, and a part of Mark's respect for him had vanished, possibly for good; whereas his respect for Paul had risen.

Mark wasn't a fisherman and it would be fair to say that he hated it. He'd pitch up and lob stones in and disturb the water. Paul warned him that if the bailiff caught him he'd be for it, but nobody ever saw the bailiff and it never managed to scare Mark enough to stop him doing it.

Being on the river bank allowed Paul Cable time to think, though whether that was always a good thing was debateable.

He'd try to think only positive thoughts and soak in on the nature around him for inspiration: the mayflies scooting across the water's edge and a pair of elegantly graceful Grey Wagtail that were nesting near the old mill. But it wouldn't take long until his mind would drift to one's that made him feel miserable. He seemed to have nowhere to turn. His friendships were spluttering and his home life, although not frantic, still had an air of menace. His father had changed. He was no longer the ranting Wildman that would fly off the handle at a moment's notice, but he was quiet and more deliberate and it unnerved Paul even more than it had previously. Before you knew exactly where you stood with the man; he'd make him cry with shouting, nasty comments and by destroying his things, but now there was a threat of unpredictability about him that scared Paul more than ever.

Although she didn't admit it, his mother felt the same way. He was a violent man before, but he was capable of affection, even if it did seem unusual when he displayed it.

Now he was cold. He never touched her and would barely acknowledge her. His thoughts were furtive and his comments scarce. She liked the new Charlie Cable even less than the one before. The one before had times when he made her feel like a woman; the one that had returned from Lincoln Prison was like a robot that sat and calculated. He would sit in that armchair and suck extraordinarily long puffs on his cigarettes and give off the impression of evaluating everything. His conclusions were very much kept to himself.

Paul wished that his father would beat him – though not too badly – and force his mother's hand. She'd promised and he was just waiting for the day when the man could be out of his life. He was almost fifteen and hoped that he could last out the remaining year before he could start work and leave him behind. He just hoped that he could take his mother with him.

He pedalled from the Bleak Hills and across town, skilfully negotiating his bike whilst carrying his growing supply of kit. He'd been able to save his pocket money from the paper round and steadily built on his collection. He was proud of it. His bike was dated and so were his clothes, his hair was trimmed by his mother and he still felt largely incompetent; but his fishing gear was something that he could be satisfied with and he guarded and cared for it like his closest treasure.

As he turned on to the estate he took a quick look over towards the Common to check whether Mark and Tom was on the park, but it was empty. Still he diverted towards it, arching his back and gaining speed to traverse the incline until eventually he found himself struggling to a stop and jumped down to push.

He lent the bike against the chipped blue frame of the swings and carefully grounded the loose pieces of fishing tackle before climbing on a rubber seated swing and kicking his legs.

He would give the park ten minutes; maybe his friends would come along and want to play?

It was early in the evening and some would still class it as teatime, perhaps that was why the park was empty of children and the raucous chorus of their voices.

He kicked higher and higher and the wind whistled by his ears. He kicked as high as he could kick without the buckle of the chains becoming uncomfortably dangerous. He'd heard about a kid who had kicked so hard that he'd eventually gone over the bar and crashed down to the concrete, busting his head apart – they'd said that he'd died though he wasn't sure about the story at all, yet it still created caution in him like everything else did.

A figure approached over the crest of the grassy knoll, walking towards the park ponderously and with arms folded, hair gently waving in the warm breeze. She wore a thin white cardigan over a blue cotton dress. She'd looked up and seen him, but undeterred she never broke stride and was sat down beside him kick starting a swing of her own within the minute.

Louise Young was turning in to a woman. She looked a couple of years older than Paul physically and her demeanour and fashion was far more mature. Her skin was still flawless, unlike his ruddy complexion, and Paul was longing to see beneath that top that flapped around and hinted at her bare flesh which now hosted keen looking breasts.

'Where's your friends?' She asked in a way that would suggest that they chatted every single day of the week. They'd not properly spoken for almost two years.

'Mark and Tom?' He replied in a sort of confusion.

'They're your mates aren't they?' She smirked with surprise.

'They're busy doing stuff.' Was all he could find to say.

'I'm the same... Dominique is at a boring wedding and Lisa has been grounded. It's crap when you've nothing to do int it?'

He nodded.

'So you been fishing?'

'Yeah. Up Bleak Hills.'

'Where's that?'

'It's like this hidden pond up past Ladybrook.'

'That's a long way to go just to fish.'

'Yeah, maybe.'

'Maybe you should take me one day.'

'That would be great. I'd take you any time you wanted.'

'I know you would Paul... int it a bit borin though?'

'No it's not borin... There's not just fishing. You can spot birds and water voles and you can have your radio on and listen to Radio One without anyone bothering you.'

She bought the swing to a stop and smirked.

'To be fair Paul, that does sound borin. Maybe I won't bother.'

'I don't think so.' He defended. 'I think you have to try it to get to like it.'

'Don't you get dirty and smelly though.'

'Not really.'

'But you look dirty and smelly.'

He said nothing; he just gulped down his quickly targeted pride.

'Don't take it personal... I didn't mean to have a go at you... and I realise you've been fishing so you wouldn't wear your best clothes.'

Paul looked down at his lemon Sergio Tacchini tracksuit. It was beginning to get too small for him, but he loved it and it reminded him of his mamma – her last birthday present for him – and besides, it was his best clothes.

Again he just nodded.

'I don't think my new boyfriend would be that happy about me knocking around with another lad any way.' She giggled.

'I didn't know that you had a new boyfriend.'

'Yeah. I can't stick around too long cos he'd kill you if he saw you with me.'

'Oh.'

'He doesn't like me talkin to other lads. He gets very jealous.' She revealed.

'Do I know him?'

'Of course you do silly. You know him very well, and he knows you. That's why I should be careful.'

Paul slowed to an abrupt halt; his trainers scraping with the impact on the concrete.

'Who is it?' He asked, hoping to god that it wasn't either Tom or Mark. He'd always wanted Louise himself and even though she seemed less attainable now than ever, he still fantasized about it becoming a reality.

'It's Jay... Jason Doyliboy.'

'What?'

'Jason Doyliboy.'

'You're going out with Jason Doyliboy?'

'That's what I said der-brain... He asked me out at the youth club disco a couple of weeks ago and I said yes.'

'You can't go out with Doyliboy Lou.' He said in anguish.

'I can go out with whoever I want... what's it got to do with you?' She snapped in shock, though enjoying his annoyance.

'But you can do so much better.'

'Like who?.. Like you Paul?' She spat humorously.

'I dint say that.'

'Like who then?'

'I don't know... But not Doyliboy... He's an idiot who's just a bully.'

'He can be an idiot, but he can look after me and protect me.'

'You don't need protecting Lou... You're Louise Young... You're the best looking girl in the school and one of the cleverest... You should be going out with one of the other clever kids, or someone good at sport, or at least someone who is good looking.'

'Jay is good looking.'

'What? Better looking than some of the other lads?.. Some of the lads in the fifth form?.. Bradley Scott? Pete Thurman?... Chris McSwegan?'

'I don't get your point Paul... It sounds like you're jealous.' She raised her eyebrows.

'I am jealous... I really like you. I always have... I've wanted to go out with you since I was six years old... To think that you would waste yer'sen on Jason Doyliboy just seems stupid to me when you could go out with someone better.' He pleaded; almost hyperventilating.

'I'll never go out with you Paul... You have to fancy someone first... I've never fancied you and I never will... You're dreaming.' She stood to leave, his head bowed as he struggled for breath.

'I didn't mean it that way Lou...I never meant it like I was saying go out with me... I meant it that you are my mate and I wanted you to go out with someone who deserved you more.'

'Like you.'

'No.'

'Good cos that'll never happen.'

She refolded her arms and made her way towards the shops, leaving him plumped on the swing, his arms around the chains and his hands buried in his jacket pockets. His head now had something else to be bothered about. How could she be so cuttingly blunt with him and what had he done to deserve that?

'And Paul?' She offered as she turned her head back, his eyes rising to meet hers. 'Just because we ran on the same team for school, it don't mean that we're properly mates... all that team captains stuff dint mean we were together or owt... We're not proper mates and we never have been.'

He watched her disappear in to the distance as quickly as she'd appeared. He couldn't believe it and bemused quite how certain things would happen in life. Across the grand scale of things he'd always measured that Louise and Jason had been very much at the opposite ends on an extremely long scale; this coming together was bizarre and he'd legitimately considered that he had more of a chance of being with her than that goon had. It was a puzzle on a monumental level and his head couldn't even correlate an image of seeing them both together. Life in general sucked, but this was as bad as anything.

He trudged off towards home, pushing his bike and thinking of only one thing; them together. It was only after his subconscious had given him a hefty nudge that he finally noted the attentions of Mark James who was calling him from across the street smiling.

'Kin ell Cabo, the big fish get away or summat?'

'Hey?... oh no mate. I was miles away.'

'I'd noticed.' He frowned.

'Where's Tommy mate?'

'God knows mate. Was supposed to be meeting him at the end of your street, but he's nowhere to be seen.... Listen, do you want to go and have a kick about?.. Bollocks to Tommy.'

'Okay mate.'

Tom Simpson had been sat on the kerbs edge launching a tennis ball against the garden wall of number two when Charlie Cable's car had pulled up beside him. He froze as the man wound down his door window and invited him to join him.

Charlie had been polite enough at first, but when Tom had pointed out that he was waiting for someone Mr Cable had raised his voice ever so slightly and given him one of those serious looks that intimidated pretty much everyone.

He'd climbed in the car and Charlie Cable had told him that they were going for a little ride.

Tom Simpson felt his guts churn and he very nearly wet himself. He was terrified and felt even edgier once Cable had given him that grin that attempted to hide any motive that his eyes had already betrayed.

## 22nd June 1986

Paul,

Hope you r good mate.

I wuz just wundering if you was wanting to go down the bleak hills one night wiv the rods. I really miss it and you got some good tackle and ive got non.

My dad as been a real dick and has not wanted me to play with you cos of stuff.

Its not been the same wiv just me and Jamo. Not the same laff as before.

So wat do you reckon.

If you r up for it i'll meet you on the park at 11.

Hope to see you mate

Tommy

## 7th August 1986 : Reprise

There was more to the school summer holidays than just being off of school for six to seven weeks; you had to make the very most of it.

Paul, Tom and Mark always had and this year would be no different. They'd disappear the first thing in a morning and return at teatime normally late for their dinners.

They'd make throwing arrows from doweling and dart-flights: or construct ramps for their freshly spray painted bikes, practise poorly performed breakdancing moves, make catapults from wishbone shaped branches and elastic band, or make straw dens in the fields once the crop had been cut. There was of course Paul and Tom's favourite; fishing. Mark would suffer it by finding other stuff to do, such as potting off drinks cans with his air pistol. It was a rarity that they would be kicking around doing very little, they just wouldn't allow themselves to waste a minute that they felt that they'd worked all year to earn.

It couldn't have been a happier past fortnight for Paul Cable. They were all back together again and it was like they'd never been apart. The banter had been cruel at times, but they were mates and none of the comments were ever meant to personally hurt. Paul had been to the Bleak Hills with Tom as if nothing had ever happened. Tom had reassured him that it wasn't personal and outside influences had dictated things that he had no control over. Paul told him that he understood and not to mention it again because it didn't matter to him. He just wanted his best friend back. It was also more fun to fish with his mate than on his own. He had less time to think too.

They'd sat about in Mark's bedroom playing Chase The Ace with a pack of pornographic playing cards. They'd readdressed the cards values to taper in line with the boys own opinions of which cards displayed the fittest ladies. It had taken them well over an hour of enthusiastic debate to create an order, for them only to abandon the idea and play Spectrum games instead.

When Mark's mum returned from work she'd castigate them for wasting their time indoors whilst the sun blazed down outside. They'd agreed and gone outside with glasses of dilute orange squash and custard creams to pick one another's brains on what to do next.

When Mark had the brilliant idea to camp on his mothers back garden, she knocked the idea straight back; there was no way that the three of them would be allowed to ruin the lawn that she'd painstakingly reclaimed from the dust. She also claimed that with the close proximity of the neighbours, she knew that they'd keep the whole row awake with their continual games and chatter.

Initially they dismissed the idea as a wasted opportunity, there was no way that they'd get to camp at Tom's house, and even if they had received the green light at Paul's there wasn't an earthly chance that any one of the three of them would consider it.

As if by message from the almighty himself, Tom was hit with inspiration. Even if they couldn't get permission to camp on Valerie James' pristine cut bowling green, there was no reason for his and Paul's own parents to not know that. And equally there was no reason for Mark's unknowing mother to question the legitimy of his request to sleep over at Tom's house with the tent. They couldn't foresee a problem, so why shouldn't it to the combined stupidity of their collective folks?

She knew that they were up to no good; they always were. But when they stuck their heads together and whispered in hushed tones she knew that they were hatching a plan.

Of course Mark would be allowed to camp at Tom's house, and of course, even as they slipped through the back gate and scuttled noisily down the back passage, she knew that they probably weren't going to camp at Tom's house. Mark had told her how Tom's father hated Paul and his maniac of a father. She found it unlikely that they'd end up there for that sole reason.

She'd always thought that Paul was the most polite of boys and as likeable as any that she met these days. His father though?.. He was someone that she'd heard stories of and had told her boy to keep away their house altogether to be on the safe side.

How could such a pleasant lad come from such a rough environment, she wondered to herself?

Valerie James trusted the boys would be safe wherever they ended up, they were good lads and would stick together no matter what. She was pleased that her son had such reliable friends that she wouldn't have to worry about.

The quarry off of Littlewood Lane was probably not the best location to pitch a tent. It could get infiltrated by gangs of kids from Mansfield Woodhouse who would use the place as a reckless playground of bored ill intent. Parts of its floor would fill with collected ground water and form a natural haven for insect life and the assembled green algae that offered conflicting contrast to the harsh weathered walls that towered above it; perfect for lobbing things in to! If it wasn't nailed, stapled, strapped, bolted, tied, weighted and superglued to the ground it would end up splashing down in to the stagnant pond in the quarry.

Three burned out and rusted vehicles with windows smashed and panels folded were left to rot in various corners of this enormous cavern.

Access it was gained by a break in the fence that bordered it and the large man-made slope to its dusty base. The three boys lay quietly waiting and listening for signs of activity.

It was half past seven in the evening, but the nights were long and dry, and whilst ever there was light during the summer months there was the prospect of unwanted visitors. The last thing that they wanted after a long walk of lugging camp gear was trouble with the locals.

They'd debated long and hard about a base to camp and there was many to choose from, but something attracted them to here like a shining lure to a quizzical carp. It was the quarry, the place where you went when you were a rebel and up to no good; where the bad boys would hang out!

They could make a fire from the heaps of timber and dried tinder that was just lying around, and they could tell ghost stories and shit themselves when they'd hear noises in the night. They were far enough away from the streets and houses for their screams not to be heard when a monster would attack. And there was always the prospect of a flaming Austin Allegro spilling down from the steep banking and crashing to the ground with a world-ending shudder.

They decided not to park the tent next to the great walls that offered sufficient vehicle access.

Mark's tent was the classic rigid framed two-sided canvas type in brown, with double door flaps and a bell-end. It would comfortably fit the three of them, and maybe another two persons at a push. The bed of the quarry was like concrete and knocking in the stakes was a difficult task without bending them. They'd put the thing up before when Mark's mothers lawn had resembled something more like a beach, so it wasn't a learning chore to do, but they'd never actually spent a proper night outdoors in the thing and they were understandably excited. It was like they were grown up, gone out in to the wilds of the world to explore and find themselves.

They'd brought along a sack full of confectionary and fizzy pop that they'd jointly sneaked from cupboards at home, or stolen from the off licence using diversionary tactics and they would spoil themselves with a feast fit for ancient kings.

After they'd assembled a worthy camp fire a couple of metres from the tent door they constructed a bench from a beer bottle crate, a sunflower oil drum and a cupboard door.

It was a set up to be proud of. They'd chosen their places inside the tent and placed a row of old bottles along the entrance to the quarry; it was the only way in on foot and anyone wishing to sneak up on them in the dark would send them crashing and sound the alarm. Their plan was simply flawless.

They sat on their homemade bench, wishing that they'd got a camera to document this prestigious moment of glory for the scrapbook of their short lives. But Mark had a better idea. He declared to the other two boys that he had a treat for them which would end all treats.

He asked them both to close their eyes and shield them with both of their hands; if he caught them peeking then they would miss out. He reached in to the tent and brought out his green rucksack. He asked them to place out the flat palms of their hands of which he rested a vessel each. When they opened their eyes, they both had hold of a shining brown 500ml can of Shire Bitter, 2.4% volume and 28p each.

Their mouths dropped open slightly and remained ajar as they soaked in the glorious moment. Like Indiana Jones with the lost Ark of the Covenant in his grasp, they were spellbound; as if they were Bryan Robson holding aloft the World Cup trophy in the Azteca Stadium in front of 100,000 screaming and cheering Mexicans and Englishmen. It was a moment to saviour and the print of the hard-grafting Shire horse that adorned the can seemed a fitting tribute to them all. They had worked had to complete this task: precocious bullshit of a believable story, the hard slog across the fields of Oxclose that snook by the outskirts of the black slag of Sherwood Colliery pit tip, and the patient surveillance work that had to be achieved before the making of camp. Forget Frodo and his quest to destroy the One Ring of power, this had been a true journey fraught with the possibility of battling the Orks from Woodhouse to a destination that could give Mordor a run for its money.

The one thing that could reward them like no other was a cool, refreshing brew of mother nature's own elixir.

Unfortunately for Mark, Tom and Paul, Shire Bitter tasted like shite, and the fact that the cans were as hot as the flask of vegetable soup in Paul's own rucksack had spoilt the ambience of the moment somewhat. Still, they sat back quietly and tried their best to enjoy the foul tasting liquid; to look otherwise would surely question your manhood. And where Mark had got these three steel strongboxes of joywater? None of them cared or asked; they just tried their best to put them away with as little fuss as possible and hoped that they wouldn't suffer from any after effects.

Around nine forty-five they agreed that they had waited long enough. The light was rapidly diminishing and the fire was lit. The tinder of straw, wastepaper and dried bark initially struggled to bite at the bone dry timbers, but with the help of blowing it soon caught alight and was getting along famously.

They'd cracked open a box of Malteasers, a tub of cheese and onion sandwiches and a litre bottle of Pepsi, which was as warm as the Shire bitter had been. Nu Shooz's I Can't Wait followed Jesus & Mary Chain's Some Candy Talking on Radio One and the night hung still, clear and humid. They felt as though they couldn't have picked a better night to enjoy this experience. If their parents could see them right now, they'd flip; but that was part of the excitement.

Mark James felt that this was one of the best nights of his life.

As he stood in the pitch black beside the quarries cliff face he pissed and thought about when he had groped and heavy petted with Siobhan Withenshaw at a birthday party in April. That had indeed been the best night of his life. Siobhan had looked well fit in this black top that clung to her well developed tits like cellophane wrapped around grapefruits and it was him that had got to taste them in Martin Howard's little brothers box room. He'd had a nibble and they'd both seen how far their tongues would extend in to each other's throats. He'd gotten a massive hard on and she'd gripped his cock to massage it when the sound of Justine Murphy throwing up in to a litter bin in the opposite corner had put Siobhan right off. He was mightily flustered, as he'd anticipated that that was the moment. He was ready to pop his cherry and Siobhan would have been a fine first catch, but stupid Murphy and her shit Madonna hair that was now full of sick had spoilt everything. He'd dead eyed her as Siobhan pulled her top back down and fixed her hair before leaving the room with a teasing wink. He might not have sown his oats that night, but it felt like he had and he'd proudly walked like a man for a few days; before finding out that Martin himself had ended up going all the way with her. Happy fucking fifteenth birthday Martin, ya fuckin flid.

'Shake your nob and keep quiet Hot Chocolate.' A quiet voice was unmistakably Jason Doyliboy's.

Mark felt the shock of a sharp implement piercing his throat and warm breath in his ear.

'You can leave that beast hanging out of your trousers Jamo. I've got some people to show it too.' Doyliboy whispered and guided Mark around to face him.

Mark peered down to be greeted with the glistening look of a perilous six inch long blade of a survival knife. Horror filed his large dark eyes, as did Jason Doyliboy's grim looking bulldog face with his snubbed nose and jaunty grin.

'Got you where I want you now Hot Chocolate,...ant I?' He cruelly smirked. 'This ere blade is Big Ben and he's me best friend. I take him out with me everywhere now and when I told him that we had some chocolate to hunt down tonight, he jumped straight in to my pocket. Problem is that he can get pretty twitchy when he gets excited, so I'd be careful if I were you.'

Doyliboy pushed the blade deeper in to Mark James' tender skin, forcing him backwards and back towards the camp. Mark steadied himself and shuffled in reverse, his emotions a mix of fear and anger. He was mortified that Doyliboy was ruining this moment.

As he stumbled back towards the camp the fire it lit up a whole cast of bodies that danced in its flicker. Crack Allen was sat unceremoniously atop of a stretched out Tom Simpson who lay prostrate on the ground, his face in the dirt. Steve 'fruitcake' Jones had hold of Mark's air pistol and had it trained on Paul Cable's face; a cigarette clinging to his lips, more John Dillinger than Dirty Harry. To audience all of this was the triple-staring troupe of Louise Young, Dominique Westerhaus and Lisa Toohey; stood with arms folded and curious looks of unease.

'Well well well well well.' Doyliboy uttered. 'The three bum chums.'

Nobody added anything.

'Three happy campers and their gay get together.'

Still nothing.

'We've got Mr Simpson over there under another boy. Just the way he likes it.'

'I ain't a boy, ya cheeky twat, I'm a man.' Crack Allen remarks sharply.

'Sorry Crack, foolish mistake... You are very much a man... It's just ya brain that acts like a babies int it?' Doyliboy digs.

'Piss off ya throbber.'

'Crack,.. am only joking ya mardy sod.'

'Better be.' Allen sulked.

Doyliboy turned his attention to Paul Cable.

'Cable the gayble... A lad that's had more prick than all the girls in our year combined... Even you Lisa.'

'Get lost Jason.' Lisa Toohey crowed as she screwed up her pretty, though piggy little moon face.

'Blimey I'm getting some bad vibes here tonight Gayble. It's like they hate me even more than you do.... They don't hate me as much as you do though do they Gayble?'

Paul stood unblinking, switching his gaze between that of Jason Doyliboy holding the fierce looking blade to his friends throat, and to Steve Jones with the air pistol, a burning cigarette between his lips and the look of a raging lunatic across his ugly phizog.

'You've always been a queer of few words Gayble. Unlike your lippy mate here.' Doyliboy returned to Mark James. 'Eddie Murphy... The biggest puff of all with his fat lips and his massive, floppy, dangling prick.'

They stared at one another through loathsome eyes.

'Drop your fuckin' trousers Hot chocolate.' Doyliboy demanded.

'Screw you Jay.'

Jason Doyliboy jabbed the knife even further in to Mark's throat until a slight trickle of blood appeared on his neck.

'You're crazy Doyliboy!'

'So they all tell me Chocolate... drop your fuckin trousers.'

Mark did nothing.

'DROP YOUR TROUSERS OR I'LL CUT YOUR FRIGGIN' THROAT!...........please Mark.'

Mark unbuttoned his jeans and let them ride down his legs.

'And your boxers donkey nob.'

Again Mark James slipped down his underwear and stood semi-naked under the black night sky with its millions of stars, unhidden by cloud cover or artificial orange streetlight.

'Well int that a sight to behold girls?' Doyliboy gleefully asked, pleased with the power at his possession. 'W'unt you like a handful of that big boy Lisa?'

'Oh piss off Jason,.. this is stupid.' She fired back.

'Yeah, c'mon Jay, stop being silly,..your scaring me.' Pleaded Louise, airing her voice for the first time.

'What's your problem Lou?' He replied.

'You've proven your point,..they're all shit scared, now can we please leave?'

'Why do you want to leave sweetheart?'

'Because they're harmless and this isn't funny.'

'I think it's funny.' He smiled. 'Do you think it's funny Crack?'

'Are you kiddin?... This is the best fun we've had in ages,....hey Simmo?' Crack Allen looks down and asks a stricken Tom Simpson before grinding his face further in to the dust.

'And Steven?' Doyliboy turned to the pistol wielding Steve Jones.

'It's Fruitcake now.'

'Oh for craps sakes Jonah'

'I like to be called fruitcake now Jay.'

'Sorry,.....Fruitcake?' Doyliboy emphasized sarcastically.

Fruitcake Jones pauses, his pistol still drilled straight at Paul Cable's eyes. 'Yeah, it's fuckin hilarious.' He carefully ushers.

'Thank you.' Doyliboy groaned. 'And Dominique?'

The lanky blonde haired girl looks at them sweetly, her pink lipstick mouth pursing a suggestion of thought. 'You know Lou,... it is pretty funny.' She struggles to prize her eyes away from Mark James' impressively large manhood.

'Oh for god's sake Dom.' Louise Young huffs.

'Calm yourself Lou. Stop being such a killjoy over stuff will ya.?'

'It's just wrong Jason.'

'Wrong?... It's puffs like these lot that spreads that Aids thingy... They want their nobs choppin off. You won't be happy when they start spreading that disease.'

'Yeah, chop off his throbber Jay.' Laughs Crack Allen.

Doyliboy averts his look back to Mark, who is petrified, but managing to steady his prickling nerves.

'What do you reckon Hot Chocolate? Shall I cut off your cock? He slowly mocks.

'Don't be fuckin stupid Doyliboy... You'd get locked up... I'd bleed to death.' Mark had no fear that Jason Doyliboy was crazy enough to do it. The boy had some obvious mental issues and didn't care who he hurt or the consequences involved. It would only be a matter of time before he seriously hurt someone; why couldn't it be him?

'What does my mate Fruitcake reckon?' Jason asked.

Fruitcake spat out his finished cigarette. 'I don't give a crap... Let's just hurt somebody, nick all their gear and be on us way... This is getting borin' now.'

'You lot are just crazy.' Louise said as she struggled to comprehend the situation. What was she doing here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with this band of thugs and reprobates; the three boys hadn't done anything wrong and they should just leave them alone, even if there was something strange about them.

What on earth had she seen in Jason Doyliboy she wondered?

'C'mon Lisa.' Louise tired.

'I'm coming Lou.'

'Dom?' Louise begged.

'Wait a minute will you?.. They're only having a laugh. They're not going to hurt anyone,...are you Jay?' Dominique Westerhaus appealed for reassurance.

'Course not Dom.' Doyliboy delivered with a threat in his voice. 'We're just going to have some fun; that's all.'

'Dom,...c'mon.' Louise pleaded.

'Wait.'

'We're not goin to hurt anyone Lou.' Jason Doyliboy's eyes danced with mischief. 'We're going to play a game of suck the black boys cock.'

Dominique Westerhaus squealed with anticipant laughter.

'Problem being,...of course, we already have the black boy with the cock...and it's a cock to be proud of by the way Hot Chocolate....Well done mate...but, there's still a vacancy for a cock sucker.' He looked at both Paul and Tom. 'But who do we choose?'

'Paul Cable!' Dominique quickly snapped.

'Dom!' Shouted a flustered Louise.

'Fruitcake?'

'I cun't give a shit Jay. Just get on wi it I say.'

'Crack?'

'It's Ip-Dip time by my reckoning Mr Doyliboy.' Crack Allen nodded.

'That's a crackin' idea. I agree.' Doyliboy answered, as Crack Allen jumped up off of Tom Simpson and dragged him from the ground. Pushing him in to Paul Cable with a thump.

Both boys stood there side by side. Tom Simpson visibly shook like a withering leaf in an autumn gale, whilst Paul Cable stood up passively straight. He'd been threatened like this before, but only in the confines of the walls of his home, and not in the company of a crowd.

Jason Doyliboy began to delicately salivate out a small tune. 'Two little gay boys sitting in a row, one to suck cock whilst the other one..........er, I don't know. Commentates?' He giggles.

'This isn't supposed to be about me.' Tom Simpson nervously cried out, his eyes welling with fear.

'Shut it girly tits.' Doyliboy growled angrily.

'This is insane Jason. Please stop it.' Louise shook.

'Be quiet Lou.'

'For me please.'

'I forget that Gayble was your girly running mate wan't he?'

'He's not my mate... just leave them alone please.'

'No Louise, I won't leave them alone... In fact it's Gayble that can suck Hot Chocolate's cable, you've kindly done all the deciding for me.' Doyliboy decided. 'Take off your knickers Louise.'

'What?!'

'I said take off your knickers.'

'No'

'Louise, take off your knickers please.'

'Jason?...No,..I won't.' Louise quietly whispered.

'LOUISE TAKE OFF YOU FUCKIN KNICKERS AND THROW THEM OVER HERE.....NOW OR I START SLICING!' He yelled uncontrollably.

In a state of nervous shock the girl quickly ushered down her pants and lobbed them towards the mad-eyed and smirking Jason Doyliboy.

'It's over Jay.....We're through. You're mad.' She gasped.

'Never fuckin mind......You can piss off now if you want.'

'You're crazy... The lot of you have lost it... Including you Dominique.' Louise shook her head.

'Right Gayble, I want you on your knees, or Mr Jones there, will put a pellet in your eye.'

'I'll put one in both your fuckin eyes. Wimp.' Steve Jones reassured Paul Cable.

He placed the muzzle of the pistol in to the corner of Paul's eye socket and the boy immediately dropped to his knees.

Once you've had a face full of black mamba, Gayble, you can now have a reward. I know that you've always wanted to get inside of these.' Doyliboy lifted the pair of pants belonging to Louise Young; they were blood red with a picture of Minnie Mouse in polka dot bows. 'Very stylish.' He scoffed and put them to his nose and breathing in a lung full of their aroma.

Dominique Westerhaus giggled loudly.

'Right, here's how we do this... are you listening carefully Hot Chocolate?'

Mark stayed silent; he wanted to rip out Jason Doyliboy's poisonous, black heart.

'You move over here Eddie Murphy,...c'mon,....c'mon,....that's it.....now you stand there right in front of Gayble Cable, and Mansfield's number one puff puts your big willy in his gob, whilst scaredy cat, cry baby Simpson over there

commentates like a mixture of John Motson doing the cup final, and a big girls blouse.... Got it everyone?'

Crack Allen and Dominique Westerhaus laugh out loud whilst Fruitcake acts tough with his pistol. The other two girls look on horrified.

'This is just sick..... your boyfriend is sick Lou.' Lisa Toohey comments.

Louise stays mute; grimacing.

Mark looks mad as hell.

Tom shakes uncontrollably.

Paul kneels blankly emotionless.

'On the count of three you all know your roles. Gayble you get noshin. Cry baby you start with a "and they're off in this head to head where everyone expects a close thing with a sticky finish for one side." And Hot Chocolate?...You just stand there like a big useless sambo who is being blown by another lad, and the whole school will soon know about it.' Jason Doyliboy intently torments Mark James, a hatred from both sides with no quarter given.

'Ready,..steady,..three,..two,..one,...GO!'

Stood peering down in to the old magnesium limestone quarry, spying like a hunting owl seeking out it's frightened pray was Charlie Cable. His facade held no impression of glee or of happiness, of repulsion or of loathing; his facade gave away nothing. He stood there as black as the night, just the flicker of lit cigarette occasionally flashing beneath his nose.

His presence was largely unknown. Only two individuals knew of his attendance: Jason Doyliboy, the boy pocketing twenty pounds for his troubles. Troubles that he was so alarmingly enjoying, and Tom Simpson, who suspected that he'd be there, stalking them in the shadows.

# THE  
BEAST

"Strange is it not? That the myriads who

Before us pass'd the Door of darkness through,

Not one returns to tell us of the Road,

Which to discover, we must travel too."

- Omar Khayyam His Rubaiyat

## Basra, Iraq : 21st October 2005

The flash of a stun grenade and they were in. Three of them charged through the back door with bursts of automatic fire down the drab rear corridor of the villa. Two Islamic militiamen lay dead on the tiled floor; the remains of tissue, skull and brain matter decorating the walls with spatter.

Heckler & Koch rose to eye level, finger punching trigger at the threat of more militant engagement. A white phosphorous grenade is launched through an open kitchen hatch, its flash creating pandemonium and cries of confusion; and easy pickings for the team of SAS intruders.

Mayhem breaks out at the front of the villa as a second wave of attackers bursts its way through flimsy defences, stunned by swift speed that fails to allow them time for contemplation. As insurgents made ponderous mistakes, the vastly superior training of the British Special Forces team hammered home a dominance that ended in death or severe injury.

The third team entered the stronghold through a rooftop veranda; gaining access via other local flat roofs. A guard slotted from above at close range, his Kalashnikov still resting on his knee whilst enjoying a lingering quiet cigarette.

Debris flies from walls as muzzle flash brandishes the thin walls with endless lead-made craters. The atmosphere filled with swelling dust and the disorderly Arab voices cry a tangled chaotic mess of desperate sound.

On an upstairs landing two men wielding rifles and dressed in the regalia of the Iraqi Police are gunned down as they lifted their weapons towards the foreign soldiers who emerged from the master bedroom.

The recoiling AK-47 fire from a beturbaned militiaman strikes the ceramic body armour chest plate of an SAS man who is down. Two headshots take out the militiaman and a colleague covers as the third man rips open a medical kit and applies pressure to a gaping wound with a bundle of field dressing.

In the living room of the property, the invaders are greeted with a whaling TV set and three insurgents on their knees with hands on heads, fingers locked. Arabic pleas for mercy fill the air.

A scared and wary Iraqi is rudely interrupted whilst sat on the lavatory midway through a shit. He's in the midst of a bout of diarrhoea and unarmed, the timing could not have been more unfortunate. The butt of a rifle to the temple knocks him cold.

In an unlit, windowless basement is the Royal Marine Carl Duggan. He is dressed in an orange boiler suit, tied to a chair with tie wraps and blindfolded. He is assured that they are British forces and that they have come for him.

Eight militia extremists lay dead, another five wounded and four prisoners are disarmed, beaten and locked in the basement.

On the bottom step of the staircase Paul Cable held Kevin Baldock's hand and cradled his head. Kevin's AB Rh negative rarer than rare blood type covered the tiles and turned Paul Cable from sand to crimson in colour. The twenty-eight year old from Preston was dead within minutes and they evacuated with the rescued snatched soldier aboard armoured vehicles before insurgent reinforcements could galvanize a counter attack.

They had evacuated the darkened streets along with their covering troops inside three minutes; gone like thieves in the night before the enemy had known what had hit them.

As the Land Rover Snatch sped through the back streets of Basra, Paul Cable sat trancelike in deep thought. Kevin Baldock's sticky blood was everywhere – from Paul's face to his boots. Baldock was the newest recruit to the regiment and he'd been unlucky. He'd not made a mistake and had done his job to the letter of their rulebook; Paul had always thought that there was an individual bullet out there with all of their names on it, you had to stay one step ahead of it or it would eventually catch up with you. For the first time in his army career he felt restricted and needed to break out. The time for catching the bullet with his name on it wasn't now. His mind thought only of Kiyomi Sasaki and the end of his tour in five weeks time.

When he returned to base and after a debriefing they all went to bed apart from Paul Cable; he didn't feel like sleeping. He listened to Elbow Cast Of Thousands on repeat on his Ipod and emailed her.

From : pcable2399@yahoo.com

To : kimi_girl@intramedia.com

attachment/s : elbow-fugitivemotel

Konnichiha Sweetest Kimi,

I hope you are well and this finds you still in the greatest of spirits my love.

It's been a difficult day here. Sometimes the boredom can make you climb the walls (meaning: send you crazy with the inactivity.)

I am hoping that the days can go a little quicker as I cannot wait until I see the house with my own eyes and smell the sea air again. After seeing nothing but sand and smelly men for so long to see my angel and the sea, and the blossoms of the trees in our own garden will rekindle my love for life, of that I am certain.

The photographs that you sent me are fantastic. You always send such good quality photographs darling. KYOUSEI !! I love how talented you are in all ways.

Please thank your mother and father for their kind words and tell them that I too am thinking of them as well and I am very much looking forward to eating again from their table.

I love you very much Kimi and although I tell you every day, I think and long for you the whole of my waking day, and during my sleep. But sometimes I do not have the words to express myself in the ways that I would like to emphasis this. My education often lets me down and cannot begin to compare to that of yours.

To help me express my feelings for you I have attached a song from one of my favourite English music bands. They are called Elbow and I think that the writer has been inside of my thoughts and written the song for me to send you.

I think that when you are apart from someone that you love you can find the most suitable meanings in songs that did not mean the same before.

I hope that you understand my meaning and enjoy the words.

Eien No Ai,

Paul x

## Karatsu, Kyushu, Japan : 26th November 2005

It was the wrong season to view the cherry blossom, but he'd seen the photographs on the advertisements for the property and it looked spectacular; they both looked forward to the spring with great anticipation.

The place that she had found and chosen was always going to be perfect. Although he'd mainly got to know her mind and her preferences and styles through the emails that they'd shared, he'd spent enough time with her to know that when Kiyomi made a decision it would generally be one that would have been meticulously pondered.

Her excitement for both herself and for him was evident; it gushed from her every pore to the point that she was in danger of becoming a giddy jumble of disarray, which was very unlike her.

She was relieved to see him. Something inside of her had betrayed her in to thinking that she wouldn't ever again.

They had been extremely lucky with the house that she had found, it was a typically traditional one by design, though of a modest variety. It nestled on a hillside that looked across Karatsu Bay and was blessed with a medium sized garden containing an envious supply of foliage that had previously been cared for by a part-time gardener who Kiyomi would like to keep on.

The house was timber framed with a classical curved ornamental roof design finished in terracotta coloured clay tiles, and shoji sliding doors on the ground floor were matched by the windows on the first floor that were more familiar to him.

An old widower had lived in it off of the wealth that she and her farm owning husband had acquired. When she died, her only offspring – a son who had long moved to Tokyo – had the house quickly put on the rental market and Kiyomi Sasaki dived at the chance to live in such a quality build that wasn't always so easy to find in the town.

She had been living with her parents and her twenty-six year old sister Sumi in their far more modern, though basic, house in the town whilst she'd searched daily. Her new job at the college was rewarding and she had become a popular tutor with the pupils who were always keen to hear of her stories of Tokyo.

She was enjoying her homecoming and had re-established her old friendships. She was a popular woman and the general opinion was one of delight at her return. The fact that she had returned from Tokyo with a seemingly phantom-like mysterious foreign boyfriend and had moved in to a beautiful house in a desirable part of town had become a major talking point amongst friends and acquaintances.

He looked over the sea, its fresh breeze reaching them as they faced it from the grass of their lawn; their arms draped around one another. It was a splendid spot and he hugged her tightly; she had done them both proudly and he felt ecstatic.

The house was spotless. They took off their shoes in the genkan entrance area and he followed her across the woven rice straw tatami mats and in to the large living space that she had created by arranging the partitioning fusuma wall panels that were decorated with paintings of the forested mountains. Furniture was minimal and a small storage heater in the corner of the room took away the hint of any chill.

It was like no house that Paul Cable had even been in. It was also the cleanest, quietest and most tranquil of living spaces. After years of noise and torture it felt like he had died and stepped in to a perfect dream; a dream that he could call a home.

Kiyomi led him through to the bedroom. The place looked as though she had designed it from the bottom upwards. With the ability to change the shape and size of a Japanese home due to the flexibility of the moveable fusuma's, she had created a grand area of differing taste that was typically her. The decor was neutral and earthy; splashes of creams, browns, beige and black typified the room. A bamboo stood proudly in the corner in a clay pot, and she'd placed sporadic paintings of Japanese art on the simplistic walls. The tatami mats continued throughout and the bed hugged the ground as the Japanese liked it with its futon mattress. Minimalistic bamboo furniture pieces were strategically placed and the place was completed with silk sheets and pillows and beige rice paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. Every last delicate touch had been painstakingly cared for; the room had to be perfect for her returning war hero.

When he returned from the toilet she had dressed in a silk robe. His journey to be with her had been a long and exhausting one. They stood apart, proudly observing one another and thankful to be here, in this place that they had so hoped for. She let her garment slip from her skin to reveal her thin body with its curvaceous hips, thin waist and small buxom with dark, erect nipples.

He'd been away for what had seemed an eternity, in a dangerous warzone of hazards that she was only too aware of, but he played down to ease her stressful mind.

He deserved his reward and she only hoped that he would be happy here in this house of theirs, in the bay and with her.

## Nagasaki, Japan : 17th December 2005

For a Buddhist country Paul Cable was surprised at how much the Japanese had taken to Christmas; though with their love of all things flashing and shiny he perhaps shouldn't have been. Everywhere seemed to have a tree and certain places, such as some department stores, would wrap the place up in decorations, much as at home.

Although not a holiday period it is viewed as a romantic time in the country, very much as Valentine's Day is in the west. Kiyomi Sasaki had managed to take a day away from work to arrange a long weekend and take Paul away for a couple of days by train to Nagasaki to celebrate before he had to return home. The month had flown by at an excruciating rate of knots for the pair and they had agreed that the Nagasaki trip would be classed as a Christmas for them both.

The Japanese had embraced the Father Christmas part of the festive period enthusiastically and Japanese children would generally receive one present from him in a similar fashion to those with Christian beliefs.

Kiyomi Sasaki had an armful of Christmas presents. He'd told her that he'd no one else to buy for and needed to burn some cash to satisfy some good will to all men.

She'd replied that she was but one woman, to which he told her that that would have to do then.

The Japanese are total brand junkies, and Kiyomi was no different. By the time they'd returned to their hotel room she'd got bags crammed with Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Evisu and Issey Miyake. Paul had found the experience of treating her invigorating and it gave him as much pleasure as it clearly had her. Only his wallet wasn't best pleased from the practice.

Apart from the atomic bomb attack of 1945 Paul knew very little of the city on Japan's western peninsular and was pleasantly surprised by what he found. It was a far more picturesque and slower paced city than Karatsu's nearest neighbour and Kyushu islands biggest city, Fukuoka - the city that Kiyomi loved so much for its vibrant shops, bars, cinemas, restaurants and shows.

Nagasaki's steep hills and colonial-style buildings were more pleasing on Paul Cable's eye. A Chinese and European legacy had left an indelible mark on the place with Christian churches mingling with Chinese Temples and European-style housing giving the place a flavour that he hadn't witnessed anywhere else in Japan. In parts of beautiful Glover Park you could be anywhere but twenty-first century Japan.

Kiyomi had assumed that Nagasaki would be as close to Christmas at home for Paul as anywhere else in Japan, due to its larger than the main Christian population.

The atmosphere of its backstreets, restaurants and the entertainment of Shianbashi with its bars suited Kiyomi and they enjoyed a couple of boisterous nights of fun, but it was the peace of places like the Confucian Shrine and the quiet contemplation of the Atom Bomb Museum that Paul preferred. His tolerance for loud bars and thumping music had long since passed; he'd never really liked them in the first place; they'd made his head swell. He endured them all the same and displayed a positive reaction because it was what she liked to do to release the more demanding fun loving side to her nature, and he very much enjoyed to see her laugh and dance and have fun; in fact he positively encouraged it.

They were staying at the Garden Terrace Hotel and they were going through her regular daily half hour Japanese lesson with him. He was finding it a thankless task, but one that he was determined to crack; he had to if he was wanting a true life experience here. He wasn't a quitter and she'd admired his determination; her natural teaching skills and her tolerant attitude being the biggest help for him.

He found it perversely amusing that he felt more comfort in a theatre of war than in a plush hotel room with the woman he loved attempting to learn a language as difficult as hers.

From the blue she asked him whether he would take her on a trip to England. Surprisingly it wasn't anything that they'd ever really discussed. But he agreed that they should go whilst they could. They would work around her vacations at the college and travel in the following summer. He had a much underused Yamaha FJR1300 sports touring motorcycle that he'd almost forgotten about and it would make an ideal vehicle to cross the country on.

The talk of the motorcycle excited her even more and she listed the places that she would like to visit: London, Stonehenge, Bath, Stratford-Upon-Avon and Scotland. Paul added several destinations of his own: The Lake District, York, Cornwall and Devon.

From nowhere she asked about Mansfield and of his mother and father. She knew that he'd had a difficult childhood and that he had found it hard to talk about it, even to her who he trusted implicitly. She wondered of his reasons to not disclose the details of his childhood and of growing up; apart from meeting Paul Cable, they'd been her own happiest memories.

She told him that it wouldn't matter if he really didn't want to go, but she would like just to see where he was from, where he grew up and perhaps meet the parents that he so rarely talked about.

Paul Cable mused. He asked her to put away her papers and to undress.

He would take her to Britain for the holiday she wished for, and he promised that he would briefly take her through the Nottinghamshire town to settle her curious mind.

He asked her to lie on her belly and he sat astride her naked flesh, pouring oils in to his palms and beginning to massage her thankful spine.

He paused for reflection of just where he could begin his story;

'I'll tell you about my childhood, and of growing up... I feel guilty that I've actually kept it from you for this long, but it's been quite some time since I stepped back in to that town... Some of the things that happened to me and my family and to the people I know don't make for much comfortable listening I'm afraid to admit.... I will take you there, but we won't be staying... You won't be meeting my father, you certainly won't be meeting my mother,..and I don't have anyone there who I can call on as friends... I love you very much and you deserve to know the truth about my past. I know that you'll understand.............'

## The Waiting State

'It makes a complete mockery of your theory about the brain being this whole great device Vincent... It's totally fucked up.'

'I can understand you feeling that way Paul, trust me.'

'She was the only thing that I had left in my life and she was taken away when I was at my most vulnerable... If that's how the brain works, then pass me the shotgun and I'll do the rest.'

'Even a tool as powerful as the brain has its flaws Paul.'

'No shit Sherlock.'

'Sometimes the electronics of the mind just malfunction; it happens... Look, have you ever had a time in your life when your mind goes blank?... Forgetting a name for example...you'll see a person you remember, but a name escapes you and you just can't pull one from the file in your head... Well this works by the same principle, but it's much, much rarer and the brain has several safety mechanisms to prevent it happening... When something major malfunctions, its,..well its,.....it's tragic.'

'It was for me.'

'I know Paul but basically she just went to sleep one day and never woke up; her brain stuck on standby and rebooted again in the First Understanding,.. it was a horrible time for you, and I know that your mother meant the world to you.'

Paul Cable sat upright in his bed rested against a plethora of pillows. The brilliant white of his bedding, his gown and the room was a stark contrast to Heather Jarrett, Alison Cable and now Anna Cable also, they were all scattered around like black dressed dots on a white die. Only the blue of Vincent Tua's jacket offered any deviation.

His mother was dressed in the same clinical style as his other previous guests and Paul had made a sharp comment regarding the obvious wealth of whichever fashion house had the contract for the Waiting State. Similarly to the others his mother simply glowed; her hair, her complexion, her posture was a vision of great health. His mother looked incredibly beautiful. She'd been a prized catch of a young lady and it was the ravages of time and the mental stress suffered at the hands and tongue of Charlie Cable that had seen her depreciate in to alarming decline.

He felt incredibly proud of her when she'd entered the room, lighting it up with a smile that showed off her sparkling teeth like the sunrise of a bright summer's day. She looked like a catwalk model in her slinky dress that was hugely contradictory so the look that he remembered her from in the mid to late nineteen-eighties.

It had been a Sunday morning in November when she'd left him. It was a grey and bleak day and a downpour of rain had knocked against his window from the moment he'd woken. He had fallen to sleep on the previous evening with the curtains open and it was as if the day hadn't wanted to begin.

He hated days like this, when the deathly grey landscape looked so disheartening and he'd struggle to find the enthusiasm to lift his head from the pillow. He stayed stationary on his side and looked in to the fog of gloom for over an hour. Paul Cable was eighteen years old and incredibly depressed. Life at work had turned to be no more different than life at school, only more of a crushing disappointment and providing him with less time on his hands.

He'd spent the Saturday night sat on his bed reading back issues of comics and painting soldiers wondering whether adulthood was much different to childhood, just with more frustration.

He'd contemplated killing himself and had wondered how best to go about it. In the end he struggled with the thought of going through any pain and decided against in. He assumed that he wasn't yet depressed enough to have reached that stage, because surely that wouldn't matter if he'd really wanted to do it. His lack of bravery dismantled his warped self esteem further.

It took a gargantuan effort to finally release the beds grip on him at 09:23. He'd heard no movement in the house and rested his head against the moist covered window pain. Out on the damp backyards there was little by way of life happening. Rain dripped from silt filled gutters that hung from battered slate grey rooftops that matched the feeling of the day. Their garden was etched in imperfect, unfinished lines of nonentity, abandoned for the winter by both the touch of human hand and of colour; whereas the garden of the Simpson's next door clung to what remaining breath of life that it could with its smart privet hedgerow and its closely cut grass. Their outhouse doors were painted a walnut brown and Tom's lime green Lambretta crouched beneath the homemade canopy that traversed the last outhouse and their small wooden shed. The Simpson's garden looked as if it was in amazing Technicolor alongside the Cable's own monotonous effort.

Paul stared at himself in the full length mirror of his wardrobe that he had inherited from his parents. He stood over six feet and two inches in height now in his skin and bones. His body had taken the bold move to abandon his inadequate frame for an alternative one that made him feel awkwardly very similar.

He pulled on some clothes, scrubbed his teeth and went downstairs.

The living room was cast in shadow; it's sparing dim light filtering through the curtains and hinting at a body on the sofa. It was his mother cocooned under a thin blanket with only her head on display. He sloped through to the kitchen without waking her and filled the kettle before putting it on a slow boil, then he grabbed his big coat and left via the back door.

When he arrived back from the newsagent with a copy of News Of The World and a bottle of milk, his coat was soaked from the downpour. He'd quickly established that today would be another day behind his closed bedroom door, listening to the radio and reading a book. Fishing was out of the question today and that had annoyed him especially.

He made them both teas: his white with two sugars, his mothers without. He placed it on the carpet beside her and gently spoke whispered in to her ear.

'Mum, tea. I've made you a cup of tea mum.'

He sat in the chair opposite and switched on the desk lamp for light to read his newspaper. He hadn't wanted to startle his mother's morning eyes with the sharp, if not keen, daylight from the window.

The Berlin Wall had been breached in celebration but the News Of The World concentrated on the ongoing affair between a TV actress and a footballer; the footballers wife draped across pages four and five in blue lingerie and a smouldering look. Beneath she told her own story in her own words exclusively to the News Of The World.

When Paul had drained the remainder of his cup he glanced towards his mother, and then at his wristwatch. It was now 10:10 and even in these days where she had lost the enthusiasm to perform most tasks, it was unlike her to sleep through so lately.

There'd been no sight or sound of his father and Paul had wondered if he was here or if he had again stayed out at a friend's house.

He lent carefully on to her shoulder and tucked her hair neatly behind her ear.

'Mum,..mum... Your teas gone cold...Mum it's gone ten...Do you want another drink?...Mum,...Mum,...Mum.'

She'd died of natural causes, peacefully and silently in the night on that charity sofa in front of a fire that slowly flickered out in unison with her life. She was thirty-seven years old - going on fifty-seven - she had died a lonely, broken woman, stripped of all of her dignity and hope and with only a son remaining to show for her life, and she'd secretly aligned great fears for him. He had no friends; he never went out or enjoyed his life, preferring to sit in that room like a voluntary prisoner when he returned home from his job at the warehouse. She'd urged him to do things and get out in to the world. "The house was no place for a teenage boy with age and life on his side." But the boy held no confidence. He hated himself and his life and saw no outlet to take him away from the constraints that he felt under. She'd felt it a glimmer of a minor miracle when he'd passed his driving test at the first attempt, but he'd not been able to afford to pursue it further by buying a car. She didn't want him to be sad and friendless in this unforgiving house that had become like a tomb for the both of them.

She'd promised him that they would move on if his father's behaviour continued. She'd not kept to that promise; deflecting the mental torture that they received, believing it to be tolerable alongside the absence of the physical abuse.

He'd never pulled her up on it, but she knew that she'd let them both down

In the waiting state, Paul didn't want to hear the protestations and apologises of his mother, he didn't hold her responsible for the misery that was his childhood. Dozens of times she repeated the words "I'm sorry" through doleful eyes, clearly still holding on to great many regrets, despite being hugely proud and relieved at where his life had now stood.

She'd been a weak woman that for twenty hopeless years had held on to a foolish hope that a relationship to an abomination of a man that had held a vicelike grip over her heart and her head would eventually work. He understood that now; he didn't get it, but he understood it. He just wished he'd been a stronger kid to deal with it at the time. Someone able to fight back and defend them both, and not the timid, pathetic fearful hamster that scurried away to his room to hide away from him and the world.

His mothers appearance had completed a line up that Paul Cable had never ever expected to have before him again. They all looked like angels of differing beauties to him; like perfect hallucinations of people who you remembered as unblemished in personality and devoid of censure. Like a collective portrait painted by a flattering artist keen on a bonus.

Each of them had gushed their yearning for him, and the family that was so flawed now looked so seamlessly refined and absolute. It took some appreciation to get to grips with for Paul and in spite of everything he had seen and learned, he anticipated a cruel twist of fate to befall him and to turn this wonderful dreamscape in to a howling nightmare of contemptuous glee.

And on the periphery of all of this was Vincent Tua. The guardian angel. The guide. The storyteller? The convincing sage of knowledge with his tales of the 'Understandings' under his adopted guise of a grand old man of film.

It was all too bizarre for words for Paul Cable. The atmosphere was like a celebratory gathering, more like an event of festivity than of that of a wake.

In the real world he was in Selly Oak in Birmingham. No visitors came, but there were regular visits from nurses and doctors who would note no change in his stable, though precarious condition. He would sit up straight in bed, with Vincent Tua permanently occupying his adopted chair and a scattering of Cable's and a Jarrett sat on his bed chatting about the old times and of events since passed; of Paul Cable's life, successes and his mistakes. Like a This Is Your Life with no Eamonn Andrews, no red book and very few visitors - who were bizarrely all dead, but alive, but in a Waiting State and looking magnificently elegant.

The magnitude and confusion of it all made his head spin.

Vincent Tua noticed his wariness and that the chattering voices were beginning to take their toll on his fatigued brain.

'Would you like a little time for some peace Paul.' Vincent asked to a blank expression from Paul Cable. 'Maybe you ladies could allow Paul some time to rest and take things in?...His brain needs time to recover and repair, and as much as we are both enjoying your company, perhaps a brief intermission would be a good idea right now?'

'Are you suggesting that we are becoming a distraction Vincent.' Heather suggested.

'Only a distraction of the uppermost pleasantness Mrs Jarrett.' The Michael Caine looking guide smiled in flattery.

'Well I guess that we'd better give our honouree guest a breather then girls.' Heather Jarrett turned to them all before cocking her head and delivering a smile of sympathy to Paul.

Anna Cable scooped Alison in to her arms and they retreated from the room after each in turn kissing the embedded stricken relation.

Vincent Tua lifted himself to join them.

'Vincent can we talk alone?' Paul asked before he left.

'You need your rest Paul. It's important and necessary to allow your brain to mend.'

'I know, I've gathered that mate...Please just take your seat for a couple of minutes.'

Vincent quickly returned to his comfortable chair, his expression accommodating.

'Vincent I know that this is all supposed to be helping, but I'm all over the place here.'

'I know that it's difficult for you Paul. It's always difficult in the Waiting State.'

'It's been so long since I've seen these people...Massively important people in my life, but to see them all so quickly,..and it, it makes it so much odder to see the air-brushed versions of them...It's like, I know it's them and all that, but they look perfect and sound different...and to be bombarded with the emotions of seeing my murdered little sister for the first time in a quarter of a century, and my grandma who died of cancer, and having the reasons explained for my mum dying,...it's,..it's fuckin with my mind here Vinny.'

Paul held his sore head in his hands.

'You have my sympathy Paul. I see this all the time...It's never easy to fathom and it's certainly never easy to reunite with loved ones from such a long time ago...I'll be frank with you; yours is the hardest case that I've ever been involved in...Your life has been a traumatic tale, and I know that losing those three people hit you like a bulldozer... The whole process of the Waiting State is one of recuperation; of balancing the brain back on its axis before you decide the next steps to take.' Vincent placed an outstretched hand on Paul's. 'Meeting your family again is just like taking your medicine to help a cough...You have to realign the way that your brain functions again after the trauma it's received.'

'I'm just struggling to take it all in though... I don't want my mum, my sister and my grandmother thinking that I'm not giving them the signs and vibes that I should be.'

'I know that part of you is holding back Paul. I get that. It must seem very unusual to have memories of people that were dear to you, yet these people don't quite seem what you remember.'

'And when they talk about the things I've done since they've been dead? That spins me out Vincent.'

'I know it seems unreal... But you have to remember that the three people you have met are those that are your flesh and blood; though not exactly the way that they were. Organically they are the same, but physically they aren't, and neither is the way that their mechanics work. They're like a replica of their First Understand version, only with the emotions of the people who left your world in the Foundation. They're a mix of the two, to help prepare your brain for whichever path you choose to lead... Just try to take comfort Paul, that even though you'll leave this place and none of you will ever remember this meeting, the emotions that are felt and the words that are exchanged are true and from the heart.'

Paul Cable half-nodded.

'Your mother was genuinely sorry during her life for not doing the right things by you, and her passing was a purely technical thing that she had no control of; a tragically unfortunate event for yourself that I know you found the hardest to understand.'

'I got that my sister was abused and murdered by a sick bastard, and I got that my grandmother was killed by a disease; but at the time it felt like mum had just bailed out on life and left me to fend for myself.'

'I know, I was there with you Paul and I wish that there was a way that I could have somehow explained to you at the time. The pain you went through affected me also.'

Paul looked across at Vincent Tua and noted that the substance of his words were matched by those of his appearance.

'Being a guide to a client is like being a father Paul. You watch them come in to the world and you live through their experiences. You feel their pain, and you feel their elation... Some feel more pain than others,...it wasn't easy to watch how your natural father treated you whilst I felt so much strength in my emotions for you myself Paul.'

His voice softened to a near croak and Paul Cable gripped his hand at his words.

Vincent looked him in the eye.

'I always felt like a father to you Paul...I've mostly learned how to control my emotions, but at times they were sorely tested by some of the things that went off in your life... To see how your father mistreated you outraged me, but because of my learning's I kept my feelings in check. I knew that one day I would meet you and would be able to explain many important things to you...I know that your life in the Foundation has been like a car crash, but I'm here to tell you that things will get better.'

'But my life was better... Things were starting to go for me and I was happy... Perhaps not totally content, but I was working on it.'

'Kiyomi is a lovely girl Paul. The day you met her lifted my spirits greatly.'

'She means everything to me now Vincent.'

'I know that... Your life has got considerably better... But you still get the nightmares.'

'I'm dealing with them.'

'You still wake in pools of sweat and she worries intensely about you.'

'I know.'

'You fear that you could make a mistake again; that you'll snap like before and hurt her.'

'I know... but surely I'll never harm her in that way... I've never lifted a finger at her,...never a cross word.'

'But you still fear it because you've done it before... The beast has reared its head and you've killed.'

'That won't happen with Kiyomi... I lost my head,..something took over me, made me react, do something that I'll never forgive myself for... I live with that every day of my life... That type of thing could never happen with Kiyomi.' Paul spluttered and agonised.

'We both hope that you're correct Paul... and I think that you're right... You too have learnt to control your emotions... You're imperious on the battlefield, and you've calmed your temper off of it... Kiyomi has only ever seen the gentle side of you. The one that treats her like a living goddess, and is: caring, considerate, polite and, strong, but protective of her and her whole family. You are her heaven sent gentleman Paul. But we both know that your brain has the ability to malfunction. Years of abuse have caused it to trip and it has rogue elements that cannot be mended here or in the Foundation. They can only be righted in the next Understanding.'

Paul's face took on a changed serious tone.

'Whilst you are in the Foundation, you will always pose a hidden threat to Kiyomi and everyone you come in to contact with Paul. You have a murderous history to prove it... This is why your task here is so important... Do you choose to go back and live a very probable harmonious life with her, with the very real threat that you carry to her and her future of ever progressing to the next Understanding... Or do you move on in to the next Understanding with your family with the possibility that Kiyomi will follow you in to it anyway?.. One where you will be cured of this fault and one where you may rekindle what you have now?'

'But I fear giving up on what I have now and never having it again.'

'That's what makes this the tough decision that you face Paul.'

Vincent again rose from his seat.

'I want you to make the right decision. Kiyomi is the best thing to ever happen to you and if you return to her it is totally with my blessing. I too once enjoyed the comfort of a similar partner. But if you decide to forfeit and move forwards, I will also understand that.'

He looked at his watch and made for the door.

'You've been in your coma for five days now Paul, and you've been in the Waiting State for sixteen hours... You have two more people that you need to meet... I think that you know who they are and I apologise that it will be difficult, but like I said, it's necessary to readjust the correlation of your mind... Get some rest,.. Kiyomi is on a plane over here and is less than twelve hours away... Who knows, if you time it right and decide to stay in the Foundation, we could have you greeting her by opening your eyes... A fairytale story; what do you reckon?' Vincent gave a huge Michael Caine smile. 'But let thought rise above sentiment, whichever choice you make my friend...You know that I want the best for you'

## 6th July 1987

The careers teacher had dismantled Paul Cable's pre- employment curriculum vitae with the clinical ruthlessness of a surgeon's knife.

His academic ability had pointed towards a long and laborious existence on minimal wages, using the minimum of brainpower and the maximum of effort; boys like Paul Cable provided the careers teacher with the minimum of either. That school, and particularly that year had hardly presented a challenge. The children were of largely poor fare and lacking in the necessary to pose any serious threat to challenging jobs; the below average aptitude of Paul Cable was the staple diet around these parts. Occasionally he would be greeted with a rare nugget of talent, but he'd knock them down a peg or three and suggest something particularly inappropriate to pop any cocky bubble of self-assurance that they may condescendingly carry.

To be fair, Paul had never had any notions of anything above his station, he knew of his limited capabilities and the job at Thunderstore Building and Plumbing Supplies found him rather than the opposite way around. A work friend of his mothers at the old people's home had got him an interview as a store man and it had basically been a case of him turning up to prove that he had two arms, two legs and a head before the position was offered to him.

It had taken about an hour before he'd become the unsuspecting target of the kind of abuse that he'd become accustomed to at home with his father, and at school with Jason Doyliboy and his gang. There were three other storemen in total: Peter Painter was the head store man, with a massive ego and an equally huge mouth, Kelvin Briggs was in his forties, the same as Painter, but he was a quieter and more pensive type that would keep himself to himself, and Nick Mallard a fat lad in his early twenties with a monotonous laugh, a large rotund head and an insatiable appetite for pastries.

From that first hour, the shy and nervous teenager became a constant target of sustained abuse from the unrelenting Painter, with insults and snide remarks spilling from a motor mouth that never seemed to know when to take a break. It was nothing new to Paul Cable, and although it wasn't something that he'd expected, he quickly slipped back in to the mindscape that bounced insults from his ears with nonchalant ease; something that annoyed Painter in to upping the ante with more aggressively acute tirades of diatribe.

The last twelve months at the Comprehensive had been sheer misery for the young Cable. His humiliation in the quarry at Mansfield Woodhouse had spread around the school like wildfire in a cyclone. The shame that he and his two friends had suffered had quickly forced their good friendship apart until it reached the stage where they would pass in corridors and fail to acknowledge one another. Paul hadn't wanted this, he wanted their friendship more than anything else in the world, but when the others refused to respond to his endeavours, he had little other choice left than to accept the way that things were and move on.

He wasn't sure how his father had got to know, but Paul would find messages written in his handwriting amongst the underwear draw calling him a 'Nigger Lover,' and a 'Cock Sucker.' His Warlord comics would have drawings added to the animation – Union Jack Jackson would have a biro-ed penis put in his mouth, and soldiers would have their faces coloured in with speech bubbles proclaiming 'Paul loves big dick.' It was a simple tactic to wear away at his confidence, but it worked successfully.

The other children would laugh and whisper and stare; certain teachers would even slip in innuendo of their own in to lessons. And Jason Doyliboy and his band of yobs would relentlessly destroy him in front of whole playgrounds, changing rooms and classrooms full of children.

With only seven months of his final year left, Mark James moved schools.

Tom Simpson's academic competence took a significant backward step and he saw out his year hidden at the back of his class with the outcasts. He left school with far inferior grades than was expected.

Paul Cable switched on his now fine-tuned defence mechanism and saw out his days there on auto pilot.

He would try to escape as often as possible to the riverbank at Bleak Hills, which was his own private oasis that could offer him sanctuary from the people in his life.

That was until one morning when every single piece of his preciously accumulated fishing gear simply vanished.

His father had sold the collection of tackle in the local newspaper. In its place when Paul arrived home from school one afternoon sat a glass fishbowl of water on his bedroom windowsill. A message read 'Fish that fucker!'

Paul never brought the subject up with his mother. What was the point? She'd become blind to his antics. Charlie never raised his hand to him, or to her and in her book now no violence meant no abuse.

He would find human excrement in his training shoes, a tethered noose hanging from his bedroom light pendant, gay porn magazines on his desk, and once beneath his bed covers lay a razorblade rested alongside a large black dildo with a message telling him to 'FINISH THIS!'

His father would continue in his likening him to a dog. Presenting him with a bone in a bowl for his dinner and producing a collar with PAUL written on it; he'd make him put it on whilst his mother went to bingo and he'd make him walk on all fours on the lawn and bark towards the Simpson's house.

Charlie would stand at the kitchen window smoking and observing. He never showed any signs of amusement at what he made the boy do, and that was what disturbed Paul Cable the most. His father didn't follow through his antics to give him personal amusement, he did it because he could and he would and he wanted his son to feel utterly humiliated.

And still in the night the boy would awake and find his father sat in his room in the dark, the must from Charlie's cigarettes aggravating his nose.

He thought about running away, but something always kept him at home. The safety of his mother mattered to him, and he felt that should he leave and never return, it would become her that was the target of his ritual persecution.

On two separate occasions he had found himself on buses out of town. Once he made it to Nottingham, but soon jumped on the return back, and another time he found himself on the one to Sheffield, but got off at Glapwell and walked the five miles back home to suffer his father's wrath; he had several chores lined up for the child who was now two hours behind.

He made him tidy the loft in his naked body. The irritating itch of the grating, wiry fibreglass insulation left his skin red and raw once he'd finished, and the sting of the bleach bath he had to endure afterwards made him silently cry and left him sore for days.

He never attempted to run away from home again.

The problem with Peter Painter was that the man was a rank amateur alongside the sheer ruthlessness of Charlie Cable and the undiplomatic lunacy of Jason Doyliboy.

Much of the time Paul would just ignore him. He would keep his head down and get along with his job. But Painter would frequently find faults with his work and publically confront him in front of customers or other staff. Peter Painter would often strategically wait until someone such as Carly the office junior was within earshot to give him a dressing down over the most minor of issues. Paul would receive his disciplinary and then right his alleged wrong, seemingly untroubled.

Painter would be happy in the knowledge that the staff and the customers knew exactly who the boss in his stores was, and it gave him a smug satisfaction that he had a young lad easily tucked away in his pocket to take out his vain frustrations on; even if he would have liked the kid to have given a more prominent impression of distress.

## 2nd December 1975

The fact remained that Derek Cable had made a very good criminal; they all were. The gang's number one rule was silence. Only he, Billy Berry and Bobby Roberts knew of their crimes. Their strength was in their anonymity - that and their good planning and firm unity.

Roberts was the driver and had never dropped a bollock in a little over a decade, whilst Berry was the lead and the brains, and Cable the reliable gunman that never flapped and was always a firm hand, a cool right-hand man and a steady anchor for Berry's nerves.

The list was so long that some jobs had almost been forgotten. Over thirty Post Offices the length and breadth of the country, sometimes three in a day; and then there were the banks: Yorkshire Bank in Northallerton, Barclays Bank in Windsor, Barclays Bank in Northampton, The Royal Bank Of Scotland in Dumfries, Yorkshire Bank in Grimsby, Midland Bank in Walsall, Midland bank in Nuneaton, Lloyds Bank in Yeovil, Darlington Building Society in Darlington, Yorkshire Bank in Halifax, Lloyds Bank in Weymouth, National Westminster in Stevenage and Barclays Bank in Havant.

They'd amassed a small fortune whilst managing to quietly hold down regular jobs and refusing to be overly extravagant with their freshly acquired wealth.

Derek Cable worked as a joiner for the local council and used his holidays around the jobs that they'd attempt. When his wife Maureen left him and the teenage tearaway Charlie and moved to Brighton, and then Bobby Roberts was killed in an accidental roofing fall in swift succession, Derek set down his plan to retire from the bank robbing game and see out his final few years at the council before retiring to a little bungalow somewhere by the sea: Skegness, Sutton on Sea, Mablethorpe or Great Yarmouth.

He and Billy had split Bobby's share between them and left ten grand in pound notes in the porch of Bobby Roberts' widow with a note that read – From Bobby. Keep it safe, keep it quiet, spend it wisely.

His boy, although a little bad bastard had met a beautiful and charming young girl and had got married, they'd given him a grandchild and another was on the way. He wanted somewhere nice for the children to visit him and stay and enjoy a little bit of luxury with their old granddad.

He was fifty-three years old and very wealthy. He didn't need to work for a living anymore, and he didn't desire nor did he require the company of a woman. He would find a nice quiet spot, with a pub on the corner and people his own age who he could play darts and dominos with over a couple of pints. That would be perfection for Derek Cable after his years of hard graft.

## 4th September 1976

Derek Cable was wrapped tightly in the fuchsia rug and had been bundled through to the kitchen were Charlie Cable paused for a cigarette and to remind himself whether he'd forgotten anything or had made a mistake.

The olive coloured haversack on the kitchen table was rammed full of five pound notes and the brown coloured holdall was filled to the brim tightly with one pound notes.

Charlie paced through the place and searched for any signs that he may have missed to give himself away.

The assault had been executed perfectly. He had floored the man from behind with a crushing whack to the back of the head with a shovel taken from the middle aged man's coal bunker.

Although Derek Cable's brain had haemorrhaged, there had been no external bleeding. Charlie had worked quickly to roll him in to the shag and proceeded to smash the shovel down hard on to the unconscious man's body thirty-two times to make sure that the first part of the job was completed.

The late evening was dark and the terraces of the avenues at Forest Town were quiet. Charlie was a big man, and a strong man and he found moving his father tiring, but the perilous position gave his adrenaline an extra boost for his muscles. Within two minutes he had bundled the body in to the boot of his mustard Austin Maxi.

He locked the back door of the house, replaced the shovel in to the coal bunker and drove steadily off of Seventh Avenue with the calm reassurance of a man whose preparations were going to plan.

Charlie had found a spot in the Edale Valley in the Peak District. He pulled the Maxi up in the pitched dark, a hole he had already earlier dug in the soft earth was waiting and a wheelbarrow had been hidden out of sight on the field side of the dry stone walling.

It took him forty-five minutes to transport the heavy body from the lane to his allotted spot beside a grove of trees, to dump the body and replace the earth and the sods of grass on top.

Charlie hid the cash - £130,000 stolen from his murdered father – behind a spare roll of fibreglass insulation in his loft.

## 20th March 1987

His skin stung with an aching itch throughout his whole naked body and the suffocating dust overpowered his nostrils. His bare feet were particularly sore and had the abrasion of splinters to show for his efforts.

The lead light left half of the loft in a bright shower of light that showed the eruptions of angry red marks across his body and the clutter of the place that he was trying his best to bring some order to.

The other half of the space remained in shadow; including behind the beams that traversed above the corridor that led across to the bathroom and the spare room that used to belong to Alison.

His father had told him to specifically stay away from that end of the loft.

Cardboard boxes littered the space; some empty, some filled with Christmas decorations, junk that would never be used, and of Alison's clothes and toys. Charlie Cable would refuse to throw them out, or pass them on to charities. They were Alison's clothes and would remain that way for as long as he was of this world.

In the dimly lit corner of the loft, in the part that he was forbidden to tread he caught the friendly face of Big Ted, Alison's old cuddly toy; the one that he himself had won for her in Ingoldmells in the summer of nineteen-eighty.

He crept over to the place where the bear sat upright, arms stretched out wide and his red and black cravat looking slightly wonky. Paul was very careful to tread lightly across the beams; his father had the ears of a cat and he was risking his health further by wandering where he shouldn't, but he was outraged that his sisters beloved toy had been flung here unlovingly denied of the light.

He so wanted to take the bear and tidy him up as new and give him a rightful place that he deserved, but he was in enough trouble as it was already. He made a vow to himself to one day free it from its horrible imprisonment in this dark and morbid place.

As he stood from his crouch he knocked over a roll of fibreglass with his hip, that in turn knocked over a couple of boxes. He froze to the spot and awaited a noise from below, followed by the appearance of a head at the loft hatch.

It never came.

Reorganising the extra clutter that he had made he discovered a collection of bags that were unfamiliar to him: an olive haversack and a brown holdall. He carefully unbuckled the nearest to him and discovered the bounty within its guts. The second was equally mouth-dropping. After a few seconds of bewilderment the boy fastened them back up and hid them as they had been behind their safe wall of a neatly stood roll of filthy yellow fibreglass.

## 3rd January 1990

Meeting Frank Brevitt in that winter month couldn't have been timelier for Paul Cable.

After his mother had passed away he got as far away from his father as he possibly could; within reason.

The youth didn't know anywhere other than his home town and for two weeks he slept rough on the streets, before he'd accumulated enough wages to add to his savings account to purchase his first vehicle; a nineteen eighty-six white Vauxhall Astramax van with 120,000 miles on the clock that he got at Huthwaite car and van auctions for a snip at £520.

The vehicle was a former hire van and had been battered and abused to an extent, and he could affiliate with that. He decked the back out in a cheap, though hard wearing new carpet and he stole covers and pillows from his father's house whilst the man was out at work on a night shift; in and out as quickly as he'd dared.

He had taken the majority of his clothes with him when he'd initially left in a double layered bin liner, but the only valuables that he'd managed to carry was his photograph of Alison and his Walkman/radio.

When he returned during that night his bedroom had been stripped bare and nothing remained.

After collecting the duvet, covers and pillows from the stair lobby, he briefly paused and looked towards the loft before failing to find the courage to climb up and take the bear of Alison's and the bags of cash that he'd discovered.

His head already dripped from a film of sweat that had collected on his brow, and his heart raced with fear. His nerves couldn't withstand another few moments in that house. What if his father were to unexpectedly return and catch him there? He had no doubts that some serious harm would befall him. Besides, it was almost three years since he'd seen those bags of money and he had no doubt that the bastard would have moved them by now.

He had time to take a few cans of beans and soup, along with a box of cereals, a bottle of milk, some utensils and the spare can opener.

He didn't think that his father would miss any of those, and the bedding was only replacing what was his anyhow.

He didn't anticipate seeing his father any time soon, but Charlie knew where he was working and if he had taken the piss and stolen a whole swathe of things from the house, he knew that he would find him and create trouble.

He didn't sleep soundly that night, but he had at least eaten a meal of cold beans, followed with an equally cold tin of vegetable soup.

The van would get freezing cold and he would never sleep soundly, but he felt safe on the hidden lanes around the outskirts of the town and the van would give him the shelter from the elements that he hadn't had when sleeping rough in the back alleys and garages of the town centre.

During the Christmas and New Year of nineteen eighty-nine Paul Cable brought in the festivities from the back of that bitterly cold van; its windows icing from the inside on particularly frozen nights. He'd drive for a couple of days out of the town and park in country parks to get away from people and their jollities.

He feared the sound of people enjoying themselves almost as much as dying an icy death in the rear of that vehicle.

He'd wrap himself in his numerous sheets and listen to the radio and read books that he'd collect from the library. He'd wash every three days at the local swimming baths and he'd live off bags of chips.

When he turned up for work he would park a couple of streets away from the yard and walk the rest of the way. He didn't want anybody, least of all Peter Painter to discover that he was living the way that he was.

He didn't care about what they thought of him, but he couldn't bare the hassle that it would create; he also feared that the shame of it would force the manager to sack him.

On the morning of Thursday the fourth of January, Paul Cable was picking from the shelves of the warehouse and palletizing a large order for a customer. Peter Painter called for assistance from the front desk and Cable traipsed though to attend.

On the opposite side of the counter stood a stout man of thick set, standing a touch beneath six feet tall with a wide tattooed neck and thick, closely cropped black hair and a short goatee beard. He lent on the stall and drummed it with the fingers of huge, scraped hands.

'Pick list here. Priority...Get a burst on sharpish, Mr Brevitt ant got all day.' Peter Painter barked without looking up from his paperwork.

He took the list and Brevitt flashed him a grin whilst shaking his head and nodding towards Painter.

Five minutes later and Peter Painter was yelling in to the back why he was taking so long. Paul picked the final piece from the list and placed it on top of the flatbed trolley before wheeling it from the far aisle and heading for the front desk.

'Why do you always take so effin' long? Meandering about like there's all the time in the world. Folk have lives to get on with ya know.' Painter confronted him as he emerged in to the shop front.

'It's a pretty big order.' He replied with little concern.

'No it wasn't. Your just a lazy little git, with your head in the clouds... Sorry Mr Brevitt. Probably drugs I reckon with the young uns'. Though we often find this one picking blackheads out of his cock, hiding down the aisles.' Painter giggled from his own joke and was joined by Nick Mallard who was perched in the corner on a stool eating prawn cocktail crisps.

Frank Brevitt didn't laugh or smile, he stared inquisitively at the lad, sizing him up.

'Do ya like the football young un'?' He asked over to Paul Cable.

Paul looked startled for a moment, surprised to be addressed with such an unexpected question. 'Er, no,..not really.' He quietly stuttered.

'What about the fightin?.. Do you scrap?' Frank Brevitt continued.

Peter Painter and Nick Mallard chuckled, assuming that Brevitt was joining them in taking the micky out of the lad.

Paul scanned the three of them before blankly shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. 'Not really done much of that either Mr Brevitt.' He politely admitted.

'He can hardly fight for breath.' Nick Mallard joked before ploughing another face full of crisps through his ample lips.

Paul Cable stood, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.

'You reckon do you lard lad?' Brevitt replied, still staring at Paul Cable. 'Well, I'd be willing to bet one hundred of my notes against one hundred of yours that this ere skinny kid could tan your backside around that car park out there.' His head swivelled to meet Nick Mallard's suddenly motionless chubby hands.

'No, no, no, he's right Frank...A good wind would blow young Mr Cable here right out the car park.' Peter Painter nervously added.

Frank Brevitt turned to face Painter. 'Shall we mek it one hundred of yours as well then Painter?'

Painter puffed out his cheeks and scraped his notable harelip with his bottom set of teeth in anxiety.

'What's up? Cat got your tongue?' Asked Brevitt with Painter's absence of a quick answer. 'Your big money struggling to match your big gob?'

'No,.no,. Am not a gambling man Frank.' He sniggered.

'Thought as much... All mouth and tiny trousers... Ave always thought that about you Pete.' He turned again to Paul Cable. 'Wheel us that load out to me van kid. It's the blue Transporter.'

'Okay Mr Brevitt.' Paul quickly responded and made for the double doors. He was thankful to get away from the sudden tension of the room.

Frank Brevitt eyeballed the two men from under his thick black brow.

'You two want to be careful. Picking on young lads with loose lips like that can be a perilous decision that can come back and bite you right on the arse.'

He turned and walked from the shop, his movements clunking, though purposeful. Cumbersome though displaying enough about them to suggest that his reactions could alter within the blink of an eye.

He strutted towards his van and Paul Cable who was waiting patiently to help him load.

'Why do ya let a couple of nobodies like that talk to you in that fashion?' He asked with a smirk.

Paul Cable just shrugged, as Brevitt sized him up and down.

'How tall are you?..Six one?..Six two?' Frank asked curiously.

'I'm six foot three Mr Brevitt.' Paul added, puzzled.

'And what do you weigh?..a hundred and fifty pounds?'

'Erm,..about ten and a half stone.' He replied as Frank Brevitt unlocked his van door and they began shovelling his purchases inside.

Frank stops and looks at him. 'You say you don't fight?'

'I've never had a fight in my life Mr Brevitt.'

'And you don't like the football?'

'No Mr Brevitt.'

'Do you do anything physical?'

'No Mr Brevitt..... Though I kinda used to run a bit Mr Brevitt.'

'Look, you can stop callin' me Mr Brevitt or we'll go toe to toe right ere and now ya wee fucker.' He smiled and was pleased when the shy youngster replicated his response.

'Listen, Paul int it?...I help run a gym and boxing club...The Queensbury Gym up on Station Lane.. I'm there Sunday evenings, straight through to Thursday. I work the doors in town at the weekends so can't always be there, but if you fancy it you should come along. Even if you don't fight, it's good for ya fitness...We always like to encourage promising new lads.' Frank Brevitt slammed the door of his van and walked around to the cab and climbed inside, starting the engine and rolling down the window. 'Give it a go, build yer'sen some confidence...You'll soon have piss taking faggots like them in there not wantin' to look you in the eye son........Give it some thought....... I'll see you around.'

And with that Frank Brevitt scorched from the yard, never peering around or looking in to his mirrors for a response and was gone.

Paul Cable wheeled the trolley back through the shop front, collected the insults of his two co-workers and finished palletizing his big order.

## 15th January 1990

Frank Brevitt was a hero; a veteran of the Falklands Conflict of nineteen eighty-two.

His office at the Queensbury Gym was a shrine to the forces and the Parachute Regiment with who he'd served with and boxed for. Photographs and cuttings of the war with Argentina littered his walls, and an image of the regiments famous winged crest adorned the wall above his desk along with the latin words Utrinque Paratus skilfully stencilled below it; the motif matched the one which stained the skin of his shoulder in blue ink.

He'd been part of Lieutenant-Colonel Herbert 'H' Jones' second battalion that combined with the main attack force that on the twenty-eighth of May had taken Goose Green during freezing cold, howling conditions.

He celebrated his twenty-ninth birthday in the Falklands that year and he'd been in the armed service for a dozen years that had seen much of his time spent in the bleakness of Northern Ireland with its troubles. His regiment were residents there for two years and his hardened mentality had greatly enjoyed his time there as much as it had any died in the wool member of the Irish Republican Army or the Ulster Defence Regiment. He lived for conflict and in Ireland he got plenty to fill his copious thirst.

Since leaving the army in the spring of nineteen eighty-three Frank had become a plumbers mate before qualifying for himself. Yet all he knew was fighting and brutality and in the form of boxing he found that he could release that built up steam of energy and largely keep himself out of trouble; except when occasionally he would need to top up his adrenaline fuel with the organized violence of Mansfield's football hooligan crowd. His great friend was 'Keno' Quillan who had worked the doors of the town for nine years and was a keen amateur boxer himself; from the moment that they worked the doors alongside one another they began discussing and planning the opening of a gym for the local kids, to groom their talent, to offer serious trainers and bodybuilders a home and to more importantly earn a little extra cash.

With the help from sponsorship from a local nightclub owner and a used car showroom they began renting out a unit and purchased a second-hand ring and collected decent used gear from other clubs throughout the area and quickly established themselves as a gym of note.

The place took off and membership figures greatly increased. Old gear was replaced with new and eventually they took over the full lease of the place themselves.

The Queensbury Gym was a place that Frank and Keno were rightfully proud of; they were achieving something off of their own backs that was working and putting plenty of extra cash in to the coffers. They'd also found some decent young talent who they'd got hopes for.

The gym was like a second home for Frank Brevitt and the buzz and camaraderie of the place had helped fill the void left by the absence of the army.

When Paul Cable arrived at his office he wasn't at all surprised, though he was shocked to see him looking so dishevelled and smelling so badly.

'You decided to come then.' He grinned. Putting down his paperwork and picking up his steaming mug of coffee.

'You seem a good man, so I thought I'd give it a go.' Paul said, surveying the walls attentively .

'Red berets mate...Used to be me life... Now it's this gym.' Frank proudly announced through wrinkled brow.

'You must like fightin?'

'Oh I love a tear up as much as any man,..but it's about learning to control that aggression here...or to maybe even bring some out in some people... Like yer'sen I'd suggest?'

Paul observed in silence, reading the cuttings of the war and checking out the photographs of fighters of both the gloved and gun variety.

'Have you got showers here?' Paul eventually continued.

Frank Brevitt lent back in his wooden chair, lifted his tracksuited legs up and rested his flip flopped feet on the desk.

'We do ave showers,.. we also have hot water... Keno opens the gym up at 9am on week days and we shut at 9pm in the evenings. We open for six hours on Saturday mornings from 7, and for four hours from 8 on Sundays...We do boxing and boxing fitness,.. we also have a lad called John who takes kickboxing classes three nights of the week, we have classes for Pilates, and we have free weights and machines in the back hall... There's physiotherapy for any niggles and a sympathetic ear for advice... We can construct you a fitness plan for your specific needs and won't bullshit you or advise you to waste your time and money if we think that you are... Membership for the year is thirty quid and two quid for every session thereafter, to be payable on entry with no exceptions, an introductory session is free of charge... We have a list of rules on the wall outside that have to be one hundred percent adhered to, or membership can be withdrawn...We're a serious gym with serious ideas and won't suffer dickheads, which I'm sure you're not, but the same speech applies to all potential new customers.'

'Can I use your shower?'

'I think you'd better... Out the door, down the hall, third left after the lockers.'

'Thanks.'

'I'll be in the gym once you've done. Come and find me.'

Paul Cable enjoyed the hot shower immensely. He was also pleasantly surprised that the locker room wasn't communal and he could enjoy some privacy.

The gym wasn't what he'd expected. It was light and airy with a main hall that was dedicated to the noble art. Its full sized ring was its centrepiece, and around the place were heavy bags and freestanding ones, maize balls and angle bags; men skipped and boys sparred. In the smaller back hall were several rows of weights machines, along with the regular cardiovascular ones: exercise bikes, running machines, rowing machines. Across the length of a wall were racks of free weights and half a dozen men of equal sizes quietly went about their work.

Paul felt decidedly inadequate. He'd never stepped inside a gymnasium in his entire life and as Frank Brevitt measured his weight and size and put him through a series of strength testing exercises he began to regret his deep desires for a warm room and a needy wash.

By the time that Frank had finished with him, he'd devised him a cardio and weights plan for a total beginner who despite his good stamina had little strength. He told him that they'd move on to the boxing fitness once his levels had adapted for the assault that he'd put him through with his workout. He'd need to devise a protein enriched diet and Frank had a photocopied list of dietary alternatives.

Paul showered again; making the most of it, before he returned to Frank Brevitt's office to ply his palm with the thirty pounds to secure his membership for the year.

It took Brevitt by surprise.

'Are you sure?...I'll give you a couple of weeks to mull it over.' He asked.

'No exceptions you said.'

'Some people aren't ever cut out for a gym Paul.'

'I thought that you'd seen something in me?'

'I think that's up to you mate. Your build can definitely be worked on, and you're a determined lad.'

'Well I'd like to give it a go then please.'

'Then I'll gladly take your cash and take up the challenge then.' Frank smiled. 'Where ya from Paul?'

'From town...I'm from here.'

'I know that,..I meant your address,..which part of town are you from.'

Paul stuttered and uttered the first place that came in to his head. 'Er,..Ladybrook.' He sheepishly lied.

'I see,..you live with your folks still?'

'Mm,.yeah.' He quietly ushered before dropping a shoulder of suggestion. 'Right, I'm off.' He said. 'Can I come back tomorrow?'

'Of course you can mate. You're a member now, you can return as often as possible. Two quid per session remember.'

'Okay,..thanks.'

'Tek care bud.'

There was something about the lad that puzzled Frank Brevitt. He was incredibly timid and had the thousand yard stare about his mannerisms. He was a troubled soul and it stuck out a mile on Frank's sonar. Brevitt was a hard man, but he had a soft centre for underdogs and Paul Cable was most definitely that. He'd hated how the blokes in that yard had talked to the lad and he got the impression, as he watched him slope out of the gym door with slumped shoulders, that it was an attitude that he'd been stuck with for some time.

Frank liked a challenge and in Paul Cable he saw one.

Frank locked the gym and boarded his van. He drove out of the small car park, stopping to pull the iron gate to and padlocking it. Twenty yards down the street, pulled up on a houseless side street was Paul Cable's Vauxhall Astramax; in the back Paul drunk from a bottle of water and played a card game of Patience whilst listening to alternative music on his transistor radio.

Frank Brevitt spotted the vehicle whilst putting on his seatbelt. He was starving and looking forward to seeing Natalie.

## 30th January 1990

Kelvin Briggs shook his head.

He wasn't shocked; he'd seen this sort of thing before, and Painter was well known for bullying the young lads that they'd had there over the years. That's why few of them had stayed for long and the turnover was so large. Though Briggs was surprised at Cable's tolerance threshold; he seemed to be able to take more stick than any of the other school leavers that they'd ever taken on.

In Nick Mallard, the head storeman had found an ally that would be a very willing and giggling accomplice and together they took to their dismantling of the youngest staff member with all the vigour of voracious monarchs tucking in to a vast opulent medieval banquet.

Kelvin Briggs took out his retractable knife and began carefully cutting at the packing tape that Peter Painter and Nick Mallard had wrapped him in, over and over and over again.

If the manager Mr Talbot had found Paul Cable wrapped up like some brown taped mummy, stuffed in the broom-cupboard with only his head showing, they'd have all been for the high jump.

'Will ya say owt lad?'...You know that I'm nowt ta do wi all this nonsense don't ya?' Kelvin Briggs asked in a slight panic.

'No I won't say anything.' Paul replied in relative, unflustered calm.

'I don't know why you don't do something,....stick up for yer'sen for a change.'

'I'm workin on it.' Paul Cable assured him.

## 1st February 1990

Frank Brevitt had noticed that the van had been there on most nights in the past few weeks; it was always right at the bottom of the street against the high bricked wall, in the shadow away from the orange din of the streetlights. It seemed unusual as nothing ever parked down that street. It led to a dead end and the few houses and the old warehouse that lined it had been derelict for years. He wondered to himself why the police hadn't noticed it.

He reversed back up and looked down the side street before pulling slowly down it and halting twenty metres from the Astramax and cutting the engine and climbing out of his van to investigate.

He lent and peered in through the passenger side window. It seemed tidy and fresh and there was no clear sign of breaking and entry - maybe the thing hadn't just been dumped there after all. He sharpened his hearing and tuned in to the only just audible noise of music. Was it coming from the inside of the van? The radio was clearly not on at the dashboard.

He wrapped his knuckles against the side panel of the vehicle.

'Hello..Is there anyone home? He talked with authority. He didn't like the idea of someone pissing around, just a few yards away from the gym. It wasn't the prettiest area of town, but he didn't like the idea of strangers loitering not far from the place that they'd put a lot of sweat in to.

He was greeted with silence. The din of the music disappeared.

He banged again, only harder.

'What ya pissin about at?...We don't want folks holing up around here...I'll just call the old bill and they'll move ya on.' He barked, undeterred by whoever might be harbouring inside.

The blacked out rear door gently swung open and Frank Brevitt clenched his fists and prepared himself.

When Paul Cable came in to view with ashen face his expression immediately changed to one of bewilderment.

'Paul?...What the fuck are you doing down here?'

'Sorry Frank,..I've not got anywhere else to go.' Paul said apologetically. 'Down here is quiet and I don't get bothered... Well,..not til now anyway.'

'Are you sleeping rough?'

'I'm not sure,..I s'ppose so I guess.'

'Where's your folks?..Why aren't you with your family son?'

Paul mulled over the question carefully. Why wasn't he with his family? It was a good question.

'I don't really know Frank.'

It was a surprise for Natalie Brevitt when she caught eye of the young stranger for the first time; and It wasn't the first time that Frank had brought home a waif or stray either, but this lad looked different. He was tall in height, though he looked as if a simple breeze would sweep him from his feet. He seemed personally clean and fresh, though his clothes were unkempt and he smelt slightly fusty. His demeanour was shy, humble and apologetic, but Frank showed obvious enthusiasm for the boy; it was typical of him, he was a sucker for a lost kid.

Frank had introduced the two of them and asked if there would be enough supper for a third plate at the table.

The chilli con carne was his first hot meal for two days. He'd not told Frank that he'd not been putting away his carbohydrates and protein as instructed. He hadn't wanted more grief during his own free time.

Frank relayed Paul's vague story to his wife and of how he was sleeping rough in the van that was stacked out in the back with his only wares. Occasionally the teenager would add a little extract of fact to complete his tale.

She sat and digested her husband's fervour, she knew what was coming and she knew that she genuinely did have the final say in the matter, but even if that say was negative he would eventually talk her round with his finely polished argument; he always did, his passion would always engulf her and ultimately win her around to his way of thinking.

'I couldn't do that Frank, it wouldn't be fair... You hardly know me... It's not fair on Mrs Brevitt.' Paul puffed aghast at the gesture. He wanted to say yes, but his pride as well as his nervousness prevented him from leaping up and embracing the pair of them.

'She doesn't mind. You don't mind do you Nat?' Frank immediately threw back at him and gestured towards his wife with an upturned flat palm.

She shook her head and gave Paul a downbeat smile. 'I don't mind.'

Paul wasn't convinced with her reply. It was as if she had been talked in to it, he'd witnessed it; Frank was overwhelming and although he clearly respected her, it had seemed like it was Frank's idea and that was that.

Paul looked at Frank. 'I'm not sure...I'm happy in the van.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Bollocks!.. I'm not having that. What future is in that van?' Frank argued.

'I'm not sure what you mean. I'm saving up some money if that's what you mean?' He stumbled.

Frank Brevitt leant towards him.

'I'll tell you what future you'll have kippin in that van... A bleedin hard un... You're eighteen Paul. Where's ya friends?.. Where's ya family?.. Apart from the gym, where do ya go?.. How do you eat properly? Wash your stinking clothes? Relax? Enjoy ya life?... Ya life in that van is a flamin joke and you'll end up one way. Ya know what way?' He spat with animation.

The youth shook his head in agitation.

'Dead!.. You'll end up dead Paul...In a gutter... How long have you been sleepin in that van?'

'Two or three months.'

'Two or three months, and how do you feel; mentally?.. Are ya happy?.. Full of the joys of spring?.. Full of optimism for the future?'

Paul looked towards Natalie, hoping for a defence.

'It's not a healthy existence Paul... He might look like a big old dumb lump, but Frank's right; and his heart is in the right place.' She flashed him a smirk, a loving glint held in her fresh looking eyes.

'Too right I am.' He agreed. 'I want to help you Paul. You're just a kid. A kid at an age where ya need guidance; guidance that ya should be getting from a parent... You've been slapped with the shit stick I know that, but young adulthood is no fairytale I know that too.'

Paul ran a hand through his lank shoulder length hair and looked down at his empty plate. It should feel easier to just say "yes, yes, yes."

Natalie Brevitt rested a soft hand of sympathy against his sweater covered arm. She'd definitely have to throw those clothes immediately in to the wash.

'Have you got any money Paul?' She asked

He looked at her and speculated the nature of her enquiry.

'If you have a eighty pounds, then give it to Frank by the weekend; if you don't, then you're next few pay days will do... You can stay for a month as a trial to see how we all get along...You can have the spare room, I'll do your meals and wash your clothes. In return you can have a key and can do some chores... I won't have girls here, or gangs of lads. If you put a foot out of line, Frank will give you a good hiding, and one more thing.' She told him with kind support.

'What's that?' Paul croaked under a small voice.

'You can start smiling.' She offered.

Paul Cable smiled.

'You know something Frank.' She asked.

'What's that gorgeous?' He answered, his love for her and her understanding growing by the second. What would he do without her?

'He's quite an attractive young gentleman when he smiles.' She teased.

'In a fanciable way? Frank winked.

'Definitely.'

Paul instantly blushed with huge embarrassment. He knew that they were joshing him, but he was elated inside.

After Frank had introduced him to his room and the spare bed, he showed him the bathroom and threatened him that their room was strictly out of bounds; as was the whole upstairs when Natalie wanted a bath or a shower. Frank and Natalie Brevitt had a very neat and modern home that was minimal and light; very different to what Paul had been used to.

Frank told him that he hoped that he would feel comfortable here, but he could leave at any time and would expect him to continue with his savings for a place of his own.

Frank openly told him in the most basic of terms how he had been firing blanks and hadn't been able to give Natalie the children that she so desired and deserved. He felt shame in himself at never being able to fill that spare room with the life of chatter, play and music. He knew that moving Paul in wouldn't ever begin to make up for that, but that it would be good to have another life in the house; however temporary.'

Paul washed the dishes - his first chore that he eagerly jumped at.

Through the crack in the doorway he could see him embracing her beside the dining table. He was whispering in to her ear; her shorthaired blonde head tilted on one side and her pretty face lit with a smile. Frank was a big man with a big heart and she was tiny beside him, though they were equal in every way and inside her much more modestly proportioned body beat a heart that was every bit as strong and wholesome.

When Paul Cable woke for work on the following morning, he was refreshed from a good night's sleep, though beleaguered from his strange environment. He still suffered from nightmares and would occasionally sweat profusely, but he'd instantly felt safe here.

He'd laid there for an hour in the early morning dark, feeling the comfort of the mattress beneath him, his mind awash with his new change in circumstances. He barely knew these people, yet they seemed genuine and he'd got nothing to lose; he'd certainly got nowhere else to go. He hoped that he wouldn't let himself and their faith down.

As he left for work in the silence of the house, he placed eighty pounds in crumpled old ten pound notes on the kitchen worktop beside the beech-trimmed steel kettle.

## 23rd March 1990

'You're a clueless young idiot with ya head in the clouds... You're a deaf mute that hides out back trying to do as little as possible, whilst we cover your back and carry you... If I was in charge, you'd have been on your way by now!'

Peter Painter yelled more for effect than anything else; knowing that the boss had come down to the top office and was within earshot of his bloated and totally unfounded bellowing.

Paul Cable hadn't done anything more wrong than to mispick a very minor item on a particularly large order, but it had opened the door of opportunity to rant his authority at the dumbfounded youngster, whilst attempting to get over a point.

Painter didn't like him, he never had. Painter didn't like many people, and had few good words for even less; but he'd begun to particularly dislike Paul Cable.

In his mind the lad was useless at his job, though to be fair it was unlikely that anyone would ever live up to his lofted expectations. Paul Cable also never ever bit. Peter Painter thrived on the young employees biting; it would be the first line in the process of being able to get them fired.

He'd been there for twenty-two years, and been head storeman for fifteen. During that time several school leavers had come, and he'd seen the lot of them off; but Paul Cable had never given him an inch. Yes he was terrible at his job, there was no denying that in Painter's mind - they all had been – but he never once gave him call for disciplinary action.

He was always on time, never shirked responsibilities, did as he was told, and would take the daily abuse as if it was never heard.

Cable was a deaf mute; he had to be. Or at least he showed signs of being.

A gormless, gorpy kid without a brain or a tongue for backchat. All Painter wanted was some lip: a squeak, a hint, a trace of descent, a suggestion of insult, a swear word, name-calling, gesticulation, violence, a defamation of character, a verbal assault, slander, public humiliation, a smidgen of malpractice.

Nothing. The lanky streak of shit gave him absolutely nothing.

So when he made the mistake of packaging up a tub of 350g flux instead of the 125g version, it was the first opportunity in some while that the forty-seven year old droopy-faced man with the harelip and the straw-like black/grey hair which grew over his large sprouting ears had had to confront him in a public place for awhile. He strode out in to the warehouse with that loping stride, accompanied by his long swinging arms which outgrew his boiler-suit sleeves and began his wailing and finger pointing avalanche.

Paul Cable remained unflinching. His eyes barely blinked. His heartbeat remained ponderously normal. The man was nothing to him. He was just a voice that enjoyed the work of his own tongue far more than anyone else did.

When the boss came to the door of the top office and asked down from the top of the mezzanine floored staircase if there was a problem, Peter Painter was straight over and hopping up the clanking steps with an eye firmly fixed on Paul Cable.

Much to his annoyance, the response that he received from the man in charge was jovial and undermining of Peter Painter's obvious misgivings of the lad's abilities. He'd told him that those in the office had always found Paul Cable a polite and well mannered youngster and that he was always willing to lend a hand when at all possible. He agreed that he was a quiet boy, but he was finding his way in the workplace and he offered that "we weren't all blessed with a great confidence when we entered the big bad world of employment."

Paul had made a mistake and he should let it go with a simple slap on the wrist.

Peter Painter would have preferred to give the kid a slap in the mouth. He led a charmed life.

After leaving the office he found Cable down an aisle opening a fresh box of compression joints. He lent in to his ear and growled that he could stop making him look so stupid and that he'd got his card marked. The boss man had been told that he wasn't best pleased with his work and he lied that he had ordered him to keep Paul on his toes, or he'd be shown the door. Thunderstore didn't suffer slackers.

Paul scooped the compression joints in to a grey plastic holding box. Frank was upping his circuit training that night and his strength had improved markedly. His weights had been significantly increased along with much fewer reps to shock his muscles in to responding. He was feeling much healthier already. His confidence was growing and so were his ambitions. He trained relentlessly and had quickly become a gym junkie. When he wasn't training and was resting his muscles, he was sweeping the place, or scrubbing down the showers, washing the kit or litter-picking out in the car park. He loved The Queensbury like no other place before: the smell of sweat, of resin and of the oils, the clanking of metal plates and the thud of leather, the yell of instruction and the swoosh of skipping rope; and above all else, the camaraderie of men and women of differing standards but equal goals.

## 10th August 1990

The three of them had sat and eaten dinner together in the conservatory that flooded with sunlight. Frank had opened all of the windows and the patio doors, and occasionally a draft would whisper through the place and tickle at their bare legs.

They'd move the dining table in to there at teatime when the weather was especially good to enjoy the climate at its upmost.

It was a Friday and Frank would avoid the gym and finish work as soon as possible to grab an hour's nap before showering and putting on his three piece suit for a shift on the doors of the town's lively pubs and clubs.

He would normally become more reserved at a Friday dinnertime as he would calm his emotions and get psyched, but today he was even more quiet than normal; as if his mind was elsewhere.

Natalie too was not her usual self. She'd put the chicken in the oven the minute that she had got home from her job at the hairdressing salon and joined Frank in bed, leaving Paul to relax on the sun lounge in the garden.

His physical form was already taking on a dramatic alteration. His weight had increased by twenty pounds and he was steadily thickening up in all areas. With his added bulk came an added confidence and a peace of mind. His meal patterns were now more uniform and balanced and it had helped his brain function to a more heightened degree. The body and soul he was developing felt a far more comfortable fit than the one he'd been dragging hopelessly around; he had both Frank and Nat to thank for that.

The three of them felt at ease in one another's presence and an order to their living had become a relaxed routine.

Paul still worked at the builders and plumbers merchants, but was actively looking for something else; he also did several unpaid hours a week around the gym and occasionally he would help out Frank with his jobs that would go over time. He lived for fitness, but would sometimes find time for the riverbank. He'd bought some second hand tackle and would return to the Bleak Hills whenever he was stuck for something to do. He'd even introduced Frank to it. The big ex-paratrooper had originally mocked the pastime until finding the therapy of it soothed and agreed with him. Frank himself had become hooked on the very first visit and they'd take a few cans and fish in the evenings every now and then.

Natalie Brevitt had instantly liked Paul. He was incredibly shy and uncomfortable around her at first and initially when they found themselves alone she sensed that the anxious boy was close to imploding in the agony of his nerves. But she coaxed him out of his shell by constantly chatting to him and involving him in everything they did.

She was seventeen years his senior and their relationship felt like that of brother and sister to her. He'd opened up and told her about the abuse he'd received at the hands of his father, she'd also promised not to tell Frank and at times it ate away at her about the pain that the youth had been through: his mother had been a physical and mental wreck that could never properly look after him, and it seemed that everyone who he had cared for, and received it back from had withered up and died away. She remembered the shock of that little girl being murdered on the day of the royal wedding; the news of it was vivid in her mind. She'd been twenty-six and was living in a flat with her friend Tina. Her and Frank had been together for eighteen months after meeting the 'bolder than brass' squaddie in The White Swan; his sharp chat up lines being almost as irresistible as his muscles.

Natalie had found it unusual that a thirty-seven year old man had become Paul Cable's new best friend, but Frank had found building Paul's confidence stimulating, like his own personal project, and Paul had really responded to him. She was proud of her husband and of the things that he achieved; she wasn't always happy with his ways, but she knew that she couldn't have found a better man.

After their meal Frank finished getting ready and Paul gave him a lift to Keno's before driving over to the gym where he worked on his shoulders, arms and back, and did thirty minutes on the treadmill before doing some of Frank's paperwork and cleaning up.

Frank and Keno had allowed Paul a key and trusted him with locking the place up, which he did and drove back to Frank and Natalie's.

Natalie was going clubbing in town with Tina and was stood in front of the dining room mirror applying makeup to her eyelashes. She was dressed in a pink strapless mini dress with a ruched cross front design. It showed off her sleek frame, her trim butt and a lot of bare back. Her short hair was clipped over in a side parting and her face was lightly made up. She was a naturally well made looking woman whose looks couldn't be hidden by casual clothes when she did the housework, but could be sensationally enhanced when she dressed up for a night out.

She had become a permanent fixture of fantasy in Paul's brain from the moment that he moved in. He found her irresistible whether she was dressed like this in front of him, or whether she was in a plain t-shirt and grey trackpants. He'd feel guilty about some of his thoughts whilst under Frank's roof, and would sometimes have to go for a run late at night sooner than be alone with his dirty thoughts and an empty room.

Frank would positively encourage her to go out partying once every month with her best friend and she hadn't seemed to tire of it in Paul's eyes. He hadn't any experience of drinking in pubs and clubs, but he'd imagine that none of the blokes would be able to take their eyes off of her and he found it unusual that Frank would support that.

She added some lip gloss and pursed her lips.

'So what do you think Paulie?...Worth the effort?' She asked, almost in the same vein that his mother would.

He nodded enthusiastically and gave her a thumbs up - half a banana filling his mouth.

She walked over to him and flicked his hair with her finger.

'We're going to have to do something with this mop you've got... Will you let me cut it?'

'I quite like it.' He uttered whilst emptying his throat.

She pulled a face and moved closer, moving his fringe over and tucking hair behind his ears.

She smelt box fresh and brand new and Paul wondered why Frank spent so much time at the gym and working stupid doors when he could spend it with his wife.

Her eyes darted about and her mouth was moving, but he was lost in her company and with little attention to what she was say.

'Paul?......Paul?......What do you think Paul?'

He shook out of his trance.

'Were you listening?'

'Yeah,..yeah of course.' He stumbled.

'So will you pop by the shop tomorrow, about lunchtime?' She asked.

'No worries Nat.'

'You can become my model.' She giggled.

'I'm all yours to abuse.' He smiled.

'Don't tempt me.' She continued and glared in to his eyes. 'I'm glad you decided to stay here Paul.' A serious tone entering her voice. 'You've been good for Frank...He needed someone like you to complete him...Like the son that he couldn't have.'

Her face dropped and developed a frown.

'Are you alright?' He voiced with concern as she sat at in one of the dining room chairs.

'I'm fine Paul. It just upsets me at times... We've got this lovely house and some nice things. We've got decent money coming in and have some good times, but every now and then it's easy to get down about the things that you can't have in life.'

'I'm sorry Nat...I know that my room ought to belong to someone else...I'm sorry that you've not had the thing you want the most.'

She forced a smile as he crouched beside her.

'You're a lovely lad Paul. I don't know how anyone could treat you the way that they have...I'd like to think that I'd have done a better job personally.'

'You're kidding aren't you.' He attempted to lighten the mood. 'If I had a mum like you I'd be following you around town pulling the blokes off of you.'

She spluttered. 'I think I already have a man to do that sweetie. Though it's a nice thought to know that I have a back up.'

He smiled and she looked at her watch.

'I'll be late.'

'Do you want me to give you a lift to town?' He offered.

'No thank you love. I always like to drive; it forces me to not drink too much.'

She stood and gave him a hug. He wrapped his arms around her and felt the bare flesh of her back.

'It's time you got yourself out too... Got some friends your own age,..or a girlfriend.'

He offered her a helpless look.

'Your time will come love...Once I've dealt with that hair.' She smiled and quickly kissed his cheek. 'And put those clothes in the wash,..they stink.'

She left and slipped out of the drive in her Vauxhall Corsa.

Paul Cable paced the room, his loins on fire. He decided that he definitely needed to go for another run.

## 27th August 1990

Painter glared at him from across the lunch table, chewing laboriously on a thickly sliced sandwich of cheese and pickle.

Paul Cable stared back at him, his arms folded and his feet stretched out on the next orange plastic chair along.

Kelvin Briggs held the Daily Express high, covering his face from them all, whilst Nick Mallard rested his head lazily on his arms that lay flat to the table; his eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy.

A couple of girls from the office were stood chatting by the coffee machine, and Darren the salesman sat silently in the corner, his head lifted to the small portable TV that played the lunchtime news.

Painter took repeated bites from his sandwich and pondered. Each bite seemed to annoy him more than the last.

Paul Cable blankly watched his ridiculous charade and awaited the response that was so obviously coming that you could almost hear the gears being wound in his head.

The rumour had gone around the place that Peter Painter's wife had left him. She'd taken the children and moved in with her mother. No longer could she tolerate his constant berating of her. The ripping apart of her character had long been his favourite game. With her gone, the house had suddenly become a lonely place with nobody left to lash out at.

The girls had been just as happy to see the back of their dad. He'd not paid them much attention and he'd preferred to potter around in his garage building up his train set landscape that had remained a secret to all but his family. He'd lost interest with the thing since they'd moved out and now he spent much of his time pacing the house and drinking lager and whisky. He'd not bathed for a week and it was beginning to show.

Painter got up from his chair and washed his Manchester United mug in the sink. He stood and watched the TV blankly for a minute before lurching towards the door.

Paul Cable's eyes followed him across the room. The unshaven head storeman eyeballed the youngster as he headed for the door. As he reached it he screeched three words in Paul's direction whilst jabbing a finger. 'FUCK RIGHT OFF!'

Everyone turned to watch him leave before breaking out in to giggles.

## 28th August 1990

Natalie Brevitt had taken him to the photo booth in the Four Seasons Centre and made him have his photograph taken.

She gushed about how handsome he looked with his hair smartly cropped and in the new Ralph Lauren shirt that she'd bought him especially for the photo event.

He thought that she was daft spending seventy pounds on a shirt for a silly photograph, but he'd treasure it, it was the nicest item of clothing that he owned.

She told him that he'd need to add plenty to it if he was to look the part on his holiday away.

He asked where they were going. He'd never been abroad in all his life.

He couldn't get the image of her in a bikini lying on the white sands of Greece or somewhere from out of his mind.

In his mind they'd swim in the sea and she'd stand beside him with her wet hair slicked back; she'd have one hand inside of his trunks playing with his cock under the water whilst with her other she'd wave over to Frank on the shore. The ex-soldier would wave back at them from the comfort of his towel. Giving a big thumbs up!

She refused to tell him where they were going, but Frank was paying for it and he'd be having a great time. She'd insisted on it that he was to go.

What had she planned for him? Had she got secret desires for him too? Why else would she insist that he goes with them? He was old enough to stay at home on his home whilst they went away. He wasn't a child; less alone their child. What about his fitness training whilst he was away? Would he lose what he'd worked hard to get? He did definitely like the sound of a holiday though and he'd immediately begin to write a list of things that he'd need once he got back home.

Why had she insisted on him going with them? It had to be because she wanted him.

Styling his hair, buying him clothes and telling him that she was glad that he was around? The more that he thought about it the more it seemed obvious.

What would Frank think? He'd done everything for him.

He'd want to kill him with his bare hands!

He accepted that to be with Natalie it was worth the risk.

## Amsterdam, The Netherlands : 18th September 1990

'AMSTERDAM BROTHER CABLE; COME ON!' Frank Brevitt whooped, placing and an excitable arm around him as they emerged from Centraal Station in to the lunchtime sunshine.

Paul Cable wasn't particularly impressed. He expected beaches and the sea, pretty young things in small costumes; and Natalie Brevitt.

Instead he'd got Frank and Keno and the hectic streets of the Dutch capital.

He'd got up that morning and she'd already left for work. Paul was puzzled and Frank wore a thick grin of anticipation as he strolled around the house, scratching his balls underneath his boxer shorts and looking ripped in his sunbed tan and his army tattoos.

Natalie had left a card on the kitchen worktop with his name on it and a kiss attached:

Paul,

Thank you for being there for us. I must admit that when Frank brought you home that night I had my reservations. But you've exceeded both of our expectations and I know that it's only been a few short months, but we both feel as though you are almost now one of the family.

Every year Frank goes to Amsterdam to unwind and party for a few days. This year I insisted that he takes you with him, and he happily agreed.

You deserve a holiday and some time as mates together. You've brought so much pleasure in to Frank's life that I know that he wants to take care of you and make sure you have a good time.

Please find a few hundred Dutch guilders enclosed for you to have the time of your life. You feel like a little brother to me, and I have seen you grow so much in the past eight months, I know that after your trip you will come back even more confident than you're quickly becoming.

All my love,

Natx

Amsterdam?.. What was there here?.. He knew nothing at all about the place.

Frank was giddily excited; Keno was ridiculously excited, but Paul felt emotionless. He'd looked forward to Greece or Spain and allowed his eager mind to get carried away with it. Now he just felt disappointment. There'd be no Natalie in her bikini and long days around the pool to show off his rapidly expanding body. Frank and Keno had told him the whole ferry journey over about the Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank Huis, the museums of Van Gogh and the Heritage one. They'd sip espresso on the cobbles and perhaps grab an Ajax match at De Meer Stadion.

Nothing sounded worse to him. Museums? Coffee? and football?

If deflation were a genuine sense, he was feeling the effects right now.

''Hill Street Blues?" Keno had politely enquired to Frank Brevitt. Frank had paused to ponder before smiling and asking Mr Quillan to "lead the way."

They walked from the station across the wide busy road of Prins Hendrikkade and down the Damrak with its bustle of pedestrians, the sea of rustic old bikes, cars and the clanking of trams.

Paul's eyes darted everywhere, unknowing of where best to look next. He'd never seen so many people rushing around with somewhere to be and he kept behind the two strapping men who carried their bags on their shoulders like they were entering the bag-carrying round at Mr Universe.

Keno led them down the narrow cobbled streets until they swiftly found the almost hidden doorway to a grotty looking establishment on Warmoesstraat. Inside was unlike anywhere on earth to Paul. The air was acrid, musty and blue with the smell of hashish and chilled hip hop music played coolly in the background. The grubby terracotta walls were repeatedly encouraged to be daubed in the black ink of marker pen with names of people and places the world over. A young guy stood behind a corner booth and chatted about the strengths of the hash to two backpack carrying travellers, whilst in the back room a pride of smokeheads were slumped over leather upholstery with its foam fighting to escape through gaping tears in the material, whilst rolling weed on old wooden tables that looked out on to a view of the Damrak canal through wide open double windows.

It felt as if some alien world had gate-crashed Paul Cable's life and his brain worked hard to absorb everything.

They sat at three bar stools and Frank ordered three espresso's, three small beers and a gram of Northern Lights. Paul sat between them both as the other two exchanged good-humoured chat with the pretty Irish punk girl behind the bar.

Paul felt somewhat detached from the party; as though he were a few years behind them and looking in on it through some other means.

Frank had quickly rolled a spliff and was handing it lit to Keno who inhaled deeply. Paul couldn't get his head around these two fitness freaks smoking drugs so freely in front of him. It was so unlike them and flew in the face of all the principles that they led their lives by.

Paul refused a drag on the cigarette. He had vehemently kept away from the vice for the first nineteen years of his life and wasn't planning on changing now; though his head felt light from just being around the stale atmosphere of it. He sipped at his coffee whilst Frank reassured him that it would be okay, he didn't have to partake, but as long as he kept his sugar levels up he'd be fine to have a toke on the weed; despite how strong it was.

The two men in their late thirties giggled at one another and Keno joked with the barmaid about missing the comforts of Belfast, knowing that it would wind Frank up.

Paul eventually had to leave for fresh air and stood in the doorway looking out on the narrow path of the road that dripped with tourists and hedonistic locals alike. The street was lively and some of the buildings leaned in on it, at odds with their reclaimed foundations.

He didn't like it here. It seemed grubby and dirty and the people were odd; even Frank and Keno had oddly evolved since stepping off of the ferry. It seemed a waste to him, a waste of his holidays and a waste of valuable time that he could be spending in the gym. He was surprised at Frank, and he was surprised at Natalie for letting him talk her in to this. She'd clearly never been and seen this place; there'd be no way that she'd recommend it.

Their hotel was the Frisco Inn, just around the corner from Hill Street Blues on Beursstraat.

It was a tall, narrow place, with a bar on the ground floor that opened up on to the street where tables were set out and folks sat in the sun wearing sunglasses and drank lager from tall glasses. A helpful guy behind the bar booked them in to their rooms, and then led them up a ridiculously steep and dangerous staircase to the upper floors where they were allocated two small rooms on the third floor. Keno had a room to himself whilst Paul and Frank shared.

'You're quiet Paul.' Frank pointed out as he lay topless on his single bed in the tight room, its windows swung inwards to allow some air in and for the atmosphere of the street below to embrace it.

'I'm fine.' He shrugged as he placed his clothes in the bedside drawers.

'You're in the Dam bud.. Sin City.. let your hair down and enjoy yourself with the many wonders.' Frank joked.

Paul sulkily kept quiet.

'Mate,..ya need to live a little. You're nineteen; ya should be out enjoying yes'sen, sowing ya oats and havin' a laugh. These are the best years of ya life pal, ya need to embrace em whilst there ere.' Frank pleaded.

'I don't really feel comfortable around strange people and pubs and stuff Frank.' Paul admitted, leaning back against the wall.

'That's cos ya young mate, ya naive and inexperienced... Everythin is new ta ya... I agree that the Dam is an assault on the senses alright, but soak it in and enjoy the experience. Me and Nat, and that big bleeder Keno really want you to enjoy yer'sen and see somewhere new. If ya don't like it, fair do's, ya don't ave to come back ere again. But lets see first, hey?'

'Okay, I'll try.'

'You've got the best in the business lookin after ya ere fella..... Oh, and Keno.' He laughed. 'Listen, I promised I'd call Nat this evening. We'll go out for some skran and a few bevvies, we'll give her a call and then me and Keno will take ya to this club we know. Okay?'

'I'm not sure I....'

'No ifs and buts kidda. You've got five hundred quid in ya rocket and you're not allowed to go home with it.'

'How am I going to spend five hundred pounds in two days?' Paul queried.

'You're in the Dam.' Frank laughed. 'Everyone wants to take your money off ya ere.'

Paul stared down at the vivid coloured Dutch notes that lay on the bedside table.

Maybe they wanted to buy some art? He certainly wasn't smuggling drugs back in to the country if that's what they had in mind!

Frank sat up and covered him with a sincere glance, 'Paul, you've had some garbage years. Some tough stuff has happened in your life...some real kicks in the bollocks...ya deserve to let yer'sen go and take time to have some fun...If ya let yourself ya can, but you have to be willin; it won't do it for ya lad.'

Paul nodded.

'This trip ain't about anything other than takin a lad that I've become very fond of on a few days away from home to escape... Stay in that same place all day, every day Paul and you'll become robotic... Yeah we all love the gym and familiar places n faces, but you'll become tired of it. Tediousness will get to you. Never allow that to happen!.. I found that the best thing about the army was the diversity. That and ya mates...un-fuckin beatable.... Grab a fistful of that cash, put on ya best threads and spray on some lash and let's get soaked in it.'

On the phone Natalie had given him an almost like for like speech about trying to enjoy it and to embrace the different culture. He listened to her more than he had Frank; probably because he fancied her and partly because she always seemed to make sense. He'd try to lighten up a little.

He hadn't been quite prepared for the next assault on his senses.

Frank and Keno had travelled extensively to the city before and knew the place like a close relation. They negotiated the narrow streets, canalside's and alleyways of the De Wallen red light district whilst barely veering from their conversation. The dozens of narrow doorways and windows of the old part of the city were filled with scantily clad women of every persuasion with their red lights and blood-coloured curtains on show behind glass that sparkled in the evening dawn sunset.

Some women posed and would fix a hard stare on the three of them, whilst others shared a blank, false expression that forced its way apologetically past those that audienced them. Others would put on a show of bravado, or coolness; and some would remain unflinching from their stools whilst concentrating on lightly filing exhaustedly worked upon nails.

Frank and Keno had dropped the relaxed approach and window shopped with a keen alertness - like a female's surveying for shoes. Meanwhile, Paul was transfixed by the bright bikinis, the dark tans and the statuesque slender bodies with model faces, made up specifically for a shift.

Gathered parties would whoop and holler and cheer as men would reach a deal and slip inside the doors; curtains flying across the windows post haste.

They sat in the aptly titled Red Light Bar on Oudezijds Achterburgwal in the wooden framed window box seats that looked out on to the busy canal with its cruising boats and dimmed red windows on the opposite side of the neon bathed water. A girl in a day-glo bikini is getting plenty of attention from passing crowds and the three of them sit and chuckle in their knowledge of the 'girls' origins. Lois the barmaid who had known them from their previous trips had pointed out the 'girls' hips and the shaven, though not totally departed laryngeal prominence. Men continually approached her, but after discussions none were tempted in to entering her boudoir.

Frank and Keno flirt with the barmaid Lois, and she returns their approach with vigour. When she is out of earshot Keno asks Frank of their chances with her, but Frank suggests that she's teasing with them and must get wise fuckers like them trying it on with her all of the time.

And all the while, whilst attempting to fit in like the triangular shape in the round fitting, Paul sits in confusion. He thought Frank and Natalie were a tight unit. He hoped they were a tight unit. He hoped that there was a glimmer of a chance for him with her now. And then, he hoped that Frank and Nat were a tight unit again.

His brain was screwed with thinking.

Keno slide him a pill from across the surface of the table before placing a similar one in to his mouth.

'Something special for the Ying Yang Club.' He smiled at Paul.

Paul looked to Frank who raised his eyebrows and lifted a palm to suggest to the young man that the decision was his own. He then popped a pill in to his own mouth.

'What is it?' Paul asked Keno.

'All you need to know is that it'll blow ya socks off and make your night even more special kid.' Keno shrugged as he and Frank stood from their seats.

Paul popped the pill in to his mouth and swallowed with a gulp.

Its contents made him feel nervous, but he didn't want the others to think that he was a killjoy. He'd already given too much of a suggestion of that today. He badly wanted to fit in and be like them; the tough bad boys with no fear.

The Ying Yang Club was like their Mecca and every late summer the two men would make a pilgrimage to the place.

It was a private gentlemen's club. Membership for the night was thirty guilders and that included the first two drinks for free. A stage in the main bar would put on sex cabaret acts every thirty minutes with bored guys screwing bored girls, bored girls screwing other bored girls, and bored dildo's screwinging whoever wanted to be screwed. The tourists would still cheer and tuck in to their ten guilder third drink and ridiculously exotic looking hookers would mingle amongst the 'members', flashing their wares and putting hands where the punters wanted them most to try and force a sale.

The place was of a superior taste and style: intricate flocks, drapes and murals covered the dark high walls and thick plaster waterleafed cornices and niche arches picked out in goldleaf paint. It was lit up with neon light and silver strobing filled the air along with loud house music.

On entering Keno immediately stole away with a blonde Ukrainian in high heels whilst Frank and Paul found a booth with purple velvet seating and sat back to enjoy the view.

Paul's insides played strange tricks on him and his brain bounced from the acuteness of the music; he felt comfortably numb and had begun to open up and chatter more profusely with Frank who was clearly enjoying his company and showed ease in his surroundings as girls would join them without invitation; parking their uncovered skin on the men's laps whilst sucking soft drinks or wine through straws in tall glasses.

Paul was unfamiliar with nightclubs, but if this was the norm he now knew what he'd been missing out on.

'See anything that you like?' Frank curiously asked to Paul as they both bobbed their heads in unison with the music and the mysterious goings on of the chemicals that exploded in their minds.

Paul laughed and looked at the angelic looking girl perched on his knee. She couldn't have been any older than him, though they were worlds apart in every sense of the phrase.

'The place is your oyster Paul. You've got money in your pocket and ya can't tek it with ya. Remember what Nat told ya,..enjoy it!' Frank said.

'Oh I don't think Nat meant to spend it on women for sex Frank.' Paul denied.

'What do you think she meant then knack?'

'I don't know, but I'm sure she wouldn't approve of this.'

'What makes ya say that?'

'Well, it's not right is it?'

'Who makes the rules on what's right and wrong mate?'

'A place like this wouldn't be high on her list of places to see I'd imagine.'

'You don't really know Nat then Paul.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well she's been here herself for starters.'

'Hey?' Paul looked on startled.

'Five or six years ago I brought her ere... She paid cash to see me sleep with a Brazilian girl.'

'You're joking?'

'Why would I joke?.. It was a fantasy of hers and I was only too pleased to comply.' He grinned.

'But I...'

'You didn't think that my wife would be like that.'

'No.'

'Butter wouldn't melt?'

'No'

'Not everybody is what they seem on the surface Paul... Did ya think I snook in to this place without her blessing?'

'Yeah.'

'Come off it Paul. Have ya seen me around her?' He questioned with surprise in his eyes. 'I'm mad about the lass; as mad for her now as I was ten years ago... She's my heroine and my role model. My one true love bud... If you have a Natalie yourself one day, you'll be a very lucky man... Look at Keno. Thirty-nine years old and still playin the field like a kid,..but he ain't happy. All he's got is the gym, the doors and shaggin young girls before he's too old; and he's well down the other side of the mountain there.'

'So why do you come here then,.. if you love her so much?'

'It's our agreement... Look, we can't have kids mate. It's a sad predicament we've found our'sens in. We ave two choices, we can either sit back and mope – which we are pretty good at by the fuckin way – or we live a little why we can.'

'And what does Nat get out of you sleeping with prostitutes?'

'Paul?... Do ya really think she always goes clubbin with Lisa once every month?'

'Yeah I do, why?'

'Mate, I pay for her to meet up with escorts... From all over. Sometimes in Nottingham, sometimes Derby or Sheffield. Sometimes further afield. She gets a night out, someone else's company and gets laid....Makes her happy.'

Paul's jaw scraps the floor, his mouth immobile.

'She might not look it when she's in her scruffs doing your washin bud, but she's a little minx is my Natalie.'

'And you don't mind?'

'Ner, fuck it. As long as it's no one I know and they ain't some dirty Paki or Irishman, I couldn't give a shite.'

Paul's mind was awash with feeling. He seemed that he didn't actually know these people at all. After all he felt stupid that he'd lived under their roof for eight months, but their secrets were locked away in a vault only opened by the oral key of MDMA.

He wasn't sure how comfortable he felt about them both now; he held great feelings for them both, but he'd elevated Natalie upon this higher plain and it felt that in a way she'd somehow let him down.

He was confused, and as Frank continued to natter away in his ear, and they were rejoined by an excitable Keno, Paul's thoughts could not be replaced with anything other than an image of Natalie in a bed with a queue of willing men lining up to be with her. He felt guilty to think that way, but he couldn't help it.

Frank and Keno had their arms dangled around one another and was merry with drink and Keno's stories of sex.

Paul lent towards the girl who had been perched on his lap for ten minutes now. She was slurping from her soft drink and looking away from him disinterestedly out in to the crowd of people; probably lining up a next target.

'Would you like to sleep with me?' He lent forwards and whispered.

Without so much as another word, she had hopped on to her feet and held out a hand for his whilst never removing the pink straw from her lips.

'Go on Son!' Cheered Keno, as Frank nodded his approval and Paul was led by the hand through the crowd, across the dance floor and to a back corridor where an older woman was manning a till and he paid for his service.

She led her wiggling sliver bikinied posterior up a flight of stairs and in to a relatively large room with a low slung bed that was topped with a brown shag faux fur blanket. A small Jacuzzi sat in the corner of the room and she switched on a dim bedside lamp that offered flattering ambience.

She swung open a side door to reveal an en suite and turned on the light which highlighted a clinical brilliant white room.

'You shower.' She ordered in a harsh eastern European accent, before removing her costume in the flash of an eye. 'Thirty minutes has begun.' She warned him as he snapped from his daze and speedily stripped his clothing.

He was anxious about revealing his naked flesh and was fully conscious of the modest private parts that had never been used for anything other than business purposes before.

She unravelled her deep brown hair from her headband and allowed it to spill on to the pillow as she lay on the bed, whilst he shut the bathroom door and stepped in to the lukewarm shower.

What the fuck was he doing?

He struggled to comprehend his misguided actions and his head that had been relaxed due to Keno's stimulant had suddenly sharpened to a panic.

The water ran down his pale body and engulfed his pubic area. He couldn't find any pre-match words of advice for what was about to happen and his head filled with panic.

What does he do? Will she make the running or is it left to him to instigate events?

Either way the time was ticking away.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

And the money was being spent

KERCHING !!

He pulled himself from the shower and towelled himself down. He'd nerves that bounced around his turning stomach and his clueless mind.

Did his breath smell? It had been what,...five hours since he'd brushed his teeth. And they'd eaten Chinese food.

He checked his teeth in the small cabinet mirror.

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK..............KERCHING !!

He patted himself down and inspected himself for spots and blemishes.

And eventually after holding on to the door handle for twenty seconds and quickly reciting the Lords Pray he released himself from the en suite stronghold, smiled and strode anxiously over to the bed where he laid himself on his side to imitate her own posture.

She had an elfish face with high, well defined cheek bones and a tiny smattering of miniature freckles covered her skin. Her hair was long and well nourished and her body was incredibly petite with an impossibly thin waist and tiny hands and feet that were decorated in an elaborate looking tattoo designs.

Paul Cable thought he had died and gone to heaven.

She took his limp penis in her hand and humourlessly eyeballed him.

'I thought that you had escaped through ze window.' She said without so much as an upturned lip.

'Er,.er,.no..hahum.' He nervously gulped.

'You are nervous, yes?'

'Hum, er,.yeah, yes a little... My first time.'

'First time with prostitute, or first time with sex?'

'Oh, no no, er no,....first time with prostitute of course....no, I'm not a virgin.'

'Being virgin is nothing to be ashamed of.'

'No, no,.. I know...but that's okay cos I'm not,...er,...not a virgin.'

They fell silent and stared at one another for several seconds. His apparatus was refusing to respond in his nervousness.

'Cock needs to go hard for condom.'

'I know.'

'Thirty minutes has already started.'

'I know'

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK..........KERCHING !!

His butterflies fluttered further in him like an out of control washing machine.

He lunged for her with his mouth pursed, her lips pouting invitingly.

She jerked her head back in horror.

'No,...no kissing English... You no kiss...Never kiss.....You not pay for kissing English.'

He put out an outstretched hand of regret.

'Sorry, sorry... I didn't know.'

'Never kiss English.'

'Sorry.'

'You must get hard for condom some time......You not find me attractive?'

'Yes,..of course,...you're beautiful.'

'Ze cock not think so I think.'

'Yes, yes he does...he's,..er,..he's sleeping.'

'He needs to wake up for pussy......Wake up cock,....for pussy-time.'

She leaned towards his groin and flicked back her hair with a swish of her slender neck.

'Wake up wake up for pussy....Hello?...Thirty minutes started.'

TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.........KERCHING !!

Paul smiled nervously. He wanted to touch her skin and to feel her humble breasts, but he now wasn't sure of exactly what he was and wasn't allowed to do, and was afraid to touch. It lessened his sexual tensions further.

'Wake up wake up...Do you not like pussy?'

She looked up at him and frowned.

'I think that your cock has drinked too much beer, or doesn't like pussy.'

'Oh,..he does. Honestly. He really really does like you.'

She paused and coldly stared at him. 'Oh no. Iz he cock that likes other cock?' She raised her eyebrows in doubt.

He slumped back on his seat alongside Keno who had his arm around another lady and was involved in a deep intimate conversation. Frank was nowhere to be seen.

Paul was raging inside and his nostrils flared with a temper inside. He was tired of the queer jibes and accusations, however innocently. He'd had them for what seemed was the whole of his life and he was getting sick of it being rammed down his throat.

He'd felt like punching that girl smack in the face. Flush on the nose and knocking her sparko. Who was she to call his sexuality in to question? He wasn't experienced, but he knew what he was and what he wanted; he couldn't understand why his manhood hadn't responded, but now he felt sick and worse than ever about his lack of prowess with the opposite sex.

The Eastern European girl stood by the corner, sucking again from her straw and in conversation with two blondes. They each took turns to glance over at him and he lowered his head in shame before gulping in a breath of the toxic air. He itched and sweated with angst and wanted to leave, but he didn't know where he was and felt restricted.

They stayed for five more hours and drunk five more drinks. Frank and Keno invited two more women to sleep with them and Paul fielded questions about why he wouldn't go back for more now that he'd had his first taste.

## 4th February 1991

He hit the bag harder and with more intensity than ever before. The power that rose from his planted feet, through his cut calves and his bulging thighs, throughout his core, in to his heaving shoulders and across his ripped arms to his pointed fist, rippled the fifty kilogram leather bag, rocking it on its anchor.

Sweat dripped freely from his soaked hair and brow and his grey vest was saturated in his perspiration. He gasped for air and sucked large intakes through his nasal passage as he hit to exhaustion to end his high powered circuit training.

He shook himself down and hit the showers to soothe his wary, though vibrant body.

His first year at Queensbury Gym had been a thoroughly prosperous one, and one that had seen a transformation that had turned a boy in to a fully grown man.

His skin tingled vigorously and he felt incredibly pulsating in his new body. His head still played games on him, but he refused to let it intimidate him and could switch it off when he focused on his training regime; a regime that he now had plenty of time to spend on.

On the return home from the trip to Amsterdam in September, Frank and Keno had reserved a quiet moment to spring a pleasant surprise on him. They produced a bunch of keys with his name on; the keys to the gym. They wanted him to work full time, to open up in the day and to occasionally close at night.

Paul was overwhelmed. Never had he been offered such responsibilities by anyone before and he grasped the opportunity with both hands and he took it and shook it. He began opening up two hours earlier and drifted in even earlier than that to complete his very own punishing program.

Paul Cable was finding his feet in the world. He'd found a purpose and a place that wanted him, the timid boy was leaving his shell behind and finally finding his voice and filling that confidence tank that had been running on empty for twenty years.

## 20th February 1991

The room lit in a TV blue that turned everything in its flood to an accordant shade. Peter Painter's home had become a lonely skin of a habitat that had stung him in to a sluggish state of languid torment.

He had underestimated the harmony of family life to a house; he had neglected his family with years of exploitation and now that they were gone his life had descended in to turmoil. He didn't eat properly, he didn't sleep properly; the house had become merely a roof under which to lay his anguished head. He was plagued with regret and persecuted his own mind with the finger of blame for creating this situation.

He wanted them back and needed them to fulfil his life; a life sapped of all purpose now that they were no longer there to feed off.

He'd repeatedly bombarded Jayne with calls and he'd door-stepped her parents home constantly, until she eventually had a court injunction on him to leave her alone. His daughters Clare and Sophie didn't want to know him either. On the occasions that he was allowed to call they would ignore his pleas and they had no motivation to ever spend time with him.

His attitude had caught up with him and although he was willing to change his persona entirely, nobody was interested. He would solemnly sit in the garage for hours upon end watching his 00 gauge scaled railway creations constantly lugging haulage from the village of Little Bobbins past the fields of livestock, through the Dingley Creek wood, in to Idle Mountain tunnel, emerging at Willard railyard and back through the Little Bobbins and the station on the outskirts of the hand crafted small settlement.

The model railway hadn't the same appeal now that he couldn't ban the children from the converted room.

He ached for company. Company that wasn't the TV that played to him through vision that he'd hypnotise himself with, but a sound that would sail effortlessly unchallenged by his hearing.

A tray of half left dumplings, faggots and garden peas remained on his lap and Wogan flashed before his eyes. His day had been mundane and an effort to get through. A few weeks earlier he'd been asked to step down as head storeman; a position that was filled by Kelvin Briggs. His personal problems had been stated by a sympathetic manager as the reasons and he understood that it was affecting his work.

He hadn't even the energy to ritualistically mistreat the new apprentice.

Through the back window of Peter Painter's living room lay the vast black void of a lingering cold and unloving winter. He longed to see the sky and their faces. But he saw nothing: no family, no life, no future.

On Peter Painter's scrubby, neglected lawn in the pitch black of a February evening stood a large man in black; from his shining toe-capped boots, to his thick balaclava covered skull. He'd watched in a storm of rain and waited for half an hour; watching Painter struggle in his lacklustre fight with his uncared-for dinner and his subsequent slumping in to a comatose state in front of the TV and his gas fire that glowed with one lit bar.

The man held a solid hickory shaft of a naked long handled axe that had been thoroughly licked with the soaking spray of rainwater. It was unused and brand new.

When he decided to enter the building via the backdoor to the unlit kitchen he hadn't been surprised to find it unlocked and asking to be swung open.

He entered the glass plated living room door without asking for invitation and stood in its mouth as Peter Painter gawped in bewilderment.

Neither of them exchanged any words before the heavily clothed figure slammed the hickory shaft against Painter's knee, sending the remnants of his plate flying against the victim's chest and over his shoulder.

Peter Painter howled in distraught agony. Pain shot up his legs, through his scrotum and abdomen and in to the cry from his chest. He gritted his teeth together and spat saliva through them in his deep primal groans.

The man stood over him before crashing the implement hard down on to his hip and an unprotected arm in swift blows. Painter wailed again from the excruciating agony. His arm was broken, his hip cracked and his patella suffered inexplicable distress. He riled on the floor a wounded animal searching reprieve.

The man in black knelt beside him; Wogan's audience applauding from the shining box of noisy light beneath the window.

Nobody attended to Peter Painter's cries and less people cared. He was an insufferable soul, discarded by all. His eyes met the emerald green ones of his attacker as they peered abhorrently between woollen slits. He'd seen the look before on scores of faces, but these were particularly uncaring.

Painter shuddered in a ball awaiting the man's next move. Was he here for cash? He had none lying around, or in the bank. He had to part with many things of note to fill the shortfall that had been created by one less wage and a drop in his own. There was little of any value around at all.

Maybe Jayne or her father had organised a hit on him?

The pain split through him as the green eyes studied him for what seemed like endless minutes. He'd spat "What do you want from me?" through quivering, frightened lips, but the man said nothing and before he knew anything more his attacker had stood upright and was gone, shutting the kitchen door quietly behind him.

Paul Cable removed the balaclava and scanned the quiet street before emerging from the gateway between the head high hedgerows. He didn't look back towards the house and lifted his hood for protection from the downpour. His van was hidden in the shadows of a silver birch two streets away and the sodden conditions had paved the streets virtually clear of life to aid his escape.

His brain bled with ill thoughts about his victim. He'd done nothing during his time of employment alongside Peter Painter to provoke the man. He'd been polite on meeting him and had always done as he was told, but Painter carried a huge chip the size of his ego and had verbally abused him because he simply could.

Paul Cable had needed to test himself; he owed a few people for the way that he'd been mistreated in the past and Painter had just conveniently been the first.

He knew that it wouldn't provide much of a challenge, he'd been watching him. Painter was drinking heavily and had lost weight as well as his emotional spirit. Settling a score with him had proven effortless and he had little by way of remorse for his aggressive actions.

Paul hadn't accumulated any sort of 'hit-list' of names or a stupid 'movie style' catalogue of sadistic plans to conclude any vendetta's; he just felt the need to do unto others as you would have others do unto you, and in turn create a suffering that would meddle with confused minds; just as his own had been confronted with. But ultimately he'd made no plans and had just felt the urge to hurt Painter. Peter Painter had shown him ill, but less than some others had, but Cable's attitude towards Painter had been swung by over three years of constant insults. As far as Paul was concerned they were now square and although his mind never jumped with glee at seeing his old foreman in agony, he did feel a lump of satisfaction in his throat.

Paul Cable waited at a junction as a car with a headlight out exited on to the street that he was vacating. He paid little attention to it, and the driver paid little attention to him.

Charlie Cable pulled his Ford Orion in to the kerbside. The car's wipers were on full to keep the heavy showers at bay. He dragged hard on a cigarette and scrunched up his face at the unsocialable elements that he'd got to contend with. He switched down the engine, took away his keys, opened the door and flicked his nub end on to the street in one quick, fluid motion before exiting and facing the house.

It was dark from the front and he wondered whether Painter was home; or was he trying to keep a low profile?

Charlie banged aggressively at the front door as water from the blocked guttering spilled sporadically down the back of his neck. He remained unmoved, waiting for a full minute without knocking again; if he was answering, the first knock would have been sufficient to have roused him.

He marched around the side of the house and through the unlocked wooden gate to the rear of the house. A light shone from the back room and Charlie Cable peered through. Peter Painter sat uncomfortably in his armchair crying in to a telephone in clear distress.

Painter was a muppet who was down on his luck, but Charlie hadn't got time to piss about with hard luck stories, he heard it every day in his line of work. Painter was overdue with his payments and no amount of tears had ever managed to stop Charlie Cable in his tracks. The man had no heart strings available for plucking.

He waited until Peter Painter had replaced the handset before launching himself through the back door and through to the living room. His hair was flat to his face with dripping water and he was in no mood for excuses.

Painter raised his hands in front of him. 'No! No!...Please, I can't take any more.' He pleaded.

'What the fuck are ya talkin about?' Charlie queried.

'I've just phoned for an ambulance... I'm in bits here... It hurts so much.' He cried, his face ruddy and his eyes bloodshot.

'I don't know what the hell you're talkin about Painter, but I don't do excuses. I said five hundred quid by the end of February or there'd be bother.'

'It's not the end of February yet.' He begged.

'Tough shit, I'm impatient and want it now... Do you think that I loan money out to fuckwits like yer'sen for the good of my health?'

'I've not got it here.'

'That's the wrong answer Painter.'

'I had it here, but someone has just robbed it... It was on the side up there, the mantelpiece... Someone came in just now and robbed me,...my arm,..my knee,..my hip...' Painter broke down.

Charlie looked down on the pathetic excuse of a man and frowned. Painter was clearly in a bad way and he had probably just missed the people that he claimed had robbed him. They'd not robbed Painter, they'd robbed him - Charlie Cable; taken the money that Painter owed him from his loan.

'What did they look like?' He hissed through angry teeth.

'Wha,..what?

'What did these robbers look like you fuckin halfwit?'

'There was only one man.' Painter winced. 'He was dressed in black with a balaclava on... I didn't see his face.'

Charlie's blood pressure rose and he looked around the excuse of a living room. Painter wore half of his dinner and the rest of it was on the floor. His distress was obvious and his arm bore a lump the size of a golf ball; he knew that he wasn't misleading him, but he was angry.

A fuckin man in a balaclava? Stealing his cash?

Charlie Cable smashed a fist in to Peter Painter's face. His nose exploded in a mist of blood and his head jerked back against his chair before he let out another pained noise.

'FUCKIN MUPPET!...... NOBODY STEALS FROM CHARLIE CABLE!'

Cable stormed around the room, stripping the draws from cabinets and finding only whiskey behind its doors. He sped out of the door and lugged himself up the stairs, only to be greeted with little of value. In the garage conversion he found nothing but a train set for mixed up grownups. He filed back in to the living room, stared at Painter through menacing eyes as the man held his soaked shirt to his nose.

Charlie looked down and found a discarded hickory axe handle. He stooped and picked it up before leaving the room again and marched in to the garage where he set about Peter Painter's seven thousand pound creation. Little Bobbins was levelled like Coventry in the blitz, Idle Mountain was sprayed against all four walls, the livestock disappeared in to a freshly opened crater along with Dingley Creek Wood, and Willard railyard was orbited in to the steel racking on the walls.

'MAGGIE'S FUCKIN AXE YA CUNTS.' Charlie yelled. 'NO ONE SURVIVES THE SCRAPHEAP!'

He returned to the living room and pointed a long finger towards Peter Painter.

'TWO FUCKIN WEEK'S, OR YOU'LL BE STAYING IN HOSPITAL!'

He speared the axe handle towards the TV and it pierced Terry Wogan's head, turning it to sparks and glass as he left.

Charlie Cable pulled away from the house as a Nottinghamshire ambulance pulled up behind his vehicle. He was seething mad and planning retribution.

## Whitby, North Yorkshire : 15th June 2006

He'd ridden his motorcycle up here before and loved it. It had been January and a gorgeously sunny day, though the temperature had been icy and he'd taken great care on the roads across the North Yorkshire Moors from Pickering.

Then the waves of the cold North Sea had crashed against the harbour walls with relenting ferocity and the biting wind had nipped at his bearded face and shaven skull unmercilessly under crystal blue skies. He'd found it invigorating and there was something about the swirl of the ocean that reminded him of the tempest that stirred inside of himself; a restlessness that just wanted a safe haven in which to ease itself.

Today was different. The place was mobbed with tourists, unlike that January, and the settled blue skies were joined by a gentle sea that had been reduced to a rhythmic splish splash of contentment, again imitating his own newer being.

They'd climbed the lighthouse and looked out to sea, across the busy golden sands of the beach and back in to the pretty enclave of the harbour. Paul wished for a quieter moment, but when he was with Kiyomi Sasaki, very little else managed to fight with her for his unreserved attention.

Her beautiful smile eased from her happy face as he snapped away at her image with her Nikon. They'd filled several albums worth of photographic potential on that camera since they'd landed at Heathrow and spent three days trawling the sights, monuments and museums of the capital before they headed by train to his temporary flat in Hereford. Here they picked up his Yamaha and brought her some motorcycle leathers and a helmet. They packed as lightly as they could expect to and headed to Cornwall, via two days in Bath. They toured for three days down to Penzance and across to Devon before riding up to Stonehenge and Oxford and Royal Windsor, then moved on to spend a couple of days In Warwick and Stratford. From there they went up through the Midlands and on to his home town.

He'd not visited the place in years, and he'd had no desire to ever step foot in the place again. It held nothing for him but a handful of graves, in which they visited to give him the opportunity to lay down flowers, and he remembered his regular Sunday trips there with his mother.

He felt no guilt at failing to return to this place frequently. His relations were in his mind constantly and that soothed any notion of remorse over plots of land full of useless bones.

Kiyomi had given him a few minutes alone, but he didn't need them, he spoke to the three of them in his thoughts all of the while and no words in this drafty place would add anything that hadn't already been said.

They coasted through the town and little had really changed, the place had remained in a time warp that was being left behind the times in a frequently modernising country. He felt sorry for it, it was downtrodden and unloved. Nothing had replaced the mines, mills and foundries, and even the hugely thriving brewery which bore the towns stamp had been sold down the river. Few seemed to care about it anymore and its existence seemed merely to serve as somewhere to live for people attached by familiarity, family or nowhere else to go.

Kiyomi felt his embarrassment. He wasn't from a special place; a place where you'd adorn a panoramic landscape in black and white on a special wall of your home to remind you of a great town which had been home, though in a quirky way she liked it. He mournfully told her that if the sun wasn't shining and it was a cold, grey, and wet day in February her opinion would greatly differ. She just offered him a sympathetic smile and allowed him to ride her north out of town towards the Peak District.

One week later and after a trek that had taken them through the Lake District, the Scottish Highlands, Edinburgh, Newcastle and Durham they had landed in Dracula's Whitby.

Kiyomi had loved her trip and her guide had been the best. His knowledge had been exceptional and to do it all on motorcycle had been exhilarating for her. She'd grown almost as deeply in love with the country as she had for Paul Cable. She found it a wondrous place with diverse and friendly people; she made him promise that they would return and do similar trips in the future. He said that he would better that and they would tour Europe. That excited her even more.

They were staying in a room above The Duke Of York public house on Church Street, under the shadow of Whitby Abbey. He took her up to the Abbey and they sat in the long grass that looked high out to sea. A warm breeze blew soothingly in to their faces and they ate some sandwiches that they had taken along with them.

Paul Cable politely offered Kiyomi Sasaki to stand beside him and he knelt to one knee, he looked in to her brown eyes that were now derobed of her sunglasses and produced a leather bound box that contained a diamond ring.

After she had removed the hand that had clasped her mouth to reveal a huge smile, she accepted his invitation and they'd kissed after placing the ring on her finger. The wind picked up to offer its personal approval.

Paul Cable had been carrying the rock around in his pocket for three weeks whilst waiting for the moment of perfection. He knew that it would soon call, but when it finally arrived beside that cliffside he was relieved that his best laid plans had been worth waiting for.

Once back amongst the town they found a small inviting pub in the narrow corridor streets called The Demeter and ordered a bottle of wine to celebrate. They retired in to a small snug room and Paul poured out their glasses as Kiyomi searched for a signal on her mobile phone.

She begged him to allow her to venture outside to make a call to Japan with her happy news. He smiled and waved her away in to a small cobbled courtyard where she began yapping excitedly in her native tongue.

'Fuckin Chinky bastards.' Came a small comment from around the corner.

Paul Cable inched himself around the bench seat for a clearer view of the sudden hidden offender. There sat a bulky man with his back towards him. He was sat at a stool and was in discussion with the barmaid who informed him that the Bitter was out and the barrel would need changing.

He paused for a few moments, busy looking through the glass and lead framed windows out in to the courtyard observing Kiyomi. When he stood his glance remained fixed on the petite Japanese woman who smiled cheerfully in to her mobile phone whilst spreading the five fingers of her hand before her, describing her new ornament. The man reached inside his trousers and scratched his cock before picking his nose with the same hand.

'Fuckin Chinkies, I tell you.' He repeated, before licking his lips, turning and disappearing out of sight.

'C'mon Jason, what ya running here, a pub or a waiting room?' Joked a customer who remained out of Paul Cable's sight.

'Yeah yeah Bill, just give us a minute will ya? Am goin to change the barrel now.'

Paul Cable left the bottle of wine behind and exited by the rear door to the courtyard, where he collected Kiyomi and they left for another establishment.

He'd known the landlord in The Demeter. It was an unforgettable face and a voice that he'd never expected to see and hear ever again.

Jason Doyliboy.

## Whitby, North Yorkshire : 3rd July 2006

Tot Ridge Farm sat two miles from the town of Whitby and had a small plot of inclined land away from the farmhouse that was dedicated for campers. It was a basic site that was off of the beaten track and mainly attracted dedicated singles or couples. It was an oddly shaped eight sided field with secluded plots that offered genuine privacy, though it was conceivable to find a plot to include a pleasant view of the sea.

Paul Cable had parked the Yamaha FJR1300 in an isolated space that offered good shelter from the wind and the privacy he wished for from the very few other tents. He'd erected his two berth Vango Tempest within minutes and headed in to the town on the motorcycle. It was early evening and he had no desire to hang around waiting.

Paul and Kiyomi had completed their tour of Britain and returned to Karatsu immediately afterwards.; her family had organised a small celebration for their engagement and they enjoyed a few quiet days together before Paul had returned to Hereford to be briefed.

He had a small window of opportunity to exact a plan and had raced up to North Yorkshire with a light load and a few limited ideas that he'd mulled over in Japan. He'd been annoyed that the introduction of Jason Doyliboy back in to his life had disrupted his time with his new fiancée; indeed, his past tormentors timing could not have been worse timed.

It was an early Monday evening when Paul Cable again entered The Demeter. The bar was deserted apart from a young barmaid and the loud chattering of voices around the corner in the snug.

Sat in the bay window of a red leathered corner seat doing paperwork was Doyliboy. His head hung low, he scribbled some figures and punched numbers in to a calculator.

Paul Cable unzipped his black, grey and white Dainese leather suit and unsheathed a thirteen inch East German AK47 bayonet that he calmly placed on the table between them both before taking the seat opposite and resting his helmet alongside him.

Doyliboy's eyes jerked from the paperwork to the shining blade that suddenly came in to view before slowly lifting his vision and then his head to Paul Cable who sat cross armed before him.

The two men sat pondering. Paul knew that even an idiot like Doyliboy wouldn't go for the weapon in a public place, and if he did he'd take his head off with the helmet before he even touched the handle; he was so confident in his own reactions.

'Paul Cable?' Doyliboy asked in bemusement.

Paul remained silent.

'Fuck me, long time never see and all that.' Jason Doyliboy put down his pen and leaned back, lifting a glass of lager to his awaiting lips. 'I'd heard that you'd turned in to a strappin lad... Who'd have thought it hey?... That wimpy kid that nobody liked built like a man now hey?' He smiled confidently. Although he displayed a calm exterior, inside his heart raced and the appearance of the threatening blade had made him anxious. Doyliboy wasn't scared of any man, even this version of Paul Cable that he'd heard about and now sat but two metres away with a serious look and a serious tool.

Paul never flinched.

'So what have you come up here for Paul?... Revenge?... I reckon it'd be a far closer contest now, what do you reckon?' He paused and again looked at the knife. 'Is it a scrap that you've come for Cabo?.. You know me bud,..never shied away from a scrap and still don't... I love it.. Was born for it... Never back down and all that.'

'I've not come all this way to have a fight with you Jason, I've got more important things to do with my life than roll about in the dirt with you... I just wanted to remind you of me.' Paul said in a soft, slow voice.

Doyliboy took another swig from his lager.

'So this is a visit to scare me is it?... To put the wind up old Jay?'

'Not at all Jason. I just don't want you forgetting what you did to me and to my childhood.'

'Haha,..yeah sorry about that big lad.' Doyliboy smirked.

'That's alright, it helped make me and I wouldn't change those events for anything now... I wouldn't have what I have now without the helpful abuse that you kindly offered me.'

'The pleasure was all mine old son.'

'Oh I know that.'

'Good... I have no regrets.'

They descended in to silence for a few moments, Doyliboy frequently surveying the knife whilst Paul carefully watched his eyes.

'So who told you I was up here now then? Old Fruitcake or Crack?... Still gobby fuckers after all these years with loose mouths in The Gun & Glasshouse.'

'I have my ways.... You see Jason, I still love camping after all these years. That quarry never deterred me... I'm staying up on Tot Ridge Farm... It's a nice spot... No sexual abuse, but a nice spot all the same.'

'Well I'm pleased for ya Paul... Good to see that a bit of playful banter dint scar you in any way.....Unless of course you're not a homo still that is?'

'No,.. that still remains my only homosexual experience.'

'Well,..don't knock it til you've tried it I guess hey?' Doyliboy giggled uncontrollably before finishing off his lager.

Paul stood and sheathed the blade back in the scabbard under his leathers.

'You ought to be more careful with that big boy... There's always other boys with bigger toys.'

'Thanks for the advice Jason, but I think I'll be okay.'

'Tot Ridge Farm did you say?'

'That's where I'm staying...Why? You got a hard on for that scrap?'

'Always loved a challenge Cabo, and you present a much bigger one than you used to.'

'I've spent my whole life fighting too Jason,.. it's been a long time since I was scared of the likes of you.'

'Never mind,.. even the best lose their aura,..but they never lose the skill.' Jason Doyliboy smiled and Paul's steely eyes matched his. 'I might call your old man if I call on you. I was in receipt of fags for weeks after he paid me to get you sucked off by your mate.'

Paul Cable's heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name and the revelation that Doyliboy hit him with.

'Never know, that sick old fucker hates you so much that he might pay me to fuck you up the arse this time.' He crudely joked in a cruel snigger that suggested that he'd far from lost his nasty evil streak, but had probably enhanced it.

Paul Cable stepped towards the door. 'See you around Jason... Don't go forgetting me.' He left through the door and didn't look back all the way to the Yamaha.

'I won't forget you Gayble, don't worry about that.' Whispered Jason Doyliboy before he reached for his mobile phone and dialled a number.

Paul Cable knew his former torturer enough to know that he wouldn't be able to resist the challenge that he'd presented him with. It wasn't just a pride thing with Doyliboy, it was a case of him always having to secure his own mind that he was top dog, whether he was fourteen or forty-three. Doyliboy was like a mad dog who could be kicked a thousand times, but would always try to come back to bite your leg.

Paul had no desire to get in to a fist fight when he didn't need to; he had the beating of him without having to exert a huge amount of effort. Getting in to a scrap with someone who had a punchers chance of beating him didn't seem the wisest, and although he felt certain that that wouldn't happen he had a far better plan to get inside Doyliboy's head sooner than his ribs.

It was gone 2:30am when Jason Doyliboy's four wheel drive rolled up the dirt track to Tot Ridge Farm, killed the lights and then the engine.

He wasn't alone. It would have been far too inappropriate to risk himself against the big army bastard from his youth on his own. He'd drafted in a couple of young and big, unsightly brutes he knew from the town as back up.

They left the vehicle on the track and carried their apparatus with them, passing the blacked out farmhouse and entering the camp site a couple of hundred yards further on.

The field was lightly littered with canvas that flapped around in the breeze. They remained silent and vigilant.

At a turn nearing the furthest edge of the field sat a plot with a tiny tent, accompanied by the camp sites only motorcycle.

Jason Doyliboy unsheathed the blade of a samurai sword that glittered in the shine of the moonlight and uttered a few near silent words to one of the other men who in turn twisted off the cap of a petrol can before sprinkling the edge of the tent with pungent diesel.

Doyliboy stood by the tents entrance, a double handed grip grasping the fearsome weapon in preparation.

More fuel was splayed across the top of the canvas, followed by the lighting of the flint of a cigarette lighter that ignited the thin canvas shell instantaneously.

A wry smile of exhilaration crossed the face of Doyliboy. Like Paul Cable, he wasn't scared of shying away from a scuffle – everyone who knew him knew it - but he hadn't seen the point of fighting when other measures were so easily available to him.

Within seconds the whole place seemed alight and the three men took flight back up the incline towards their vehicle.

The Vango burned to the ground and became an empty shell without alerting a soul in the vicinity.

Paul Cable sat in the nearby bushes, his night vision goggles pushed to his forehead and his body wrapped in warm clothing.

## Whitby, North Yorkshire : 4th July 2006

When Jason Doyliboy rose from his bed his sleep had been deep and satisfying. He scratched his balls and rolled over, clamping a roving hand on his wife's breast and biting her shoulder.

'Get lost Jay.' She murmured.

'Ya cold slag.' He giggled and lay back with his hands behind his head, sniffing loudly and feeling content with life. Times were good; better than they had been for a long time - his missus frequently tugged at his nerve-endings, but she was a good hearted girl who let him get away with murder at times – but largely the pub was doing well and the gods seemed to be on his side.

He sniggered to himself and lit a cigarette, taking a couple of drags and lifted himself from the bed to take a piss.

He stood at the lavatory and urinated; his sagging naked tattooed flesh was covered in red bed rashes and his face required major work to make him acceptable for the day's tourists.

He flushed the toilet and turned the sink tap on, filling his cupped hands with cold water and slashing it over his face. Looking in to the streaked cabinet mirror he saw his image looking back at himself as he investigated his eyes, nose, teeth; and a raw, pinstriped red mark that lined the circumference of his heavy neck.

The line of scratched blood was prominent but with little bleeding like the fine raw scribe of a pencil compass over the back of a schoolboys hand. It stretched from one ear to the other.

Momentarily he froze, unable to comprehend how it had got there, or when. He'd not noticed it the day before, and nobody had commented regarding it.

Doyliboy strolled through to the bedroom and woke his wife.

'Get up,...get up,....Sara, get fuckin up,...look at this.'

He ripped the curtains apart and allowed the sun to flood in to their dusty room; the light highlighting his pale body.

Sara lifted her wary head and rubbed her hair covered eye with the palm of an open hand.

'What is it?....The alarm hasn't gone off yet.'

'Fuck the alarm, have a look at this,...the things a fuckin mystery to me.'

He sat on the cusp of the bed and lifted his head for his wife to inspect, but before she had chance to focus her bleary eyes he had been paralyzed; his vision taken over by an object pinned to the wooden headboard; anchored to it by the razor sharp blade of a thirteen inch AK47 bayonet.

Dangling from the tip of the embedded knife hung a pair of red knickers with a picture of Minnie Mouse on them. They were small, like those of a teenage girl. His memory told him that he'd seen some like them before, but goodness knows when.

## The Waiting State

'Baby I know how alone you've felt all of these years...Something tells me that you've felt it almost all of your life?... I know that you keep telling me to stop saying it, but I'm partly responsible for that. That's why this young lady has been the best thing to ever happen to you and if you decided to chose life over the First Understanding, I'd understand and support you.' Anna Cable clasped his hand tightly, her pride and regret equally transparent.

'I agree love, you would have my full backing too. Kiyomi is a wonderful lady; it's just a terrible shame that we've not been there to meet her and to support you as a family... And your army career is over now love. You only had seven weeks left and after this you'll be going nowhere near a war zone again... You should go back and have your move out to Japan and find some peace... We'll always be here for you afterwards. Build a relationship and enjoy some companionship. Vincent says that that will fade as you pass through the Understandings, so you deserve to enjoy it whilst you can.' Heather Jarrett backed up her daughters sentiments.

'I don't want you to go Paulie; I want you to stay.' Alison Cable looked on solemnly.

Paul Cable held on to his little sister tighter and gave her a reassuring smile.

'Frank once said to me that on beautiful days when the sky was blue, you should never keep your eyes on the ground; there are enough grey days to do that in, welcome them whilst they're here... I never forgot that, and it's true, the grey days far outweigh the blue ones; yet since I met Kiyomi they have all seemed blue... She does something for my soul, something that I've never experienced and never would again... You guys are great; the best; my own little pit crew that I'd never change and I love endlessly and if there were only a choice between Kiyomi and you three I just don't know what I would do. It would be an impossible choice.' He glanced over to Vincent Tua for reassurance. 'But from everything that I've been told from Vincent it seems that I can have my pie, and eat it... I can go back to Kiyomi knowing that my choice won't mean never seeing you all again... And even better; in the first Understanding I should end up being with all four of you.'

'That would be perfect.' Heather grinned at him, whilst his mother squeezed his hand tighter.

'Please don't leave us Paulie,....please.' Alison pleaded with him in a half-sob. 'But I won't be leaving you sweetheart.' He tried to reassure the youngster. 'I'd just be going away for a short time. And when I come back,.... It'll be ice creams and trips to the seaside.'

'And dollies?' She begged.

'And dollies squirt.' He promised and made her feel somewhat more at ease; though the child held on to him as though she would drop from the face of the earth should she release him.

His love for Alison made his spirit swim with ache, he so loved the child that to leave her would be a wretch that under any normal circumstances would live with his conscience forever. In the real world he could never turn his back on her, she meant just as much to him as Kiyomi Sasaki did but in an entirely different way and the more he thought about it the more he felt sure that if he'd had to make a cold decision between the two of them then his sisters face and pleas would have made the decision for him, despite his insatiable craving for the Japanese woman.

Paul looked over to Vincent Tua, who in turn narrowed his brow and returned a harrowed look of disapproval.

'I have a plan.' Paul uttered to the three females in more serious tones. 'I think Vincent knows it, but I plan to carry them out. He won't like it and can shake his head and look grumpy all he likes, but I intend to erase an irritant that has plagued us all and he can help me... I intend to stamp him out so he never steps foot in to any First Understanding to ever bother us again; new and improved or not.'

## 3rd December 1993

He was the youngest but did not look out of place stood at the door of Limited Editions, built like a jailhouse door and wrapped in black beanie hat and dark trench coat. The crowds were already inside jumping to the DJ spinning a mix of Energy 52's Cafe Del Mar, surveyed by the keen, though tolerant eyes of Frank Brevitt and Keno Quillan.

He'd not been easily talked in to working on the doors, it didn't fit in with his character, but Frank had pestered him and he'd been offered fairly decent money that he needed now that he'd moved out of the Brevitt's home and in to the first home of his own – a small one bedroomed flat on Carr Bank. He was only renting, but he wanted to create something with his own stamp on it. He owned nothing, the gym was his life and he'd spent the last four years treating it as his temple; he lived and breathed the place and was there every single day in some capacity.

He'd accumulated a fair bit of cash that could go towards a place, and Frank and Natalie had also helped him out with a few things, but when a place at Limited Editions became available it was perfect for Frank to help use Paul's slight financial insecurities in to talking him in to working two nights at the weekend. Frank had told him "You've got a size and a presence, and that's half your job done for you. If a scrap breaks out, that's a nice little bonus cos you can handle yer'sen and the punters in there are either too loved up or smashed out their tree to cause you any real bother...You might even finally manage to attract a bird; but let's not hold us breath hey kid? "

He never felt comfortable doing the job, he hated being a centre of attention, he felt intimidated around groups of girls who would flirt with him, he couldn't carry off either the 'jokey' or 'jack the lad' bouncer type, or the scary, dead-eyed psycho version; he just did his job to the best of his abilities, with the minimum of fuss and left the showboating and performing to the others. He'd have to do plenty of throwing out of dealers, breaking up dance floor skirmishes or looking after the occasional VIP guest, but largely he was the bouncer in the background; dependable and safe and with an whispered hard reputation that he personally never spoke about.

Every now and then he would recognise a punter from his past, or they would remember him. He was still only twenty-two and his boyhood years were still fresh in the memory. Faces from the past would glance and murmur softly, unable to believe their eyes. "Was it really Paul Cable?...The gay one with the murdered sister and the hand me down clothes?... It couldn't possibly be,..he was around five feet nine and about six stones wet through,..this version was built like Lou Ferrigno sat on Arnold Schwarzenegger's shoulders!"

Mark James and Tom Simpson knew exactly who he was, though were also in the disbelieving camp. Paul had always been a dedicated kid and had obviously thrown himself in to his fitness in a big way, but the guy had morphed in to someone almost unrecognisable from the one that they'd known.

They'd almost been too daunted to frequent the nightclub at Limited Editions simply because of Paul's status there. The stigma that Mark had been labelled with around what had happened in that quarry in nineteen eighty-six, and the personal guilt that Tom silently carried regarding the significant role had he'd played had made them both anxious about being in his vicinity; but their love of the music scene and the chemicals that sloshed around inside of them made the location just too irresistible.

Paul knew that they went in there, he saw them every Friday night, hiding out of his way, looking but then looking away, and sensing that they'd sometimes want to say "Hi,..whatever happened to us?" But they never did and he dealt with it in his own mind. They'd all moved on and he'd lost his two best ever friends; abandoned and deserted by them. Dancing and drugs and chatting up girls wasn't Paul's thing - he was sure that he was useless with all of them, but he'd intermittently wished that he wasn't stood on the door looking out in to another frozen night, the mist of frost harassing his body, and instead inside that club spiked on having a good time with the lads who he was meant to grow up with, dripping with the heat of circuiting that packed dance floor. These boys who had made a promise to look out for each other for the rest of their lives.

He'd moved on, but he regretted greatly what might have been if he hadn't been sacrificed.

Seeing Paul Cable flooded Mark and Tom with regrets and strong remorse. They were culpable of the biggest sin going - leaving behind a best mate when he'd needed them most; to stay strong and ride out the storm together. Their shame at their desertion of their well bonded association had blurred what really mattered and it was only when they had consumed a wrap of whizz and trotted on the sweaty dance floor to mixed up tunes from Leftfield, Underworld and Orbital that it became apparent. They both missed their friend and wished that they had the bottle to approach him and apologise, but neither ever did, too scared of a negative response from the seemingly unapproachable doorman.

If they had, Paul Cable would have greatly accepted them back as friends, the fact that they didn't helped keep him at a distance with those from his murky, horrible past.

## 23rd August 1994

He'd stuck with the van through the thick and thin and had developed a keen fondness for it; it had seen him through some difficult times and been a shelter for him when no one was left around to care. The thing had been almost like a best friend for him for a short while, so when Frank was lauding it over the table and jokingly dragging it down, Paul felt he was perfectly in his rights to defend it. He hadn't got mardy or shown an open dissatisfaction, but he had been annoyed. Frank knew more than anyone the reasons why he held on to it and he felt a little let down that he'd singled him out for a few cheap jibes in front of a table full of his and Natalie's best friends.

He was already feeling awkward, he was the youngest there by at least a decade, and the only one sat in The Red on Stockwell Gate for Natalie's fortieth birthday party without a partner. Most of the blokes and Nat knew him to be quiet and reserved and somewhat fumbling around the fairer sex, but he could read some of their minds asking why he was twenty-three years old and in prime health, but hadn't got a female companion on his arm.

He was afraid of the homosexual comments again. He'd secretly camcordered himself in his privacy to capture the way he moved and the way that he talked to recognise any little traits that would offer the suggestion to people who didn't know him. He seemed pretty normal to himself. Maybe he was just being paranoid? Years of teenage abuse from individuals about his sexuality had probably damaged his psyche.

It didn't seem fair that he got nowhere at developing relationships. He'd had plenty of opportunities working at Limited Editions, but had never known what to do or say. He'd grown in to a passably decent looking individual, with an obvious presence that appealed to the opposite sex and was in a relative position of power; but he was hopeless at exploiting the situation. He was a bungling fool when it mattered the most, and it made Frank and Natalie even fonder of him. They wanted the best for him, but understood his discomfited clumsiness; he'd had a very difficult upbringing that had scarred him emotionally and therefore they never pushed him.

Natalie Brevitt was probably the only woman alive that he felt extremely comfortable with. It was her birthday and she simply sparkled. The youngest and most delicious looking forty years old that Paul Cable had ever seen. Frank was a very lucky man, and Paul felt equally wealthy to have her ear and advice on most things; she did indeed feel like the mature older sibling that strained herself to look out for him.

Paul was pleased for her that so many of their friends had turned out to honour a very popular lady; one that was adored by many close friends. Close friends that were still bemused at Frank and Natalie's close relationship with him, despite Frank Brevitt being well known for handling the odd waif and stray. Paul Cable had certainly been that until they'd transformed him in to a thoroughbred - a lame thoroughbred, but a thoroughbred all the same.

It had taken a great deal of courage for Paul Cable to quietly announce his well considered plans to his surrogate family. They'd done so much for him and he wasn't at all keen on upsetting them.

They'd given him a roof and fed him, turned him in to a man and provided a banister to support him. The two of them had lent their hands and donated to his new home: they'd helped him decorate and fix things up, Natalie had purchased furnishings out of her own pocket and Frank had devoted time to teaching him DIY, as well as pouring hours in to sweat to make Paul feel at home.

How would they feel when he revealed that he had chosen an entirely different path to lead his life in? He loved the gym; it was his biggest love, but he felt that he needed to burst out and see something else, to physically get his hands dirty and to stop hiding in the shadows that protected his watery self-esteem.

People kept telling him that he was a man. He looked a man, but he didn't feel like one; he still felt like a child in grownups shoes. Everywhere he lingered he had the protection of someone else, under a cloak of security: the gym, the nightclub, even at his home Frank was only a phone call away. Decisions were never really his own. He'd never even begun to cook his own meals. He felt a fraud and that didn't sit comfortably with him.

What would he do if Frank, and Natalie vanished overnight?

He had to take some responsibility and show himself that he could achieve things under his own steam and he could only think of one place to do that; a place where he would initially be in at the deep end and only his own belief and work would ensure that he succeeded.

'You're what?' Frank asked in a startle.

'I'm joining the army.' He replied.

Natalie looked on open mouthed.

'You're signing up?.. Are ya mental or what kid?' Frank asked again.

'It's something I wanna do Frank. I want to prove to myself that I can do it... I wanna be like you, become a para.'

Frank looked on exasperated. 'You wanta be a para?'

'Yeah.'

'Paul, it's not just a matter of becoming a para; it's a state of mind and an attitude...An attitude that you just ant got owd son.'

'I thought you'd be pleased?'

'Mate, owt you do will mek me proud of ya. There's no doubt that you could be a soldier,..you've all the attributes,..but being a para you need a streak inside of you.'

'I've got a streak in me.'

'I don't think it's a streak that you can just develop Paul.'

'I've been developing shitloads for the last few years.'

'I know,.. I know you have.' Frank sighed in resignation. ' And you say that you've signed up?.. Who for?'

'The Foresters.'

'The fuckin Foresters, Jesus Paul, you're better than that.'

'I have to start somewhere, and if my goal is the para's why not the infantry?'

'Some people just don't fit in to army life Paul... I love you to bits, both me and Nat do, but trust me your wasting your time in the forces when you have a job that you love here. A job that's steady and you're bloody good at... What you gonna do, waste that all away in some shithole like Ireland were little fuckers will hurl rocks at you and sneaky Paddy bastards will want to blow your legs off.' Frank passionately asked.

'Gym's don't go away Frank, and I need to get out and see the world.'

'You'll see Ireland.'

'If that's where it starts, so be it... It never did you any harm.'

'No,..but I can lead you the right way, and the army ain't the right way, trust me.'

'But all you talk about is the army days, and look at you now: a beautiful wife, a good job and a successful business... You fought in a war, and you practically lived in Ireland, but you have a great life now... Who says that I can't have that?'

'I got lucky mate. I'm a lucky man.'

'Well my luck has changed in the past couple of years, so why can't I be on a roll?'

Frank grimaced and gripped Paul around the back of his head. He knew that the lads mind was made up and that he wouldn't change it, despite his underlined fears of losing him.

'You've been good for us Paul. Like a breath of air... Fuckin stale air mind.' He grinned. 'I just want the best for you and can understand you wantin to mek your way in the world, I did the same... I wunt dream of standing in your way. My old man tried to do the same, but I wunt have it either... I'm proud that ya want to follow in my footsteps; it's an honour that you tell me that ya want to be like me... Fuck sakes it meks me heart skip a beat... Am being selfish cos I just don't want to lose ya: Ya company, your help. You're like our own lad and I'd never considered you leavin.'

'It wouldn't be forever,...and I was going to ask for my room back,..so I could stay when on leave.'

The couple looked at one another and smiled as if to suggest that Paul Cable must be taking the michael.

'I thought that I could leave all of my stuff that I'm honestly grateful of in the spare room in the gym... I'll pay you for storage... And I hope you'll understand after all that you've helped me out within the flat, but I would still like to call your place home,...if that's alright?'

'Bloody hell Nat,...what do ya reckon?' Frank nodded and winked.

'Are we being taken advantage of here?' She smiled.

'I'm not sure about me'sen love, but you've got the word mug written on your forehead.'

'You've got two words,...shit and soft,..but not in that order.' Natalie giggled.

'Is that a yes then.' Paul looked on.

'Of course you can love, there'll always be a room for you at our house... It'll be nice to have a man occasionally about again, seems Frank's never home.' She scoffed.

'We've not changed your room, so you can move your stuff back in whenever ya want; and I'd been looking in to doing something with that spare room at the gym any rode.' Frank smiled.

'Thanks you two,..I don't know what I'd do without ya.' Paul gratefully followed.

'You'd still be stinkin out that fuckin eyesore of a van and sneakin in to my gym for a shower,..ya dosser.' Frank laughed and bear hugged him. 'Fuckin army? You've learnt nothing whilst you've been under my roof have ya?'

Natalie embraced him and reassuringly stroked his back. She'd been as stunned as Frank that Paul wanted to risk what he'd built up for himself, but her respect for him had risen, and she too felt saddened that he wanted away, and nervous for him, knowing that he wasn't the most confident.

She told him that they'd always be there for him at the end of a line. He thanked her, but knew that it was precisely that that he was trying to break himself away from.

If he really was a man, he had to start performing like one.

## 24th March 1995

'Mrs Wilson you are fuckin full of shite... Every time I turn up on your doorstep you give me the same old speech that frankly bores the living crap out of me... The simple facts are Mrs Wilson, if you cannot afford to pay back what you fuckin owe, you simply don't fuckin borrow... Do you think that this is the Bingo or something?.. Do you think that this is playtime money that I just hand out cos I like you?... I don't like you,..you are fat and you are vile and you make be scratch until I make my skin bleed when I leave here... The conditions that you let that boy live in are a disgrace,.. so what that your husband left you,.. he probably left cos you are a slob that lives in your own dirt,..you let your child live in your own dirt,.. what sort of parent does that?... It's okay sobbing,..that won't get us anywhere. It won't bring your philandering fuckin husband back,.. it won't make that snotty nosed little son of yours love you, cos you've already failed and lost him,.. and most importantly of all, it won't pay back the eighty fuckin quid that you owe me.' Charlie Cable yelled as he towered above Gemma Wilson.

The thirty-three year old woman rocked in her chair staring at the lacing in Charlie Cable's Caterpillar boots. Her three year old son sat in front of the electric fire, his fists full of toys and his open mouth full of bewilderment.

Charlie Cable craned his neck towards the child, his eyes were on stalks and his knuckles grew whiter from his grip on the lump hammer.

'What's your kid's name?' He ordered.

She failed to reply, silently sobbing.

'I said, what the fuck is your kid's name?' He repeated.

'Paul,..it,..it's Paul.'

'Ha,..Paul hey?... I once knew a Paul. Little fuckin cocksuckin bastard he was.' Charlie moved towards the boy and invited himself down on to the carpet beside him. The hammer eased from his grip, though still a menace.

Gemma Wilson, looked up and begged him with her eyes.

'Hello Paul... I bet that you're a good Paul... A good lad hey?'

The child said nothing, only looked at his mother for support.

'Do you like your mummy Paul?'

He asked and the boy nodded and gulped.

'Good,..thats good. A boy should love his mummy. My Paul did. Unfortunately, like my Paul, your mummy doesn't like you much... Your mummy thinks that you get in the way and that you're a hindrance to her... You see, your mum would sooner be down the Bingo with her other lard-arsed mates and stuffing her face full of chips than looking after you... Have you seen how dirty mummy keeps your house?... I feel as though we're catching something by just sitting down on this carpet... You see,..mummy likes to borrow money off of bad men like me and enjoy herself when she can't afford to do it... Do you know why mummy can't afford it?'

The child remained motionless and the woman cried in to her hands.

'Because mummy is a bone idle fuck that can't even clean up the house that her offspring crawls about in... She's a filthy fuckin cow that will never earn because she's lazy and scared to even work at home, never mind by finding herself a job... That's why your daddy has left Paul... Your daddy has found a lady that isn't fat and lazy and treats her life like one big doss... Unfortunately because your mummy is fat and lazy, I am going to have to find your daddy and get the money off of him, because that!.....' He jabbed a wicked finger of disdain towards the woman. 'Will never be able to pay back what she owes because she is fuckin pathetic.'

'It was only thirty pounds.' She squeaked under a pained voice.

'Correct!.. A thirty pounds that you thought that you could repay by opening your big fat fuckin thighs... How the fuck you ever contemplated that I would be so inhumanly desperate to shag the likes of you, I don't ever wish to begin to decipher... No amount of money could ever compensate fuckin you my dear.'

Gemma Wilson burst in to tears of desperation. All she wanted was a night out to cheer herself up. Darren had left her and run off with her best friend. She was emotionally broke, so when it was suggested that she should go in to town with the mums from the school, the only way that she could afford it was by organising a loan from Charlie Cable. Her folks had nothing and she didn't know the other mums from the playgroup well enough to ask for financial assistance. She was desperate and wasn't thinking straight; now she just wanted to close her eyes and make him disappear. Yet he'd initially been so helpful.

Charlie Cable rose to his feet, followed by the gaze of the child.

'You'll be alright Paul... One day you will be shut of this lump of lard.'

He faced Gemma Wilson.

'Where's he living?'

'Who?'

'Your intelligent, let's get the fuck away from here as swiftly as my cheatin fuckin legs will carry me husband, you silly twat.... Who do you think I mean?'

'Somewere up er,..up Ravensdale.'

'That fuckin figures... Address!'

'Sanders Avenue,..don't,..I..I..I don't know a number.'

'What's his name?'

'Darren'

'Sounds a fuckin mug...Tell me Gemma,..now be very honest if you don't want me to return... If I took my old friend Mr Lump Hammer around to see Darren, do you think that he'll give me any shit?'

'I don't think so.'

'Now thats not really good enough... You see, you have to be a little more specific here cos should our Darren fancy his chances, I'll probably have to go back home for Mr Lump Hammers bigger, uglier brother and his cousin Sergeant Pliers,...so be a bit more fuckin accurate will you you dozy fuckin moo... Will Dazza give me some shit?'

'No,..n..n..no,..he'll,..he'll shit himself.'

'Beautiful.'

Charlie reached in to his wallet and produced a ten pound note.

'See this?... This is to get some decent fuckin food in that child's belly... Not yours... Your belly is full to bursting as it is... If I find that you spend a single penny on yourself, I will come back and cave your fuckin skull in to next week... Are you listening?'

She looked up at him terrified.

'Yes,..yes.'

'Good... Now I will pay Darren a visit and I'm going to get your debt from him... You owe me two hundred pounds now for the ridiculous trouble and strife that you have put me through. I suggest you clean yourself and that child up. Tidy this place and move on with your life... Darren isn't coming back,..especially after he's met me... And in the future,.. keep your suggestions of sex to yourself... You're a disgrace and you are disgusting... I'd sooner fuck Darren... And the next time you fancy a night out with money that you can't afford,.. think about it, cos you won't ever pull a worthy bloke, even in this town; stay in and look after that kid. He's the most important thing that you'll ever own.'

## Lucknow Barracks, Tidworth, Wiltshire : 23rd August 1995

It was Natalie Brevitt's forty-first birthday and she could barely breathe as she sobbed in to the telephone to Paul Cable.

Frank Brevitt was dead; killed in a road traffic accident in a collision with a blood ambulance that was leaving Kings Mill Hospital on Sutton Road. His vehicle had been speeding and he hadn't been wearing a seat belt. The trauma to his head on impact with the windscreen had killed him at the scene. Fortunately nobody else was seriously injured in the crash.

The reason for Frank's speeding hadn't been clear, but witnesses suggested that he may have been racing another unknown vehicle.

Natalie was beside herself with heartbreak; the man was her life and meant everything to her. It was a tragic waste and she'd collapsed in hysteria when the news was quietly broken to her. Her whole future was now an uncertain mess from where she had no idea of where to begin picking up the pieces.

The only person left was Paul Cable, the young man who she and Frank had practically adopted; the man that for ten months had been away learning to become a soldier. She needed him with her for comfort. Her parents had always been offish about Frank, but had given her the best solace that they could, her best friend Tina could only offer her so much, and Keno Quillan was in as bad a way as she was herself; he was totally distraught and inconsolable at the loss of his childhood friend.

He answered the call at Lucknow Barracks and looked disbelievingly in to the telephone booth, not knowing what to say. He could barely make out the words that stumbled from her tongue, but he recognised enough to know that things had changed and he was needed elsewhere.

For the first time in his life it was he who was being asked for comfort and not himself that seeked it.

He left as soon as he physically could. He thought that he would have the right kind of words to help the woman; he'd been the benefactor of sympathy for many years and had a back catalogue to fall back on.

## 30th August 1995

Funerals seemed a part of normality for Paul Cable. He'd seen buried almost every serious loved one that he'd had. Now it was Frank Brevitt that was in the ground.

He felt almost sub-human for not joining in with the tears that flowed freely, but he had been shorn of that particular emotion and had the public expression of grief side chopped from his nature. He was clearly deeply upset, but seemed much stronger than people like Natalie, Frank's dad, Keno, Tina and the boys from the gym and the fraternity of hardened nightlife security boys.

He seemed immune to death; expectant of it. He certainly did not fear it - for either himself, or for anyone else that he knew. No place in an afterlife could be worse than this one he felt.

Natalie was inconsolable as she sank in to the arms of her mother and Tina. They both urged her to spend the night at their homes, but Natalie refused, claiming she had chores to do to take her mind off of things, and she had Paul to console her. She just wanted quiet and to be away from the crowds. She hated being the centre of attention and felt that every single pair of eyes was probing her.

Natalie's mother, Cynthia Hardwick and her best friend Tina Donavon did not know what to make of Paul Cable. He was an enigma to them both and did not see the appeal that he'd given to the couple. He barely spoke; not just to them, but to anyone. With Tina she had always felt unnerved on the very few occasions that she was alone around him. He had a presence and it sometimes didn't feel like a positive one; she wouldn't admit it to Natalie, but something inside of her felt threatened by him. He'd never done anything to prove this instinct, but she'd once seen him hitting the heavy bag in the gym and he was unrelenting, like he was possessed. She was sure that he could look after Natalie, they clearly had a bond of affection, but something inside her wished that he wasn't around.

As soon as she could politely leave the wake Natalie Brevitt did. She told Paul that she would like him to stay; he knew many of the lads from the gym and the doors, but he hadn't wanted to stay and felt that his job was with Natalie and not with a load of big boys and their sentiments.

He'd managed to get leave and had been with Natalie within six hours of her phone call. She'd clung to him like a sleepy toddler when he'd climbed through the front door.

He'd never seen her looking so emotionally spent and it made his heart ache to see such open despair. He loved Frank, and he particularly loved Natalie and he hated seeing her in that way.

With Keno also feeling the weight of grief, Paul temporarily took up the running of the gym for a few days and helped Natalie with the household jobs and with ferrying her to the supermarket. Anything she needed doing, he would insist that he assisted her. He felt that it was his duty. Frank had taken a chance on him and he would repay him to the best of his ability. Natalie too, had done more for him in the past few years than anyone had and it was payback time.

Keno was also pleased to see his friend back in some loose capacity and had welcomed his aid. The big man had been reduced to a crumpled heap of mess. He too had no one to fall back on expect his parents and his other mates, but he and Paul weren't close enough for the younger man to console him sufficiently.

When they arrived home he put the kettle on, but Natalie insisted that she open a bottle of wine. She asked him to join her and although reluctant, he did out of courtesy. He wasn't a big drinker of alcohol, he never had been; it seemed to give him more pain than pleasure, but for Natalie he felt inclined to do as was asked.

It was six in the evening and she curled up on the sofa, her head lay on his lap and he soothed her by gently running his fingers through her short blonde hair as they watched the news. It seemed as nothing of note was happening in the world.

One bottle of Pinot Grigio followed another one in to the evening in which Natalie cried some more, and then they would laugh at the stories of Frank. Frank the wildcard - mean as fuck, but with a heart of gold that would pump pure elixir. If you were a friend of Frank, you were a friend of many, and you had a stand-up reliable mate for life.

Natalie Brevitt knew that. Frank was her life mate, a soul mate that was irreplaceable and would walk to the ends of the earth for his queen. Paul Cable knew that Frank had been extremely lucky; few individuals find a partner that they are truly compatible with, but Frank had. Natalie was perfection in Frank's eyes, and Paul could see it himself.

She sobbed herself to sleep on his shoulder at around 10pm. She was shattered and drunken; they both were. Paul wasn't used to feeling this tipsy, but still had the faculties to wrap her up in his strong arms and carry her up to her big lonely bed.

He laid her down, leaving her in the black dress that she would look so amazing in hadn't the circumstances turned her to a dark sunglasses wearing shimmering wreck that could barely stand.

He stood by the door and watched her in the half-light that came from the landing corridor. Even asleep her face was full of such beautiful sadness. Paul feared for the wellbeing of Natalie Brevitt and wished that there was more that he could do for her. He knew how hollow she must have felt inside; he'd felt it himself on three separate, crushing occasions.

All he could do was be there for her as much as he physically could be.

At a quarter to midnight, Paul Cable was woken by a body beside him in his small double bed.

He felt naked flesh against his back and a slender arm draped over his shoulder.

'I need someone to hold me please.' She begged him as he struggled with his half conscious mind playing tricks on him.

He spun slowly around and after a short while he could focus on Natalie's image in the dark. They embraced tightly and she quickly fell back to sleep, but he was soon wide awake, though his head was fuzzy from the drink.

Her body was hot against his and she felt incredibly soft against him. He breathed in the aroma of her fading perfume and controlled her waist with his large hand that cupped the upper part of her buttock. His penis was quickly rock solid and he was unsure quite what to do. He was twenty-four years old and had never been this closely intimate to a naked woman in his entire life.

It felt like a dream to his disbelieving, wine-confused mind. He had desired this woman for the last few years, but never expected to be in this position with her. It was passionless and free of grace, but his hormones ran rampantly throughout his body. Was Frank Brevitt looking down on him? Frank had told him how Natalie had a sexual side to her that was risky and off the wall, but Paul had dismissed it as drunken bravado to induce some valid excuse to his own behaviour.

At around two-ten in the morning Paul Cable finally managed to drop to sleep; his cock remained as it was, hard and neatly cusped against the thigh of Natalie Brevitt, whose leg draped across him.

At four- sixteen he found himself in a passionate kiss with her. They were both semi-conscious and neither of them had known when their actions had begun, or who had instigated them, but Paul felt on auto pilot and carried out the actions that his body told him to do. Natalie took control and dictated the pace.

Sexual intercourse that had seemed to last for hours to Paul Cable had been completed in under fifteen minutes. They settled back to sleep without an exchange of words; her with her back to him, with his thick arms entombing her and holding her small, firm breast.

At five-forty they repeated the process when Paul had seduced her by kissing her neck and ear.

## 31st August 1995

'I'm so ashamed. What would Frank think of us?...Why?' Natalie Brevitt was distraught and gasped in anguish. What was happening in her life? Had they slept together? She'd been drunk and needed comfort; she was fuming with herself at putting them in that position by going to his room.

'We'd been drinking, and not thinking straight... It felt normal and the right thing to do.' Paul Cable was equally distraught. He had woken early, wrapped around her and although his head ached he felt wonderful. He'd had a night to remember and had almost forgotten the discomfort of the day before. He didn't feel guilty, Frank was dead and Natalie had come to him and initiated things as far as he could remember. She'd opened him up and released the hunger he had for her. His clouded memories of the night were of perfection with a perfect person. She'd taken his virginity and he wouldn't have wanted to give it to anyone else.

Natalie sat crumpled against the headboard. Her knees tucked in to her chest, wrapped in the duvet cover. Paul Cable sat hunched on the end of the bed, dressed in sky boxer shorts that clung tightly to his large thighs; his ripped torso baring the marks created by her.

She felt sick and wanted to throw up. She hadn't thought that she could ever feel worse, but that had multiplied now.

'Nothing can come of this Paul...No one should know.'

'I want to be there for you Nat.'

'I don't need you there for me.'

'That's not what you told me last week, or last night.'

'My head has been all over the place Paul. I'm not thinking straight.'

'I can be good for you Natalie. I can look after you and give you what you want.'

'What?...What do I want then?...Frank's only just in the ground and you want to move in and take his place?...Nobody will ever take Frank's place.'

'I don't want to take Frank's place...I'm me, not Frank.'

'Nobodies Frank... Nobody will ever compete with Frank, or give me anything that he couldn't.'

'I could give you a baby.'

'What?'

'It's all that you've ever wanted to complete you... Why couldn't I give you a baby?'

'I don't want your baby Paul,.. I don't want just anybodies baby... I wanted Frank's... And besides, you've hardly been able to look after yourself, never mind a baby. You're dreaming Paul.'

The man lowered his head. His mind bathed in conflict. He so badly wanted the woman, his bones ached so shakily from it; but so much that she said was true, and landed great blows to his fragile state. He felt sure after the night that they had shared and the friendship they had formed that everything would just slip in to place.

He felt utterly deflated.

'I don't need babies, or another man, or anything just now. I need to think and decide where my life is going to lead. I'm forty-one years old and my adult life has been put on hold...Its being reset and I need things to settle down.'

'Well let me help you settle down then... I'll go away back to the base and will come home at weekends to help out.'

'I'm not sure that I want you here anymore Paul.'

'What?...Why?'

'I'm not sure there's a place for you here now after what's happened.'

'How could you be so cold Nat?... You've never spoken to me like this before.'

'Things have changed... I'm not sure that I could ever be comfortable around you again.'

'Why not?'

'We fucked on the day of my husband's funeral Paul... He took you in, gave you a home, a job, a life... He's died and now you've fucked his wife... It's perverse...It's wrong... How could we ever live like that?... What would people say?... They'd think we'd been at it all along.'

'I don't care what people say.'

'I care what people say!'

Paul stood and pulled on a t-shirt. His dozy head feeling even more blurred with every word from her punching lips.

'I want you to leave Paul... You can find somewhere else to put your stuff... Leave them at the gym if you like... But I want them gone from there too in the next couple of months.'

He stared at her in total disbelief. Why was she punishing him so much? What had he done so badly wrong that they weren't both responsible for?

'You want me gone?.. For good?'

'I want you totally out of my life... I love you dearly, but i can't have you around, it'll only hurt and make things worse... You have the army now,..that's your life and they're your family... That's what Frank always called them...his big family.'

'You can't do this Nat.'

'Yes I can Paul...This house,..that gym...they're mine now... You're not my responsibility... Please don't be difficult, I'm going through enough grief at the moment.'

'And what will you do?'

'I'll survive. That's what I always do... I'll move on with my life,.. I suggest that you do too.'

His hand hurt like hell, and the wind rushed through the gaping hole where the driver's window was meant to be as he whistled at speed south down the motorway.

He'd packed his bag with as much gear as he could fit, and loaded the van with the rest of his loose wares. He'd left quietly and they'd hardly exchanged a word in goodbyes.

He smashed the glass of his window with a tightly clenched fist aimed at his own reflection.

The fist was undoubtedly broken and it throbbed in the agony.

The tears that were so absent the day before flowed down his cheeks. The pain of losing someone else had finally broken Paul Cable.

## 29th September 1995

Charlie Cable counted the bank notes as his car waited at a red light. It had been a fruitful evening. He'd accumulated over eight hundred pounds in debt owed to him and no numbskull had tried to give him any lip. He enjoyed giving out some fist, but it rarely came to that and for the majority of the time he could do without it.

Taking his father's crooked cash all those years earlier had been used to create a handy and lucrative living. Charlie hadn't seen the point in going on a spending spree, he used his loaf and invested it. When the pits began to shut, he had a readymade business plan and a model to go off. It was called becoming a loan shark.

Originally it provided him with an excellent second wage, people were always short of cash and their nature and societies demanded that they have the things that were out of their grasp. It annoyed him greatly. Whatever happened to the old ways of saving? Society was beginning to become the 'have now, pay later' one and Charlie was perfectly on hand to provide the public with a service that the banks and credit companies were denying.

Need a holiday? Charlie would provide it.

A new TV? Ask Mr Cable.

Money for a coffin and headstone? Charlie was your man. Just remember to pay up, or you might as well order two!

Work never seemed to slow down, and when the pits began to close and unemployment rose, well that was heaven sent for him. So much so that he'd not had to rush in to finding further employment; he was making a handsome enough living off of his father's most welcome inheritance. He'd never had time to thank the old man.

He'd had no reason to move away from the house. He didn't require anything more fancy and he had a good control on the neighbours who both feared and humoured him. Mostly they'd keep out of his way and he was perfectly happy to live in that same family home now that he was on his own.

He'd no reason for fancy cars and posh decor; the place pretty much stood as it had for the past ten years. Occasionally he'd pull himself in to doing a little painting, but often he couldn't see the point. He did all of his socializing in The Gun & Glasshouse now, and all of his sexual liaisons would be with desperate women who he'd in theory paid small amounts of cash to by way of his special loans. He didn't need the permanent company of a partner and was actually quite relieved when Anna had died; it felt like a lucky break to him, getting her off of his back had been something he'd craved and he often considered of disposing of her, but that would have got people talking, and the cops thinking. Two close family members disappearing? That would have created too much of a dilemma for him.

Though he felt sure that he'd have eventually cracked and seen her off in a somewhat messy manner, but when she just decided to croak on the chair at home, happy days! He'd celebrated with a cigar and a double Bells.

He pulled up at home, the air was damp and he stuffed the money in to the pocket of his jeans whilst sparking a Benson & Hedges.

He thrived on being a face on this stretch of road; someone to be fearful of and to close your curtains on. He ruled the place with a mad, bad reputation; the former convict who had seen off a whole family. An individual to check on the whereabouts of before you vacated your property.

The house lay in shadow as the evening began to draw in. He didn't bother with the light, it was still bright enough for him to see and negotiate himself around.

He puffed on the tobacco and climbed the stairs before pulling down the loft hatch by the cord and dropping down the wooden ladder that he'd had fitted.

He stared at the empty space for several full seconds. The three bags of cash were gone. His heart stopped as he caught his breath, and then it restarted frantically.

He turned the place upside down. He knew that he hadn't moved them, because he'd kept them in that same spot for years. He knew that someone had been in his house and someone had been up in that loft and stolen his money - one hundred and forty six thousand in Great British pounds belonging to Her Majesty the Queen and Charlie Cable - a partnership that they had forged comfortably together for many years, without a hint of breaking up. Gone!

He slumped against a wooden beam and his body poured with sweat, adrenaline and uncontrollable hatred for an unknown person that he could not place. He listened intently for any sound. Nobody knew of this stash in the loft, but he had been careless. That cash had been sat in bags in the loft for a long time. WHY THE FUCK HADN'T HE INVESTED IN A SAFE?!!! His thriftiness knew no bounds.

He could not place a name to a likely culprit, despite his brain ticking at one hundred miles an hour with possible candidates. Eventually he agreed that he needed to calm down and think. Panic had set in and made him think recklessly. He needed to pinch himself and slow his thought pattern. This wasn't the way that he was going to get that money back; he needed to sit and to think.

And then he'd strike.

Somebody was going to die for this. For that he had no doubt or fear.

He climbed down the loft ladder, leaving it hanging before returning to the ground floor where he would fix himself a large, stiff drink and would work this nonsense out.

He entered the living room and it had got dark. He'd been in the loft a long time, losing his temper and his mind.

ZZZzzzZZZAAaaP !!!

When Charlie Cable came around from the bite of the stun gun, he was tied to the dining room chair by industrial cable tie-wraps to the hands and feet.

He had been struck down by a surge of 950,000 volts of electricity that had paralysed his aching body, sending it in to an uncontrollable spasm of agony.

The beam of a high powered flashlight shone in to his face and provided a great source of amusement for his capture as Cable was provoked enough to somehow find enough steam to rock and jerk his body from side to side in his fury.

His attacker had not only stolen the money that he'd worked for and had kept him in a livelihood for years, he had also made a fool of him.

His mouth had been prized open and the fat rubber end of a dogs toy bone had been forced in to it. He tried to spit it out, but he couldn't force his jaw wide enough to remove it. It needed the assistance of his hands, but he could not shift them; the ties dug deep in to his skin.

'Looks like you're the dog boy now dad, don't it?' Paul Cable asked sternly from behind the torch.

Charlie's eyes stood on stalks and his manically frustrated movements increased as he attempted to spit words that his mouth would not conform to.

'Sssush now old man...You'll do yourself some damage.'

His fury continued whilst Paul planted the three bags of cash at his father's feet.

'I've been wondering for several years just where you got all of this cash from... Can you remember putting me up in that loft,..naked,...with all that dust and shit...making me suffer to satisfy your sadistic little mind?'

Charlie's body slowed with exhaustion and he watched the boy through threatening eyes as he listened.

'Well that day looks like it's come back to bite you on the fanny don't it?... Big mistake...What were you thinking?...Pissed up again Charlie?... Not thinking straight?... I can't believe that you made such a basic mistake as leaving it up there.'

He stopped and glared at the man who had single-handedly attempted to destroy him.

'I don't know how much money you have here, but I'm leaving with it... Don't think you'll ever find me, cos I'm leaving and I'm never coming back to this place... There's nobody here for me,..you helped see to that... I'm taking this in the memory of my mum, and my grandma, and my little sister... The sister that you failed to protect Charles Cable, not me...all you ever did for your children was treat them like animals,..like you've always treated everyone... You are scum and I ought to exterminate you right here and now for what you did to us all.'

Again he paused.

'But I think that I might be better than that dad... I have demons just like you, and I fight with them every day...But mine were put there by you and hopefully I'll always be able to control them..Just like you controlled me.'

Charlie glared with utter contempt and sheer hatred; refusing to blink, despite the piercing light in his face.

'You've burnt your bridges and destroyed everyone that could have been good for you... You never deserved the people in your life, but somehow a nonce like you managed to hit the jackpot and collected together a group of people that were very special...and you wiped them out, like a sick dictator... You hate me,..you've told me that a million times,..but double that and times it by a thousand and then you'll be nearer the feelings I have for you.'

Sweat and snot greased the face of Charlie Cable as he listened intently to the taunts of his only son; the boy that he had dedicated a large proportion of his life to humiliate. Now he was the man with the upper hand.

'Come looking for me Charlie... I hope that you spend the rest of your lonely, friendless days searching every nook and cranny, every alleyway and corridor, and every corner of this planet for me and this bag of,...this bag of loot that you'll have got in some evil fuckin manner I have no doubt... I'll be waiting for you dad... I'm not scared of you anymore,..I'm not scared of anyone or anything... I hope you'll find me,..cos I'll rip that sick fuckin head from your rotten shoulders.'

Paul Cable dropped the flashlight and grasped his father by the hair, yanking his head backwards and forcing the rubber bone deeper in to his throat with his other gloved hand and making the older man gag in struggle.

The chair toppled over and left Charlie on his side, spluttering for air; attempting to swear obscenities and threats.

Paul stood over him and withheld his urge to crash down a heavy boot on to his father's unprotected skull.

He left quietly by the back door with the three bags, throwing them in to the back of his van and setting off. Once at the Queensbury Gym he made a 999 call to police to tell them of a disturbance at the house of Charlie Cable.

Two hours later he filled the rest of his small van with his remaining things and drove out of town. He never wished to return.

## The Waiting State

'Even if I somehow managed to let you back in the Foundation world with theories of killing Charlie Cable...Stamping him out and making sure that he doesn't progress, just like you say Paul...How the hell am I meant to do it?'

'Some sort of note, or message. We'll write it down and put it in a place for me to consult later Vincent.'

'But this is the Waiting State. You won't remember a thing of this place once you returned... A note to yourself; no matter how long would just seem like the ramblings of a mad man.'

'I'll explain the Waiting State in the note... I'll write a thousand pages if I have too.'

'No you won't because I won't let you...What you learn here must never venture backwards, or forwards.'

'That's bullshit,.. you say yourself that it would just seem like the ramblings of a mad man, so let me decide that back in the world.'

'I'm a guide Paul. I teach the learning's of our kind. Charlie Cable has as much right to life as you and I, he will conform as he progresses through the cycles.'

'Fuck, shit shut up Vincent... The man is a friggin psychopath who I don't want anywhere near my family again, whether he's bloody healed of his ills or not, I'm going to go back and I'm going to blow his brains all over every single inch of the nearest wall...When I've done with him, they'll be no evidence that a head or a brain ever existed.'

## Khao Lak, Phang Nga Provence, Thailand : 9th December 2006

The wedding of Paul Cable and Kiyomi Sasaki had been a quiet affair with only immediate family and some close friends and relations of the bride invited.

Although Buddhist, Kiyomi had chosen a Christian style wedding to make Paul feel more comfortable and they dressed in traditional western style – her in a wedding dress of white and he in military uniform.

He was to be posted to Afghanistan for one last time before he left the forces to join up with her permanently in Japan and the following summer could not come around more quickly for him. He ached to be with her relaxed and in Karatsu, and he hoped to find a little job that he could potter about in. His Japanese was becoming more passable by the month and he was sometimes guilty of trying too hard in his studying of it, but it helped pass the long days away and he was determined to succeed.

He had begun to invest some of his finances in to the banks of his adopted country with the help of Kiyomi. He'd wisely looked after the money that he had taken from his father and it had managed to accumulate good growth for his retirement from the armed forces, just as he'd planned in 1995. The wages of an SAS soldier were decent, but for the dangers involved they were pitiful. Before meeting his new bride, he'd planned to leave the army and work for a private security firm in Iraq and earn up to one hundred thousand pounds for a year's contract. His life hadn't meant much to him and the excitement of the adrenaline rush that fighting in the Middle East provided him would have made him keep returning for more.

Until she came along it was all that he had.

They'd chosen to return to Thailand for their honeymoon for sentimental reasons. It was the only place that they could possibly mark the occasion: the place where they first met, the place they had worked so hard in terrible times, and the friendly people that they'd met there. They wanted to help again, but this time with the economy. And of course the destination was quite stunning.

They'd been shocked and amazed that the place was fixed up and running like new within two short years. Years in which Paul and Kiyomi and spent far too little and brief times together, but enough time for them to fall deeply head over heels in love for each other.

Now they couldn't imagine a life without one another.

Kiyomi had completed creating the perfect home for when he would eventually return to Japan and finally stay for good. She'd sit in the garden in the evenings and feel the wind blow in from the bay on to her face and breathe deeply in, hoping to catch his scent. He was such a long way away and she feared the worst when she woke on every morning.

She knew that he was vastly experienced and was a respected soldier, but it never allowed her to totally sit easy with the situation.

Paul Cable was calmness personified. He was The Beast - indestructible. Even he had begun to believe it and he felt invincible at times. Even now with someone to live for he would not give the enemy an inch. He knew that he would be coming home from Afghanistan intact to be with her and to begin his new life; the one that he'd wanted all the years previous. In a relationship that he once envied his old friend Frank Brevitt from having.

They snoozed under a canopy of jungle trees that hung at right angles over the exotic beach that for a short time they could call their own. The languid sea laid before them a calming turquoise in shade alongside the gorgeous green foliages of the outcrops and the near deserted light sands of the beach. It was a paradise that that boy who had turned in to the troubled youth and in turn to the mixed up adult could never have anticipated.

The stunning wife asleep in his arms completed the most idyllic of transformations for Paul Cable and life tasted so good that the bad times almost seemed merely like from the pages of a book that he'd once read.

## The Waiting State

'To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement mate; but I understood why you did it. My Natalie is a lovely girl...Gentle and caring,..good fun to be around...and obviously appealing...I was proud of you to be there for her in her hour of need; it was good of you,..you showed what she meant to you... The fact that you ended up sleeping together has taken the gloss off of things, but hey,..we all make mistakes don't we bud?'

'It was a huge mistake Frank and I can only offer you my apologies. I never meant to hurt either of you... I was very fond of her, and jealous of what you'd got,..but I was drunk and in a confused state of mind. It was a mistake and I regretted it and felt guilty for several years.'

'The thing is Paul,..she genuinely did like you and I think in another time and place it could have worked.'

'I don't think so mate, she hated me for what we did and couldn't move me on quick enough... It set me back a couple of years if I'm being honest.'

'And made you more aggressive?...an incident that provided a sparkplug?'

'I did start to become more unpredictable.'

'Yes you did buddy, and you lost a lot of that discipline that we learned in the ring.'

'It felt like even those that I cared for were against me Frank.'

'It wasn't Nat's fault that you lost your way Paul... Yeah she instigated what happened and eventually snubbed you, but she was in a very bad way and your defences left a lot to be desired... You could have still rescued what you wanted.'

'No chance... I was young and immature and very inexperienced. Natalie was angry with the situation,..that's why I was booted out of her life. She'd embarrassed herself and because of that I was finished,..there was no way back from that.'

'You're wrong mate... The Paul Cable of today would have defused the situation and found an alternative method to make things work... Look at how you are in the field,..out there in the sand and dust with the baking heat...Decision making without thinking,..adapting to the situation...That's the same person that got asked to leave by my Natalie.'

'I was twenty-four years old Frank... I'd never been with a woman in my life... I thought I knew her,.. but she ripped me apart and left me confused... I wasn't equipped for that and for a couple of years I felt like a criminal... I'd tainted the memory of you and destroyed the bond I had with Natalie... She was the only loved one I had left,..I'd been in that situation before, only this time it was me that took it away.'

'Mate, even if you'd not slept with her that night... if you'd have turned her away, the outcome would have been the same... You're right; she was embarrassed and ashamed... Ashamed at the timing, nothing else...but Nat loved you and if that hadn't have happened; or if you'd have tried harder and not been a push over you would have eventually been together I have no doubts.'

'I don't believe that I'm afraid.'

'Vincent?' The immaculately turned out Frank Brevitt in his black silk suit turned to Vincent Tua.

'Frank's right Paul... Natalie developed deep regrets at how she treated you. You have to remember that she was a very confused lady in a deep turmoil at that time. The timing and the situation was unfortunate... I have no doubts that the feelings you had for one another would have eventually resulted in a meaningful relationship of some kind,..and probably the stability that you required at the time... Instead we all know what developed and you went off of the rails somewhat... It was a difficult time for yourself and for me...again it was an episode of your life that was like watching a car crash in slow motion... I was powerless, but it made you the individual that you are today... Strong and thoughtful, and now with a good wellbeing.'

'I suppose, but it doesn't sit easy that things could have been different... Your telling me that it was a passage that could have been a good one for me, but instead it was a difficult one.'

'That's life Paul... Opportunities missed, opportunities gained... Every episode is defined by the balance of a razors edge... We make our own decisions and it maps our lives... Unfortunately for you, at the time you were weak and Natalie Brevitt made the decision for you... It didn't stop her spending sleepless nights wishing she'd reacted differently and that you were there... you'd been an important and integral part in both her and Frank's lives.'

'As the years went by, I was quite glad that nothing came of it though... Frank was the greatest friend that I ever had... Like a dad and a best mate rolled in to one... I didn't feel comfortable about what happened and once I'd learned to live with it, I was glad that nothing else had happened... Natalie was Frank's and that was how it should always have been... That's the memory I have of her now; the one of them together and looking after me,.. I'd barred the one of August 1995 from my head... I just hope that Frank will forgive what happened to both me and Natalie.'

Brevitt looked at Paul Cable. His shaven head mounted on his thick neck and well built shoulders. Like the others in the Waiting State, he looked like a dreamlike picture of perfection; one that Paul wasn't sure that the Frank Brevitt from the Foundation world would truly appreciate.

'Mate,..after Nat, you were the most important person in my life... If I wasn't going to be there to share life with her,.. I'd have chosen you to be the one to take my place. You were my prodigy; my little project she used to call you,..and she was right... Your life had been full of shit and strife and all I wanted was for you to be happy and to make something of yourself; to show that tosser of a father what you were capable of... One thing that would have completed your life would have been a good woman, and my Nat was the best... You'd have had my complete blessing, screw what others might have thought... I'm just glad that you've both moved on and our enjoying your lives; I'm jealous as hell... It's a good job that your old mate Frankie will be going back to the Understanding and all this will be forgotten, cos Frankie hates sulking, don't he mate?'

They glowed at one another and embraced. Paul had always feared Frank's reaction; for years he had struggled with his regret at letting him down, but Frank wasn't the type to let bad blood come in the way of great friendships and it was only now that Paul Cable recognised that.

## Uzarji Varos, Bosnia : 14th May 1996

It was a cool, still and unremarkable morning in the hills that headed north from Banja Luka towards Croatia. A detachment of troops from 1 Battalion The Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters Regiment, who were in the region as part of the NATO led Implementation Force had been deployed to investigate an alleged atrocity at a villa in the woodland five miles from the hilltop village of Uzarji Varos.

The local Muslim villages had been under constant attack from the Bosnian Serb paramilitary assaults throughout a period in 1993 as part of their ethnic cleansing purifyo policy. The Muslim folk were subjected to indiscriminate shelling and shootings and entire populations were wiped from the face of the blood soaked Balkan earth.

During the uneasy ceasefire NATO forces were still unearthing evidence of war crimes from the ethnic groups who fought for control in the former Yugoslav republic; the Bosnian Serbs, although outnumbered were better armed and received support from the Serbian army to take control of two-thirds of the ravaged country from the Muslim majority.

Serb aggression launched a free reign of shocking terror on the countries Muslim population, driving them from their homes and creating suffering through mass rape, wholesale slaughter of the male population and through concentration camp confinement.

Persecution, extermination, deportation and arbitrary acts of murder had been a daily diet, and fear and terror had lived constantly in the hearts of the inhabitants of this region.

Paul Cable had kept a close eye on events in the Balkans; the inhumanity of it all struck a chord in his psyche. The hatred and the pure wanton need for violence and retribution felt otherworldly, though something in him recognised the unsystematic revulsion that these very different neighbours felt for one another. The centuries of bad blood that stirred in the contentious ethnic melting pot spilling over in to complete, unrestrained carnage and mayhem.

Bosnia-Herzegovina felt like a reckless nightmare on a scale that had shocked and appalled him. Hatred was all around and to him the air stank of untold stories of evilness.

They were only weeks in to their six month tour, but Paul Cable already hated the place and detested the people who could so easily carry out such mindless wholesale atrocities.

He'd been holding on to a bout of flu for several days and was only just coming out of the other side. His nasal passage was blocked and his head filled with cold, but Paul wasn't one to moan and shirk his duties; he'd sooner be out on operations than laid up in bed with a fever, even if his head hurt like hell and his limbs felt drained of strength.

The men sloped from the two units of Saxon armoured personnel carriers, decked in their three NATO camouflage colours, and the word IFOR daubed in white.

The perimeter walls of the villa were whitewashed and covered in thick overgrown brambles that offered the place a suggestion of disrepair. Its thick black-brown, two metre high gates were jammed closed and a large chunk of grey rock had been wedged tightly up against them. It seemed that nobody had been though them in quite some time.

They dragged the rock away using the power from the Saxon and prized themselves inside.

The gardens were dry and overgrown, with rubbish and the wreckage of burned out cars scattered about on the dead lawns. The house itself was also whitewashed and over two floors in a large boxed shape. The place had obviously belonged to an affluent family by Bosnian standards and Paul Cable could well imagine the place during its pomp on a sunny summer's afternoon with its majestic offerings in to the green valley below. Now it was an eerie place, silent apart from the occasional tap of a wooden shutter hanging from a window by a single bracket.

The external walls were pockmarked with the craters of bullet holes; the offending shells scattered on the gravel beneath the troop's feet.

The farmhouse style door swung slightly inwards on the villas side entrance and Paul Cable pushed it wide with the barrel of his SA80. The corridor lay thick with dust and his boots squeaked on the tiled floor as he crept in; ever alert even in this spookily deserted outpost were human life had long deserted.

The home had been pillaged of anything of value and amongst the remains were the broken framed photographs of smiling families and furniture that had been tossed about during a terrifying raid.

Paul filtered through to the large, stale open-planned kitchen with its white matt doors left open and stripped bare and a gaping hole in the large, shattered glass of the elongated window. A trail of long since dried, blackened blood led a path from the pine table, across the smooth white tiles and through the opened patio doors that led to a decked veranda with decorative columns painted red that overlooked the main patio and gardened area.

He slowly walked through the disused doors; footsteps of colleagues on the floor above echoed throughout the empty carcase, and low voices could be heard of the men chatting inquisitively.

Stepping out on to the patio he was greeted by a large swimming pool totally drained of water. He inched towards it and considered that life here would certainly have been good at one time; but now it wasn't welcome. The only thing that was welcomed here now was death.

He knelt beside the pools edge and removed his helmet, running a hand through his thick sandy hair. Gaz Wood joined him at his side, his jaw slackened and his eyes unblinking.

The pool was filled with the bones of bodies long since left of this world. Bones both small and large; of man and of child. The base of the pool coated in the filthy, dried out black glue of the intrinsic breakdown of liquefied tissues and burst body cavities broken down by the enzymes from dead cells.

The terrible smell from the escaping gases of hydrogen sulphide, methane and the traces of mercaptans must have been horrendous and the local birdlife must have feasted for days on the vile mess that would have carried its scent across the valley.

One hundred and seventy-six male Bosnian Muslim bodies, aged from as old as ninety, and as young as three months. It left a bitter after taste in the mouth of Paul Cable; an experience that he would never forget, or understand.

His faith in human nature and the workings of the human brain had always been a struggle for him in the past; now he knew that men in their rawest form were no better than the most ruthlessly cold-hearted animal.

## Colchester Garrison, Essex : 18th October 1997

The intensity and the clinical intelligence Paul Cable had shown in dismantling Lance Corporal Duffy of the 2nd Battalion Parachute Regiment in the Armies IndividualBoxing Championships at Aldershot had made their regiments Commandant sit up and notice the twenty-six year old.

He knocked his opponent out and was crowned Cruiserweight champion with a display of power and controlled aggression inside a minute and forty-eight seconds.

It was clear that the man had potential, and it was only perhaps his age and desire that could hold him back from making a decent living from the sport.

Paul was urged to apply for the Parachute Regiment; something that he'd promised Frank Brevitt he'd do once settled in the army.

His acceptance was never in doubt. Paul Cable was exactly the type of soldier that they wanted. He very much had the streak inside him that Frank Brevitt had originally doubted.

He'd taken to army life and although he largely took a back seat with the banter and the camaraderie, he'd been noted as someone to get along with and to not upset. His fuse was long, but his air of well-managed menace kept anyone from lighting it.

He was popular and respected, and happy to finally be accepted in to such a large close fold of people who he could unite alongside.

The army could have been a disaster, but had turned out to be a shrewd move on his part and he felt as though he was meant for a life in the forces. His background and experiences had built his immune system strongly for its trials and his mind had proven mentally strong throughout his life to go through the events that he had and to still be growing even more resilient.

Paul Cable received his wings and now had a red beret to match the one of Frank Brevitt. He had much personal pride in being in the company of his late friend and dearly wished he was still here to appreciate it himself.

## Skopje, Macedonia : 6th June 1999

The men of 3 PARA sat in the Hercules on the runway in Skopje. Paul Cable was finding himself back in the ethnic mess of Southern Europe. This time it was the former Serbian state of Kosovar, an Albanian stronghold where the Muslims were on the end of Serbian aggression.

One hundred and twenty-five men of his battalion were joining 1 PARA in Macedonia under the directorship of the American 5 Airborne Brigade to be the knuckles from a punch by NATO's KFOR peacekeeping force during Operation Agricola.

The mission was to deal with any hard-line resistance that could hinder the agreed Serbian army withdrawal and prevent any reprisals on Serbs from the Albanians.

The region and its aging troubles depressed him. The other lads were happy to be going in and looking forward to doing some soldiering, but he didn't join their excitement. He'd seen the extent of Balkan ethnic cleansing before and it maddened and frustrated him.

Something else was making him feel down too. He'd been in a general malaise for months and hadn't been able to shake it. His life seemed to be becoming less fulfilling and he deeply desired companionship; he was getting older, but no nearer to finding someone to share his life with and the thought of him being alone for life upset him.

He was fine when he was soldiering, but during the many quiet moments he would spend most of them alone and be left with his thoughts; that's when events really got to him. When he had time to mull on his life and the cul-de-sac that he seemed to be backing himself in to he would grow agitated and intensify his aggression on the bags and free weights of the gym.

Even moments on the riverbank with his favourite pastime weren't as pleasant as they once were as his thoughts would sap at his inner morale.

Maybe he was going through a funny stage?

He wasn't the sort who could open up and freely talk about his feelings. He had good friends in the army, but nobody he felt comfort enough to confide the details of his inner most sanctums with. And his exterior never betrayed the grief that he felt; he was always the same on the outside, largely emotionless with almost synthetic qualities. He showed heart and feelings, but never got carried away to extremes of highs or lows.

He needed a holiday; somewhere warm to ease his throbbing head. He made a promise with himself to book a vacation the moment he returned to the UK.

## 10th March 2007

Charlie Cable was in his fifty-sixth year and times were tricky.

He ate directly from an opened can of baked beans and slurped at the juices until every last morsel was drained.

The gas to the house had been shut off due to an ongoing unpaid bill that he'd been reluctant to pay since being made redundant from his labouring job at the engineers in Calverton, and with the worst of winter out of the way he felt no discomfort at not having heating or to be able to cook using the oven; he had the microwave to heat his coffee and for simple meals. He bathed from the sink with cold water and felt quite invigorated by it.

His sunken face was grey and stubbly and he bared the look of an almost broken man. His dominant poise was diminishing, though his attitude still carried an authority that could intimidate.

He would still talk curtly to the staff at the Job centre, or in the bookies; and on the few occasions that he would frequent The Gun & Glasshouse he would sit alone at the table in the corner and observe everyone through his glass. The place was now a hive for younger people and Charlie would feel out of place amongst the chattering crowds of fresh faced younger adults. Some faces that he knew would still attend the establishment, but he would keep away from folks from the past, and they quite happily gave him an extra wide berth too. He much preferred to buy cheaper beer from the supermarket these days and sit at home watching the TV or reading non-fiction.

His private life had become reclusive. No woman desired the middle-aged man with the paunch belly and ashen features; the years of abuse to his system from alcohol and tobacco had created a poignant looking individual. His life had revolved around coercive awe, and although he no longer gave such a strong impression of this through image, he could still pack a deceptive punch when required.

He read from the free press and slushed bitter coffee around his mouth. A photograph of a youngster holding a freshly caught 32lb mirror carp made him think of the boy. He thought of the boy regularly; in fact he thought of him daily, possibly hourly. His feelings though not as intense as they had been in the past were still significantly strong about his only son and wanting to see him brought to justice for what he'd done to Charlie's life.

He mourned the loss of Alison Cable deeply, but he mourned the loss of his deviously acquired wealth even more so, and every passing day of increasing struggle fanned the flames of hatred for the child who he wished had never been born.

He'd trawled the town extensively looking for him and was surprised to find what had become of him once he'd left home, but during a time in the mid nineteen-nineties he had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. Few people had cooperated with Charlie Cable because so little was known about his son. Eventually he'd discovered that Paul had been living with a couple for a number of years, but the man had died and the woman had moved away from the area. It had concluded his search with a bold full stop and he'd ultimately decided that his hunt for the lost thousands would more likely end fruitlessly.

He'd gone on to find work earning mediocre wages at a number of firms whilst never really settling anywhere. Occasionally he would investigate the loft and turn the place upside down to seek out any bank notes that may have been mislaid or fallen around.

Charlie Cable was a rudderless individual with little purpose to his life and less direction. He'd left a trail of unhappiness in his wake which had finally caught up with him himself. Only Charlie was a resolute soul whose mentality was as strong as granite; he never suffered fools and never accepted that he was beaten. He would refuse to believe that he'd seen the last of Paul Cable and would stay on alert for him until the final dying wisp had expelled from his body.

## The Waiting State

Paul Cable was alone in his hospital room in the Waiting State.

In the Foundation world he lay still on his bed wired to monitors whilst a nurse and a consultant stood taking readings and exchanging an intravenous drip.

His wife would be close on landing from her long plane journey and he was working fast.

Vincent had left the room to consult his next visitor. He felt that it would be for the best that Paul Cable met them alone and not in the crowded private room, so the family and Frank Brevitt had left to await Paul's decision.

Paul knew exactly who his next guest would be and felt particularly nervous about meeting them. Now that he knew how this procedure worked it was blindingly obvious to him and he struggled to control the butterflies that fluttered away inside of him.

He'd taken off his white gown and turned it inside out. A blue biro pen had been left behind and sat on a nearby cabinet. He picked it up and began to write.

PAUL PLEASE READ !!!

Read this and DO NOT dismiss it.

You have been in a coma and have wrote this whilst asleep. It may sound crazy, but you are not mad. You have been in an alternate place whilst asleep and learnt a lot of things. Things that will blow your mind.

YOU ARE NOT CRAZY AND ALL YOU READ IS TRUE !!!

You almost died and went to a place where you learnt that there is an afterlife. A better place where almost everyone goes. You have met Ali, Mum, Grandma Heather and Frank !! YOU WILL SEE THEM AGAIN !!!

You have chosen to return back to the world, and what you learnt here will be erased from your memory, so you have wrote this to yourself as a reminder. YOU ARE NOT MAD AND THIS PLACE DOES EXIST !

When you die you will be reunited with everyone in the next world. There is too much info to go in to, but Ali is cured of her illness and everyone is happy. The next life will be so much better. And Kiyomi will join you there too. You came back cos you want to be with her.

IMPORTANT PART !!!

Paul, there is a way to stop someone getting to this world. A persons brain has to be destroyed – TOTALLY!

To brain damage someone isn't enough, a person's brain has to be smashed. This stops them progressing – THEY DIE FOR GOOD !!!

FIND DAD AND KILL HIM. DESTROY HIS BRAIN AND HE WON'T FOLLOW US IN TO NEXT LIFE..... DON'T SIT ON THIS AND MULL IT OVER AS YOU NORMALLY WOULD, JUST PLAN IT AND DO IT !!!

MASH IT! BLEND IT! MICROWAVE IT! STOMP IT! RUN OVER IT! EAT IT!

JUST DO IT !!!

If you could remember what you have seen you would understand this whole message. Trust yourself.

To prove that this was you that wrote this – Ali's Big Ted is kept in the black trunk at home in Karatsu. Only you and Kiyomi know this.

Be excited mate. The world is better than you expected!

He quickly rearranged the gown and slipped it back over himself and climbed back in to bed. The unwitting nurse and consultant were discussing his condition and that he was expecting a visitor. He laid up smiling craftily. If only these people knew.

He thought of Kiyomi and longed to set his eyes again on her face.

He suddenly had an afterthought and again reached for the pen before scribbling on the palm of his extra dry Waiting State hand in small writing.

Important!! Read Inside Your Gown. Do Not Remove Without reading!!

His plan was in place. All that was required now was to meet his final visitor, tell them all of his decision and return to Kiyomi.

He hoped that the rest of the plan would go as simply as it had sounded to himself inside the induced sleep.

## Costa Adeje, Tenerife : 31st December 1999

Paul Cable relaxed around the pool at the Sandside Bay Club. It was approaching early evening and everything about his persona had slipped in to a reassuring calm. The holiday was doing him good. He sipped on a Coca-Cola and agreed that it had been an essential idea that had delivered. He'd managed to get away and relax and had partially managed to miss the mayhem of the Millennium celebrations. Of course there would be celebrations in Tenerife, but not the madness that was back at home.

He planned to go out that night and enjoy himself – something he seldom did – but before midnight he would slip out on to the beach and listen to the sound of the sea to soothe him, sooner that than the cheering of bringing in another new era.

Parties had never been his thing, but tonight he would find a little place and attempt a good time; even if he felt uncomfortable and didn't necessarily enjoy it.

He'd flown in to the island on Boxing Day and settled in to his apartment in to the neat block complex of white. It was busy due to the time of year and because of the occasion, but he'd tolerated it and agreed that he needed to be around people, even if he wasn't with them.

His room was equipped with a sizable rooftop patio that allowed him time to be outdoors in seclusion, with pleasant views of the resort straight ahead, the ocean to the right and the hovering mountains to the left. He'd been pleased with his choice and had purposely chosen a place that would give him sanctuary in a family environment rather than the loud crowds of partygoers in built up concrete blocks playing loud techno music.

Now he was here, he wished that he had secured a two week break rather than just the one; he could easily afford it having kept a chunk of money aside especially for trips like this one. The rest of the cash taken from his father had been placed in eight high interest bank accounts accumulating his wealth nicely.

The first thing that Paul had done on his first day on the island was to hire a motorcycle. He'd taken hold of a Ducati 996 for the entirety of his trip and had trailed Tenerife, enjoying the spectacular scenery of the coasts and the mountains with its differing contrasts of the lush green north and the volcanic south. He visited the capital of Santa Cruz and the history of La Oratava, but it was the loneliness of the wilderness that he truly adored; speeding along the quiet winding roads in to nowhere, trying to keep from the beaten track that was well worn from holiday makers.

It was his first experience of Tenerife and he'd poured over its guides meticulously in Colchester Garrison once home from his short two month tour in Kosovo.

He'd planned his holiday with a military precision and his days had been filled with exploring and keeping his mind thoroughly active. He saved the teatime hours for the pool when it became sparse of life and in the evenings he would walk around the town and watch people enjoying life and absorbing a culture very different from their own.

He found the Spanish way of life far more appealing than his own and jotted it down as a possibility for the future; along with several other ideas that floated mischievously around in his ever changing mind.

As the sun dropped lower the heat became notably cooler. He took a swim and did twenty short lengths before pulling himself from the water that grew increasingly colder. He towelled down and exchanged pleasantries with an old couple who he had been on speaking terms with before returning to his apartment and sleeping for a couple of hours to the sound of the TV.

When he rose he showered and dressed in loose casual clothing and drank a bottle of San Miguel on the balcony, watching the twinkling resort come to life before taking the walk in to Playa de las Americas with its bustling bars and discotheques.

He'd always been uncomfortable in the loud, busy bars that wouldn't allow him time to think inside; even when he worked the doors at Limited Editions a few years earlier he found that it made his head ache, so he guided himself to the smaller bars with happy and less intimidating people around.

He kept himself to himself and found positions to sit and watch MTV and the darkly coloured flesh of the younger crowds; strolling between these bars and staying on the periphery he managed to enjoy the company of human beings without totally immersing himself in to them. He felt comfort enough to relax, though was always mindful and alert of those in the immediate vicinity; it was something that he'd adopted during his army surveillance and now he found that he did it all of the time.

He'd been sat at a pavement table outside Singapore Joes bar, listening in to conversations of a group of couples when he noticed a face that was staring back at him; a female face of fresh tan and the bright glint of white teeth. He lost himself for awhile until he snapped around as she approached.

'Paul?... It is Paul isn't it?' She asked in an accent that was familiar to him.'

He nodded and half-smiled, intrigued as well as startled.

'Don't tell me that you don't recognise me?... Or are you ignoring me?' The woman giggled jokingly.

Paul Cable was lost for words. He definitely did know her.

'Louise?.... Louise Young?' She added in explanation.

'Oh my god,... Louise, of course, sorry... I was miles away.'

'Imagine seeing you here after all of those years hey?... It must be eleven or twelve years?' She nervously smiled.

Paul nodded gently and raised his eyebrows.

He wasn't sure what to say to the woman. The last time he'd properly spoken to her they'd been sixteen and leaving school. She'd pretty much blanked him for most of the latter days of their life there and he'd gradually forgotten about her as life had moved on.

This was the girl that was his earliest fantasy; the one that he'd dreamt of growing old with and was sure of the fact that one day they would be together; the prettiest girl in the whole school.

She still wore that tempting look of innocence that she'd been blessed with, and though she hadn't matured in to the totally spectacular beauty that he'd expected, she had still blossomed with an understated and enviable natural beauty. She was a very attractive looking woman and bore the same slip of a body that she'd carried throughout life.

'So are you here with family?.. Friends?.. A wife?.. Anyone I might know?' She enquired with interest whilst quickly scanning the place.

'No, I'm on my own... on a break, you know... Getting away from all that Millennium stuff.' He smiled nervously.

'Well would you mind if I joined you then?... I'm waiting for friends. It'd be cool to catch up.'

'Er, yeah, sure, if you want,..take a seat.' He responded in surprise at her interest

She smiled and instantly pulled out a chair. This was a wholly different Louise Young from the one that he remembered. She seemed excitable though almost edgy with her friendliness; she used to be so nonchalant and was certainly less desperately eager than she was appearing right now.

'I can't believe how well you're looking Paul. You're like a different person to the one that I remembered... You've clearly been working out.'

'I look after myself, but yeah you're right,..I am a very different person now to that school kid.... But then isn't everyone?' He smiled.

'You know, I guess you're right... I know that I am... But how come you're here on your own?... I'd have thought that you'd be here with family or friends.'

'What gives you that impression?'

'Well, most people are aren't they?' Louise nervously asked for agreement.

'I've never been most people Louise.'

'I know.' She confessed and paused. 'So what you been up to; what job do you do?....I've not seen you around town.'

'I'm in the army... I'm on leave at the moment... I haven't got a family to speak of so thought that this would be a good idea; a nice holiday whilst the weather is grim at home. I'm my own man so I come and go... I'm mostly at the barracks in Colchester now days, but I've been here and there... You won't remember, but I used to see you the odd time when I worked as a doorman at Limo's a few years ago; you'd have been having far too good a time to have noticed me.' Paul chuckled and tried to relax in to conversation. He felt nervous and his stomach fluttered. He also didn't know whether to trust Louise or not. She'd spent a lot of her teenage years avoiding and ignoring him, so why the interest now?

'You worked on the doors at Limo's?... My god, when?... I loved that place... I love to dance Paul... I'm not too ashamed to say that I liked to get carried away and boogie... It's so liberating you know, especially when you have something inside you; don't you think?

'I'm not really a dancer.'

'You should have said hello.'

'We weren't exactly friends though were we?'

'Of course we were. We were in the same class for years,.. and don't forget the cross country team.'

'No, I can distinctly remember you commenting that we weren't friends.'

She stopped in thought, a look of puzzlement completing her brow.

'I don't remember that,.. are you sure?'

'It doesn't matter.'

She quickly changed the subject at the first opportunity.

'The army hey?...Wow... And you look like a soldier... When I spotted you I thought,.. It can't be,..he looks biiiggg,.. a proper man,.. someone who can take care of himself... not the skinny cross country boy anymore.'

Paul sniggered and looked at her as she gushed at him with a sort of star-struck flirt to her tone and look. He assumed that she was probably high on pills or something right now to be behaving in such an unfamiliar fashion around him.

'You've got muscles on muscles now Paul... I do like a man with big muscley arms.' She commented and reached to timidly squeeze his bicep.

His anxiety levels rose in the discomfort that he shared for the both of them. There was still a very attractive quality to Louise Young, but he was struggling to collate this version to the one that he'd known before; the gulf of difference in her mannerisms was startling. She rattled off chattily in front of him with that sparkle in her eye that he'd always noticed, that classic golden fleck in them cavorted with him like never before and although his body was tinged with unease he found himself being dismantled by a familiar feeling of helplessness that she used to seize him under as a child. Her enchantment and beauty would immobilize him and strip away all irrelevant outside interference that they would find themselves surrounded by, turning it all to an immaterial blur. Even this less poised Louise, the tense and uneasy one sat before him today with the brown shoulders, the dark hazelnut bobbed hair and the bare fleshed legs that were crossed elegantly could instantly cast a manipulative spell upon him that he would answer to without question. It was a recognizable falling that he identified with; she was drawing him in again with just her presence that took a grip on his heart and on his soul. She needed to do very little to create the reaction, it was preset and instantaneous and he could feel that breaking that his heart went through all of those years ago as she'd gradually pushed him away, mending right there inside of him; as if her presence alone was repairing it.

'So what about you Louise? What's your story?... Who you here with?' He quickly changed the subject.

'Gosh where do I begin... Well I'm here on holiday with a couple of girlfriends,.. you remember Dom don't you?.. Dominique Westerhaus?... God she'd love to see you.'

'I doubt that very much.' He light-heartedly scoffed.

' I have a little boy,.. Kyle,.. he's six and at home with his dad,.. we split up last year,... Tony,.. you won't know him,...an effin arsehole and one in a line of arsehole's... Us girls decided to come away and enjoy a break,.. something different for the Millennium and to get away from dickheads... Dom hasn't been so lucky with guys either,.. been messed about a lot... It's shit but that's life... So yeah, I'm going through a divorce,.. but I won't go in to that and bore you,... I live in Kirkby now too,.. there's just me and Kyle and that's it... I'm not working because it's tough enough bringing up a young lad on your own... Tony helps out a bit,.. but mostly he's never around when we need him,... I kinda booked this holiday and forced him to have Kyle... a son should see his dad at Christmas,.. don't you agree?'

Paul nodded and smirked as she paused for a well earned breath.

Louise Young looked over her shoulder and casually around.

'Look, do you want to go for a drink elsewhere?' She asked.

'I thought you were waiting for Dom and your friends?'

'There's three of them and they won't miss me whilst I go for a drink with you... I know the bars they'll be in later and I'll find them for midnight... I'd really like to catch up Paul and it'll be nice to get away from their yapping for a bit, it can drive you insane' Louise Young giggled.' You're a nice guy and I've always liked you, you know that... There's something different about you now too. Some different qualities.'

He looked at her curiously. He'd barely uttered a word to the woman, yet she'd managed to decipher that he was new and different and someone she wanted to be alone with. Apart from him being much bigger and more attractive than that timid child that she'd known before, he couldn't think of any reason for her to have changed her opinion; except that maybe her life had been so desperate that she would now jump at the chance of being with anyone. He'd spent years attempting to attract her company and for the large part of it had proven a massive failure. In the end she'd managed to make him feel like an annoying itch that she had eventually managed to scratch away. After that night in the quarry he was more than happy just to disappear from her sight and hide under a rock of anonymity, but now she seemed forlornly keen and almost rash in her quick assessment of him being someone worthy of her company. It felt bizarre to Paul Cable, but it was an impulse that he was happy to follow through with. He'd expected to spend the night alone; in the company of human beings, but deliberately lonely; the unexpected development of Louise Young had given his plans some strength and fibre to his loose celebrations.

Years previous he would have given anything to spend time one on one with Louise Young and he certainly couldn't find any suitable adverse reasons to fail to do the same now.

'Okay,.. do you have anywhere in mind?'

She took him to a livelier bar where they could chat, but to a less personal degree. She'd seemed very enthusiastic to drop the possibility of bumping in to Dominique Westerhaus and her other friends for some reason that remained totally unexplained.

The more they talked and opened up, the more it seemed obvious that Louise Young had lost a lot of that confidence she'd rode so well during her youth. Life hadn't been unkind, but it hadn't been the easiest either and she'd struggled to adapt and find a niche in her life.

It had surprised Paul; she was one of the star pupils in school, but it seemed that her educated mind had been wasted and her talents underdeveloped.

She'd had just the one long term relationship which had gradually simmered out, but she also bore tales of several mishaps in her late teens and early twenties.

Her behaviour remained incredibly chatty and he repeated frequently around in his mind the thought of her on the ends of strings pulled by some drug that Paul was unaware of; maybe that was why she'd stuck to him, he wasn't sure. He'd seen it before in the clubs and on the odd occasion with squaddies; she'd chatter and lick her lips, blinking irregularly, but he was enjoying her company immensely, even if something inside of him remained slightly at odds with their meeting. A cumbersome feeling still remained inside of him. His life with the opposite sex had been a hopeless and awkward one and he felt much more at ease in the field of conflict than in the company of the fairer sex. His nerves that were finely-honed and razor sharp in battle would remain on tenterhooks around women. Thankfully Louise regulated an air of relaxation and calm to the conversation, enticing him from his shell of protection and producing the light-hearted and underused Paul Cable to emerge.

Maybe it was the drink that he was so unused to? Maybe it was the strangeness of the situation? Either way he was becoming more intoxicated in her companionship and he allowed his ever present guard to retire for the night. He decided to drink some more and help alleviate his mood further and gradually to his delight he found himself sliding in to a warm comfort zone as his inhibitions eased.

When midnight had arrived she took his hand and led him outside, in to the street and then down a well lit footway that led to the beach.

In the alleyway they furiously kissed and groped at one another, both worse for drink and lacking control. The situation was dreamlike for him. His perfect female was possibly tainted a little now, but she still provided a feast for both his eyes and his being. The night was turning in to a success of an unexpected magnitude.

'Happy New Year Mr Cable.' She grinned, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her glinting eyes twinkling under street lighting.

'Happy New Millennia to yer'sen Miss Young.'

They sat on the bricked footpath and lent against a low wall with Louise resting a hand between his legs, the scene around them the most untypical of New Years, though one that was much more agreeable to both of their palates.

'Well this is the most unpredictable of circumstances.' She admitted. 'Dom will do her nut in disbelief.'

'I don't think that Dom would be the keenest to familiarize herself with my memory.' Paul smirked.

'Nonsense,..why do you say that?'

'I wasn't exactly the most popular of kids.'

'That's your imagination playing tricks... Time does that Paul... We all think we were this and that, but time does kinda exaggerate things.'

He laughed and looked at her in disbelief. 'No Lou, I was definitely someone who people couldn't take to.'

'I took to you.'

'When did you take to me?' He scoffed.

'We used to walk to school together at dinner times... Do you remember that?' She glowed.

'From what I remember it was more of a case of me bumping in to you when I left the house and you being unable to avoid me.'

'See?... That's your memory playing tricks on you again... We walked to school lots.'

'I'm not denying that, but that's because I used to wait for you and act surprised when I'd leave the house and see you.'

'You used to wait for me?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh that's so sweet.' She looked at him in a way that she'd never done before. The stark contrast that she looked at him, spoke to him, judged him had changed dramatically. It was as if she had been reacquainted with a long lost love and it confused him and made him question his own recollection of things.

'Did you used to fancy me then?' She teased.

He stared back at her and mildly shook his head.

'Every boy in the school fancied you Louise, and you know that.'

'Not every boy Paul, don't be silly.'

'Of course they did,... you were the premier source of testosterone-fuelled frustration in those corridors... You and Madonna,...and Sam Fox,...and Charlies Angel's,...and Stacy off of T.J. Hooker,... and Erin Gray off Buck Rogers.'

'I was in illustrious company then?' She giggled.

'Definite top ten material.'

'Do I get a trophy for that, or at least a certificate?'

'I'll see what I can do.' He joked.

'Would you like to see more of me when we get back home.' She inserted with a tone of instant seriousness as they gazed at one another.

'Would you really want to see more of me?... Gayble Cable.'

'Of course, you're a fantastic guy... I don't know why it's taken me so long to realise it.'

'That's the drink talking.'

'No it's not, I'm serious.... Kids can be cruel and school can be the hardest place to have to grow up in; even I realise that, and I had it pretty easy.'

'I'd like to think about it... I've spent half of my life wanting to be with you, and the other half forgetting about you.' Was his honest appraisal.

'You can have me... There's not a lot I've got to learn about you... I know you've got a good heart, I've always known that... We used to be cross country captains don't forget?'

'I remember us being captains, but I'd hardly consider that a relationship of much.'

'Rubbish, we were the golden couple.' She laughed and he joined her.

'Yeah, right.'

'You say that you always wanted me, and neither of us have got commitments, so what do we have to lose?.. Lets go out a couple of times and see how we get along.'

'I'm based in Colchester Lou... I'm miles from you.'

'Would you let that stop you?..You'd make a special trip once in awhile for me wouldn't you?.. I promise that I'd save myself for you.'

'Would you?' He was amazed.

'Of course, why not?.. I've been looking for someone like you for years, when I knew you already... I guess you can be blind when you're younger.'

'You weren't blind,.. I was different.'

'No you wasn't. I remember a sweet boy and that remains the same, I've recognized that tonight. I'm probably guilty of being arrogant before, I always got my way and it still got me nowhere... It sounds crazy, but for one of the few times in my life, and this is probably down to experience, I think I've found something that I really want.'

He stared at her gentle face and he saw that schoolgirl fantasy, matured and deeply desirable. Every detail was now fully exposed on her delicate pedestal of a neck: the tiny creases around her long eye-lashed eyes, the slight crinkle to her nose, the glow of her white teeth providing an effervescent smile through thin smooth lips of pink, and those golden flecks of exultant desire.

'Come on Paul,..don't make me beg.' She added nervously, her joviality evaporating.

'You shouldn't ever have to beg... You're still as stunning today as you've ever been and could take your pick from thousands of men.'

'I've had my pick of men and my choices have been lousy... It's a real back catalogue of woe, believe me... Boy can I pick em.'

'Who's to say that I wouldn't be another mistake?.. I'm full of issues of my own.'

'I'm not picking you... Fate is picking us.' She gulped.

He felt her desperation in the tingle of his skin. She wanted more than anything to be loved by someone; worshipped, and to feel the warmth of someone who would genuinely care for her. Her life had been filled with rogues and shysters, and more recently a bore that had practically disowned her. She ached to be taken in by Paul Cable. The soldier was strong and powerful and seemed an unexpectedly good catch. She'd never had to grovel for recognition before; her looks, her status and her allure had got her what she wanted in the past. Now she felt her life was on the slide and he could provide the much needed jump-start that she feared wouldn't arrive. Him! Paul Cable. The kid that the others would call 'Dog boy', or 'Gayble'. She'd always liked him, but had never had the remotest desire for him; but now he was like some incredible vision sent back to prod her with to remind her that not all things in life remain the same; including her own popularity.

'I can't see why that would be a problem.' He breathed and she felt a sudden relief. 'I do get weekends to myself, but we get posted all the while... But there's no reason why I couldn't take you out if that's really what you want to do?.. And as long as you don't wake up in the morning with a raging hangover and think "what the fuck!"'

'I might do.' She giggled, confidence immediately restored to her ailing bank of self-esteem. 'But I might not either.'

'It wouldn't surprise me.' He faked.

'Paul,.. I have had a lot to drink, but I know a good thing when it's staring me in the face... I'd be mad not to take an opportunity when I get it.'

'Me too.' He softened.

'I'd like to spend the night with you Paul... Tonight,.. to mark the occasion,.. the first night of a generation... I hope you don't think that's too forward?'

'I've been waiting about fifteen years for you to offer that.'

'Is it an agreement then?'

'Absolutely... But with one condition.' He ordered.

'Go on.'

'I promised myself that I'd see the New Year in away from the crowds and with the sea... You've cruelly robbed me of that.'

'Sir,.. take my apology.' She held aloft two palms and an exaggerated expression of guilt.

'I think the least you can do is to accompany me to the beach for a stroll first.'

'That sounds perfect...a moonlit walk along the beach with a big, strong man... Though don't expect me to volunteer for a swim.'

He leapt to his feet and helped her to hers before heading for the sands.

'Do you know that's the first time in my life that I've asked anyone out?' She gasped.

'I'm truly, deeply honoured; honestly.'

'You should be; it was bloody terrifying.'

'I've never ever asked anyone out either.' He admitted to her.

'Don't; it really is bloody terrifying.' Louise laughed.

They walked across the shoreline hand in hand and listened to the simmering of the gentle waves that nudged the beach. He held her and repeatedly looked across at her admiringly; those lips that he'd so dreamt of kissing as a pubescent boy, he'd now done and enjoyed it incredibly. He could barely comprehend that she was here with him. The holiday dreamt up and craved for in the cruelness of Kosovo had been an ace of an idea and had spilled a jackpot. He would feel a true awkwardness about taking the trip back to his home town; he'd been away for over four years and had much to avoid the place for, but he wasn't going to worry about that just yet. His mind was tuned totally in to Louise Young.

It was a twenty minute walk back to his apartment and she'd been greatly impressed with it, instantly making herself at home and commenting about it being larger than the one she shared with Dominique Westerhaus in Los Cristianos.

His mind was on her dreamily slim body that lay beneath her complimentary silver dress that he did not need to be asked twice about unzipping from the back, exposing her sleek back that provided an extension to the neck that had long been fixed in on his brain, and when she gently swung around her tiny chest had pleased him; it was exactly as he'd imagined it to look and he found it flawless – he found the whole of her flawless.

She pulled his shirt over his head to reveal the chiselled torso that he'd worked thousands of hours on.

'Paul Cable,..you are delicious.' She whispered in a breathy tone of drunken excitement.

She kissed his chest and ventured slowly down his body, milking his abdominals whilst unbuckling his belt and dropping his trousers; the stiffness in his briefs pleased her and she looked mischievously up at him provocatively.

'You're mine now and I'm going to suck your cock like you've never been before... this is the way that you really really suck a cock. No messing around or playing games.'

She delved inside of his underwear and brought out his penis whilst giggling uncontrollably, giving him a sly wink that he found particularly off putting.

What was that comment for?...."Really really suck a cock".... Was she taking the piss? Mocking him?....The giggle?.... The wink? His head swam with sudden doubt and questions. His body was fuelled with alcohol and it rose up inside of him and made him feel nauseous with ill feeling of his abuse... The laughing in corridors... The eyes that would pry and then sheepishly look away, causing giggles from cruel children... The stigma of what they had made him do... They were all there: Doyliboy, Allen, Jones, Westerhaus, Toohey, James, Simpson; and Young... Young, right here now... witness to his most sordid of dark events... Suddenly interested... "Really really suck a cock"?... Is this a joke?... Why would she suddenly be interested in him?... Had she found his abuse funny?.... What the fuck?.... Was she laughing at his size, as well as his uncomfortable past?... She'd been there,.. she'd been part of Doyliboy's mob,... She was going out with the prick at the time.... Maybe she was drunk and out of her face on pills?... Was this all a charade?... A joke to her?... Is this an elaborate plan to get at him again?... He'd allowed his guard to drop,.. to be misled and tricked in to another trap... The drink and Louise Young had disarmed him,.. she'd taken him hostage with her aura.

He looked down on her as she worked on him, her eyes peering at him, no longer mischievous, but devious to him. His heart skipped and his brain fizzed; his throat filling with anger.

His big fist connected with her ear, sending her crashing in to the wardrobe. His boot sent her head backwards, causing her neck to contort backwards.

Within seconds he came to his senses. Her lifeless body was still on the ground and his mind had frozen. Dropping to his knees he slapped her cheek lightly and urged her to awaken, but her eyes gazed back at him unflinching and distant.

He begged her repeatedly to get up; apologising over and over. He breathed in to her mouth and attempted CPR, but her neck was snapped, her spinal column fractured and the spinal cord injured, her brain damaged beyond repair through asphyxiation.

He sat in disbelief, his head buried deep in to his lethal hands.

What had he done? She had probably meant nothing at all in her words. That's all they were, words; the wrong words to preciously sensitive ears. Ears that were attached to a body fuelled on the unfamiliar ill disciplined infusion of alcohol.

Louise Young was dead. Killed in two equally savage blows from a body that had been trained for this event for twenty-eight years. The innocent in the way of an out of control locomotive with an appointment with destruction.

Of all the individuals to scatter Paul Cable's life, it was one from the few that he'd admired and cared for that he had stamped out and crushed the life from; not a protagonist of aggression that had taunted his wellbeing. His actions completed in seconds; the rise of the demons inside of him dispersing almost as quickly.

He felt sick and threw up in to the toilet. He had to get rid of the body. He had to get off of the island.

Had he invited attention on himself? And had Louise let her friends know who she was with?

He checked her phone and was relieved to find no correspondence with anyone during his few hours in her company; only the missed calls that she'd been ignoring.

He had to get himself together; he needed composure.

He wrapped her light, listless body in to a bed sheet and placed her by the front door before leaving the apartment.

He scoured the nearby streets for a convenient vehicle and gained entry to a Seat, smashing his way through the steering cover and breaking open the ignition tumbler, stripping wires with his nails and kicking the car in to life.

The morning was dark and he sat upright and regulated his breathing, catching himself in the rear view mirror and forgetting who he was.

On returning to his apartment, her bundle was still there; something inside of him had hoped that she would have vanished.

He slung the woman over his shoulder and descended the stairwell, dripping in sweat and praying for safe passage to the awaiting car that ran in the small courtyard below.

He slowly swung the car from the complex and headed towards the TF-1 southern highway and the volcanic mountains beyond.

He buried her fifty metres from a dust track with splendid views overlooking the sea in the distance; digging a swallow grave with his bare hands, scooping away the stony ground.

Her expression remained poised; with no tell tale signs of the fearful knowhow of her plight. A twenty-eight year mother of one parentless boy, now consigned to a much more difficult upbringing. A woman with much to live for, cruelly robbed of everything, and another young child left without an important asset in his needy life.

Paul Cable watched the sunrise from his lofty perch, his mind in turmoil at what he'd done and the ramifications that his life altering actions will have created in so many lives.

He contemplated his next steps. Should he turn himself over to the authorities, or should he wipe himself from this earth and eradicate the dangers that he posed?

He drove the Seat a mile down the track and rolled it in to a hidden ravine before hiking several miles back in to the resort.

He kept himself in the public eye: around the pool, in the bar, using the public access internet and around the immediate vicinity.

It wasn't until weeks later that the story of the missing young mother on the island of Tenerife hit the headlines in the UK.

Spanish police were baffled and had no leads.

The story drifted from the public consciousness as quickly as it had arrived.

Paul Cable made annual pilgrimages to Louise Young's mountainside grave. Tears would flow and words of regretful guilt would drift away down the rugged rock-side on the absent minded wind.

## The Waiting State

Paul had asked Vincent Tua to leave them alone. He had a lot of explaining to do and hadn't felt comfortable in having anyone else other than Louise Young in the room.

She was as immaculate as all of the others, yet little regarding her own physical appearance had altered. She had been with little flaw in the mind of Paul Cable in the first place and the fact that the way she looked now had largely remained unchanged had gone to lengths to reassure him that she had indeed been one of great beauty.

'You took away my most rewarding years Paul... Parenthood, seeing my son grow in to an adult; giving me grandchildren and being able to give them all stability. You installed jeopardy and uncertainty in to my boy's life.'

He nodded continually in agreement; he'd acknowledged all of her claims over these past few years, recounting them to her empty, hidden corpse on that mountainside six miles from Costa Adeje.

'I thought you were different,.. someone that I could trust. I was so excited by us that night... I thought that it was the start of something new and something better: for me, you and Kyle... I'm just pleased that he never got to meet you. You're a monster and I fear that you'd had done something awful to him too... If there's one thing that I'm thankful of,..it's that you killed me before you got to him.'

'I wouldn't have harmed Kyle.' He shook.

'You don't know that... There's a poison inside of you... You're dangerous... It may well be something that you weren't born with, and over years of neglect it grew inside of you, I can understand that, but the fact is that you are dangerous and it took the simplest thing to trigger it off.'

'That wasn't me that did that too you... I don't know what took over me.'

'That's the beast that's inside of you Paul Cable... the one that's been nurtured by men of violence... Charles Cable, your grandfather Derek Cable, an armed robber, Jason Doyliboy and his friends, Frank Brevitt, the military, the things you have seen in places around the world, the things you've been taught to do... The beast has to appear from time to time,..and it'll appear again.'

She was right, he had turned in to a man that carried an imposing threat. He'd seen it and recognised the person she was describing. He was fearless both in the theatre of war, and out on the streets; nothing fazed him any longer and now it was he himself that carried the threat that used to scare him so much.

'You mustn't go back in to the Foundation Paul... All the while that you live in that world you pose a threat to everyone you come in to contact with, including your wife.'

His eyes widened as he looked upon her. She stood at his bedside and had made it abundantly clear that she'd no intention of staying long for pleasantries. She'd a collection of things to say and had meticulously planned how to word them; apart from that she struggled to want to be in his company for a minute longer than was required.

'I know what she means to you Paul, and I know that you tried to be honest about your past; but do you really think that she would still be with you if you had told her about murdering me?... What about if you told her about killing that Serbian man in Bosnia?... Taking him down that country lane,...making him beg and apologise through his obvious fear,...turning his face in to an unrecognisable pulp with the butt of your gun.... Do you really think that Kiyomi would have tolerated being told this from the man who wanted to be with her?... The same as I'd have wanted to if you hadn't turned in to that monster on the first night?... For saying the wrong thing?... Like I would mock you for what happened that night?... It repulsed me,.. I couldn't face you again for years, and when I did I purposely promised that I wouldn't ever bring up that night... But I reckon I'd have fallen for you, the same way that Kiyomi has,.. but the fuse would have been burning all of the time, just like hers is.'

Paul Cable hadn't the words to reply to her brutal honesty as she dismantled any argument he may have possessed.

He wanted to go back to the Foundation world to destroy a living monster, to prevent him progressing through to the next life; but he was as much a monster himself. Who was he to suggest that he had a right to be kingmaker to anyone?

'You're in a fortunate position. You get to have your brain mended. You get the choice to go back or go on... I never had that... You killed me out right and never allowed me a decision to go back to my Kyle, fully fixed... Dragon Konjovic hasn't even got the opportunity to face you in here,..you destroyed his brain there and then, in to the ground; proving yourself to be as big a monster as you'd accounted the Serbs as.'

She paused to allow him reflection.

'You will harm her if you go back Paul... You should think of the carnage you have created in your life and ask yourself how much you really love that woman... If you love her as much as I think you do, I think you'll realise that she's safer with you dead.'

## Fallujah, Iraq : 18th November 2003

The speed in which they had been compromised had been disturbing.

The safe house close to the Sunni Arab groups headquarters was meant to be just that, but just three days in to Paul Cable's surveillance of the breakaway group of insurgents from the Ba'th party and the threat that they posed, and the building had came under attack.

The US led mission had to be aborted, but only after Paul Cable and had managed to get out by the skin of his teeth with the blessing of good fortune.

He'd been taking a piss in the bathroom as a colleague had slept and the US Seal on sentry duty had dosed to sleep. The pair of them had never stood a chance whilst Paul had made his escape through the bathroom window, dropping to the ground in the pitch dark of night.

He'd made his escape through nous alone, unarmed and disorientated.

The men of the group had spotted him making his good and fired in his direction. The flash of muzzle fire sparkled up the black and the impact from a bullet had sent him sprawling to the ground.

He'd regained himself and fled through the narrow passageways that filled with the shouts of his pursuers and the aimless clatter of gunfire.

Twenty-two hours later he had managed to locate the evacuation point, equipped only with the clothes that he wore and the bullet that had somehow lodged in between his ribs.

He'd been lucky; very lucky, and it had the Americans shaking their heads at how he'd managed to escape with his life.

He didn't get angry with the mistakes that had been made; he'd leave that to the command and the relations of the dead soldiers. He felt lucky to be alive, though he wasn't sure that he'd deserved to be and it felt that it had been a case of him running from death, sooner than escaping with life.

He'd been living life like he owned a death wish, he'd try to do as much good in his life as he could, but had decided that he'd been cursed with this existence that he held and eventually his crimes would catch up with him. He'd escaped it in Fallujah, but it was knocking at the door and for all that he cared he would soon probably let it in if that were the way that his rapidly changing moods should take him.

He had nothing to live for apart from keeping the safety of those by his side and he cared not for fear of death; his life was worthless and it meant little too him. He would be happy to wring his hands of this lonely incubus.

Today his growingly schizophrenic mind with its altering judgements had decided that he had wanted to live; the rest of his faultless body had managed to do the rest to make sure of the outcome.

## Birmingham Airport : 20th April 2007

Air France flight 2068 from Paris Charles de Gaulle landed on the misty midlands tarmac an exhausting fourteen hours after Kiyomi Cable had boarded at Fukuoka airport. The two changes at Osaka and Paris had been excruciating for the woman, and she'd hated kicking around in departure lounges on her own with just her thoughts of dread.

The MOD had been honest with her; they'd revealed the extent of his injuries and had explained that the situation was grave, though he was stable and still had a chance. Her company at his bedside could only enhance his chances of survival.

She had always aligned great fears with her husband and his work, though as the days to his leaving the army had passed-by her guard had been slightly dropped. He always joked with her that he was invincible and there was nothing to fear when someone was invincible.

She gained some faith from the fact that the lady from the MOD had described the incident and told her that by rights he ought to be dead, but Cable was a survivor; he'd proven that in the past.

She was greeted by Military Chaplain Trudy Montgomery with a big smile that conflicted with a sorrowful brow.

'Mrs Cable?'

'Yes.'

'I'm Lieutenant Trudy Montgomery welcome to England Mrs Cable.'

'Thank you.'

'I have a car waiting for you; it's only a twenty-five minute drive to the hospital... There has been no change in your husband's condition; he is still heavily sedated and in a stable condition.'

'Thank you.'

'May I ask if you had a comfortable flight?' Montgomery softened.

'It was not an easy one... Full of stops and waiting.' Kiyomi gave a rueful smile.

'I'm sorry for you about that, it can't be easy when you are half the way around the world and feeling as if there's nothing you can do?'

'It isn't.'

'Well I'm sure that your presence will only help Paul in his fight... From what I hear, if anyone can make it through this then it is your husband Mrs Cable.'

'Paul is a strong man.'

'I realise that,.. everyone who knows him tells me that he won't give in without a fight; he has too much to live for. Now that you're here it'll give him that extra boost... That and his father.'

'His father?' Kiyomi stopped in surprise.

'Yes, he was the only other relation we could find. He wasn't recorded as a next of kin, but I managed to do some searching and I eventually found him.'

Kiyomi stopped and pursed her lips, holding confusion. She wasn't quite sure how Paul would react to the attendance of his father.

'Mr Charles Cable, your father in law; I assume that you two have met?' Montgomery asked.

## The Waiting State /

Royal Centre for Defence Medicine, Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Selly Oak, Birmingham : 18th April 2007

He felt comfort in his decision, even if it had temporarily upset his sister Alison. He'd known that she wouldn't take it well, even with their collective reassurance and promises. Seeing her in tears hadn't been easy, but Vincent had aligned any trepidation that he may have had with a firm guarantee. He hugged the sobbing girl tightly and whispered words of comfort in her ear; telling her that she was only here for a visit, but next time they would be together forever and their days would be filled with play.

Anna Cable offered praise to her son, supporting his decision and encouraging him to make the most of the rest of his Foundation years in the company of his wife. The stinging words of Louise Young had installed indelible seeds of doubt on his tainted brain, but his mother had asked him to have faith. His troubles had been incubated over the course of brutal years, messing with the electronics of his mind. There was no reason to doubt that in the serenity of southern Japan, in the blissful company of Kiyomi, his rebuilding couldn't take place; fixing his damaged brain, just like it had been doing in The Waiting State. It had been proven that given the opportunity it could be done.

It made him feel positive. He was leaving behind war and destruction and he never wanted to be associated with it again. Instead he would look forward to tending to the gentleness of their immaculate garden, he would take runs along the shoreline of the sea and do as much charity work as he possibly could. He felt that he owed humanity a favour or ten. He'd been blessed with another chance, another hope to enjoy the world at a belated date.

He didn't feel as though he had to remember this, it wasn't something that he hadn't already planned anyway. He didn't feel the urge to scrawl ENJOY LIFE & BE GOOD!!! on to his gown.

Frank Brevitt had little need for big words of goodbye, or a review of Paul Cable's life thus far. He felt in awe of his pupil. He'd surpassed every expectation that he'd marked him down for. Of death Frank's opinion was "death is life." It was a philosophy that he'd always believed in. He'd been disturbed by Paul's descent in to borderline insanity and would never be able to understand what had made him kill with such effortless ease, but Frank had killed for himself and recognized signs, though he too had seen the tenderness that he had towards the new people in his life and didn't buy the fact that he was an incendiary just waiting to be lit: to wreak havoc and destroy indiscriminately. He'd shown impeccable control on the battlefield; the incident in Tenerife was the drink acting, and drink had never agreed with Paul Cable. He'd done the right thing and left it alone for these past few years.

Frank Brevitt told him that he wasn't sure if he owned a gym in the First Understanding, but he was pretty sure that it'd need a good broom and mop whilst Paul pissed around in the Foundation. He'd be waiting for him with a job, a relentless circuit regime and a bucket full of sarcasm.

Grandma Jarrett had taken comfort from the whole event, she didn't recognise that tender boy that she'd left behind and wasn't totally at peace with the things that he had done, but she knew that inside of him, past the blackness, beat a caring heart despite his faults. It had been exposed to nastiness and had decayed somewhat, but in the main it was wholesome and therefore so was he. She imagined the sights and sounds of the First Understanding. Vincent Tua had painted visions in her head of lush meadows that glowed beneath the bright blue skies and birds would twitter contentedly in trees all day long. She'd own a small stone cottage on a hill with a view in to a sunny valley of deep green fields dotted with daisies and dandelions, and her family would walk up the sandy track to her and Ray's place for tea. In the evenings they would sing and dance and make merry. The happiness of her flock was all that mattered to the woman and she knew that she was going back to a good place; a happier place than they'd known before where they could be settled without upset.

She held optimistic expectations for Paul. He was capable of so many things in his life and his determination to succeed in his new adopted life had inflated him with new desire. It would have been easy to have moved on and left behind the difficulties of the past life; if anyone had good reasons to it was Paul Cable, but he was a fighter and he would face his demons head on, healing his brain so that improvements that would arrive in the First Understanding would need to be minimal. He'd improved his body's ability beyond recognition before and he could do it again.

Vincent Tua had not been surprised by Paul's decision to head backwards sooner than advance. He'd expected it from the moment that Paul Cable had landed in The Waiting State. He knew him better than anyone and this recuperation had been one of his most difficult assignments, though it had had its pleasant moments. He had long wanted to ease his clients mind regarding issues of the family and of the power of man. He'd worried for many long years about the boy, the youth and then the man; he felt that he need not fear any longer.

'This goodbye is harder than most, I must tell you... You young man, have been a rollercoaster.' Vincent smiled whilst gripping Paul's hand in a firm shake.

'I plan to make life much easier for the pair of us mate.'

'Thank goodness for that.' Vincent sniggered.

'I understand that this has not been the easiest for you Paul, but that is The Waiting State for you. For some it's easy, for some it is difficult, for others it is beyond complication and I feel that although you have that bracket claimed alongside your name, it's been a positive experience for you.'

'It's been mind-blowing and I couldn't have done it without you Vincent... To meet them all again, even Louise, has been all I could have ever asked for.'

'Then I've succeeded in my job?'

'I still have my doubts that I'm actually going to wake up from a deep sleep in some far flung foreign hellhole a sore head and a with worm omelette for breakfast, but yes, you've been the biggest help that I could have asked for... I couldn't have had a better guide, it's just a shame that I won't ever realise that you're around watching me Vincent... I could have done with a friend like you for most of my life.'

'I don't think you'll need my services much in your life now Paul... I believe that you can make things work,.. I believe that you're in control of your life, and even though going back is a brave thing to do, I think it's the right one too.'

'I know it is.'

'Good luck Paul.'

'Good luck to you Vincent,.. I hope we eventually meet again.'

'I'm sure that we will at some stage my friend, and on a much more ambient plain.'

They embraced and both men felt a tinge of emotion run through their bodies.

'So what do I do next?'

'It's quite simple. There's no trick to it, you just lie back, compose yourself and awaken whenever you wish.' Vincent Tua paused to consult his watch. 'Though by my reckoning, I think if you can hold on for ten minutes, there may be a young lady drops by who you could wake up too... now wouldn't that make a story?' He smiled in only a way that only Michael Caine could.

'A very good story.' Paul agreed.

'A bloody good story for the grandkids with no guns or bombs, sex and violence.'

'I like the sound of that story.'

'Might be a bit dull for the youngsters, but more fulfilling for us adults hey?'

Tua headed for the door, followed a cast of well-wishers that Paul Cable's life had revolved around and who weren't overly keen on parting again.

'Goodbye Vincent.'

'Take care Paul Cable, I have my eye on you.'

He watched them troupe from the room, smiles and laughs and everything that he'd always wished for in their original format. His inner self felt a deep warming calm as Paul Cable lay relaxed. The room had quickly fallen silent from life and once more the only attentions towards him were from himself.

Early morning daybreak was drifting delicately through the hint of a gap between the blinds and made him wish to leap to his feet and make a break for the outside; allowing himself to breathe in first-hand the intoxicating joy of fresh air again.

The experience had revived his senses again and given him a peerless boost. His army life was over and the next, far more calming chapter – he hoped - was about to begin. He could not wait to see her face and his eyes ached to be teased by her vision standing in front of him once more. Every time they were apart had seemed to last longer and he was relieved that those days had transpired for good. He could focus his full attention on her life and provide her with what she wanted most dearly from her being; children. The idea thrilled him too. He'd never had the desire for them until she came in to his world and now he thought of them endlessly.

Not only did the rest of his life lie before him to dedicate to a family, but the ones after that as well and for someone who had experienced such difficulties in the past, it felt good inside. He'd got the rest of his existences to rectify the things that had gone so horribly wrong in the past; one's both self-made and made by others. He would be a good father; he would make sure of that. He'd learned from the mistakes of others and knew exactly how his children would need to be nurtured and assisted. He would be the understanding ear for the lives that would require his services more than any other.

It wasn't the spring-like beauty of Kiyomi Cable that peered around the door of his private room, sending sparkle and joy in to the place and aligning all that was well with the world again; it was Charlie Cable. The dishevelled middle-aged man entered looking the worse for wear from an entire life of neglect: the neglect of his own body through the mistress of drink, the neglect of his life through exploitation, and the neglect of all of those misfortunate enough to have ever come in to contact with the nasty, vicious soul.

He shuffled up to Paul Cable's bed, sneering gleefully through bloodshot eyes and week old grey-black whiskers that failed to aid his look. His menace remained, though he was getting old and was no longer that man that Paula Shaw could have envisaged as a model in another life. He was haggard and crooked and he stank worse than ever, like a grubby vagrant of ill repute.

Paul Cable watched in astonishment and anger. What was he doing here, and how had he found him? He wanted to lift himself from the mattress and shoot right at him; to clasp him by the throat and finish him there and then on that ward. "You need to destroy the brain." He told himself. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an implement capable of succeeding in such a task of importance. Kiyomi would be here very shortly; he didn't want him within a hundred miles of her.

He repeatedly attempted to jerk forwards but his stricken body refused to respond.

'Never thought I'd find you, did ya?' He scoffed through a nicotine cough.

'I think the words you said were that you'd rip my sick, rotten head from my shoulders.' He laughed with excited hilarity.

Paul's Waiting State body gripped his gown – the plan! – He'd made his plan and ripping his father's head from his shoulders was precisely that, but his actual real body would not budge, even though his Waiting State one attempted to seize hold of the man and do untold damage.

'You challenged me to find ya, and I did. What do ya reckon ta that?.. One two three your fuckin on... and that's unfortunate cos I've been brewing this, this, this mood ya see,...stealing my money,.. the money that belonged to your own natural father got me down a bit,... and I'm not one to get down son; you know that,... I'm full of fuckin sunshine me.

The fury built up inside the chest of Paul Cable; that fury that he'd promised to control banged away at his temple like the postman of Mount Armageddon with a big package of fiery hell. His father spat his disdain just inches from his face, but he was helpless at taking hold of the man.

'Life's not been good son,.. not like you,.. the returning war hero,.. returning to your family of, oh er, nobody... Can't say that I'm shocked to find no soul here though son,.. you were never exactly popular were you?.. I helped make sure of that like.' He creased up in teasing guffaws. 'You've always got your old dad Paulie... Your old boy has always been there for you during your hour of need hasn't he?... Just like you were for our Alison hey?... Oh, oops.'

His face narrowed to a grimace and his lip curled to one side in bad taste. He glared unblinkingly at his son with pure hatred that ran deep in his veins forcing itself through his evil black pupils.

Paul Cable could do nothing but stare back at him through the eyes of his Waiting State body that sat helplessly redundant on the edge of his bed. His prostrate form never altered and Paul's mind raced with confusion as how to awaken himself from his coma, he could do nothing in this ghost-like version of himself.

Charlie Cable ripped the tubes from the throat of his son's body; his eyes narrowing and his hands shaking in uncontrollable excitement.

'I should have done this when you were a kid... Saved us all the grief... I should have done this before you let us all down.'

He held a palm over the stricken soldier's mouth and pinched his nose tightly.

The Paul Cable of The Waiting State panicked, stood and swung hopeless fists of fresh air that passed straight through the body of Charlie Cable, whilst his disabled body in the Foundation world had found a new struggle for life.

'Challenged me ta find ya,..and I found ya... I'll always be one step ahead of you boy... You stole my daughter and my money from me, I steal your life from you.'

Paul's brain frantically searched for a solution. He wished that Vincent Tua was here for advice; he'd know exactly what to do.

He felt the life from him sapping, even in The Waiting State the life was draining from his body and soul as he dropped to his knees at the feet of Charlie Cable. His father was destroying him, wreaking his plans once again, making him weak and starving him of oxygen, like he'd been doing for a huge chunk of his life. His body felt weightless and he gasped for air and for life as he slipped outstretched across the floor.

The words of Vincent Tua returned to his brain that was becoming increasingly lighter as it struggled for life.

"There's no trick to it, you just lie back, compose yourself and awaken whenever you wish."

Paul Cable closed his Waiting State eyes as he struggled for breath and tried to concentrate as best he could to fight the actions of his determined father. The man had been to jail before; he had nothing in his life and did not fear doing more time inside.

'I win you fucker... I always win.' Charlie Cable quietly ushered his angst filled words down his child's ear.

Paul Cable's Foundation body opened his eyes alertly as he exhausted his last remaining breath. The movement in him shocked Charlie Cable backwards, like the jolt of electricity that his son had plied to his body before.

It unnerved him and actually scared him and for a moment he thought that he'd been guilty of bringing the boy back to life; but he hadn't, his son was dead. He continued to lay prostrate, except with his eyes frozen wide open and his head slightly to one side.

Charlie Cable's face carried the look of a serious man. He gave neither the expression of glee or of satisfaction, but of someone unnerved, as though he had been observed and caught red-handed in his latest successful murder.

He quickly disposed of himself from that room, taking a quick look back at the body of Paul Cable to check that he was not following him out of the room.

Kiyomi Cable found her feet gaining ever quicker momentum, her pace urging Trudy Montgomery onwards without pause in her despairing eagerness.

In the reception of Queen Elizabeth Hospital she was momentarily knocked backwards from her feet by a unkempt man in a tan shirt that exposed arms full of tattoos.

He made his sincere apologises, sweat dripping from his worried brow and departed hastily through the main entrance as the two women made their way to the ward on the second floor.

About the author:

Mark England was born in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire in 1972.

Still based in the English North-midlands, Mark is a writer with a thirst for raw, knuckle-skinned, gritty contemporary shock drama. His material is often likened to the brass tacked reality of Irvine Welsh and Alan Sillitoe, but with a refreshing blast to his original, modern day storytelling.

Although his passion is for writing and storytelling, Mark currently works full time in the water industry and has a string of previous 'achievements' in his employment skill set.

He is married to Sarah-Jane and has two daughters, Marissa and Holly. His passions are for travelling, history, house music and the ongoing misfortunes of Mansfield Town FC.

'This Lonely Incubus' is the second novel from his 'The Tales From The Warren Trilogy' , following on from the warmly received 'Dancing With Strangers In Dark Places'.

Mark England completed the series in 2014 with the final instalment, 'Insularfield'.

Mark would keenly accept response and comment towards his work at:

www.englands-glory.com

or

twitter.com/alonelyincubus
