

# Laughing at the Rain
CHAPTER ONE

"It's over" Taylor whispered, her words ignored. John was busy trying to look mournful, attempting to hide his disinterest at the death of someone he'd never met. She whispered it again, leaning closer to him, hoping her words might break into his conscious but he still didn't respond.

The mourners gathered around the coffin as it was lowered towards its final resting place. The vicar began to speak, appealing to the divine, delivering words that seemed heartfelt and sincere but had been recycled from a hundred other funerals.

John scanned the faces of those attending. They were all attempting to look moved by the vicar's words. Eyes closed, nodding in agreement with his claim the departed had gone to a better place, most secretly doubting heavens existence.

The deceased's sister was sobbing silently, her shoulders moving up and down as she cried. Her husband had his arm around her, occasionally whispering comforting words in her ear.

No one else cried. No one else seemed particularly upset. By all accounts he wasn't a nice man. They were here out of obligation. The death of a family member required their presence, to deny it would be cause for scandal.

John considered what his own funeral would be like. Morbid curiosity, something derived from our need to believe in our own importance, prompted such questions. He hoped for press attendance and that his un-timely demise would invoke huge outpourings of public grief. Maybe it would be televised. Commentators would speak of his life in glowing terms, detailing all his achievements and summarising the feelings of the millions mourning his death.

But this was wishful thinking. He was slowly sliding into obscurity, something he was quickly becoming aware of as fewer people recognised him. Maybe if he died tragically such a funeral may take place, a tragic death always appealed to the public, but otherwise no one would really care other than his parents and a couple of old friends.

Taylor tried to get his attention prodding two fingers into his ribs. He looked at her enquiringly.

"Did you hear what I said" she muttered, exasperated at being repeatedly ignored. "No" John replied bluntly, feeling where she had prodded him with his left hand, feigning pain.

"It's over" she asserted. She looked angry. Her face was screwed up, her eyebrows lowered. John starred back at her confused, letting the words absorb into his thinking.

"The funeral is over?" he said.

"Not the funeral John, us. We are over. I'm breaking up with you. I no longer want to be with you. You and I are finished. Understand?" she spoke with clarity, ensuring every word was delivered with an accuracy that would prevent further confusion.

"Why?" John asked.

"Why what John?" she replied.

"What do you mean why what? Why is it over?" Taylor shrugged like disengaged teenager. "I can't believe you're trying to break up with me at a funeral, who the hell does that? Are you completely heartless?" John felt anger erupt from within. His voice raised in volume, his expression altered.

Taylor ignored him. She gazed up at the clear sky as if nothing had happened. She was detaching herself from the situation. She wanted the break to be clean. She had no desire for anger and tears. That wasn't something she was prepared to deal with.

The vicar finished speaking and the mourners, passing the coffin one by one, tossed handfuls of dirt on top of it before dispersing. The odd person hanged back to chat and catch up, the mood suddenly lifted as their obligation to look solemn ended.

The small crowd made their way back to the car park, walking slowly, gravel crunching underfoot. Taylor headed in the same direction, walking briskly prompted by a desire to escape.

John stood alone. He tried to absorb what had just happened. A minute ago he was at the funeral of a relative of his long term girlfriend, now he was single. How had that happened? He was confused and angry. It was like a bad dream but one he couldn't wake from.

After the mourners had left the graveyard was restored to peace. John scanned the headstones that were all neatly lined up. Some old and decrepit, the elements having taken their toll, the grass growing up around their bases, their maintenance forgotten as those who once tended them were no longer around. Some were new, the marble glinting in the sun, fresh flowers carefully arranged around them.

For a moment he lost himself in the scene, forgetting why he was here. He absorbed his surroundings. He let them drift loosely into his thoughts. He looked at the church studying it, partly impressed by its architectural beauty, partly curious about its purpose.

It was a simple red brick building barely tall enough to be seen over the trees that lined the graveyard. It didn't impose itself on the area like a medieval church with a tall spire reaching up towards the god it was built in praise of, but sat within the scenery as if it was a natural part of it.

Taylor was stood on the path in the distance. She gestured for him to hurry up so He made his way towards her looking at the gravestones as he passed them, wondering who all these people were.

A raven flew just in front of him as he neared her, its evil squawk piercing through the air. John, lost as he usually was in a world that only contained himself, didn't notice it.

When he finally caught up with her she looked at him sternly.

"Hurry up John, Uncle Ray wants to get to the wake"

"Oh" John said in response. "I still have to go to the wake?"

"Well yes of course you do. Why the hell wouldn't you?" she said angrily.

"Because you've just broken up with me?"

"So?"

John shook his head in disbelief. He hated family events. For him they were something to be endured not savoured. All he wanted to do was escape but he wasn't allowed to. His connection to the people gathered here was lost yet he was forced to continue his participation.

"You want to break up with me but I still have to go to the wake? Why the fuck would I do that?"

Taylor said nothing. She walked to her Uncle Rays car, opened the door and looking across at John, gestured for him to come over.

Reluctantly John accepted his fate. At least there would be drink at the wake, and he needed one more than usual.

In the car he sat in silence. Taylor, the tone in her voice altered, talked to her auntie and uncle with ease. They discussed the family, gossiping about relatives, speculating about the state of people's marriages. John stared blankly out of the window. He paid little attention to what was happening around him. He was lost in his own thoughts.

It began to dawn on him what had just happened. In a graveyard, surrounded by mourners paying their last respects to the deceased, it hadn't seemed real. It was like odd dream. But sitting silently, he now contemplated for the first time the implications of what Taylor had said and he felt hurt, an emotion he very rarely experienced.

He naively assumed they were in love, that things were going well and that their relationship, although not perfect, was solid and enduring. But he was wrong. He mentally sorted through the last few months, trying in vain to find a reason why she might leave him. What had he done? Why, out of the blue and with little warning, had she decided, without giving him a chance that their relationship was over.

He had nothing. It was so sudden and unprovoked that he could find no reason for it. It was senseless. It was devoid of reason. He began to feel hurt and angry.

He continued starring out of the window at the scenery as it passed them by. The British countryside bare with the onset of winter looked lifeless. Soon it was replaced by the old shops and houses of the market town which was their destination. As they passed through John starred at the people wandering the streets, embroiled in their own problems, their lives hampered in ways John would never know or understand.

He looked over at her as she spoke to her relatives. Her carefully cultivated curls framed her face. The black hat they'd picked out last week perched carefully on her head, constantly being adjusted to maintain the perfect angle. She looked beautiful. He couldn't let her go, not without a fight. He loved her and he knew that she loved him.

He tried to hold her hand, smiling at her warmly as he did, but she pulled it away, looking at him like he was pervert persisting with an unwelcome advance.

He tried again but was confronted with the same reaction. He looked at her raising his eyebrows as if to ask what was going on but she turned away, continuing the conversation she was having with her aunt as if he wasn't there.

John was relieved when they finally reached the destination. He wanted to get out of the car. He wanted a drink.

The wake was being held in an old town hall. It was flat roofed building that looked tired and flimsy. The paint on the wooden exterior walls was peeling badly and damp was rotting around the windows. It was incongruous amongst the old stone buildings of this quant English town.

Walking in John looked at Taylor, wanting her to smile at him, wanting some indication that maybe it was salvageable but she ignored him.

Inside there was a buffet laid out on trestle tables. Circular tables and chairs were arranged around the room most of which were already occupied.

Random assortments of people were gathered, brought together by a connection to a person who was no longer alive. The mourners gathered into groups formed out of familiarity, desiring the company of those they knew or those they wished to speak to.

The vicar sat next to an elderly couple who were chatting to him while he smiled warmly and nodded in agreement. He held himself as vicars often do, open and prompting approachability, something that was duty bound and second nature.

On the table next to the vicar sat a group of middle aged women chatting furiously, only pausing to take sips of tea. Laughing occasionally, the conversation flowed freely. They seemed at ease with each other, able to flutter from topic to topic without awkward silences.

Behind them three burly men sat in suits that were too small, their body mass pushing the stitching to its limits. They each had a plate filled with stacks of sandwiches and sausage rolls which they shoved into their permanently open mouths as if it was the first time they'd ever eaten.

To the right of their table Taylor's Uncle Ray stood at the centre of a small crowd. He was lifting his shirt to reveal a scar he was proud of as if a permanent reminder of physical injury was an achievement. The on-lookers were both curious and repulsed as they starred. Taylor had warned of this behaviour. She said it was a likely outcome of a few drinks.

Those gathered were from her mum's side of the family. She saw them rarely since her mother had passed away but was a willing participant in any gathering she was invited to because they provided an indelible connection to her, a connection that neither time nor circumstance could ever break.

Her father had declined an invitation to attend. He disliked his wife's relatives, considering them beneath him. He had a small accountancy firm in a little town in Berkshire which endowed him with enough assets to consider most people below him.

The first time John met her father he knew instantly from his rigid formality that he needed to behave in a certain way. He was from an era, now slowly being forgotten, when people had their place and the measure of someone could be ascertained from the way they conducted themselves.

John, nervous at the prospect of spending time with someone so formidable had taken several strong painkillers to quell his anxiety. Drowsy from them he fell asleep while her father was talking to him. This behaviour, however much Taylor tried to explain it away, had left her father with an impression of John which could not be changed.

John located the bar at the far side of the hall. It was already occupied by two men sipping pints in silence. He walked across, sat down on bar stool and ordered a pint receiving a warm can and a dirty glass.

The bar man looked out of place in a hall full of smartly dressed mourners. He was wearing a denim jacket, the sleeves ragged and frayed, a black t-shirt with skull and crossbones embossed in the middle and large, leather motorbike boots that produced a low thudding sound as he moved around the small bar. On both arms he was inked with a random assortment of tattoos, most of which were difficult to make out having bled into the surrounding skin.

Out of the corner of John's eye he noticed the barman starring at him with an intent that was hard to ignore. He looked up and smiled but was greeted with a look of contempt. He turned in his chair, facing into the hall so he could avoid the gaze of someone who had taken an immediate dislike to him.

He noticed Taylor walking towards him, anger infused into her facial expressions, her strides long and purposeful. When she reached him she lowered herself so she could talk directly into his ear. "What the hell are you doing" she whispered.

"I'm having a drink, what does it look like?" he said curtly.

"I thought I told you not to drink. You know what you're like, you have absolutely no control!" John shrugged and took another sip, wincing as he did, the warm frothy lager difficult to drink.

"Well that's the only one you're going to have or so help me god" she continued. John, drawing the glass slowly up to his lips whilst maintaining eye contact with her, drained the rest of the glass and held up a twenty pointing it in the direction of the bar man who scowled at him as he took the money.

"Can I have another one and a whiskey chaser? Oh and get one for yourself" John said trying in vain to win him over.

"What the hell are you doing John? It's bad enough that you turned up hung-over when I told you not to have a drink last night and now what? Are you planning on getting hammered at my uncle's wake?"

John could see the anger in her face. He had riled her more than usual.

"I wasn't hung-over actually" he said, smiling at the barman as he brought over his drinks.

"Oh come on John. I could smell the fucking whiskey on your breath and your eyes were completely bloodshot. I wasn't born yesterday". She stood up straight with her arms folded.

"Well I wasn't hung-over. I was still drunk if you must know and I will have a drink if I want to. And you can't tell me otherwise because you're no longer my girlfriend" he said smiling smugly. Taylor bent down to whisper in his ear, careful not to make a scene, trying desperately to retain her dignity as she always did.

"We may not be together any more but that doesn't mean you have to stop being a decent human being and ruin my uncle's wake".

John sipped his lager as she spoke. It was more palatable with each sip as his taste buds adjusted to it.

"I'm not going to get hammered Taylor. Give me some credit. I'm just having a drink as are these gentleman sat next to me, and those other there" he pointed to a group of middle aged men sat with a bottle of wine and some glasses, laughing heartily as if they had no idea where they were.

She starred at him, realised there was little she could do to persuade him otherwise, and marched off without saying another word.

"In trouble are we?" one of the old men sat next to him enquired, his breath, wafting over as he spoke, already smelt of cheap lager.. John smiled and nodded, resolving not to reply verbally. He had no desire to start a conversation and was prepared to detour one without care of being rude.

After several drinks John made his way to the toilet. Whilst washing his hands he looked at himself in the mirror. He examined the reflection, considering the man presented before him. He admired the deep blue eyes with their youthful vibrancy. The face was chiselled and had strong, masculine lines as if it had been sculpted; its structure arrived at by careful design. His hair was Brown and full. His smile was sometimes warm, sometimes sensual but always seeming genuine. His nose was straight and perfectly symmetrical. His ears protruded slightly through his hair, the exposed flesh in perfect, circular shapes. His shoulders were broad, his posture upright. He was a beautiful man, that was his conclusion, one arrived at many times looking into many different mirrors.

What his eyes ignored was more telling. One eye was larger than the other, the smaller one appearing half shut. Crow's feet spread out from the corner of both eyes like rays of light from the sun on a child's picture. Deep wrinkles were entrenched in his forehead adding years to his appearance. His hair was greying and had split ends making it look damaged and in poor condition. He had dark patches under his eyes that seldom shifted and he was loose and flabby around his midriff.

The assumed perfection was an illusion, a pre-requisite to the arrogance he required to perform his role as a TV presenter. His good looks had been eroded by time, alcohol and late nights. He was no longer the man who'd been spotted on a busy, London street by a model agency because of his striking looks. One day he would see his face for what it was and he would grow as a person, but that day was a long way off.

As he walked back to the bar he realised how drunk he had become. He stumbled as he tried to navigate through the maze of tables. He managed to steady himself but the warnings signs were there. His stomach was empty and needed food.

He made his way to the buffet. Picking up a paper plate he piled it high with the remains left after the initial surge. He picked up a cheese and pineapple stick and starred at it. He didn't realise they still existed. He thought they'd been left in the seventies. He was used to canapés served by expensive London catering companies' not mini sausage rolls and partially defrosted Vol-Au-Vents.

He walked to the nearest unoccupied table and ate the food, each item so greasy his stomach struggled to cope.

When he'd finished, tossing the empty plate into the middle of table, he made his way back to the bar, his walk steady, and his mind slightly clearer. He ordered another lager from the barman who slammed the drink down, spilling beer on John's sleeve but he didn't notice. John was too consumed watching Taylor to pay attention to others.

He watched her as she glided around the room from conversation to conversation. He felt angry, upset and lost all at the same time. The alcohol, cavorting with his own doubts, increased his paranoia. Their breakup, swift and impossible to fathom, must have happened for a reason. Relationships don't end without explanation.

Watching her talk with a tall, classically handsome male who was broad shouldered and chiselled, it suddenly dawned on him that maybe there was someone else. It would explain the abruptness of the breakup and why the reason for it wasn't immediately obvious.

Sat next to him she stroked his arm, smiling as he spoke. She laughed at something he said, tilting her head back as she did. She was enjoying his company too much for Johns liking. Feeling betrayed he clenched the plastic pint glass in his hand so tightly it began to give way under the pressure, frothy lager spilling over the lip.

He downed the rest of the drink and ordered two double whiskeys which he polished off as soon as they were handed to him. Angry but unwilling to make a scene, he produced his phone and text her, holding it close to his face as he did, his inebriation affecting his ability to type.

"U sleeping wth that guy? That why you leave me?" he pushed send and ordered another double whiskey. He watched as she reached into her handbag, looked at her phone and put it back, ignoring what he'd sent.

He picked up his phone and typed another message. "Well are u!! Answer me!"

This time she reached into her bag, read the message and replied "Fuck off! He's my cousin you moron" but it was too late. The wheels in Johns head were in motion. If it wasn't him then he assumed it was someone else. This, after all, provided a reason for the breakup and in his drunken state and with nothing else to go on it was good as any.

He continued drinking, getting angrier as he did, compiling a list of the chief suspects. The electrician that came round to her house with the huge biceps. Her personal trainer, Rodrigue. Her married co-host Simon. The car mechanic she insisted on using even though he overcharged. The barista in the cafe at the end of her street she smiled at too warmly for his liking. The researcher on the show who was "soooo funny".

The list of suspects grew and grew as he remembered those she had regular contact with. He needed to confront her. He needed answers. If she was seeing someone else he had a right to know.

Just as he was finishing his drink, mentally preparing himself for the confrontation, an elderly woman wearing an ankle length black dress and a hat with a black, lace veil approached him. John, so consumed with anger, hadn't noticed her until she tapped him on the arm.

"You're Taylor's boyfriend aren't you? John is it?" she sounded like Hyacinth Bucket, well spoken in a way that sounded forced, the annunciation unnaturally clear. John nodded.

"I watched the show you used to be on. What was it called?" she paused as she tried to remember. "Up and at em. That was it. Well". She stopped, looked directly at John as if readying herself to say something of extreme importance. "You should be ashamed of yourself. All that swearing and crudeness. Were you dragged up? I was absolutely appalled. I said to my Harry, I can't believe Taylor has got herself involved with such a thug. What does your mother think? She ought to be embarrassed that her son is on TV saying f'ing this and f'ing that. Personally I think you're a disgrace. If you were younger I would take you over my knee and give you a good spanking. No wonder the country is going down the pan with people like you on TV". She spoke indignantly as if greatly offended by the utterance of a few words that were barely still offensive.

John, drunk, angry and realising he would never have to see this people again, sighed and looked down at her.

"Fuck off you old bint" he said, his gaze lingering after the words had been spoken.

She looked at him aghast. Eventually she managed to force some words out through the shock. "You horrible man" she said quietly. As she gained her composure she began shouting "You absolute beast!"

Conversations fell into silence as her words reverberated around the hard surfaces of the hall. Everyone turned to see what was happening. John scanned the room, confronted with dozens of faces starring at him, all wanting to know what had happened.

Preparing a public tirade she pointed at him and turned to those watching like a hard-line religious preacher about to condemn an unfortunate soul. "This evil man has verbally abused me!" she shouted forcefully.

"Oh fuck off" John replied. Drink had loosened him up. He no longer cared what he said or how he said it. Taylor, reacting to the embarrassing scene John had created, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him outside whilst people shook their heads in disapproval.

Once they were outside she backed him against the wall and prodded him just above the collarbone. "What the hell do you think you are doing?" she shouted. He had never seen her this angry, it was unnerving.

"What? She came up to me and started having a go so I told her to fuck off. I was only defending myself Taylor. And besides, we're through aren't we so why do you care?"

Her head dropped. She starred at the floor, gathering her thoughts before looking back at him. "Just because we're though doesn't mean you have to go around ruining the funerals of my family members. What kind of a person does that? How dare you act like that, how dare you".

She looked upset. Part of him felt compelled to comfort her, part of him no longer cared. "Look I'm sorry if I made a scene but she shouldn't have come up to me and start telling me I should be ashamed just because I swore on TV. She doesn't even know me for Christ sake. Who the fuck does she think she is" John, convincing himself successfully of his own arguments, spoke as if he had been wronged.

"Well thanks for ruining everything John. I think you better leave". Normally being asked to leave would be a bad thing but John had been released from an obligation he resented. "I'll go but first of all I want to know who he is?" John still wanted answers. He'd made his mind up that she was seeing someone else.

"Who who is?" Taylor replied confused. "The guy you're leaving me for Taylor. I want to know who the fuck he is?"

Taylor shook her head in disbelief. "There is no one else"

"Don't lie to me of course there is" John insisted

"John. You're drunk. You don't know what the hell you're on about. There is no one else. Just go home" she spoke calmly, wanting the conversation to end so he would leave.

Before he'd embarrassed her she wanted him to pretend they were still together to avoid the relentless questions about their break up. Now she couldn't wait to tell her family the man who'd just verbally abused an elderly relative was no longer her boyfriend.

"Of course there is someone else. There must be. Why else would you break up with me?" his voice was calmer. He looked at her imploringly.

"You're asking me why I would break up with you after a performance like that!" She looked at him sternly. Frowning, a small wrinkle appeared on her forehead, something that would later be resolved by a trip to Harley Street.

"Well that happened after you'd broken up with me so yes, I want to know why the fuck you are breaking up with me?" She could smell the cheap lager and whiskey on his breath. The vile combination made her wince as he spoke. He continued "There must be someone else. Why else would you leave? Things were going great between us. Then, all of a sudden, out of the blue, you want to end things just like that without ever saying that you were happy or that we had problems. Well I just don't buy it. There has to be someone else and I want to know who the fuck this guy is".

She rolled her eyes, took a cigarette out of her hand bag and lit it. Blowing smoke casually into the air she looked past John, watching some children playing football on the fields behind. John became frustrated. "For fuck sake Taylor I want to know who this guy is. Just tell me" he shouted. She took a few more long drags, pulling the smoke deep into her lungs and exhaling through her mouth, the smoke rising vertically in the still air before tossing the cigarette on the floor.

"There is no one else" she re-asserted. She was becoming tired of the conversation. "John just leave ok. I need to go back inside. Just go". He screwed his mouth up. He couldn't go until he knew who he was. He was determined like a hungry lion stalking its prey.

"There must be someone else, why else would you leave me so abruptly, without any bloody warning" John shouted, his arms flailing about in frustration. An elderly couple walking along the pavement thirty yards away looked across at them wanting to know what the commotion was.

"You want to know why I'm leaving you?" she asked leaning towards him, her calm dismantled by John's animated behaviour. "I don't need you anymore John". She looked directly into his eyes, her face stern, her expression fixed. "What do you mean?" he asked confused.

"Come on John. You knew what this was about. You wanted arm candy. Someone who looked good on the red carpet. A looker that massaged your ego. I needed a way in. You were my way in John. But now. Well. Now your career is almost over, mine is taking off so I don't you anymore. You're surplus to requirements" she explained, naively assuming this was something he'd always known deep down. She was mistaken.

"What? You used me? But I love you. I thought you loved me?" Johns lip began to quiver as he spoke.

"Oh come on John. You knew what this was about and don't pretend you love me. You fancy me. You don't love me"

"So you've never loved me" he said quietly.

"Look John I'm not going to deny that we had a lot of fun and there was chemistry and you know, I cared about you, but our relationship has run its course. It's over John". With this she left to go back inside leaving him to stand in the cold crying, unknowing of the hurt she had caused.

She assumed the tears were alcohol induced and that in the morning he would be fine. She assumed he didn't actually love her and that he understood why this had happened. Maybe this was a defence mechanism employed to avoid responsibility, maybe she never realised how much he cared for her. But for her the matter was over.

John slumped against the wall and slide down until he was sitting on the cold, hard concrete. He drew his hands to his face and sobbed quietly, his shoulders moving up and down rhythmically as he did. He felt so much pain, its intensity unknown to someone who wasn't used to being on the receiving end of a breakup. It was raw and unyielding.

But it did not last. Anger overcame it. How could she be so cold? How could she string him along for two years under the false pretence that their relationship meant something? He felt betrayed, he felt lied to.

He walked over to a green wheelie bin next to a fire exit. Rage coursing through him he kicked it over and began hitting it with his hands and shouting unformed words. An old man who was passing by stopped and looked across at him, shaking his head and tutting. John, seeing him out of the corner of his eye, stopped and walked away, the bin bleeding rubbish through its now open lid.

He needed to get out of here. He needed another drink. He walked over to the elderly gentleman who was still looking at him disapprovingly. "Excuse me. Where is the train station?" he asked trying to sound sober but failing. The old man just pointed, unwilling to verbally communicate with a drunkard.

John thanked him and set off, almost tripping over a gap in the pavement as he did. It was cold, night approaching. The sky had turned a multitude of reds and oranges. They blended into each other like a backdrop to an impressionist painting. But the beauty was lost on John who walked head down, lost in thought.

When he reached the train station he bought a ticket and went to a shop buying a bottle of cheap red wine. On the back it had an unnecessary description of its taste and flavour, pointless as anyone purchasing such a bottle was making the choice because of price and not because it had a hint of cinnamon.

By the time the train arrived he'd consumed two thirds of the bottle, his teeth turning a bluish grey. He looked for an empty seat. He wandered up and down the aisles of the three carriages before realising none were available. The train was packed with people travelling to the capital to seek refuge from the boredom of their provisional towns.

John found space in-between carriages and sat down, spreading his legs out across the floor. He sipped the wine from the bottle and, as the train began to leave, the wheels screeching on the tracks, removed his phone from his pocket.

He sent Taylor a long drunken text, mostly incoherent with some brief sections of clarity produced using great concentration. He told her how much he hated her and mocked her career, hoping to score a few cheap points. She never replied, deleting the message without reading it.

A woman in her mid twenties with brown hair pulled up into pig tails that made her look faintly ridiculous saw John as she made her way to the toilet.

"Oh my god! Are you John Dobson?" she held her hand to her mouth in profound disbelief.

"Yeah" he said without warmth.

"I'm like totally your biggest fan. Oh my god. I like. I like can't believe it's you! I loved it when you used to host Celebrity Slamdunk" she smiled, beaming from ear to ear. "Thank you" he replied, trying to hide the wine bottle by his side so he didn't look like an alcoholic.

"It's just a shame you're not on TV anymore" she added.

"I am on TV"

"Are you?" she questioned

"Yes I fucking am! I think I should bloody know if I'm on TV or not. Jesus" he shouted, the alcohol destroying his inhabitations.

She looked at him shocked at his outburst. She turned, and began walking quickly down the aisle. John stood up and went after her shouting sorry and explaining that he'd had a bad day. He knew outbursts were a mistake. Not because he was concerned he'd hurt someone's feelings but knowing bad behaviour could easily be turned into a tabloid story or an anecdote for a glossy magazine.

He caught up with her at the end of the last carriage. She looked at him slightly scared, clutching her handbag in front of her with both hands as if it would somehow protect her. He pleaded and explained. She accepted his apology, granting him a reprieve as she felt compelled to do once he explained he'd been at a funeral. He played that card well. The crisis had been diverted. His nerves settled and for a moment he forgot that Taylor had broken up with him.

"Can I get a selfie of us" she enquired. John smiled and nodded. She produced her phone from inside a cheap, Chanel replica hand bag and held it in front of them. She pointed it in their direction and, pulling John close to her, kissed him on the lips just as the photo was taken.

John pulled away and smiled at her awkwardly. She was beaming, her mood instantly enhanced by a photo opportunity with someone who was barely more famous than she was.

John said bye and hurried down the carriage back to his spot, unfortunately finding it taken. He picked up the bottle of wine which was next to the door and stood besides the bag rack, sipping it slowly as he scanned the countryside passing so quickly all he could see was a blur of greens, browns and greys.

CHAPTER TWO

Edward emptied the contents of the shopping bags, placing items onto shelves he'd colour coded with labels to designate each food type. As it was Thursday he put a lasagne in the microwave and cooked it for the length of time as prescribed by the instructions on the packet.

He ate lasagne every Thursday. His meals planned out for continuity because he liked things a certain way. Change made him feel uncomfortable. He viewed the continuation of an unbroken routine, where possible, as an important factor in his happiness and general feeling of contentment. It was an order he tried to create that was pointless and trivial. It had no value because organising your life, attempting to give it pattern and a shape will always be rendered futile by the flux the universe introduces.

When the microwave pinged he opened the door and picked up the black, plastic container using oven gloves to protect his hands from the heat. He placed the meal on a plate and peeled back the film, the released steam rising with unexpected velocity.

Microwave meals may appear to be just another banal modern product but to Edward they showcased the wonders of human advancement. Once we were basic primates, hunter gatherers who died young and had a limited understanding of the world we lived in. But in a time frame that was geologically insignificant, our development had been so miraculous we were able to cook a nutritionally complex meals using intricately constructed machines that harnessed concepts and principles of physics that, even two hundred years ago, were barely understood.

He'd once explained to a group of colleagues the sense of awe he felt when using what we now consider everyday items but they mocked him, reciting what he said in funny voices and laughing at how weird he was. His confidence dented he never returned to work.

He now lived off the state, interactions with other people being a choice not a requirement.

He rarely spoke to anyone save discussions in internet chat rooms and forums where he could be whoever he wanted to be because he was just another faceless username like everybody else. He'd found a place where his thoughts and observations that, to many were odd and confusing, were understood and often shared by like minded individuals with similar outlooks and desires.

He placed the meal on a plate, the sauce oozing out as gravity acted upon it. Positioning the plate in the middle of a red, metallic tray he carried his meal through to the lounge taking great care to hold it level as he walked.

He settled himself on the sofa, wiggling around to find a comfortable position, the protective plastic squeaking as he moved.

The flat had been his grandmothers until she'd passed away two years ago. Edward had moved in after an incident had left him homeless and without the support of his father.

During this period they had become close. Previously, out of social convention and family obligations, they had only tolerated each other. But, having spent more time together, they ultimately garnered a deep appreciation of each other's company. Whether this was born out of circumstance or genuine affection was another matter.

Despite this closeness they very rarely talked and lived almost in silence. Everything was left unsaid. Their thoughts were communicated through tiny alterations in expressions and actions.

He remembered spending the long summer days walking in the woods with her, silently appreciating nature, both observing it separately, their thoughts rarely verbalised. In the evening they would watch detective dramas with cups of cocoa and chocolate digestives. They existed together, they shared in each other's lives yet they did not know each other. The caverns within them filled with their ideas, thoughts, dreams and desires were never exposed, never discussed, never known. They were separate yet together, a part of each other's life yet distant.

Everywhere he looked there were reminders of her, links to old memories he'd formed through the years, indelible connections to the only person he'd ever felt close to that would always be there, always with him regardless of what was happening in his life.

The cream and rose patterned wallpaper with a pink border she'd put up as a treat on retiring. The grandfather clock perched solemnly in the corner bought for her by her father. The old mahogany bookcase, the top shelf filled with copies of Agatha Christie novels purchased at car boots sales because she was the only author his grandmother recognised the name of.

She was still here, still part of the flat which had once been her home. The objects and furniture that populated the small space left indelible traces and reminders of a time they shared and a time before that now forgotten. But slowly, month by month, year by year the flat was changing as it became his.

The other shelves on the bookcase had been filled with the novels of Kafka and Dostoyevsky.

The carpet, worn in the patches most trodden, had a large, blue rug placed on top of it, his attempt at disguising its poor condition.

The table they'd sat at to play back gammon, games that would last hours as she carefully examined the board like a General judging a battlefield, had been moved into the spare room and replaced with a chair Edward sat in to read.

She would always be here, she would never leave but the memory of her would change, time would erode away the images of her until they were altered and faded at the edges.

He remembered his grandmother's funeral vividly. A cold, northerly wind blew strongly that day, the few relatives who'd attended wearing thick coats and hats over the black suits and dresses to cope with the weather, some of which were made from brightly coloured fabrics which tempered the sombreness of the occasion.

He didn't cry or feel the kind of pain or suffering grief usually brings. He felt vacant. He felt indifferent and removed, as if he wasn't really there, just a ghost, soulless, floating through an occasion he wasn't physically part of, in a different sphere of being, disconnected from what was happening around him.

When he arrived back at the flat he'd sat down and looked blankly at the grandfather clock. He watched it ticking for hours without moving, time passing before his very eyes. When it reached midnight he'd gone to bed only to lay awake all night, his mind populated with aimless musings about irrelevant topics.

The next day when he'd woken up he'd made his way somnolently to the kitchen and picked up his grandmothers finest china, the kind she kept exclusively for guests she felt worthy of special treatment. He'd starred at the floral patterns that ran around the rims of the plates, transfixed by their conformity. Something lurked beneath, something that wanted to escape. He wasn't aware of it at the time but it was there.

Suddenly and with no warning, he began throwing the plates at the floor. He didn't stop until every piece of his grandmother's finest china lay smashed in a hundred jagged pieces.

It was an explosion of grief that was over almost as soon as it had started. He didn't feel it enter and he didn't feel it leave, but once it was over he went back to feeling indifferent about the death of the only person he'd ever been close to as if the outburst had never happened.

Since his grandmother had passed away he'd barely spoken to anyone else. He occasionally had brief conversations with the shopkeeper down the road, but these were trivial and short.

As social primates we desire company. It's part of our makeup that we feel the need to share our existence with others, as if experiencing it alone somehow reduces its meaning. We leave trails of our experiences everywhere, photo albums, conversations, videos, updates. Nothing is saved for ourselves but given up to everyone, shared, placed where people can see or hear it, our experiences given a life of their own as if they exist outside of us.

Other than his on-line acquaintances, Edward had little time for other people because he generally didn't like them. He was a solitary soul who enjoyed his own company because he thought other people fundamentally didn't understand him. They could never understand him because he was different. He thought differently, he acted differently, he believed in different things.

He believed he didn't belong to this society. He may exist here physically but he wasn't a part of it. His mind was elsewhere, his consciousness on a different plane of existence.

But was this really true or was it his way of coping in a world he thought had rejected him?

In many ways he was the same as everybody else. The people he walked past in the street, those he considered to be nothing like him, their differences profound and lasting, were genetically identical to Edward, their DNA differing by a fraction of a fraction of a fraction.

He had two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, opposable thumbs, language, thoughts, dreams, desires, and needs. He'd been born and raised in the same society, a society that had moulded him, that had provided the environment in which he'd developed.

Like everybody he was just another consumer, convinced he had a gap in his life that needed to be filled, unaware that if it was filled another gap could be created and this cycle would never end, want masquerading itself as need. You were told you needed a new TV, a holiday, a fad diet, a gym membership, a car, a smoothie maker, a new eastern religion, herbal teas, yoga, garden furniture, haircuts, beer, coffee, a new hobby.

What Edward desired had been neatly packaged up with a warm smile, a sensual laugh, an alluring stare and a sunny disposition provided to him through television shows and glossy magazines.

It was a product designed to take advantage of lust and sexual desire, to reduce the most primal of wants to a need they pretended to meet with someone who didn't even know you existed, someone who considered you to be just another digit in the viewing figures, another fan to propel their career.

And the more he got of her, the articles the TV programmes, the pictures, the videos, the more he desired. It was never enough. It would never be enough until he was shown a new product, somebody else to want, somebody else to feel like he needed.

After allowing time for the meal to cool he began to eat. Occasionally he stopped to take a slurp of coke from an unbranded can. He was watching regional murder mystery. It was the type of programme he used to enjoy watching in silence with his grandmother.

The detective was investigating the death of an elderly vicar who'd been clubbed to death with a large cross. Edward wondered what it would be like to kill someone, what it would be like to watch the life drain out of their eyes. The power you must feel having their life in your hands, to be able to decide whether they lived or died, must be immeasurable.

After finishing his meal he took his plate back into the kitchen and washed it meticulously before leaving it to drain on the side of the sink.

He opened a cupboard and pulled out a multi pack of chocolate biscuits, taking one from the packet and placing it neatly into the centre of plate. He walked back into the lounge and sat down.

The rest of the show unfolded as expected. The murderer being someone the viewer had not expected, the more obvious candidates with motives noted early relinquished of any possible guilt as the story of how it happened was neatly summed up by the detective. Edward considered how rare it was that truth was discovered with such efficiency and clarity. Truth often lurks in the shadows, hard to make out and only ever partially revealed.

After finishing his supper he grabbed a long, green coat, tatty around the sleeves, the colour faded in places to a lighter a green and left the flat heading to a nearby bus stop.

He liked catching buses. He enjoyed observing the other passengers, trying to figure out who they were and where they were going. He would concoct life stories from little details such as their expression and the clothes they wore.

Outside the air was bitterly cold. He shivered as he waited for the bus. Underneath he wore two jumpers and a thick, woollen scarf but it wasn't enough. His frame was small and weak and he had difficulty coping with low temperatures, something he was acutely aware of and had always bothered him.

When the bus arrived he climbed aboard, paid and sat down. The only other passenger was an elderly lady. He sat on the opposite side and one row back so she wouldn't notice him studying her.

He observed her keenly like a birdwatcher looking out across a nature reserve from a wooden hut. He noted her long, bony fingers stained yellow at the ends indicating she was a smoker. Her hair had been blue rinsed and her face was crumpled beyond her years a result, he assumed, of cigarettes taking their inevitable toll, killing cells quicker than they could be replaced. She was wearing a beige coat that covered the rest of her clothes. The coat looked cheap. Her handbag rested next to her. It was blue and seemed old. It had seen better days.

She had her right hand on it. She was careful. He looked her up and down. He noticed a pensive look working its way into her facial expression. She didn't look out of the window as most people did but stared ahead, blankly. He assumed she was a widow. She looked lonely. The blank stare and sad eyes told him that. She had a gold wedding band on her wedding figure, left on after her husband had died as something to remember him by.

She probably had children, maybe three or four, but they seldom visited. She was alone in the world except for the odd visit of a friend.

When the bus reached her stop she got off, muttering thank you to the bus driver in a voice that was deep and cracked. As the bus departed he watched as she hobbled down the street, curious and always observing as if life was a painting that was there to be studied.

Edward sat patiently until the bus arrived at his stop, flicking through a tabloid newspaper someone had left on the seat. When he arrived he got off and crossed the street to the community centre. It was a large building the condition of which was deteriorating as funding was gradually decreased. He made his way inside and through a maze of corridors until he found room B4. He pushed the door open and entered.

In the middle of the room wooden chairs formed a circle. All but one was occupied. The rest of the room was bare except for a table with biscuits piled on white plates, cups stacked and two, metallic jugs labelled tea and coffee. The walls were covered with posters advertising plays performed by untalented theatre enthusiasts, adverts for local business and up-coming community events.

Edward made his way to the vacant chair. A man, probably in his fifties although it was hard to tell, smiled at Edward as he sat down. He was wearing a grey cardigan that was too big for him, a striped, blue shirt, jeans and brown shoes that were badly scuffed. He smiled genuinely, his sky blue eyes lighting up. He had long, sandy coloured hair pulled back into a pony tail, the hair style an ageing hippy might opt for. Edward correctly assumed he would be leading the group through the session, the reticence of everyone else told him that.

"Ok now we are all here I'll get started. Hi everyone. My name is Phillip and I'll be guiding you through tonight's meeting" he spoke with enthusiasm, scanning the faces as he talked, conscious of making eye contact with everyone.

Phillip had a warmth that radiated from him. He seemed like someone who would listen to you if you had a problem, would take time to let you speak before delivering a comforting word or two. But behind that there was something not quite right, something missing in the eyes as if he was only partly there, as if some fragment of him had been lost.

When he stopped smiling there was a brief moment when he looked straight past you as if you weren't there. In that fraction of a second his eyes drained of all feeling as if he was struggling with a sadness he couldn't escape, a moment in his life he couldn't forget, that haunted him, always there.

It was the same look he saw in his Uncle Terry's eyes. He would welcome you and smile and appear enthusiastic, but there was something not quite right that was difficult to pinpoint. Years later his Grandmother revealed he'd been abused as a schoolboy and it suddenly became clear.

"Hopefully you will all have had time to read the information pack we sent out. The course covers ten sessions each with different aims trying to address different aspects of addiction, how to overcome it and how to lead a life that will prevent future relapses. I'm a fully qualified life coach and councillor and have twenty years experience treating addiction so be rest assured you're in capable hands tonight. Before we start I would just like to point out, and this is very important, that this is a safe place. We encourage everyone to share and be respectful of those who do. Judgments will not be made because everyone is in the same situation so please try and open up as much as possible as this will help us get to the root causes of your addiction. I know I probably don't need to point this out but can everyone please be respectful of one another. We are all here to help each other so please do not judge, this is very important. Thank you"

He stopped and smiled, looking around at everyone, hoping his words had been absorbed before continuing.

"As this is the first meeting and we're all new to each other I'll start by telling you a little bit about myself" he paused, leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "I was born in Grimsby. My mother died when I was seven and my father wasn't around so I was brought up by my grandparents. I left school when I was sixteen and joined the army because at the time it seemed like my only option. There weren't many jobs around or opportunities for someone without an education. When I joined the army is when I first started drinking. At first I drank to fit in with the other recruits. We would go to a pub near the barracks in our free time, have a few pints and play pool. It was fun. I just drank socially like everybody else. In eighty two my regiment was sent to the Falkland's. One day we were on a reconnaissance through an area of the island we'd been told was clear of enemy troops. We were walking down a track when we were fired upon by some Argentineans to our right. My best friend Mark was shot in the chest. I dragged him across the track and into a ditch for cover but it was too late. He was mortally wounded. All I could do was comfort him in the last moments before he died. He was only eighteen, just a kid really. He had so much life still to live but he died in my arms without ever seeing his loved ones again. I guess I should have been prepared for something like that. I was in the armed forces so death was an occupational hazard. But I just couldn't accept it. I would lay awake at night unable to get the image of him dying out of my head. When I got home I was discharged and got a job working in a warehouse and that's when it all started to go wrong. At first I would have a whiskey or two to take the edge of so I could get some sleep. But it soon escalated. By the end I was drinking a bottle a day. People tried to talk to me about it but I didn't think I had a problem. I was still functioning and my health was okay because I was young so I was able to kid myself that I was fine. I had a job. I paid my rent. I didn't harm anybody or cause any problems. I just used to sit in my living room drinking every night watching TV and bothering no one. But at my uncle's funeral, that's when it all changed. He died before his time and like a lot of alcoholics I'd become dependent on alcohol as a way of coping with problems and pain. I turned up late to the funeral, drunk and wearing jeans and a red t-shirt. I made such a scene my parents told me they never wanted to speak to me again. It hurt. It hurt bad. That's when I decided I needed to do something about it. That's when it finally hit home and I'm glad it did. I was determined not to embarrass or upset the people I loved again so I went to my local AA meeting and got the help and support I needed. I've been sober for twenty nine years now and I've written a moderately successful play about my experiences. I've managed to turn my life around because I accepted I had a problem, sort the help I needed and was able to identify and overcome the issues that had caused me to follow such a destructive path. By being here tonight you've accepted you have a problem which is the first and most vital step. Now the aim of these sessions is for people to talk about their experiences so we can get to the root cause of the problem and provide support to help you overcome your addictions"

When he finished speaking he was greeted with stony silence. People were nervous. They knew they would have to speak about their issues in a room full of strangers. Such an imposition was terrifying for most.

"So I'd like to open the floor up to you guys. Does anyone want to go first? he said scanning the dull faces looking back at him, hoping for a willing volunteer.

Edward put his hand up. Phillip smiled in acknowledgment and reached out a hand as if he was guiding him into the middle of the circle.

Edward wasn't an alcoholic. He found the taste of alcohol odd and unpleasant. He occasionally had a mint Baileys at Christmas but apart from that he didn't drink. He came to these meetings not for the help and support but for the tragic stories. He loved hearing tales of people's desperate plight and their struggles and torment. To him it was fascinating. It was the human condition laid bare.

Fiction writers attempt to examine how we are as people, looking for explanations of life and how we interact and co-exist in a complicated world, but they weren't real. They weren't told by the people involved. But here, in these quiet rooms up and down the country, people spoke of real tragedy, of real guilt, of real pain. These weren't stories, creatively realised by someone who knew how to string a sentence together, this was real life.

Looking at the glum faces and feeling the silence and tension he knew he had to tell an epic story of pain and guilt to open them up. The darker his story the easier it would be to elicit honest and frank accounts from the rest of the group. People instinctively avoid judgment but if they perceive someone's behaviour to be worse than their own they are more likely to talk with ease about their own indiscretions.

Edward coughed before beginning his tale. "Hi my name is Ethan and I'm an alcoholic". He paused and exhaled loudly, making it appear as if telling his story was difficult, aware of how someone would act if it was real.

"I had a very difficult childhood. When I was young my dad used to beat me. He'd get home from the pub drunk and if he'd lost on the horses he'd take of his belt, grab me and hit me with it until I was black and blue". Edward stopped, realising he was speaking too quickly, delivering his story as if it had been rehearsed. He ground his teeth together, rubbed his legs and continued, ensuring he talked in a more sombre, considered manner.

"My mother never stopped him. As soon as he got back and she realised he was in one of his moods she would make some pathetic excuse and leave. She was so scared of him and too selfish to try and protect her only child. I hated her for that" he paused for a moment, hanging his head, wiping his eye with his left hand to remove a none-existent tear.

Over the years he'd turned the reproduction of these stories into little performances. He imagined he was a method actor who'd been given a role in a film about recovering alcoholics.

He looked up and saw everyone starring at him intently. He had their attention. They were compelled by his narrative.

He continued. "I used to act out at school. I guess I just wanted the attention because I received so little love at home. I remember when I was nine me and a boy called Tod who was kind of like my little side kick found a lighter behind one of the bike sheds. We both liked fire. We liked watching things burn as little boys often do. But we took it too far. One day when it was playtime and everyone was out in the schoolyard we went into our classroom and started lighting paper and other bits and pieces. But that wasn't exciting enough for me so I persuaded Tod to light a cushion the teacher used to sit on. It burnt real good. Tod got scared and wanted to leave but I couldn't take my eyes of the flames. I got some glue that had the flammable warning sign on and started squeezing it onto the cushion. Before I knew it the flames were getting out of control so we ran out through a back entrance and joined everyone else in the playground, trying to make it look like we'd been there the whole time. The entire school burnt down and Tod confessed to the headmistress and dropped me in it. He was the vicar's boy so all he got was a good telling off. Me though, I was seen as trouble so I was sent to a special school for badly behaved kids because they had no time for me. My parents split up. My mum ran off and my dad died in a fight outside a pub so I was put into care. It made me feel so alone and unwanted. When I grew up I resented the life I'd been given. I started drinking when I was fifteen and didn't stop. I didn't ease myself into it. I was drinking everyday by the time I was sixteen, stealing most of it because I had no money. I ended up in and out of prison. Minor offences mainly. I didn't think much of my drinking until a few years ago. I was in a pub near the house I was renting. I went out into the parking lot for a cigarette and noticed a car with the keys left on the roof. I couldn't resist so I got in and drove off. It was about half three at the time and I'd already had ten pints. I raced down the street, doing about forty five and I got up to a bend. On the other side of the bend a mother and daughter were crossing the road. I didn't have enough time to react because I was drunk and going too fast. The mother managed to push her daughter out of the way but I went straight into her. She died instantly. I'll never forget looking back and seeing the young girl bent over her dead mother's body shaking her and shouting "wake up, wake up". She was only five. I later found out her father had died of cancer the year before so I'd left her with no parents. I was arrested and given five years in prison. At first I tried to blame what had happened on everyone else. Why did they cross on a blind bend? Why weren't there speed bumps when it was near a school? But eventually I realised it was my fault and that despite everything I had been through there was no excuse for what I had done. I hated being in care. I hated not having loving parents around to help me through life and because of my own reckless behaviour, I'd left a five year old girl in the same situation I'd struggled with my whole life. When you do something that horrible, particularly when you've had a messed up childhood like I have, it's easy to place the blame elsewhere. If you blame something else then you don't have to live with the guilt because you can convince yourself it's not your fault. But eventually it eats away at you until the magnitude of what you've done becomes inescapable. In prison I had a lot of time to think. The Chaplin helped me a lot. He helped me realise that forgiveness was always possible, it didn't matter what you'd done. I think finding god really helped me take a step back and look at my life through a new set of eyes. I admitted my faults. I tried to learn from what had happened and I looked to move on and try and do something positive. For that last three months I've been working for a charity that helps the victims of drink driving. Sometimes I feel like a bit of a hypocrite but I know that even if I am at least I'm doing some good"

Edward scanned the room, judging the response. They were all engaged, hooked on the desperate tragedy of the character he'd created. He always tried to finish on a positive. There needed to be the possibility of redemption. That was the only way to encourage them to truly open up and explore their own guilt, pain and regret.

Philip looked at him and smiled, placing both hands on his thighs indicating he was about to speak. "Thank you Edward for sharing your story. It was very brave because I know how difficult it can be to open up to a room full of strangers". He looked around the room, willing another volunteer to divulge their tale of woe. Everyone avoided eye contact, still unsure, still nervous about possible judgement.

"Who would like to go next?" he asked. A male around thirty, although it was hard to tell with the physical degradation such an affliction can cause, put his hand up reluctantly like a schoolchild nervous about answering a question for fear of getting it wrong. Philip gestured towards him with an open palm. "Thank you" he said. As he hesitated Philip prompted "Just begin with your name and tell us your story. It's ok. We've all had similar experiences, we're not here to judge we're here to help"

"Hi everyone. My name is Mark I'm twenty two and I was an alcoholic for about six years. Erm" he stopped. He looked at the floor. His hands, held together in-between his legs, were shaking vigorously. It was hard to tell whether this was nerves or the effects of his drinking problem. Edward suspected both.

After composing himself he looked up and proceeded. "I had my first drink when I was twelve. Me and my friends stole some wine from one of our parent's house and drank it in the park. I didn't like it at first, it made me feel dizzy and nauseas and tasted, you know, kind of funny. But the next week my friends stole some beers and I felt pressured into drinking them. I wasn't a popular kid. I had trouble fitting in at school so I kind of felt, you know" he stopped. He looked anxious, the words struggling to form in his mouth. He exhaled loudly and sat up in his seat and rubbed his forehead.

"It's ok Mark. This is a safe place. You'll be ok" Phillip encouraged. He looked up from the floor and, to control his nerves, looked past Philip at a poster on the wall, concentrating hard on the shapes and colours to help him elucidate his story.

"It carried on like that for a while. Every Thursday it was someone else's turn to get some booze from somewhere. At first it was easy but are parents finally cottoned on so we started paying this guy to buy it for us. By the time I was sixteen I was drinking every day. I felt like I had nothing else to do. I lived in a pretty rundown area. There wasn't much hope for a guy like me so I drank partly out of habit, partly out of boredom. Because I'd always drunk I never thought much of it. To me it was like having a cup of tea. Alcohol was just something I drank every day. Last year I started seeing this girl. It went well to begin with and as things got a little bit more serious we eventually moved in together. I don't think she really noticed how much I drank because she was out socially a lot of nights so it kind of went under the radar" he paused again, taking a deep breath as if preparing for something that would take great courage.

He looked across at Edward who smiled at him encouragingly, willing him to proceed. "Last November. The twelfth it was, I'll never forget that date, I'd been in the pub all day. By closing I could barely walk but I just about managed to stumble home. What happened next is very blurry but over the last twelve months I've thought about it so much I think I've finally managed to piece it together. I think I got another can out of the fridge and went and sat on the sofa. I lit a cigarette, I can definitely remember that. Then I must have fallen asleep and dropped the cigarette on the couch. I remember waking up with flames all around me. I was so drunk I didn't understand what was happening. I was confused. I managed to make my way to the backdoor. I can vaguely remember hearing screams but I didn't know what they were or where they were coming from. I just didn't know what was going on. Part of me still thought I was in a dream. I should have" he started to cry. Tears rolled down his cheek which he wiped away with his sleeve.

Philip was about to re-assure but he continued, wanting to get his story over with now he'd started. "I didn't know it was her. I didn't" he explained as if he was being interrogated "I wasn't with it. I didn't understand what was going on. I was confused and disorientated. I just, I just. You Know I. I couldn't. I couldn't tell it was her. I didn't know. If I'd have known you know. I would have. I would have tried to help or do something. But"

The tears streaming down his face were glinting in the light shining from the bright halogen strips above. He wiped them away, tried to control himself and continued.

"I managed to get outside and into the backyard. I went through the gate at the back and stumbled down an alley that ran behind the houses. I just kept on going. I fell over quite a few times but I ended up near the canal which was about half mile away. She died. Burnt to death in the fire. When I was questioned I said I hadn't been at home. I was so ashamed I couldn't admit I'd left her in there, left her to die. No one saw me go in so they had no reason to believe otherwise. Her family were devastated. I could hardly bring myself to speak to them. I just didn't know what to say. I was so wrapped in guilt and everyone was being so nice to me. They comforted me as the grieving boyfriend but they had no idea I could have saved her. They had no idea what I had done. I felt pain deep inside me that wouldn't go away. I vowed never to drink again. It's been almost a year and it's been tough. I tried to do it on my own but I'm not sure I have the strength. I try to keep myself busy, I've started a new job and I do as much over time as they let me, but when I'm not there, when I'm on my own and its quiet all I can hear is her screams and it makes me reach for the bottle. But I know I have to beat this. I need to make up for what I've done. I need to be a better person and try and do some good in this shitty world. That's why I'm here tonight, to try and kick this thing for good".

By the time he'd finished the tears had long dried. He smiled and looked re-assured as he saw people looking at him sympathetically, nodding with encouragement and doing their best to refrain from judgment, as impossible as that is. The requirement to judge is innate in all of us and can only be lessened never defeated.

He felt relief. It was a brief respite from his pain. An interlude from hurt that had stalked him but it would be back. Edward knew that as he smiled at a man he didn't know, a man he didn't care about.

The rest of the evening continued in the same vein. People told their life stories always culminating in their descent into alcoholism, each encouraged into opening up by the tales they heard from others. It was the first session, every face was a new one and so the discussion centred on individual revelations. The therapy, the healing, the group discussion and the march towards possible salvation would come later.

Afterwards most lingered to have a coffee and chat to those they identified as being similar to themselves. Casual relationships were formed based on nothing more than similar years of birth or wealth as indicated by the expense of the clothing worn. They were transient assumptions of compatibility that would probably falter.

Edward left as soon as the meeting had finished. He'd had his fill of tragic stories and wanted to get home. He had no desire to talk to people he believed inferior to him, weak people with such little regard for themselves that they were able to plummet, voluntarily, to such lows.

By this time the buses had stopped. Unwilling to cover a taxi fare he would walk the four miles home.

The evening was bitterly cold. A sharp, arctic wind blowing from the North channelled in-between the buildings that lined the streets, picking up debris and swirling it around in patterns that almost made it seem alive.

The streets were empty save for the odd car. He liked the quiet. The deserted streets, the calm, the lack of noise other than small gusts of wind that ruffled the branches of bare trees, made him feel content. People, noise, disturbances were a nuisance to him. Something he had to begrudgingly tolerate.

He sometimes dreamed of getting away from it all and moving to an off the grid community cut off from society but he knew that was an impossibility. He had too much he needed to do.

On the way back he passed a tramp huddled in the doorway of a now empty Methodist chapel. He looked desperately cold. He was wrapped in a dirty sleeping bag too thin for the conditions. His whole body shook with a rhythm that never relented.

For a brief moment Edward felt sympathy. Looking down at this underfed man trying to survive in wintery conditions too cold for his level of shelter, he almost felt sorry for him. He rummaged through his pocket in search of change but before it was located the sympathy vanished.

He thought it was pointless. He wondered why he should help prolong the life of someone who, being the master of his own destination, free to make his own decisions and pursue whatever life he wished to choose, had ended up huddled in a doorway contributing nothing to society, surviving solely on the help of others without being able to offer anything in return. Edward, not realising the hypocrisy of such a judgment, turned and carried on walking, unable to grasp the importance of circumstance.

CHAPTER THREE

John endowed with grief from the death of the only relationship that had ever meant anything to him, had become a drunken mess in the days since the funeral. He drank to seek distraction. He fell into himself, observing a ritual of self destruction. It was a response to pain he'd cultivated to avoid confronting the root of the problem.

One evening drunk from a session that had started at midday, he had an idea that, in his inebriated state, seemed a sensible and rational response to his predicament.

He took a taxi from a rank near his flat, directing the driver to a club he sometimes visited in Soho. When he arrived he was greeted by a bouncer he knew and was shown in, avoiding the tedium of the long queue. People starred at him as he disappeared inside, privileged treatment persuading them he was worth their attention.

He was shown to the VIP area in a section above the dance floor. It was a booth identical to the others except for a red rope that cordoned it off. A rope that was nothing more than a collection of fibres gathered together, implied importance by separating people into groups. It was an acknowledgement that some deserved more, that people should be credited with what they were due.

On-lookers glanced over at him without knowing why. Their interest peaked, their own conversations momentarily forgotten.

A barman came over and John ordered a bottle of champagne. It was carried over in a silver bucket, the ice inside all but melted. He poured himself a drink, sat it down on the table and gazed across the dance floor.

He knew he had to sit patiently and let her come to him. It was as simple as that. He knew the game and he knew how to play it.

Just after one o'clock he noticed her at the bar. He looked across trying to make eye contact but she wasn't looking.

He continued starring, his drunken gaze permanent and unflinching. Eventually, as she stood sipping from a tall glass, she saw him looking across and smiled at him. He smiled back.

She tried to walk over seductively but this was compromised when two men dancing with exuberance and no control, bumped into her almost knocking her to the floor. The allusion of confident, sexual control had been damaged. She regained her balance and carried on walking, bracing herself for another collision.

When she reached the booth the bouncer looked across at John. He nodded and the bouncer lifted the rope obligingly.

She slid in next to him, her legs pressed against his and smiled. He grinned back, looking her up and down.

She presented herself carefully, cultivating an expression that was inviting. She smiled, imitating warmth and confidence. She played with her hair, occasionally looking away as if momentarily shy. She looked deep into his eyes and then pulled away smiling. She did this. She did that.

Underneath it all she had to endure her own act. She was playing a character she despised, a persona created to serve a purpose. This wasn't her. It wasn't even close to her. It was a blurry mirage. A collection of ideas and assumptions about men's desires and what initiates their lust wrapped up and packaged in a smile, a flirty sideways glance, a stroke, a pout.

She picked up his glass and took a sip, coughing slightly as it went down the wrong way. This wasn't going well but like a pro she glided into flirting as if nothing had happened. She started stroking his leg with her finger and leaned in. "Hey handsome" she said speaking seductively, trying to mask her West Country accent.

Little did she realise that no effort was required. John knew who she was and that's why he was here. This act was completely unnecessary but, unaware, she persisted. She leant towards him, craning her neck so she could speak into his ear. "What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?" she asked.

He waived over a bar man and asked for another glass. When it arrived John filled it with champagne. They clinked glasses and mouthed cheers to each other. She drank her champagne in two gulps. She was sober and needed alcohol to quell the unpleasantness of what was inevitably going to happen.

Putting her glass down she continued running her hand up and down his leg, each stroke coming closer to his crotch.

She leaned in, her lips centimetres from his ear. "I bet you're a big boy aren't you?" John didn't respond verbally but smiled, starring unsubtly down her exposed cleavage as if he'd lost something in between her breasts.

She moved closer to him their legs pressed against each other's so firmly it was as if they were trying to merge into one limb. She leant in, her mouth lingering about an inch from his. She could smell his breath. She tried not to wince as the dense combination of cigarettes and lager passed up her nostrils. She continued to smile despite every atom in her body telling her to pull away.

He kissed her forcefully putting his arm around her back and jerking her close to him. His mouth was wide open as he forced his tongue inside. It was a horrible kiss. She pulled away for a moment and then leant back in hoping this brief interlude would lessen the intensity but it didn't. He was drunk. His control and poise had disappeared.

After a minute or two of aggressive and unpleasant kissing she pulled away. She wanted to get this over with. The smell of his breath was starting to make her feel ill.

"Why don't we go back to yours big boy" she said whilst stroking his arm and looking directly into his eyes. He nodded enthusiastically like a child being asked if they want ice cream.

John took two hundred out of his wallet and threw it casually into the middle of the table.

They waited silently in the queue for the taxi, neither of them prepared to fill the silence with errant chatter. Once inside the taxi they began kissing again. His technique had not improved. He grabbed the back of her head forcing it forwards so there faces were jammed together. After a while it began to hurt her neck.

When they reached his flat they left the taxi and made their way to the front entrance. As another couple walked past she noticed he had a bulging erection obvious through his tight fighting jeans. She felt instantly embarrassed but he didn't notice.

When they reached his front door he pushed her up against it and started sliding his hand up her leg, pulling her dress up towards her waist.

With her left hand she pushed it back down again, conscious they were still in the hallway. Once they got inside she lead him into the bedroom. With little foreplay they began having meaningless, terrible sex. She moaned his name and said all the right things. She screamed with ecstasy, filling the room with sexual groans until he finished. He then rolled over and fell asleep, snoring loudly as he did.

She got up and went into the kitchen. She searched the cupboards looking for something to drink. In the fridge she found a bottle of vodka. She poured herself a large glass brought it up to her lips, paused for a moment as she composed herself, and downed the harsh liquid in one.

She waited for a couple of minutes poured another glass and repeated the process.

She sat down in the living room and began ruffling through the magazines scattered on the coffee table. They were all old and worn, the pages crumpled through years of exposure to the moisture in the air.

She picked up a copy of Reem magazine and looked at the date on the cover. It was eight years old.

She flicked through the pages curious as to why it was here until she found a picture of him topless in an article entitled "guns of the week".

After inspecting the other magazines she realised he was in each of them. Although it looked like they'd been casually thrown on the table, they hadn't, they'd been placed. It was a collection, something maintained for posterity disguised as casual interest.

To John they were a mark of his fame, something to be proud of, the interest of journalists and readers noteworthy and indicative of the important role he had in society and the entertainment industry. He tried to frame his life in a context that suited his ambition. He felt they were an appropriate measure of what he had achieved, like a stone mason starring up at a completed cathedral.

But these publications were filled with forgotten words. They showed nothing but the transient nature of his fame, attention that was lost as quickly as it was found. Today's magazines are just tomorrow's waiting room clutter. Peoples interest in those discussed didn't allow for their ambition, they had no understanding of their careers, dreams or goals. Their interest was fleeting, meaningless, unavoidably facile. It was a cruel industry he operated in, it had no time for you. It was relentless in its search for people that could be exploited like cheap commodities.

The vodka finally kicking in she felt her eyelids grow heavy. She walked back into the bedroom and slid into the bed, lying on the edge to avoid him as much as possible as he moved and snored.

In the morning when the room lit up from the sun that filtered through the bedrooms blinds, he woke groggy.

He noticed a woman lying on her side facing away from him. At first he thought it was Taylor until memories of the previous evening emerged like the horizon at dawn.

Hearing him move she turned over and looked at him. "Morning" he said starring into her eyes. She smiled at him.

"I might just go freshen up if that's ok" she said and got out of bed.

"Yeah sure. The bathroom is on the right". She threw on one of his old t-shirts before heading to the bathroom.

John laid there thinking about what he'd done. Was it really necessary to try and hurt Taylor? Would she even care that he'd slept with someone else? Would she even find out? He hoped it would find its way into the tabloids, but what if it didn't?

From the bathroom which shared a wall with the bedroom, he could hear her speaking on the phone.

"£100 that's all" she said angrily. "Only a £100 are you fucking sure Bryan". The anger betrayed the West Country accent she usually suppressed. It changed her. It was as if a different person was in there to the woman he'd met the previous evening.

"Well can you ask again? £100 is nothing". Then there was silence for a while. John couldn't work out whether she'd hung up or was waiting for a response.

"For god sake Bryan. Are you fucking kidding me? I didn't go through that for a measly £100. He was hammered and he absolutely stunk, it was like being fucked by a tramp. It was horrible. I don't get fucked for nothing. I'm not some cheap hooker. Don't get clever with me, you know what I do is different. Anyway you're no better you prick".

John got out of bed and moved closer to the door so he could hear with greater clarity.

"Look have you tried the Daily Tribune. I've sold stories to them in the past. They sometimes pay well. How much? £35? The cheeky bastards. A story in the paper must be worth more than that. Yes I know he's minor but surely they're still interested"

"I don't think that's true some people still know who he is, I mean I do. Well yes but you don't know who anyone is Bryan. Look I know he's a Z-lister but surely I can get a grand. I didn't go through that to get fuck all"

"Ahem. Yeah. Well. Look. Listen. What if I said he was into some real sick shit? I could say he would only have sex with me if he could pretend he was Hitler and I was Eva Brown and the allies were approaching and this was our last chance to be together. I could say he dressed up in the uniform and everything and drew on a little moustache with a marker pen. Surely that would be worth something. They would love that"

"I don't care if that's libellous I want my fucking money Bryan!" she was now shouting, completely unaware of the volume she had reached.

"Oh fuck it then. No I'm not selling the story. I would rather get paid nothing then sell if for £100. I still have my fucking dignity". She hung up the phone. John got back into bed before she emerged from the bathroom.

She came into the bedroom and put her clothes on without saying a word. The change in her was immeasurable. The alluring smile and the twinkle in her eye had been replaced by a hardness of expression. Her features were no longer softened, no longer adjusted to be alluring and to entice but were assembled into a scowl, her eyes narrowed, her lips firmly shut. It was as if John had woken up with a different person.

Just as she was about to leave, she turned to John, starring at him with eyes that seemed darker, almost black. "You worthless piece of shit" she said with some venom and departed, slamming the front door as she left, the sound of her footsteps as she walked down the corridor trailing off until there was silence.

John felt low. He wasn't even worthy of a kiss and tell story.

CHAPTER FOUR

John thought it was time he left the flat. Cocooning himself may have provided sanctuary but it did nothing to move him forward which he reluctantly conceded he needed to do.

It was raining outside. The streets were quiet, the light British drizzle doing enough to keep people inside. As he walked his headache increased in intensity. He needed Caffeine.

When he reached the Cafe he went inside and smiled politely at the proprietor Daniel. Daniel was someone he saw daily yet he knew absolutely nothing about him. The customer-owner relationship was maintained by short conversations commenting on trivial matters. It was as if learning more about each other would be inappropriate or crass.

John ordered a Latte and sat down at his favourite table. The cafe served expensive coffees from exotic blends Daniel read about in industry magazines and over priced pastries.

The cafe had exposed brick work, paintings from local artists, minimalist tables and eclectic tableware. It was decorated to appeal to the middle class and young professionals it aimed to entice. It strived for character but had none.

Twenty years ago it would have been a cafe selling cups of tea and butties to those wandering through the market stalls that once lined the streets outside. But the area had since been cleansed of people whose history was tied to it, replaced by those seeking the career advantages the capital offered.

The city had been stripped of its old identity and replaced with a new one. People swarmed here from elsewhere changing the environment they found to suit their tastes.

John was a part of this. He was another regional migrant falling on the capital to see if what it promised was true.

During the day the cafe was frequented with middle class mums sipping herbal teas and coffees with Italian names. They talked relentlessly about their children, bragging about them, discussing their cello lessons or the additional language they were learning as if these acquired talents that would soon be forgotten were somehow important.

When his latte arrived he thanked Daniel and took his smart phone out.

John was an avid Twitter user. He knew it was vital to his career to have a strong social media presence. He updated it regularly with what he deemed to be interesting or humorous tweets in an attempt to garner as many followers as possible.

He wanted exposure because it was an effective way of furthering his career. But as well as this he craved being in the public eye. It was like a drug. He felt like he needed it when really he would have functioned better without.

He hadn't checked Twitter in over week. He was too busy feeling sorry for himself to go about his daily rituals. They seemed irrelevant in comparison to his fleeting emotional turmoil.

He took a long sip from his Latte, the milky coffee a relief to a hung-over body in need of a caffeine, and opened Twitter unknowing of what he was about to confronted him.

Browsing he was confused to find thousands and thousands of abusive tweets. He was being called every name under the sun and he had no idea why.

He started reading them. He was perplexed. Why was he getting so much abuse?

Some employed creative use of foul language.

"You cuntfaced weasel featured shitbad fucko halfwit turtle grabbing dickchod"

Some threatened violence.

"I want to scalp you and show it to your mum"

Some constituted death threats.

"I'm going to find out where u live and come round and kill u and that will be letting you off lightly"

Some were less threatening, calling him names like school yard bullies.

"Why don't u fuck off you bell end"

Some were alarming and amusing in equal measures.

"I wish you were a Hindu so I could kill you every time you were reincarnated"

On and on they went, abuse after abuse, scroll after scroll, tweet after tweet. But he couldn't understand why he was receiving this torrent of hatred?

He put his phone on the table, took a long sip from his coffee, and tried to remember if he had done anything recently which could provoke such a reaction.

He was in the public eye. He knew how temperamental the public's opinion of you could be but he was rarely on TV these days. His declining career had sheltered him from the limelight so what could he have done to invoke such hatred?

He'd always received abusive messages. It was something a person in his position had to except, an occupational hazard like a fishmonger trailing a pungent smell.

He'd always been targeted by abusive individuals wanting to vent, people needing an outlet for their anger who saw celebrities as an easy target.

Regardless of who you were it happened. But he'd never received them in such volume before. That's what was confusing him. That's what didn't make sense.

He picked his phone up and began reading them. Many seemed to be referring to a female.

"You never deserved her"

"She is an angel how could u do that to her"

Eventually it became clear the female they were referring to was Taylor. He checked her Twitter page to find an outpouring of supportive messages. Reading on he came across a few revealing tweets.

"How could you beat up such a precious flower as Taylor Merriden"

"Why did you hit her scumbag?"

"You wife beating low life"

Confused he starred aimlessly at passersby. Outside the rain stopped, the sun piercing through the thick cloud bathing the earth's surface in light.

It began to dawn on him, slowly at first, the suddenness of it all causing confusion that was hard to displace, that he had been accused of hitting her. He had no idea how or why but that's clearly what had happened.

The words and non-words that formed these rambling sentences began to make sense. Clarity had been granted. He understood his predicament although the ramifications were still not clear.

He rang his agent several times, desperate to understand how this had happened. He needed to know where these fabrications came from.

After repeated diversions to voicemail he tried Taylor, wondering if it was something she had said either on purpose or that had been misinterpreted, but there was no answer.

The rumours could have emerged from anywhere. The internet, this endless mass of data that connected billions, provided a world of information that could arrive from anyone, from anywhere.

He panicked. A feeling of unease rose up making him shake and sweat. He felt as if his life was caving in, that everything he held true was a lie. He lost all sense of a life he thought he understood. It was as if a shadow was passing over him, plunging him into darkness, the unknown surrounding him.

He was being betrayed by the only thing he cared about.

He left the Cafe and walked back to his flat. On the way back he stopped at the supermarket to pick up much needed supplies.

He bought all the essential items he needed. Four cans of baked beans, some Chorizo, a baguette, seven bottles of red wine and sixty cigarettes. He was going to make his signature dish, posh beans on toast, as a treat, something warm and comforting to help him ignore the problem.

When he reached the checkout he was served by a dour middle aged woman with bright red hair, the dying of which had been poorly executed, the colour was inconsistent and patchy. She gave him strange side way glances as she scanned the items as if suspicious of him.

When he paid she snatched the money and threw his change on the counter out of reach as an act of pointless defiance.

As he picked up his shopping bags she muttered something under her breath he didn't quite catch. "Excuse me?" He asked, angry with the way she was behaving.

"I said cunt". She said this exaggerating the final word, saying it slowly and leaning towards him as she did. She had angry eyes and her forehead wrinkled as she spoke.

John was taken aback. He didn't know what to say. "Can I see your manager?" he said after gathering himself. "Fine" she responded and marched off to the back of the store.

Looking across he saw her talking to man with a red tie and a short sleeve white shirt with yellow sweat stains under the armpits. John presumed he was the manager.

At one point the conversation stopped and she pointed over to John. They both looked at him, the manager pulling a face as if he was unsure about something before nodding in agreement.

The manager waddled over to John, his large midriff shifting his weight laterally as he moved.

"I realise you wish to make a complaint however I think it's probably best if you leave the store sir" he said on reaching the checkout. "What?"John asked surprised. "What do you mean leave? I'd like to make a formal complaint against a member of your staff". John spoke with indignation in his voice.

"Sir. Can you please leave? I've asked you nicely but if you don't leave I'll have to call security" he said pointing his hand nonchalantly in the direction of the automatic doors.

"No. I'm not leaving. One of your staff members just called me a cunt and you threaten to call security. This is, quite frankly, absurd. I've never been treated so poorly before in my life"

"I'm sorry sir for my staff member's use of language. I do not condone using such offensive terms. However, you must appreciate that as a female she is somewhat wary of you given what has happened. That's why I would like you to leave premises. If not I will be forced to call security and they will remove you in the manner which you will not appreciate" he spoke with professionalism, again gesturing towards the door but this time maintaining the position after he'd finished speaking.

What the hell did he mean, wary after what had happened? What was going on? Feeling defeated he picked up his shopping bags and left. When he got to the door he turned round to see the cashier doing a wanker sign in his direction like a teenager rebelling behind a teacher's back.

What was happening? He felt like he'd stepped into a different world.

He made his way back to the flat hunched over, trying to protect himself from the wind that was blowing in gusts along the city streets.

He lived on the fifth floor. He waited for the lift hearing descend towards him from the floors above.

When the doors opened he stepped in and turned round so he was facing outwards as was the protocol. Just as the doors were about to slide shut a middle aged women wearing a grey trouser suit came into the building.

John held the lift for her. As she approached the lift she suddenly paused, reluctant to proceed. He continued to press the hold button but she frozen to the spot as if the muscles in her body were no longer responsive.

John released the button and the doors slowly shut. As they closed he noticed a look of relief wash over her face.

The lift creaked as the lift struggled to defeat gravity.

When his floor was reached John stepped out and walked down towards his flat. As he was about to enter the lift door opened and the woman in the grey trouser suit stepped out. She saw John and, looking sheepish, turned and began walking in the opposite direction with her head dipped.

Once inside he took out his phone and began and tried to ring Taylor but all he got was an automated voice detailing that the number wasn't recognised. He tried again and again, each time being met with the same notification. He checked the number and was sure it was hers.

He tried his agent Malcolm. When he rang the office but there was no answer and every time he tried his mobile it just rang out which was strange because as an agent he always answered, it was a fundamental component of his job description. Johns breathing increased. His heart rate climbed. He needed something to calm himself down. He needed a drink.

He left the flat and made his way to the nearest pub. He walked with pace, darting round any oncoming pedestrians to ensure his stride was never broken.

When he reached the pub he walked straight to the bar and ordered two ciders and two gins. He took the four drinks, skilfully managing to carry all of them in one trip, to the only available table. He put them down carefully and sat.

He wasn't sure why he'd bought this combination of drinks, he hated gin and didn't care much for cider but for some reason he felt compelled to purchase them. He began drinking the cider as soon as he sat down, finishing the first one within five minutes and quickly moving onto the second.

He scanned the pub observing people as he drank.

There was a group of students gathered around the jukebox fighting over which Radiohead song to select. They were all dressed the same, probably in search of individuality but all unconsciously pulled towards the same trends and lifestyle choices.

Congregating around a pool table were a collection of young professionals wearing moderately priced suits and sipping imported bottled beers. Their shirts were un-tucked, the alcohol slowly undressing them.

In the corner a couple in their thirties sat in silence. She was drinking a bright blue alcopop, the colour of which was impressively unnatural. He was sipping a pint of ale.

On the table a packet of crisps had been pulled open so it could be shared. Gradually they ate the crisps one by one until there was only one left. She reached over to pick it up but he glanced at her with unnecessary anger, the eyes seeming to darken with the intent of his glare.

He picked it up the crisp and munched on it loudly before downing his pint and slamming the empty glass onto the table. He stood up, his healthy appetite showing through a t-shirt being stretched at the seams, and left for the toilet.

After finishing the ciders John downed the gins one after the other. As they hit his stomach he felt sick. His mouth watered. The saliva glands forced into hyper activity. He took a moment, breathed in and out slowly and went back to the bar to order the same again.

When he sat back down he noticed the woman was staring at him inquisitively. When her husband returned, zipping up his fly as he walked, he sat back down in the same spot.

Leaning over, daring to bridge the gap he wanted to maintain, she whispered something in his ear. He shook his head disapprovingly and as he looked over at John.

John felt uncomfortable. He didn't like being looked at it in this way, it was unsettling.

He drank the rest of his drinks and left the pub. To vacate the premises he had to pass the couple. The husband muttered something as he passed but John carried on, desperate to leave.

As he walked away John glanced back to see the man emerge through the door. John increased his pace. As he rounded a corner a hand gripped his shoulder. He turned to see the man from the pub towering over him. His eyes fixed on Johns. He starred with the menace you only see when someone is caught in the grips of real rage. They looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets.

John knocked his hand away and made a run for it. "Come back here you fucking pounce!" he shouted after him. His legs moving rapidly he began feeling nauseous. The gin and cider was swishing around in his stomach like clothes in a washing machine.

John looked over his shoulder hoping he may have lost his pursuer but he was still there. He was a big man who moved awkwardly as if it was the first time he'd ever ran. He dipped his right shoulder when his left leg took a stride as if preparing to rugby tackle someone.

John moved quickly putting distance between them. When he reached a crossroads he realised he didn't know where he was. He paused, looking around for a clue to his whereabouts. Without knowing why he headed down a street lined with grim looking terrace houses. His pursuer was able to catch up.

He came bustling round the corner, his running style become more unconventional as he tired. His whole body moved up and down like a windup toy whose mechanical movements were not smooth or life like.

John was felt unwell but he knew he had to keep running. Just as he made his way round a slight bend he realised, his heart sinking, that he was in a cul-de-sac. He had nowhere to go. He was trapped.

He stopped and turned. His pursuer finished running and began to walk towards him, his heavy footsteps resonating around the street so quiet in the night. "So you think you can mistreat women and get away with it do you pal?" he spoke with a deliberate slowness. He titled his head as he looked at John. Sweat on his brow glistened in the streetlight.

John stood in silence. He had no idea what to say, how to act. He took a big gulp as his stomach struggled with its contents.

"You think you can go around being rough with the girls do you". He had Irish accent that, if he was reading out poetry or performing some other form of oratory, would have been serene and beautiful but given the circumstances was terrifying.

John didn't know how to respond. "Well sunny I'm here to let you know it's not alright. I'm judge, jury and executioner. When I'm through with you you won't ever want to go near that poor lassie again. Do you hear me?"

He starred at John with eyes that were large and black. He took a step closer. He was only a foot away. John could smell the stale ale and cheap cigarettes on his breath and this pushed him over the edge. He couldn't keep it down any longer.

Vomit come gushing out of his mouth, projected straight towards the Irishman. It soaked his trousers in a viscous fluid of half digested food and drink. The Irishman looked down at his trousers in shock. He wasn't expecting that, no one would have expected that. His hard man patter had been interrupted and so he lost all appetite for violence.

He shook his head slowly in disbelief, turned and left muttering words under his breath John couldn't make out.

John wiped his mouth with his sleeve and waited until the Irish man had disappeared. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a silhouette glide across the feeble light cast by the streetlamps. John followed it until it was lost into the darkness.

When he reached his flat he rang his agent, eventually getting through

"Malcolm, what the fuck is going on?" John said without introduction.

"What do you mean John?" he asked fanning ignorance.

John could hear voices in the background. He couldn't make out who it was but it was definitely a female. "You don't know what I mean? Bullshit. You know what's going on. You're my fucking agent, you're fucking supposed to know everything".

There was a pause. Malcolm exhaled heavily in exasperation. "Come on Malcolm. Where has all this shit come from? You must know? You know fucking everything? Do you know how many abusive tweets I've received?"

John left a gap for a reply that never came.

"No. Thousands. Fucking thousands and I want to know why" John was angry but also relieved he'd finally managed to contact someone, a person who, in theory at least, should be able help deal with a situation that was quickly spiralling out of control.

"Malcolm?"

"Yeah?"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do you mean well what. What the fuck is going on? I need answers and I need them now because I almost got the shit kicked out of me by some massive psychotic Irishman and I've no fucking idea why".

Malcolm considered the situation. He formulated a response, concerned more with what he wanted his client to hear than the truth. The truth was a luxury Malcolm could seldom afford. Nothing can derail the career of a hard working agent like honesty.

"Look John the truth is there have been a few fictitious rumours started on Twitter a few days ago but it was probably just some bored teenager with nothing better to do than make shit up. I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to alarm you but rest assured it's all under control" he spoke with a calm confidence.

"It doesn't seem like it's under control" Having received an explanation, regardless of whether the explanation was based in fact, John's anger ebbed away

"It is under control. Trust me John. I've never let you down before have I? Anyway John I need to go" then he hung up.

John tossed the phone onto the sofa and sat down to gather himself. He lit a cigarette and took a long, calming drag. He picked up a DVD of Withnail and I that was on the coffee table and examined the cover as he smoked. He'd watched it five times in a row the other night. For some reason he found it strangely uplifting but he wasn't sure why.

He rooted in the kitchen cabinets finding a bottle of 40 year old single malt he'd been saving for a special occasion. He opened it and was hit by Smokey aromas that lifted into the air.

He poured a glass; the golden brown liquid looked rich and inviting.

Whilst he drank sliding back into inebriation, he watched his favourite DVD entitled "my awards". It featured, in full, the three award ceremonies he'd been successful at, the national television awards, the primetime television awards and the great British television awards.

When he was feeling low, when he would put the DVD on and bask in the assumed glories of his former, adequate career.

He never grew tired of watching his name being called out. The look of triumph. The audience clapping delightedly in appreciation of him. The acceptance speech with its standard attempts at humour, the thanking of people he pretended to care about and the wave and thank you as he departed from the stage. It was like he was a parent proudly watching his child graduate. His spirit elevated. His mood altered.

Drunk and tired he fell asleep fully clothed. Lying on the DVD remote he pressed play with some part of his anatomy. The DVD played on a loop whilst he slept. Occasionally he smiled as if the sound had penetrated his subconscious, pleasing him as he dreamed of a life he still longed for.

CHAPTER FIVE

One morning John received a text from a runner he used to work with named Greg. Greg had been young and eager and had taken to following John round like a puppy dog, desperate for a friendship to form, hoping, as they all did, it may lead to a good word with a producer or a beneficial name drop.

The text was short and impersonal and advised John to watch today's Loose Morals. Loose morals was a topical morning show discussing wide ranging issues with the self riotous pomposity producers understood to be the best way of keeping the attention of easily distracted by other channels if bored.

He'd appeared on the show in the past but had no memories of the experience. His TV appearances tended to blur into one vague and sprawling memory. He had no idea, no awareness of what he was doing but he knew he wanted to do it. It was an impulse, a driver that pushed him towards a goal that, when achieved, left no feeling of success only the ambition to achieve it again, repeating the process, cycling through the same choices, discovering the same results.

After a brief introduction from an announcer the title music began to play. Presumably it was composed by someone who started their career wanting to produce profound and meaningful music but had instead fallen on the culturally fallow ground of day time television.

Letters came in and out of focus, expanding and contracting as their colours changed until the graphics faded and the camera panned in on a presenter positioned behind a red desk, the shows name embossed on the front, the audience clapping in unison as he nodded appreciatively. He was wearing a blue suit, tieless with an open collar. He smiled smugly. His hair was tussled and gelled attempting to find the middle ground between a young and conservative look, styling that could appeal to the numerous and offend the few.

He spoke without an accent in a voice that came from nowhere. "Hello and welcome to Loose Morals, a show all about news, current events and opinions. I'm your host Josh Haddocombe" he starred directly at the camera and spoke with clarity, the only skill his job required.

"Coming up on today's show. Does your cat secretly hate you? Are immigrants affecting your ISA returns? Does empathy give you cancer and this week's list of what to be fearful of" he paused whilst the audience clapped. He looked pleased with himself. His expression detailed his arrogance.

"On my panel today Journalist and anti-MMR vaccination hero the British Mail columnist Janet Swail"

The camera cut to a middle aged woman with a face that looked as though it had been stretched, her features long and thin. She mouthed thank you and smiled coyly as the audience clapped her introduction.

"Star of the only way is Bedford, Adam Forsyth"

A man in his late twenties with fake tan and a hair cut engineered with precision waved at the audience and smiled enthusiastically, ecstatic to be on TV, loving the attention which he confused with affection.

"And finally judge of the hit TV show Celebrities do the funniest things, Michael Wishbourne"

A middle aged man, greying slightly smiled as if he'd just won an award, his face tightened from Botox making his eyes looks as though they were trying to escape from the side of his face.

When the clapping abated the show began, the camera drawing back to the host.

"So before we get in to today's topics I just wondered if any of the panel had seen the recent reports about John Dobbs" John's heart sank. A burst of nervous energy had him tapping his foot on the floor and running his hands together.

"I don't know if you remember but he used to present that late night show on channel 6 on a Friday. Well it's been revealed in the tabloids this morning that he mistreated emotionally, mentally and physically his ex partner, the presenter Taylor X. There have been rumours about this for the past few weeks but this is the first time something concrete has been revealed. I read the story this morning in the British Mail and I must say I was sickened. It has been alleged he used to hit her round the head if his tea was too weak with a fake Bafta he'd had made. The channels Lawyers have instructed us to clarify these are just allegations and therefore cannot be presented as fact. But having said that what an evil, evil man. Janet you've met him before what do you make of all this?" John shut his eyes. He couldn't watch. Why was this happening?

He stood up and paced up and down, his eyes fixed on the carpet, his thoughts immersed with the fear that people might believe the lies.

"Well I met him a couple of times and I have to say, looking back on it now, this is not a shock. I met him once at a charity auction and we shook hands and I could see evil in his eyes. He had cold dead eyes. You could tell he was capable of something like this. He tried to be nice to cover it up but the eyes gave it away, they always do. I can always tell a wrong un. A truly awful, awful human being. Although I would like to point out, commensurate with the advice of the lawyers, these are just allegations. But still, I think it's fair to say, and I do not say this lightly, he could be worse than Hitler"

The rest of the panel nodded in agreement as if that was a perfectly sensible observation. John stopped pacing and sat back down. He considered the litigation possibilities. Could he sue? This was something he would need clarification on later.

However horrible this may have been he couldn't help but watch. The demise of someone always fascinates, even if the person in question is you. He understood how damaging watching people pull him apart could be, dismantling a carefully constructed reputation that had taken decades to assemble, but his unrelenting curiosity, a quality innate in all humans crucial in the progression that's elevated us above other species, inevitably forced him to. A profound quality can sometimes be an occasional pitfall.

"Very true, very true" the host said solemnly agreeing. "Michael. What do you make of all of this?" he asked without even a cursory glance in his direction.

"Well if it's true and I'd like to point out that for legal reasons we must state these are just allegations, then a think he should be shot. I really do. I think prison would be too good for him. I, like Janet, also met him once and when I shook his hand he had a very firm grip. Looking back I think he may have been trying to break my hand".

He held up his left hand as he spoke, showing it to the audience as if seeing it was somehow needed.

When he finished speaking the camera cut to Josh who was nodding, approving the baseless comments. He looked across at Adam. "So Adam what are your thoughts?"

He smiled, whitened teeth gleaming in the studio lights, the brightness of them in stark contrast to his sun bed tan. "Well" he began before pausing as if uttering words was a great difficulty. "I just think and like the others said. Like. The lawyers have told us things we need to say and that. About. About like he might not be guilty of this or something. But like, if he has you know like done this. Like properly as in, you know like, the accusations and that are like completely like obviously you know not like lies or anything but like literally maybe like literally the truth or something then obviously, I think, that maybe it's been terrible and he literally probably like, needs like I don't know, like something you know to like maybe happen to him like happen to him because it's literally out of order and obviously he's like been bad and not like forgetting to get the milk bad like proper bad, really literally bad and that's like really not on. But you know. Like I said. Literally, obviously, like, yeah". She paused gathering her thought.

"But at the end of the day when all said and done like I'm not sure what should happen because it's like literally bad and that. I think that's what's really important, you know. Obviously". He stopped, members of the audience nodding as if he'd spoken sense. They understood him, however that was possible.

"Yes I can understand what you mean" Josh said before continuing. "We'd like to re-iterate these are just allegations and may not be true. Any opinion voiced on this programme does not reflect the views of the channel or their executives. But assuming they are true let's look at some of the tweets we've had on the subject"

He looked down at a piece of paper resting on the desk in front of him. It was filled with people's thoughts limited to a hundred and fifty characters. On their own they were meaningless opinions constructed by random individuals. They were inconsequential, vague and pointless. But, when compiled together, the thoughts of billions projected through the World Wide Web formed the opinion of the public, the voice of the masses.

It may be vast, never-ending collection of thoughts and opinions given by a variety of people across the globe, each experiencing events in a different way culminating in different outlooks and perceptions of what was right and what was true, but averaging it out and smoothing it the media could establish what they believed people thought. What people said, how people felt could be concentrated into a general tone. It reduced any question, no matter how complex or polarising, into a simple yes no, like dislike, hate or love response.

The most acerbic tweets, those collected by researchers explicitly told to ignore any that maybe fair or balanced were the ones provided to be read out live.

"John from Crawley says he should be shot. Good point John. Allen from Derby says flailing would be too good for him #brokenbritain. Alex from Tyne and Wear says this is what happens when schoolchildren stop being indoctrinated with Christianity. Barry from Chisolm by the sea says I was beaten by celebrities when I was a kid and it never did me any harm. Darren from Bairstow says send him to Afghanistan so he can fight for this country rather than fighting women. And finally Andrew from Berkshire says people shouldn't judge based on rumour, they should wait until the facts have been ratified"

Josh looked down at the piece of paper confused as to how the last tweet had got there. "Sorry folks I don't know how that one got in there". He shot an angry look across at the researcher who would be shouted at later like Bill O'Reilly chastising a pacifist.

"Any final thoughts before we move on" he enquired. Melanie looked indignant. Her anger, an emotion she felt perpetually which was invoked by anything that was different or progressive, bubbled to the surface, her face muscles contracting, her eyes narrowing.

"Like the gentleman said we have troops fighting in Afghanistan for this country, fighting for our right to live as free individuals in a free society and this is what he chooses to do with that freedom. I think he should be sent to the fight with our troops. This is what happens when the moral fabric of society breaks down. This is what happens when traditional family values are cast aside as if they don't matter. This is what happens when every sixteen year old is pregnant and on drugs living not by their own means but scrounging benefits, living in absolute luxury in council houses worth hundreds of thousands with widescreen TVs and brand new cars all at the tax payers' expense. This is what happens when the liberal PC brigade get their way forcing their nihilistic ideals on the rest of us. When is the madness going to stop? When everyone has been killed by crack addled, doll sponging maniacs from single parent families? Well I think this story, like every story anyone ever asks me about is indicative of BROKEN BRITAIN" she raised her voice as she delivered last two words and rose slightly from her seat.

The audience clapped raucously providing emphatic support to her illogical words. They muttered broken Britain and nodded, all in agreement as a collective, one body voicing one opinion. Their individual thoughts and reasoning eradicated by their desire to agree with the people sat next to them, to blend in, to disguise themselves as being just like everybody else.

Josh nodded as the audience sounded its approval. The show moved on. John turned the TV of and sat back dejected. This was not good. This was career ending.

He had no idea know what to do. Should he try and arrange an interview so he could tell his side of the story? Should he permit an interview with a paper or glossy magazine? He was lost.

Over the past few years he'd fallen off the radar and all he'd wanted during that time was to recapture the fame he'd once enjoyed. Now it seemed he was better known than ever.

He tried calling his agent, Malcolm, again and again. Each call went unanswered. He rang his office but the secretary, Brad, gave him the same tired excuses.

On the table a half drunk bottle of vodka glistened. Even though it was still the morning its appeal was too much to resist.

He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and began drinking it straight from the bottle. He gulped it down as if it was cold water being consumed on a hot, summers day.

Ten minutes later, the bottle was empty. Fifteen minutes after that the alcohol kicked and John fell asleep on the sofa, his breathing heavy and laboured.

His sleeping was light. He moved around as if wrestling with an invisible creature, his arms and legs being flung through the air in response to a dream his body acted out.

At one o'clock he was woken by the sound of something hitting the window. Dazed he rose slowly. He scanned the room curious as to where the sound had come from, unable to fathom its source.

He noticed a yellow, viscous liquid trickling down the window. He went across to examine it, his steps clumsy.

It was an egg. Bits of shell were stuck in the yolk. As he examined it another egg hit the window. His eyes half shut he moved to the next window to peer outside.

Gathered at the front of the building was a small crowd. Some were waving placards with hastily written words of disgust. Others were shaking their fists in the air mimicking the actions of those who'd brought props. John tried to read the signs but this was difficult as most were in motion, waved by the individuals clutching them.

One he could make out read "Wife beating scumbag!" and was scrawled in sharp, angular letters in black marker pen, the letters thickened by repeated strokes. Another read "John Dobbs=Scum" and was being held high by someone who must have been at least six foot seven, the sign prominent as it jutted above the others.

This was strange beyond comprehension. He'd been shouted plenty of times in the street. That was to be expected, but an angry mob outside his flat was a step too far. These were actions that went beyond the normal levels of hate he expected to endure. This was sinister and unnerving, a prelude to something he wouldn't be able to escape, the dragging of his name through the mud, the end of him, the end of who he had become and how he wanted to be seen.

He was scared for his well-being. The mob formed a threat and not just to his name but to him physically. Assembled out of hatred, the participants gathering their rage together, each feeding off the hysteria and wanting to be a part of one body acting in unison, it seemed only inevitable the outlet for their anger would be violence.

They wanted something from him. They gathered for different reasons, their hate coming from different places, born of different circumstances but directed at the same individual, united in its purpose, believing in the same truth.

Separated out they were harmless individuals, perturbed in small ways by the actions of someone they'd only read about. But, collected together in one place, standing as a single entity with all that was wrong with their own lives, all their fears, contempt, loneliness and anger being channelled into misplaced rage they were a force to be reckoned with.

The group heeded to none of the moral requirements of the individual. It was created to distinguish purpose from reason. It encouraged certain behaviours allowing civility to be forgotten as a needless inconvenience to their ultimate aim.

If they'd have met John, known him, talked to him, been with him as he went about a life that was as normal as theirs they each would have formed an opinion, separate from everyone else's, a collection of ideas about an individual that was unique. But gathered together they had one thought, one idea, one view.

John noticed some of the placards referred to the recession and bankers bonuses and were being waived by figures wearing Guy Fawkes masks. He realised that two crowds had merged into one. Some of those gathered were there to vent against the Investment banking executive who occupied the penthouse flat. But it didn't matter they were here for different reasons, they could pull together. Hate was hate.

John felt sick. He clutched his stomach as if his insides were about to fall out and walked to the bathroom. Kneeling over the toilet basin he throw up, coughing and spluttering as the alcohol and partially digested food rushed up his throat.

When he finished he laid down on the floor, his brow moistened, his head beginning to pound, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

He felt he needed to do something that he needed to react to the situation, decide an action and endeavour to protect himself from the mayhem brewing below.

When he stopped feeling queasy he went to the kitchen and took a black bin bag from underneath the sink. Into this he threw all the food and drink he had and a medical box. He dragged the bin liner into this bedroom and drew it up next to the bed.

He checked the front door was double bolted, took the phone off the hook so no one could buzz up, picked out the largest kitchen knife he could find and went back into the bedroom. He tried pushing a chest of drawers in front of the door but it was too heavy, the legs causing friction against the course carpet that was difficult to overcome.

He pulled upon the drawers and flung its contents onto the floor. He tried pushing it again. This time it moved with greater ease. When it was tight against the door he put the clothes back in the drawers and pilled books into any available space for added weight.

He found two dumbbells under his bed, dusty from lack of use and pushed both up against the back of the drawers.

John scanned the room for anything else that looked weighty before sitting down on the carpet, his back pressed against the bed.

He had little idea what he was doing. The part of him that was colluding with paranoia determined this was an appropriate thing to do, that these actions were a sensible and rational response to his predicament. But he couldn't shake the feeling he was being ridiculous, that no matter what might be happening outside this was the twentieth century. Surely he was safe and secure and angry mobs weren't about to burst through his door, tie him up and parade him through the streets like a medieval witch.

Opening the medical box he found two bottles of cough syrup. He checked the label hoping it warned that feelings of drowsiness were possible side effect and drank both.

He followed this with some bourbon he'd forgotten about, bought on a trip he'd made with an old girlfriend to New York about a decade ago. He drank as much as he could and laid the bottle at his side.

Outside he could hear the low murmuring of the crowd punctured occasionally by higher pitched notes erupting out of individuals voicing particular sentiments. The low rumble was unsettling. The definition of the sound lost as it hit the walls of the flat, inflated any estimation of the crowd size. To John it sounded as if the crowd was swelling, as if it was being added to every second and would eventually form a powerful mass that would be difficult to impede.

He feared for his life. He had no need to. He wasn't in danger but he couldn't keep help it. Often irrational response to danger is a rational way of dealing with it. Immediate reaction to possible threats often benefits from an overestimate of the potential implications. We are programmed to fear and respond to that fear. Manipulation of this is a cruel and calculated way of provoking responses, of demanding attention.

As the murmur seemed to increase in volume until it distinguished itself in Johns head as chants, the words of which were being provided by his imagination, he reached for the bottle of bourbon and took several large gulps. A few minutes later, when the alcohol and cough medication had worked its way into his system, he fell asleep, laid flat out on the floor in the recovery position, nasal snoring filling the room.

He woke at five in the morning. His head was heavy as if it had been tethered to an immovable object. He sat up with difficulty. For a few seconds he was confused, unaware of his present circumstances, his mind grasping for information.

When he came round, when the memories and knowledge of the previous evening were made known the feeling of complete and utter dread returned, its intensity only momentarily lessened by the combination of alcohol and mild pharmaceuticals.

He got up, walked to the door, stopped and listened. It was quiet. There was no sound. He felt relieved. Maybe they'd gone? It quickly dawned on him that he needed to get out whilst it was quiet.

He grabbed a holdall from one of the cupboards and filled it with the booze, medication and some clothes. Removing the contents of the chest of drawers he slid them out of the way and crept into the living room, fearful, almost expecting something to happen as if he left the sanctuary of the bedroom.

He walked up to the window to look outside but it was caked in various food items that blocked out the streetlights below. He listened intently, straining to hear any sound, his energy focused on a single task.

There was still nothing. Even his increased paranoia was unable to convince him anyone remained outside.

He made his way to the front door, undid the bolts and chain and went into the hallway. As if he was in the SAS, completing a mission in a far away politically ruined country, he walked along the wall trying to make as little sound as possible. He had no understanding of the absurdity of his movements, how little justification there was for the undue care and attention he was supplying to the evacuation of the premises.

Outside he noticed an object propped up against a wall that was smouldering, thin veils of smoke rising from it into the cold evening air. He starred at it, his eyes finally adjusting to the lack of light, and could make out what looked like a mask.

He went a few steps closer and crouched down. It was a mask of his face attached to a manikin that was blackened, its limbs contorted by heat into strange shapes pointing in unnatural angles. The mask was burnt around the edges and the face was warped. The features looked stretched. His eyes elongated as the plastic had melted.

The crowd, resolved to hate, had burnt an effigy of him which they'd left behind, the flames ceasing before the object became unidentifiable. John shuddered. He starred at it but he didn't want to look. He was being drawn to it like a squeamish person looking at a gaping wound.

Finally, resolving to pull himself away, he made his way into the dark city streets where danger lurked around every corner in ways that seemed more real and immediate than normal.

He'd lost all sense of direction and sauntered through the empty streets prompted only by a desire to get away from his flat. Passing a newsagent that was opening for morning trade he noticed the Weekly Herald had a picture of him on the front page kissing somebody he didn't recognise.

Next to the Herald a headline from the Weekly Star caught his eye. In bold letters that almost shouted at him was written "John Dobbs wanted Nazi sex". He grabbed a copy of each and, noticing the proprietor had his back turned, shoved them inside his coat and walked off.

He'd never stolen anything in his life and was compelled into this momentary lapse because of a need to read the papers without having to buy them from someone who would instantly recognise his face on the front pages.

As he walked the sun appeared on the horizon slowly lifting the darkness. It gave the impression of rising from nowhere as if this was only for our purposes, belief in our own importance creating patterns in random events that simply weren't there.

John found an empty bus shelter further down the street and sat down. He pulled the papers out from inside his coat and read them. The pounding in his head from the alcohol and medication made it difficult to concentrate but he persisted.

He read both twice. The content of the articles was often irrelevant. What mattered was the headline, picture and the key words the journalist had marked out in bold so the reader could get the gist of the article without ever having to read it. But John, needing the information in a way that others didn't read them slowly, absorbing each word like a bride listening to wedding vowels.

Now that John's infamy had grown, the kiss and tell story previously forgotten about was major news. Her efforts to make their night together appear more interesting that at the time had been futile now had a resonance, fitting in with the new image of John they had created, this monster without feeling or compassion.

The second article, which he failed to understand at first, was centred on a picture of him kissing a random female. After letting the information infuse into his thinking he remembered the incident on the train and the realisation of what they were doing, the spin they'd given to the story became apparent.

An innocent picture, a fan wanting a selfie with a celebratory she admired, had been shoe horned in to a new context they'd created, the photo taking on a whole new meaning. What had been a nice gesture had been turned into a devious encounter, spun to make him look like someone devoid of feeling.

It told a new story, one that ceded only partially to the truth, manipulating facts to construct a narrative which illustrated so brilliantly the flaws of the evil character they'd created for the public to hate. He was a man who had disrupted the funeral of his long term girlfriend's uncle, an uncle she was dearly close to. He had caused a scene. He'd been drunk and disorderly. He'd been selfish and had sought confrontation with her relatives, throwing insults, creating a scene. Then, to add insult to injury, after vanishing from the wake he'd kissed a random woman on the train whilst sending abusive text messages to a girlfriend stricken with grief. the pictorial evidence there for everyone to see.

He read each word. He listened to the lies and cried. There was no hope for him now. He'd been ruined. Everyone would see this. He had been cast as the baddie in a play performed in front of the public. He had nowhere to hide from the overbearing and crippling stares of a media concerned only with selling their papers to anyone who would buy them.

He cried and he cried some more. He despaired. He panicked. He regretted. He felt angry. He felt hate but most of all he felt lost.

CHAPTER SIX

Edward had attached a blackboard in his kitchen on a wall next to the fridge. On it was badly constructed writing sprawled in lines that tailed off at one side, the result of acute dyslexia, diagrams and photographs and printouts attached by drawing pins. Very few words were legible but to Edward, who was accustomed to his own writing, it all made perfect sense.

The odd scrawls and diagrams detailed Edwards's plans, plans he'd been working tirelessly on, plans that were almost at their conclusion.

Picking up a piece of white chalk, shortened by overuse, he began to write, filling the only available space. His tongue stuck from the side of his mouth as he wrote like a panting dog, his mind alerted to a new thought requiring immediate attention in case it disappeared, lost amongst a billion other forgotten pieces of information.

His scrawls were childlike. Letter sizing was inconsistent and the shape of them varied.

Edward appreciated a physical representation of his thoughts and ideas. It helped solidify them making them permanent and lasting.

Next to the board there was a pile of papers containing catalogues and tattered old ordinance survey maps. The maps had various locations circled in red marker pen, each with an accompanying post-it note detailing the scores that had been attributed to it.

The scores were based on three categories; Location, building suitability and distance from the flat. The scores were out of ten and were converted into a percentage total listed at the bottom of each note.

The catalogues, their pages worn from constant browsing, had post it notes sticking out highlighting pages with relevant items that may be useful.

The diagrams, some scribbled, some constructed with more care and attention, detailed a variety of knots that could be used in different situations, copied by hand from internet sites Edward had found.

His plans were finally coming together after days of hard work. He felt proud considering what he had achieved in such a short space of time. Now all he had to do was implement them.

This, he knew, would be the hard part but also the most enjoyable. He could hardly wait. His excitement as he stood looking at his work triumphantly was palpable. A look of glee pushed the sides of his mouth into a position that, to most, would appear to be a grimace but was actually a smile.

To celebrate he made a hot chocolate, a drink usually reserved as a weekend treat but, given his progress, something he felt entitled to.

After pouring warm, frothy milk into the powder and stirring rigorously until all was dissolved he walked into the living room, carrying the hot beverage with care. As he sat down and blew carefully on the liquid to reduce its temperature, there was a knock at the door.

Edward, who never had visitors, stopped immediately, a perplexed look spread across his gaunt face. He waited patiently assuming whoever it was would soon leave.

After twenty seconds there was another knock slightly louder than the first. Edward stood up slowly. He walked towards the door with caution as if he was approaching a dangerous animal in the wild.

He slid the bolt across, an additional safety feature he'd installed last year after reading worrying crime statistics in the local paper, undid the chain and turned the Yale lock. He opened the door just enough to see who was there.

Before he'd had time to assess the visitor she leaped straight into her pitch. "Hi my name is Molly and I was just wondering if I could have a moment of your time?"

He studied her through the narrow gap he'd created. She was in her early twenties and had short brown hair that came down to her shoulders. A fringe cascaded down to black rimmed glasses. She had innocence about her, a look of youthful naivety as if she had yet to witness any of the crueller aspects of life.

She smiled at him, not a forced smile instigated because the situation called for it, but one which seemed genuine indicating a sunny disposition.

Edward remained silent and starred at her.

"I'm collecting for cancer research. I was just wondering if I could have a moment of your time?" she re-iterated in lieu of a response from the strange man peering round the door at her.

Edward opened the door further, unthreatened, his initial trepidation eased. Content this further opening of the door was confirmation she could carry on, she began talking, clipboard being waved as she spoke

"Do you know how many people die in the UK every year from cancer?"

Edward shrugged uninterested. "Over 50,000.Do you know how many people are diagnosed with cancer every year?" "Over 300,000. Cancer is something that affects almost everyone. At cancer research we're working every single day to fight the battle against cancer. For just £4 a month you can help us to try and beat one of the biggest global killers. £4, the price of a pint of lager or a sandwich. That's all it takes, just a small monthly donation and you will proudly know you've been a part of something will change the lives of thousands" she spoke with sincerity, a sincerity that fell on death ears.

"So you want money?" Edward said quietly.

"Well a donation towards the fight against cancer" she retorted.

"No thank you. I don't give to charity" he said coldly.

"It's only £4 a month. Do you not want to be a part of the fight against cancer?" she enquired. Edward looked up from the floor and sighed before speaking

"No I don't want to be part of the fight against cancer"

"You don't want to be part of the fight against cancer?" she re-iterated. There was slight exasperation in the way she said this, clearly put out by his comments.

Molly was new to this, Edward being the fourth person she'd seen since starting as a new volunteer. She wasn't versed in the variety of responses her visits would illicit and was taken aback by his attitude.

She assumed everyone would either so yes or politely decline. She didn't realise there were other possible responses. Her view of a complex world was simplified by youth and a lack of understanding.

"No I do not" Edward said looking straight past her.

"Why? This work is vital in the fight against cancer. Our efforts are helping thousands of people" she said imploringly, her enthusiasm for the cause increasingly evident. "Well I don't care about those thousands of people. It doesn't matter to me whether they live or die". Edward muttered these words at a barely audible level. Appalled by what she was hearing her mouth dropped open in shock.

"You don't care whether they live or die?"

"No I don't" he said bluntly.

"Why?" her volume increasing, her naturally soft voice was lost amongst the outrage. "We have an increasing population that our resources can't support. We have a national budget crippled by an aging population and this problem is getting worse year after year. We can't afford more old people living even longer. Curing cancer is reckless. It doesn't make any sense to burden ourselves with more pensioners we can't support"

This was not a conversation she was expecting and she did not have the tools to deal with it.

Edward briefly made eye contact with her before returning his gaze to the corridor. She had beautiful green eyes that were enlarged by her glasses. He found her attractive, a sweet girl with a nice face and demeanour but the nature of her business, pushing a cause with irresponsible aims meant he could only loathe her.

"Maybe you wouldn't feel like that if someone you knew died of cancer" her voice spiked with anger. She took a step back not wanting to be close to this hateful man. "Maybe someone close to me has died of cancer" he replied.

"Have they?"

"My gran died of ovarian cancer. This was her flat. I used to live here with her. One day she went to the doctor complaining about feeling lethargic, she was sent to the hospital for some tests and never came out. She died a week after going in. They tried to operate but it was too late so they made her comfortable and let her die in peace. But that's life. It was her time. She'd lived long enough" his coldness was almost an achievement.

She continued to step further away from the door, repulsed by what he was saying. "But what about the children that get cancer? What about the mothers and fathers with families to raise? What about people killed in their twenties and thirties?" she asked hoping he would display a modicum of sympathy, any sign of compassion or understanding for the plight of others that wouldn't damage her opinion of people.

"What about them? Like I explained before there are too many people on this planet. Cancer is one of nature's ways of maintaining population levels as is aids, malaria and child mortality. Without them we would all suffer. With them only some of us have to suffer. What you're doing is attempting to recklessly defeat cancer so that we can live in an increasingly overcrowded world without adequate food resources and supported only by crumbling services that cannot cope with the demand. What you're doing is helping to ensure we all have to suffer, to make sure we all go hungry and die before our time. That is a horrible thing to be asking money for, the collective suffering of the world just so you can feel good about yourself. If you thought about it for a moment and stopped listening to what other people told you, if you actually had an original thought and didn't just follow the crowd obeying society's rules and pandering to the views of the masses then maybe you might understand what you are proposing with enough depth to realise its completely abject".

Edward paused for a moment mid-rant to gather his thoughts before proceeding.

"There is a bird which lives in Africa called the Shoebill. It gives birth to two offspring. When the offspring reach two months of age the mother kills the weakest one so the strongest has a better chance of surviving. That is Darwinism in action. It is survival of the fittest. The success of any species depends on the strong surviving, not the weak. The human race is no different to the Shoebills or any other animal for that matter. What you are trying to do is against nature. It's against evolution, its compromising survival of the fittest, a process that has seen us develop into the most advanced life form in the known universe. Interfering with natural selection establishes a weaker species that is more vulnerable. Is that really what you want? Are you so stupid that's what you wish to achieve?"

"You're horrible" she snarled. Edward shrugged and slowly shut the door.

He went back to the living room, glancing at a clock on a side table in the hall. Noticing the time, he quickened his step. He picked up the remote and turned the TV on, navigating to the correct channel, his fingers pressing the buttons frantically.

He sat down on the sofa and made himself comfortable. His eyes settled on the screen his focus directed on the images and colours being omitted. The announcer, attempting to be humorous but coming across as conceited, introduced the show he'd been waiting all day for.

The title sequence began. Gaudy but eye catching colours whirled across the screen as the shows name come into focus in italic lettering. Edward was tingling all over. He could feel his hairs stand on end. A smile erupted pushing his features upwards, changing his morose demeanour as his passion was fired.

She appeared like an angel before him. Her beauty, undeniable and pure, transfixed him. He couldn't divert his gaze. His flat could have exploded and he wouldn't have moved an inch.

She transported him to a different place. All his troubles, his life time of woes and hurt seemed to dissipate every time he saw her. It rid of him of his darker thoughts. His anxieties drifted away as if they never existed, his anger subdued, patience realised.

She freed him from everything that held him down, all those aspects of life that kept his happiness in check. She allowed him to be.

He was infatuated. Everything about her was perfection. He could find no fault.

The way she walked, elegantly gliding across the floor as if she was on ice. The way she smiled, the warmth it radiated could melt the coldest of hearts. The way she spoke, her soft lips pushing the words delicately into the air. Her hair, so long and silky. Her face was perfect, and her body, slim and delicate yet curvy and shapely.

Everything about her confronted him with the possibility of divine intervention. How else could this be explained? Nature didn't create perfection, it allowed flaws, multitudes of tiny imperfections leading to life that was inconsistent and damaged, but she was different. She was above everyone as if she came from somewhere else, from another place, another time. She wasn't of this world.

She had begun to define him. This was what his life was about. He wasn't a slave to a cooperation spending his life in pursuit of a slightly better income, never knowing what to consider enough. He was a slave to her. Nothing else mattered to him. Everything else paled into insignificance when he gazed at her or heard her sweet voice being projected from the televisions speakers.

What he didn't realise, what was beyond him was the true nature of his infatuation. He didn't possess the self awareness. He didn't have the ability to stand back and study his behaviour and understand what his obsession was about.

His life had a hole that needed to be filled. It wasn't really there but every fibre in his being told him it was and so it became a reality. In her, in all that she was and all that she pretended to be, he had found somebody to fill that hole, somebody that made him feel complete. He was just like everybody else. He was made to grasp for a solution to a problem that didn't exist.

You are two people. Your subconscious has a power over you that is hard to perceive. It guides you. It pushes you in certain directions, to make certain choices yet you are ignorant of its influence.

He knew nothing of himself. He knew nothing of his motives. He was a ragged compilation of choices he didn't know he was making.

When the show ended, when the credits rolled and the awful music played out, he was saddened, her weekly visit into his home over for another seven days.

He began preparing for bed. He changed into his banana man pyjamas. He'd had them since he was twelve and they still fit comfortably.

He had not grown as others had. His tiny frame had never expanded, an aspect of himself he was too aware of. His physical appearance was always noted by others particularly when he was younger. He had few friends because he was viewed as odd. His diminutive frame, gaunt, colourless face and big, black eyes added to a tendency to be outcast and ostracised from social groups.

Physical differences are a pointless barometer of someone's merits yet they still factor in our interactions and decisions. Our behaviour hasn't changed as much as we'd like to think from times when primitive men and women made instinctive decisions they were required to make to survive in a world so different to our own.

At first it used to bother him, being ignored or teased by other children. He wanted to play with the other kids and have friends like everyone else. He would stare out of his bedroom window and watch them play in the street, envious, never understanding why he couldn't be part of their group, free to play and be himself with the other children his age.

He didn't want to be the lonely kid everyone avoided because he looked different. He wanted to have birthday parties where people would turn up because they wanted to and not because they'd been forced to by mothers who felt sorry for him.

He wanted sleepovers and have other children round for tea. He wanted to be outside in the summer holidays, running through the meadows and playing on the tyre swings that swung out across streams.

But as he progressed from child to teenager, his envy disappeared and was replaced by hatred. They had made him feel like an outsider. They had made him resent who he was and long for a life they wouldn't let him have.

He began to despise other people. He began to shut the rest of the world out because he didn't want to feel like he didn't belong.

Hatred is the most destructive of all emotions. It can destroy a society or pit like minded people against each other for reasons that are meaningless and irrational.

It can be invoked unnecessarily and manipulated to make significant changes desired by powerful minorities.

The history of humanity is littered with examples of how powerful and ultimately destructive hatred can be yet it is the easiest emotion to deal with. It is easier to hate then to confront the other emotions lurking beneath the surface, emotions which describe your true feelings.

Edward hated people. He'd adopted this position because it made life simpler to deal with. But her, she was different. He could feel that from looking at her or hearing her soothing voice. She was the one person other than his Grandmother he didn't despise.

He could never hate her because she was perfect.

Before drifting away into his dreams he thought of what she had been through, her recent trauma and how it had affected him. Her position in his thoughts had shifted, her role re-defined. She was now a damsel in distress. She was someone who needed rescuing. Helped on by the male ego, he assured himself he could save her, convinced she needed him, that he was the one who could confront her tormentor, could dispose of him in a manner befitting his crime.

CHAPTER SEVEN

John had no idea what day it was. In the confusion of the last week he'd lost all sense of time because it no longer felt relevant.

Wandering through the city streets without a destination, he saw the entrance to a tube station and decided to descend the steps that passed into the ground below.

The quiet of the night had lifted. Commuters were filtering onto the streets as they made their way to jobs they despised, the tube station getting busier with every minute that passed.

John had to decide on a direction of travel but he didn't have anywhere to go. Should he go east or west? Intuitively he decided to travel east wanting to further himself from the city, viewing it, the capital, the home of the majority of the media outlets, as the enemy.

He boarded the next train climbing into a quiet carriage. He found a seat and sat across from a passenger who'd boarded at the same stop.

He was a tall man, wiry thin and wearing a grey suit and a black, woollen overcoat that padded out his figure. He had no interest in John. He didn't recognise him and even if he did, being a regular commuter, he would be unwilling to make eye contact.

However, with paranoia suffocating lucidity, John was convinced he was watching him.

Observing a face blankly starring at a broadsheet John worked disgust and hatred into its features seeing only what he feared.

As the train crept out of the station John shuffled nervously in his seat. To distract himself he read the names of tube stations listed on a map above the window opposite. In his tiredness he mouthed the words that were running through his head.

He clasped and squeezed his hands tightly, his knuckles whitening. He could feel the man's non-existent gaze on him. It felt like it was burning into his chest. His stomach tied itself in knots. His mouth dried and tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead, glistening in the dull yellow light being omitted from above.

John needed to get off. He was beginning to panic, beginning to feel an anxiety so strong it felt as if his heart was about to explode.

He took deep breaths, slowly drawing the stale air deep into his lungs. He pictured tranquil scenes, combing his memory for calming images. Meadows, babbling brooks, woods filled with old English trees with bright, green leaves and branches that swayed smoothly in the breeze but it was futile. He could feel his presence, it punctured any thought he had with the inevitability of conflict.

As the train approached the next stop, the automated voice announcing the name of the station, John began to stand up but the man opposite also stood. John, acting as if he was in an espionage film, waited until the doors parted and the man stepped onto the platform before sitting back down. The doors then closed leaving John safe. With no passengers getting onto the train the carriage was left empty and John felt relieved. He stretched out his legs and shut his eyes.

He left the train when it reached its final stop. He wasn't sure where he'd ended up but he didn't care. It was away from the city. It was away from his flat and the crowds that had surrounded it.

He made his way to the surface, emerging into a different world, one busy with cars, noise and people, a place altered by the passing of time. The quiet of the early morning had been forgotten as the city opened itself up for another day.

He walked lazily along the street, the lack of sleep beginning to tell. His limbs ached and his head was sore.

He noticed someone working towards him with a huge smile on their face. At first, his somnolence dulling his senses, he had no idea who it was but the smile told him he was safe.

He was tall and had strawberry blonde hair that flopped from one side to the other in the style of someone who had been educated at great expense. He was wearing bright red trousers and a long, camel skin coat that came down to his knees.

"John" he said and waved delightedly. John smiled back, the realisation of who it was still beyond him.

As he approached, the arm stretched out in time for the obligatory hand shake, he realised who it was. Darren De Witt, an old primary school friend. The familiarity of someone related to an old life that felt distant from this one lessoned his feelings of unease.

He shook Darren's outstretched hand, smiled and felt a lifting of something he couldn't describe, as if he'd removed a heavy backpack after a long hike.

"How the devil are you?" Darren enquired, his smile parting his fleshy lips. He swatted locks of hair loosened by his bounding walk away from his eyes.

"Erm" John hesitated, unsure whether the question was asking what the words that formed it meant. "I guess. You know. I'm ok" he said with uncertainty.

The eyes, always a window into the mind, the betrayers of the truth gave away more than his words did. Darren looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern. He could see, now he was close that his old friend was not in a good way.

He knew John was primarily concerned with his appearance above all else. Seeing him like this, in this way, the hair messy and lacking product, the clothes thrown on without care, tatty and unwashed, the eyes blood shot and surrounded by patches darkened by lack of sleep he knew something was wrong.

Being someone who didn't watch television or participate in the world of social media he was unaware of John's plight. He was ignorant of the cause of his current condition.

"Are you sure you're ok John?" he asked concerned, a frown crumpling wrinkles on his forehead together.

"Not really Darren" John said looking down at the pavement as if ashamed.

"It's all gone a bit, you know, Pete Tong" John continued.

"Shit. I mean you look. Well, don't take this the wrong way, I mean it is awfully good to see you but you do look. How can I put it? Fucking terrible. What's happened John? It's not drugs is it because I know this wonderful little rehab place in the Cotswolds they sent my brother to. They were terrifically nice. I could"

"No it's not drugs" John interrupted.

He continued "I'm guessing you haven't read the stories?"

"What stories? About you? Gosh I don't read really read about that type of thing I'm afraid" he paused and smiled, his frown disappearing.

"How about you come to mine? My place isn't far from here. We can have some tea and a bite to eat and you can tell me about what's happened. How does that sound?" He asked him like he was a lost child being comforted by a concerned adult. John nodded in response and the two set off towards his flat in silence, conversation held back for later.

John was glad to leave the streets and the stares of strangers. He couldn't take another dagger look or comment muttered under someone's breath. He'd always enjoyed the feeling of being on show. He was, as you would expect, a natural extrovert, someone craving attention as if was required, as if it without it he would be unfulfilled. But this attention was different. In the stares and pointing of strangers he felt hatred directed towards him that peeled away at everything he had come to believe in and everything he had hoped for. It was beginning to redefine his whole outlook, recalibrating how he felt about the world and how he assumed he fit into a society he was fixed to.

Darren's flat it felt like a sanctuary. He felt safe and secure.

Despite a friendship the source of which was decades old, John knew very little about Darren. He hadn't spoken to him in a long time. The majority of the time they'd spent together was over thirty years ago but his friendship had an importance because of the age at which it was formed.

Over the years they'd grown into different people, their lives shaped by different experiences yet the familiarity that comes from a relationship formed in youth creates a bond that doesn't erode with time. If anything, when looking back with fondness on childhood and a time when you had few cares in the world, friendships become romanticised creating new memories that replace the old ones, re-defining how things were with how things appear looking back through different eyes.

Darren busied himself in the kitchen preparing tea whilst John sat in a leather sofa so huge it appeared to swallow him. His home, an expensive penthouse sat atop a block of recently built flats, was decorated with an eclectic mix of paintings and strange sculptures.

The sofas, without the orientation determined by a television, pointed towards an odd, white sculpture. It looked like a bull dog had been melted and placed on a plinth constructed of stacked plates.

A huge painting above the fireplace caught his eye as he scanned the expensive items furnishing this opulent living space.

It was a scene painted in black and white, an oil painting John realised as he looked closer, depicting a tall figure at the centre of a crowd, arms held aloft as if orating, the crowd captivated by whatever it was he was preaching.

In the middle of the crowd there was a small child, lost amongst the sea of adults stood around him, who was wearing a red cap, the only drop of colour in the whole painting.

John starred transfixed by the boy. Without realising it he'd stood up and moved closer to the painting until it was only a few feet in front of him. His concentration was directed towards the little boy, curious, wanting to know who he was.

Darren, walking back into the room carrying a tray with a vintage teapot and two cups and saucers, noticed John starring at the painting.

"It's good isn't" he said.

"Very clever" he added.

"Hmm" John muttered, still starring, unsure as to why it felt so powerful to him but aware that it did.

"It's by a chap called Charlie Bryan. I got it from an art gallery opening in" he paused, his hand rising to his head, the eyes shut in concentration.

"I think it was in 2012. Yes, yes, definitely 2012. Anyway the artist was there when I was looking at the painting. Like you I was fixated on the boy with the red cap, wondering who he was and why he'd been highlighted in that way. I assumed it was something to do with us not noticing people we don't consider to be important, you know. The forgotten masses. The man on the street, all that kind of thing but I was wrong. What he explained to me, what he was trying to capture with the piece is that, even when it's obvious what's important and where our attention should be directed, we can be easily be lead astray by simple things such as a spot of colour. It should be obvious that the person in the middle speaking to a captivated crowd is the central figure of the piece yet our eyes are drawn to the little boy because of something as frivolous as a bit of colour. I guess in many ways it's a comment on modern culture and how easily we are distracted by things that simply aren't important just because they flash up on TV or the internet sites we browse"

John nodded.

They sat down on the sofa and Darren poured the tea. After a few sips Darren sat his cup down on the saucer and looked at John.

"So John, what's been going on? What's got you all worked up and looking like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards because you really don't seem yourself?"

John explained the ordeal in detail. He provided all the information Darren would need to understand the situation. Darren nodded encouragingly throughout, hoping to ease some of the discomfort his old friend was clearly feeling, readying to say a kind word, drop into the conversation a few well worn sentiments regarded as a formality in discussions such as these.

When he'd finished he looked at Darren imploringly, hoping for a unique insight which might shed some light on what he should do.

"It's quite a pickle you've found yourself in there John"

"It's a little bit more than a pickle. I haven't double booked myself" John replied in a way he hoped confirmed the matter needed to be discussed seriously. This was his life after all and it had started to crumble around him like a limestone abbey left to perish.

"I know, I know. I didn't mean to trivialise John. I'm sorry"

His eyes left Johns and moved towards the painting. He sucked his lips in as he thought. He wanted to help. He was sincere in his hopes of alleviating the effects of John's problems but he had no idea what to suggest.

But as John began starring at him impatiently raising his eyebrows to prompt a response, an idea flickered into life.

"John, have you any idea who may have done this?" he asked.

"Nope. Haven't got a fucking clue. That's what's so infuriating about this whole thing, I just don't know how it started you know. No idea. It could have been anyone, some bored halfwit teenage fucker sat at a desk typing shit because he doesn't have anything better to do. Fuck"

"Look, I'm no expert but there are laws now designed to safeguard against defamation of character occurring through social media. I read an article in the FT about it recently. It was all very interesting. As I understand it the laws are still in their infancy but government agencies and the police realise the internet is under policed as new technologies often are so they have begun implementing ways of prosecuting people. If we could find out who started these rumours, if we could demonstrate they are malicious and false and that your career has been damaged irreplaceably by them I think we could have a case. We could go to trial. It would be in the papers and your name would be cleared"

He looked at John hoping this might help, unsure himself as to whether it was realistic.

"I suppose" John replied, deep in thought, his face crumpled by a mixture of confusion and consideration.

"Look I know this guy. We've used him at work to analyse the activity of our competitors. I could ring him, ask him to take a look. I bet he would find the source in no time, he is very good"

"Do you think that might work?" John asked, hoping for confirmation, for re-assurance, for something.

"I really do John"

They smiled at each other. John sat back in the sofa allowing the upholstery to smoother him. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. It may have been faint but it was there.

"I'll go give him a ring now"

Darren stood up and made his way out of the living room. John relaxed and for the first time in days felt as though imminent doom wasn't inevitable. His reluctance to hope had been lifted. He felt free.

Darren came back into the room and sat down. "He's going to have a look. Said he'd call back in an hour or so but he said it should be simple enough"

The obligation to discuss Johns predicament removed the two began reminiscing, recounting old stories altered by time to form elaborate retellings that barely resembled the original incidents.

They fell back to childhood, laughing and joking as if time had made no difference to their friendship. Their lives separated by circumstance merged together as they talked of youthful pranks and mishaps.

The smiles forgot their current circumstances. Pain was in both of them but it was removed and in those moments they forgot who they were and remembered who they used to be. The children who would run around in meadows pretending to be spy's had grown to be men with problems they'd never intended to have, their lives built towards dreams that were just mirages on the horizon.

When Darren's phone rang he answered whilst walking out of the room in search of privacy, a pointless endeavour given the information would be relayed back to John verbatim.

He came back in with a piece of paper.

"That was my guy. He located the source IP address and has given me the location of the computer registered to it. He's also told me what the original tweet said"

"What did it say?" John asked, intrigued to know the words used to unravel his life.

"Just seen that John Dobson off tele. He was being mean to his gf Taylor Lincoln, proper shouting at her #twat"

John couldn't believe the inanity of it. What had escalated into witch hunt was started with only a few words. On their own they were of little consequence but when exaggerated and added to they formed a blanket opinion of John that he was a monster. What had been nothing had been spun into a story, a narrative the media had got hold of not because of a search for truth and understanding but because they liked the story. Story was all that mattered. Invoking hatred was what they did best because that's what sold. He was just like blameless immigrants from war torn countries, or people collecting benefits who'd fallen on hard times. He was a villain and made so because the public craved them.

Darren handed the piece of paper to John. He read it, the expression on his face hardening. His eyes narrowed and his lips were sucked in. He was angry, noticeably so.

"What's wrong John?" Darren enquired looking worried.

"Malcolm you little fucking fat prick" John erupted, uncontrolled, the anger filling him with emotion and physical agitation as he stood up and threw his arms to his sides with his fists clenched.

"Who is Malcolm?"

John took a deep breath. He tried to calm down. He looked at the painting, starring at it, his eyes widening.

"Look I've really got to go. Thanks for everything Darren but I've got something I really need to sort out". John started for the door.

"John what's wrong? Whose Malcolm, is it someone you know? Why don't you stay here for a while you know, calm down a little. It's midday now. I could fix us some lunch. Might be for the best to think about what you're going to do before charging out of here. Might be best to see a lawyer, you know. Sort this out properly. Try and get a feel for where you stand legally"

Darren said this as John opened the door. He had to see him and it had to be now.

"I need to go" John said and shut the door before Darren could say anything further.

Outside he flagged down a taxi. Heading towards his agents office he could do nothing but wonder why the hell he had done such a thing. Why would he want to jeopardise his own client's career? There must be a reason. There must be some angle he was working, an underlying motive that would make sense of it all.

When he reached the building he jumped out of the vehicle and ran towards the entrance, forgetting to pay his fare. The taxi honked his horn but John was in such a rage he just carried on, unaware of what had happened, focused only on one thing.

By the time he reached his office he was out of breath. He went to the door but was interrupted. "Hi John. Is he expecting you? It's just he's very busy and told me not to admit anyone" his secretary said, talking in a voice altered to sound more professional. John ignored him and pushed through the door.

Malcolm, seeing John entering, quickly closed his laptop. "Hi John. This is an unexpected pleasure" he said looking even more shifty than usual.

Without saying a word John threw the piece of paper on his desk. "Why have you handed me a piece of paper with this address written on it John?" Malcolm asked confused.

"This address, the one written on this piece of paper?" John jutted his index finger towards the paper firmly.

"This is the location of the computer which is the source of the malicious rumours started about me" John said sternly, his eyes bulging, anger erupting inside of him.

Malcolm starred past him trying to figure out a way to Wiesel out of it. "Look John, I think your information is incorrect" he said, unable to arrive at a more imaginative lie. "It's not Malcolm. Don't try and get out of this one. I know what you've done now just tell me the fucking truth. For once in your fucking life can you do that for me?" The volume of John's voice rose with each word. It punctured the air with a harsh sound that resonated around the office. Outside Malcolm's secretary became concerned, lifting the receiver in preparation for what he assumed he might have to do.

"I had nothing to do with it John. I've no idea where you got this information from but it's wrong. Plain and simple. Somebody is obviously trying to play games with you. I'm your agent for Christ's sake, why the hell would I want to spread rumours that could damage your career. Do really think I would do something so moronic. Come on John think about it" he said, sweat beads forming on his forehead, hands shaking as he became nervous. "I know it was you Malcolm. Don't you fucking try and squirm your way out of this you fucking rat" John was becoming aggressive. He was pointing at Malcolm, his finger inches from his agents face.

Malcolm started wriggling in his seat. His cheap, shiny suit squeaking as it rubbed against the fake leather.

"Just admit it Malcolm. I'm not leaving until you do"

Malcolm was silent. John grabbed him by the collar and pulled it tight putting pressure on his windpipe. He wanted to wipe the stupid smile from a face that had always annoyed him, a face that was permanently smug like an Etonian revelling in the knowledge of their permanent wealth.

"Tell me the truth Malcolm" he said quiet but forceful, like a gangster whispering in the ear of someone whose betrayed them.

"Let me go" Malcolm said struggling to get his words out, his neck feeling like it had been gripped in a vice. "Not until you admit what you've done".

Malcolm realised it was pointless resisting. He would only find out sooner or later so there was little point in going through this just to keep the truth from him for a few more weeks.

"Ok. Let me go and then maybe I'll be able to talk". John loosened his grip. Malcolm took a deep breath and rubbed his neck.

"I did start the rumours" he admitted without looking remotely apologetic.

"Why Malcolm? Are you working some angle for me, is there some sort of plan? I just don't get why you would do that? Surely this is going to ruin me, but you're my agent. It just doesn't make any sense. Have you seen all the abuse I've been getting?" he looked at Malcolm imploringly, hoping there would be an explanation that would render all his worry and anxiety pointless.

"Look John here's the deal" Malcolm suddenly looked at ease, his legs stretching out as he leant back in his seat, the smug look returning to his face. "Your career is over. You know it, I know it. It's dead. You're finished. However Taylor. Her career is just beginning" he paused interlocking his fingers and stretching his legs out still further.

"So I sacrificed your career for hers. And why? Because that was the best thing to do. We live in a capitalist world John. We are all part of a machine the wheels of which are turned by consumerism. I run a business. My only concern is making money just like a corner shop or an electrician. And how do I make money? I make money by getting people like you work. You and everyone I represent make me money. You are just a commodity, a commodity I trade with others. You no longer have a significant market value because your career has dried up so what do you want me to do? Persist in wasting my time trying to get work I know you can't get, or put those efforts into getting work for someone I know has potential, someone who has value to me. Taylor has value. She is young and fresh and people want to her on their TV screens and inside their glossy magazines. A few years ago people wanted you. Now they don't. So, as a good businessman should, I used all my knowledge of the industry to push her career so she can make money for herself but more importantly for me. As I'm sure you are beginning to work out, I started these rumours to further her career at the expense of your failing career. And why you might ask if you had any sense? Because there is one, brilliant and unrivalled way to push someone into the limelight in a positive way. Get them the public's sympathy public and these stories will get her that. An interview about her ordeal is appearing in Reem magazine tomorrow and on Thursday she's appearing on Good Morning to talk about it. All I'm concerned with his the bottom line. That's what this whole thing is about. This office. This expensive suit. The secretary sat outside. My reputation. My connections. My clients. It's all here, all at my disposal to try and make my business work and as a good capitalist that's what I should be doing" he finished, took a deep breath and smiled arrogantly at John.

"You can't do this! It's fucking libellous! I will take you to fucking court Malcolm. I will fucking ruin you you bastard!" John shouted aggressively, inching closer as he roared, saliva thrown from his mouth as his words were forced out with venom.

He couldn't believe what was happening. His career was collapsing in on itself like a giant star.

"I can do this. You know me John. You know how meticulous I am. All statements, falsified stories and created rumours have been vetted by my lawyer to ensure they weren't libellous and that there was no chance of prosecution. We have also, just in case you wanted to be difficult, prepared numerous breach of contract cases we can bring against you. So I wouldn't do anything stupid John. Just accept what's happened and move on. Go open a cafe or buy a van or something. You career is over. Now fuck off out of my office"

"I'm not going anywhere you officious little prick!"John said with both hands firmly placed on Malcolm's desk.

Malcolm picked up his phone and taped a couple of buttons with his chubby fingers.

"Hi Simon can you call security and tell them there is someone in my office that needs to be removed immediately" he put the phone down and looked at John .He smiled with the arrogance of someone fashioned by self importance.

"You fucking little, sweaty, scheming, devious, pathetic excuse for a man. You disgust me" John said looking directly at him, his gaze piercing.

"Look John, you know if I'd have done the same thing to someone else to further your career you wouldn't have complained. You'd have bitten my hand off at any opportunity to help your career even if it was at the expense of someone else's. In fact where did you think the rumours that you saved a little girls kitten from a tree came from? Me. So don't be a hypocrite because you know you would happily let me ruin someone else's career for the benefit of yours. You are all the same. You all want the same things. A career. Fame. Fortune. And you would stop at nothing to achieve it. You would do anything for a better time slot or to present a new show. You would sell your grandmother for a couple of extra column inches. You know it. I know it. The whole world fucking knows it. So calm down because it's pathetic" he said calmly as he rose from his chair and stepped towards John.

John, if he was being honest with himself, would have realised that was true. He would have accepted any behaviour by his agent if it helped him however despicable. But, angry as he was, the rage blinding him to truths that were obvious to anybody else, he wasn't able to admit this to himself.

John leaped towards Malcolm grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. Just as he was pulling his hand up above his shoulder, clenching his fist so his knuckles turned white, two security men burst into the room and dragged him out. John, realising it was pointless to do so, didn't struggle.

They dragged him into the lift manhandling him despite the lack of resistance. When they reached the entrance they pushed him out. He stumbled and fell to the floor. As he stood up someone punched him in the nose, blood streaming from his nostrils.

He fell to the floor, his body buckled by the pain. "That will teach you to not pay your fare" the taxi driver who had being waiting outside until John re-appeared then kicked him in the stomach. "And that's for mistreating women you piece of shit"

CHAPTER EIGHT

John trundled along the motorway in his rickety Citroen CV, a car he'd won from a French actor in a drunken game of poker. The engine strained as it struggled to move its weight along the never ending tarmac that dissected the countryside.

On the side of the vehicle wife beater had been sprayed in huge, bright blue letters. The graffiti had appeared just hours after Taylor's interview on Good Morning, a timely response to the accusations he was enduring.

Since the interview his front door had been covered in so much abuse it was difficult to make out what any of it said and someone, and he wasn't sure how they had obtained it, had posted his mobile number on-line. The disclosure had lead to a constant stream of abusive texts and threats on his life until he threw the phone in the Thames, pushed to his limits, his sanity slowly ebbing away.

Everywhere he went people were either starring at him or he assumed they were, paranoia altering his perception of what was happening around him, distorting what he saw, what he heard.

In a cupboard in the hallway of his flat thousands of death threats and abusive letters were pilled so high they almost reached the ceiling.

The postman had given up attempting to jam letters into his post-box and instead left them on the floor in bin bags. Each black bag filled with words of hatred was a chilling reminder of what he'd been reduced to.

He was looked at differently by people who'd believed they knew what he was like without knowing him. The general public had decided he was a disgusting human being not worthy of basic respect or decency. It was as if he'd been cast out into the desert, a scapegoat for all the anger people didn't know how to direct.

Lives were weighed down by failings. People despaired every day, wanting for more, desiring improvements and changes to an existence they couldn't accept as their own.

They were angry. They always have been and they always will be and they needed somewhere to direct their anger, to release it in hope it would ease their own burdens.

John had become a target for the frustrations of those needing an outlet. They believed they hated him but they didn't. They felt it as genuine but it wasn't. It was a mirage. It was illusory.

They might never know, they might never understand but to John the motivations, what may or may not have caused it, had become an irrelevance. He was a hate figure and it had ruined him. He needed to escape. He needed sanctuary.

With no close friends to rely on there was only one place he could go, his parents.

They didn't get along fantastically well. This wasn't because of anything fundamentally wrong with their relationship. They were just different people with different ideas about how life should be lived.

He thought it strange he'd been created from their genes, that in some way they were the most similar people to him in the entire world yet he felt like they were different in almost all aspects of behaviour and outlook. But he knew, deep down, they loved him and they would look after him in his time of need.

As he sauntered down the motorway, the Citroens old engine coping with difficulty, the capital disappeared behind him as it slowly merged into the background. He'd arrived hoping all its promises would be true. He left knowing they weren't.

His whole life had been built towards transient moments that were over before he'd had time to appreciate them. He worked tirelessly towards goals he could barely enjoy. He'd become tied to his dreams, unable to live for friends or happiness but maintained in a constant search for something that was no more than an idea.

He'd fallen into the cycle of an addict. His life was a never-ending process of need and fix, need and fix. All else, friendships, love, companionship, the full spectrum of human emotions had been forgotten as he pursued what he believed he truly wanted.

The capital, the place he was leaving behind, had been linked so closely to his ambitions it felt like the physical embodiment of them. It was indelibly connected to a career, one that was now over, one that, for the sake of his own sanity and his own mental well being, he needed to forget.

The motorway was filling with cars, a procession of people moving from one place to another. Roads had been built to link a country, to forge new communications between areas separated geographically but the world had changed. The web had surpassed traditional forms of communication linking everyone, one global nation, information and data disseminated to all.

It was the beginning, a new phase in globalisation, a new tool that would define humanity and how we interacted with each other but its significance was lost on us. It felt like a transition from one place to another, just another step in the advancement of our species but maybe it was more than that, maybe it would change society in ways we could never even imagine.

Pulling off the motorway John travelled leisurely down country lanes lined with hedges and trees. When he reached the village he'd grown up in he finally felt at ease. Everyone knew him here. No judgements would be passed. The rumours and gossiping would be quelled because he was one of them. He'd spent enough time living here to be protected by the insular mentality.

When he pulled into his parents, as if they'd somehow known exactly when he would arrive, they were waiting for him in the drive. Their smiles displayed genuine warmth. It made him played he was back home.

John got out of the car and flashed a smile that until recently had been coveted by television channels and glossy magazines.

"Hi son" his father said and shook his hand firmly, little in his voice other than formality.

"Hi Dad. Hi mum" John said giving his mum a quick hug before they went inside for a cup of tea.

The house hadn't changed since he was a kid. It still had the same floral wall paper that was becoming increasingly dated, floorboards that were dark and creaked under strain and the same antique furniture they had bought before John's birth, a collection of items that had no pattern.

They sat at the oak kitchen table and drank their tea and ate biscuits. They talked, his mother creating the majority of the conversation, the most relevant topic being ignored. English reserve determined that certain things were better left unsaid.

When the conversation dried up and all the biscuits had been consumed they moved into the living room and watched midsummer murders in silence.

The rest of the evening passed without event until his Dad suggested they went to the local for a pint, something he did every Sunday evening.

The evening was relatively warm so they walked. They didn't speak as they made their way through the village. In front of them the sun was sinking towards the pretty stone cottages that lined the main street.

When they arrived his dad said hello to the other Sunday regulars, ordered two pints of ale, something John didn't like, and sat down to converse about the banal subjects they always discussed.

They grumbled their way through a variety of topics they believed affected their lives but didn't. John sat in silence, not knowing what to say, lost in a different world, one which wasn't his. He did, however, find it comforting. Being in the company of these old men, all of which he knew if only by sight and not always by name, made him feel secure. Looking around the pub he realised he knew everyone and that lifted his anxieties freeing him to be.

This wasn't London where all sense of community had been broken down by gentrification leaving in its place nothing but swarms of young professionals with no sense of place. Here, in the quiet country backwaters of rural England, there were people who'd spent their whole lives living in close proximity to each other. They would like after each other in times of need because of an obligation formed from closeness.

John relaxed and began to smile again. He ate roasted peanuts and supped his pint of ale slowly, the bitter taste no longer seeming like a problem as he began to enjoy it.

He listened as his father and friends discussed local road issues with genuine indignation as if a speed bump somehow mattered, as if it was an issue comparable with the capitalist exploitation of the vulnerable.

John, feeling more and more like himself, began joining in with the conversations picking sides and arguing about the new supermarket and the 20 mph speed restrictions near the primary school.

Sat here, eating pork scratchings and drinking ale whilst discussing local issues made John realise that maybe this is where he belonged. Maybe unfriendly, fast paced and ruthless London was not the be all and end all he'd once assumed it was. Maybe the cramped tube journeys, aggressive driving, noise and expense was something he longer had to tolerate.

He decided there and then with as little thought as most of his major life decisions involved, that he would move back home. He would get out of London and rid himself of the anxiety and pressure.

He would live the quiet life. Walks in the country, Sunday lunch sat outside quaint rural pubs. Maybe he would get a dog, a faithful companion to share his new idyllic life with. He could work with his dad and one day take over the business. He could sell the flat and buy a little cottage with an agar and wooden beams. He could have a large garden well maintained and full of beautiful flowers that bloom impressively in the summer months under trees whose fallen blossom would blow gently through the air, carried by a light breeze.

The picture he created in his mind of the idyllic country life was an overreaction to his present circumstances. He poured into this image of what his life could be like ideas of happiness that weren't his but were someone else's. This wasn't his life but as he was still reeling from what had happened, the bitterness he felt towards his old life made him long for what felt different, made him believe that what he needed was the opposite of what he'd had.

When his Dad finished his allotted four pints they made their way home. When they arrived back John's mother, knowing when his father would be home because his routine was so faithfully adhered to, already had tea brewing in the pot.

They sat in the living room quietly watching a nature programme. John put his cup down and looked at his parents. "I've made a decision" he said, trying to sound serious. "A decision about what dear" his mother said as her concentration continued to be directed towards the television.

"I've decided to leave London and move back here". His mother turned to him looking confused, the wrinkles on her forehead pushed together as she frowned at him. "You're going to move back here?" she said. John was slightly disappointed he wasn't greeted with cries of joy and exclamations of relief and happiness. "Well I suppose but aren't you a bit old to be moving back in with your parents? You're forty two John" she continued, not fully grasping what he meant.

"No mum, I don't mean I want to move back into this house. I meant I might sell the flat and move back to Walsingham or maybe another village but somewhere close by" he said.

He noticed his father continued to watch TV as if John had said nothing. "Dad?" john said trying to get his attention. "Yeah that sounds nice" he commented, barely paying attention to what was going on around him.

"But where would you work love?" his mother asked.

"Well I could work with dad, help him out with the business". John was expecting more enthusiasm. He thought his parents would be happy but they seemed indifferent.

"I thought you would be happy mum?" he said looking at her with sad eyes.

"Of course I am John it's just a bit of a shock that's all. You came to stay with us today for the first time in years and then all of a sudden you've announced you're moving back. It's just a lot to absorb that's all dear" she said.

John could tell she was being genuine and not just backtracking. It wasn't surprising his mother was confused by his decision to suddenly move back to the place where he'd grown up after avoiding it for so many years. He hadn't seen them that often over the last ten years. His mother was always calling and trying unsuccessfully to arrange meet ups but John, sometimes because he was busy, sometimes because he was being lazy and selfish, had rarely accepted her invitations.

"I could work for you couldn't I dad? I could be a sales manager. The presenting has probably given me the right skills to be a successful salesman. I definitely have the gift of the gab, you always said that didn't you? I could talk my way out of anything you always used to tell me" John said, attempting to reminisce with two people he'd shared such a significant amount of his life with yet who barely knew him at all.

"Yes" his dad said. He was a man of few words. He didn't say much, he just observed interjecting only when necessary.

"So what do you think dad. Sales manager? I could do that right?" John asked, looking imploringly at his father. "Well I've got a sales manager already John. You remember Geoff? He's a good man. I don't think I could let him go I'm afraid John but you could do something in the office. I could do with more administrative staff, somebody to make things tick along".

John huffed like an exasperated child. He didn't want to do admin. He considered it beneath him. He'd always loathed the nepotism he'd witnessed at the major television stations. He despised the underserved appointments and promotions, the jumping of the queue, the hike up the career ladder. But, like most people, he was prepared to be a hypocrite if it meant getting what he wanted.

"I don't want to be some idiot in admin, putting files away and making the f-ing tea" he said in a sulky tone, pathetic for someone of his age.

"Why can't you have two sales managers? You said the business was growing and Geoff was struggling to keep up with all the appointments with suppliers. I'm sure John would be a terrific salesman". His mother stepped in on Johns behalf. After her initial shock at John's intent to move home, she'd already, as mothers do, began to delight in having her son closer to her.

"I can't. I'm sorry" his father said, turning back towards the television, indicating he wanted the conversation to end. "Come on dear. He is your son. Surely you can help him out" his mother said.

"I'm sorry no". His father sighed and continued drinking his tea, dipping a biscuit in-between sips.

"Come on dad why not? I really don't see what the problem is. Do you not want me to work there or something? Do you not want me around?"

"Look I just don't think it would be a good idea for you to be a sales manager that's all" he said eventually, as if the statement had needed preparation. "Why" John retorted.

"Yes why dear?" his mother added.

"Look. I just don't think it would be good for business". His father breathed heavily. He wanted this conversation to be over so he could go to bed and end the questioning. He didn't want to brave such subjects. He wanted them to know what he thought, to understand his position without need for verbalising it.

"You don't think it would be good for business, why the fuck not?" John said, forgetting his parent's abhorred bad language.

"John. Language" his mother said scalding him.

"Because John" his dad paused for a moment. It seemed like a real ordeal for him to get his words out as if it was painful.

"I can't send someone out to meet with suppliers and customers whose had the sort of coverage you've had over the last few weeks. It would lose me business"

"Oh so you believe it do you? You don't believe your own son?" John said angrily, completely missing the point as most angry people do. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I know you wouldn't treat someone like that John. All I'm saying is that I don't think it would be the best idea sending you to meet customers. I know it's not true but they might think it is and that could really harm our relationship with them. Look you can work in the office. It's a nice office. The people are friendly"

"And you can stay here as long as you like" his mother added. John nodded reluctantly.

From television presenter to office worker in a matter of days. He had emerged from the rubble as someone else, someone normal, someone who no one would notice.

What was the meaning of his life? He no longer knew. He felt lost. It seemed pointless, just a slow march to death, littered with happenings and events that no one would remember. But then Britain's got so much talent came on and he was instantly distracted from the deep and meaningful questions he was pondering. Who needed to consider the bigger picture when you had television?

After the theme tune had faded the camera panned in on the new presenter, a job John had been trying to secure for the last year. It was Taylor. She was presenting a prime time Saturday evening show, suddenly stepping out from behind his shadow, raised from the depths of late night TV to a premium role, one John had always dreamed of.

Silence fell over the room. No one had been speaking but all movements stopped, breathing quietened. John gripped his tea cup so hard the handle snapped off. His mother shot him a look. He shot her one straight back.

She could see the upset and anger in his eyes, her stare softened into worry.

Taylor began addressing the camera, gliding through the words provided to her by the autocue. She was a natural. She was better than John.

He stood up and left the room. He made his way upstairs, his heavy footsteps reverberating through the old house, and went into his old room.

It hadn't changed since he'd left it twenty three years ago. The posters of footballers long since retired hung to the wall, the colours faded by the light that seeped in through the windows. On a shelf above his bed a collection of trophies and medals sat dusty and forgotten, permanent reminders of moderate sporting success.

His life had changed so much yet he found himself here again, a child returned, memories old and unchanged.

He sat down at his desk and looked into the mirror on the wall. He remembered those first few forays into the local town when he was seventeen, excited at the prospect of having a drink in a pub, nervous about getting into the one club.

He would sit in front of the mirror with a tub of hair gel and spend an hour carefully sculpting his hair into the exact look he was going for, a look inspired from the male models wearing the designer clothes he longed for in the magazines he read.

He'd had so much hope, so much enthusiasm for what the future might hold. Now, older and broken he'd returned knowing all that he had dreamt of had been so close yet would never be achieved. His dreams fading, his mind cast to new times searching for something else.

He looked at his face in the mirror. The eyes were cupped with darkened skin that was sagging. The wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes were deep set and noticeable. The skin was reddening on the tops of cheeks. His hair was thinning, the colour was fading. Loose skin was gathering beneath his chin and his neck was no longer smoothed but broken up by lines that traversed it.

He was no longer than man he'd once been. He was someone different and not just because of the ageing process. Something had gone missing. A part of him had died.

CHAPTER NINE

Edward carefully applied foundation to his face. He had two small scars, one on his jaw line and one at the side of his right eye, both the product of his father's fiery temper. He already felt imperfect because of his limp and hunch and, although it barely made a noticeable difference, he tried to cover them up.

After he'd finished he went to the dining room where maps were laid out across a table. On the maps, scribbled in red marker pen, were a series of crosses with times and dates written next to them.

He scanned them like a commander in chief, noting everything he could see, considering possibilities, building up an idea of what could be done, formulating plans and mumbling things to himself under his breath.

On the floor next to the table were two dumbbells. He knew he was weak and had realised this may be a hindrance. He was like a small child, not yet developed enough to cope with the physical demands of the real world. He could barely lift a fully laden shopping bag so he had tried, as best he could, to improve his strength. He worked out every evening and drank protein shakes for breakfast.

It had begun to take effect. He could feel himself getting stronger, his muscles more defined, his biceps widening but he realised it wouldn't be enough so he had procured, from the dark net, a shot of adrenaline to use at the key moment.

He'd also purchased a tranquilliser gun and some darts used for Rhinos. He'd weakened the tranquilliser solution to a level he deemed appropriate for humans and just to be sure he'd experimented using it on himself one evening.

It had been risky but he knew it was vital. After tranquillising himself he was out cold for twelve hours as he'd expected.

On a lamented card on the table was an itinerary. It was the condensed version of his plan. Able to fit in his pocket it was like a revision card, something he could use to prompt.

He pulled on a dark green vest and cargo pants he'd purchased from the local army and navy store.

Whilst he'd been out in the local woods training there had been some kids sat up in a tree mocking him as he scrambled about on his hands and knees. He tried to ignore them but their laughter was too loud. Eventually, growing tired of their taunting, he turned his tranquilliser gun on them and they leapt from the tree and ran off screaming.

In a field behind his house he practised shooting firing a pellet gun at pigeons. He found the whole process, taking aim, holding the gun steady, controlling your breathing and then firing in hope of hitting the target, strangely calming.

He pulled on heavy boots and stood up, his head held high with pride. He looked the part.

He left the flat, going back to check he'd locked the door six times before leaving, as was customary.

Outside his van was fully loaded with everything he required.

He climbed in, checked the mirrors and turned the key in the ignition. It struggled to start at first which worried him. He wanted everything to run smoothly. He couldn't allow any mistakes. But when the key was turned a second time it started, the diesel engine rumbling into life.

He took a moment to gather himself, breathing in and out slowly to settle his nerves. He turned the radio and tuned it to classic FM. Once he realised they were playing Vivaldi he turned it off. He hated Vivaldi. His music bored him. He much preferred Bach or Benjamin Britain.

He set off, checking both mirrors several times before pulling out. He was an overly conscious driver. Too many trips with his angry father who drove at speeds that matched his rage had rendered him an apprehensive driver.

Driving his van, his tools and implements in the back, his well thought out plans carefully folded and placed in the glove box, he felt important. He felt like a man of considerable power. He felt like he mattered.

It made him feel more alive than he'd ever felt. He liked it. He liked it a lot. He liked the blood pulsing through his veins. He liked the lift the adrenaline gave him as he considered what he was about to do. It made him feel like a real man, like someone who could make a difference, someone who would be noticed.

About fifteen miles into his journey he pulled into a service station. It was a planned stop. It had been listed on his itinerary.

He went inside, the place empty with the exception of the odd night time traveller, weary truck drivers stopping off to relieve themselves and business man looking tired and dishevelled.

He bought a burger and sat on bench whilst he ate it. He liked cheap burgers from multinational chains. He liked their conformity. They always provided identical produce and he liked the certainty of receiving the same item visit after visit.

Once he'd finished and after he'd peeled off the plastic cheese melted onto the wrapper, he headed back to the van.

He drove for another half an hour until he found himself in the countryside. The winding lanes were difficult to navigate with the heavy van. It lurched from side to side as he drove round bends, the centripetal forces acting upon it making it difficult to handle.

Once he arrived at his destination his heart started to beat with such force it felt as though it was trying to escape through his chest. He took deep breaths steadying himself. He turned the light on and took out five pieces of gum from a packet on the dashboard.

After he'd chewed them for four minutes he threw them out of the window. He then reached into the glove box and grabbed two cans of energy drink. He drank each of them slowly, the first one proving more difficult to consume as the minty flavour of the gum made it feel ice cold in his mouth.

After he'd finished he placed the two cans in a little bin he'd duct taped underneath the dashboard. He then combed his thinning hair, taking great care as he did. He studied himself in the mirror situated on the underside of the sun visor. He looked ready. He felt ready.

He took out a small, black pellet gun from the back of the van. Even though he planned on shooting the tranquilliser gun from close range he still wanted to get in some last minute practise to make sure his eye was in.

He picked out a branch and, steadying himself, his breathing falling into a slow, calculated pattern, he placed the gun on his left forearm, peering down the barrel, making tiny adjustments until he knew he was locked in on the target. He pulled the trigger sending a tiny, circular piece of plastic hurtling at great velocity towards the branch.

He repeated this four more times, taking just as much care with each shot.

His success, each pellet embedding itself into the target, gave him confidence. He knew tonight would go without a hitch. This excited him. He smiled like a child who'd just learnt to ride their bike for the first time.

He got back into the cab of the van. He picked up the rucksack from the passenger seat and went into the back filling it with all the necessary items. He put in the duck tape, the rope, the tranquilliser gun and associated tranquillising solution and a cloth.

He put the rucksack over his shoulders and picked up a plastic sledge he'd attached wheels to. He'd constructed the contraption after his first trial run which was unsuccessful as he didn't have the strength to drag eighty kilos.

Subsequently he'd managed to iron out these problems. He was now confident. He knew what he had to do. He knew how he had to do it. He knew when he had to do it. He was ready.

He took the night vision goggles and put them on, tightening the strap until it began to dig into his head.

Switching them on he began walking through the dark, everything around him made suddenly visible. He walked with the confidence of someone who knew where he was going. He felt finally sure of himself as if his life had found meaning, meaning that until now had eluded him.

This was his time. He could feel it. He thought of the gigantic cigar and expensive whiskey he had waiting for him at home to celebrate. He would enjoy smoking that cigar.

CHAPTER TEN

John had fallen into a routine as he slowly turned into his father. He worked all week in the office and at the weekend would meet with the same friends in the same pub, to drink the same drinks and have the same conversations.

As it was Saturday he left the tiny cottage he was renting and made his way to the Black Horse, taking his usual short cut across the fields despite the darkness.

He was huddled into a big coat, his head dipped against the wind. Rain had turned the field boggy so he walked with difficulty, his boots sinking and squelching as he made his way across the mud.

His way was lit by a half moon high in an empty sky. On blacker evenings the street lights from the village cast enough light over the empty field for him to navigate across it. It would be easier to walk by the road but it saved ten minutes and he'd judged this to be worth the difficulty.

He approached a stile at the far side of the field that took him into a small wooded area, the path dissecting through the trees and coming out the other side into the heart of the village.

Climbing over the stile he became aware of movement. He stopped at the top, one leg planted on each side and looked around. He listened carefully. There was nothing. Maybe it was just a small animal moving around in the foliage.

He pulled himself over, climbed down and made his way down the path. But he sensed movement again. Flickers of something crossed his peripheral vision. There was a presence.

He stopped and listened. The wind gently blew moving the branches up and down, a great oak creaking as they did. He couldn't hear anything. It was dark and quiet. Maybe his imagination was playing tricks on him.

He began walking, his pace quickened as he wished for the safety of the pub.

Then he felt somebody behind him and he heard a distinctive sound like the release of compressed air. Before he had chance to understand what had happened he was on the cold floor unconscious.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

John slowly opened his eyes as he woke. He'd been unconscious for the last twelve hours. He squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light despite there being very little as the building he was in was windowless.

John scanned the room confused and disorientated. The realisation of what had happened beyond him. He couldn't decide whether this was reality or a lucid dream, a concoction of his troubled subconscious or the actuality of his present situation.

As he moved his head pain shot down his spine causing him to grimace. His cheek muscles contracted forcing his eyes closed.

He could feel his hands were tied together. The course rope had worn away at his skin leaving it bare and painful. He pulled his hands back and forth trying to release them but it was no use. Within minutes of regaining consciousness he had already stopped struggling, defeated by pains that were resonating around the whole of his aching body.

John tipped his head backwards, moving it slowly and with care until he found a comfortable position. Moving only his eyes he looked round the room attempting to establish his current location.

The walls of the building consisted of exposed stonework crumbling in places where the mortar had eroded. Beneath him there was no flooring only the ground compressed so that it felt firm underfoot. Large beams, darkened by the damp air, traversed above him supporting a roof burdened by slate.

There were no items other than a pitchfork propped up against the wall opposite. The only entrance into the building was a door to John's right which had been locked.

The reality of the situation was beginning to reveal itself, replacing his confusion with raw and primal fear. Panic began to take hold. His heart rate accelerated. His breathing became short and inconsistent.

John started shouting for help, his voice course and stuttering. He tried to project volume but his throat was sore so the words limped from his mouth without conviction. He moved his legs with all his energy trying to loosen the rope that had bound them to the bottom of the chair. He squirmed and wriggled but the knots had been expertly tied.

As his thoughts began to clear his mind raced through endless possibilities of why he was here, bound to a chair in an empty room. Had he been taken hostage by terrorists? Had he been abducted by a criminal planning on asking for ransom money? Was it an elaborate prank? Maybe it was part of a new TV programme, a Beadles about re-make? He'd heard rumours one had been on the cards. Maybe it had been commissioned and he was the first person to be on a celebrity special?

In desperation and with little other than misplaced hope to quell his fear, he decided that it must be part of a TV programme. A prank show aimed at getting cheap laughs by embarrassing minor celebrities.

He scanned the room, searching for a camera or an object that might conceal one. In his current position and with restricted movement he struggled to view what was behind or above him. He tried to crane his neck to look but the pain was too great.

As he convinced himself of an explanation he'd created to ease his own mind, his breathing began to settle and his heart rate reduced. He clouded himself in the delusion that there was a simple explanation, one which was not as terrifying as his current predicament would suggest.

Outside it was night. The air was cold. He shivered as his body struggled with the temperature. His jaw vibrated, his teeth chattered.

He could hear rain hitting the slate roof. It started slowly but increased in intensity as water came hurtling down from above, released from huge clouds by the inescapable forces of gravity acting upon it.

The wind howled providing an eerie backdrop that John found strangely re-assuring. The gusts outside sounded like voices, almost as if the wind was speaking to him. Amidst this scene of abject loneliness it was like having somebody there.

As the night drew on, temperatures continued to plummet until it was below zero. John, despite being clothed appropriately for the outside conditions, was struggling to maintain a comfortable temperature. The building provided little resistance to the conditions other than shielding him from the wind.

When he exhaled clouds of condensation were produced as his warm, damp breath hit the dry, cold air. His body shivered with vigour. He had never experienced anything like this. The cold was taking hold of him. It was testing his physical resilience. It didn't let up. It pushed his body to the brink. Hypothermia, an almost forgotten enemy of man, crept up on him slowly.

He wriggled around in the chair, struggling with little aim other than the hope that something may happen if he tried to exert himself, but it was pointless. He was going nowhere and on realising this his will subsided.

His thoughts began to break up. Patterns and connections which usually existed, linking his mental output so it formed sentient and logical judgements, were no longer being made. He had lost all semblance of rationality as he became affected by the early stages of hypothermia.

His mind raced, darting from one vague and unrelated idea to the next. His body was beginning to shut down. He began to see things that weren't there. Images, random and selected by nothing other than chance appeared in his mind's eye.

He tensed up as a sensation of burning dissipated through his body. The intense pain increased with every second. His eyes, deranged with fear, scanned the room quicker than his mind was able to process the images, looking in desperation for water.

It felt as if his body was being ravaged by fire. He looked down at his legs but could not see where the heat was coming from. He could feel it but he couldn't see it. He was awash with confusion and a pain that would not go away.

The delicate relationship between mind and body had been broken. His nerves, strained under the extremity of the conditions, were passing false information to his brain. Reality had become blurred. Experiences became morphed and contorted by physical deterioration.

John clawed at his clothes, trying to pull them from his body wanting relief from the intense heat he believed his body was being subjected to. He was fighting an evil that didn't exist. His actions misdirected by tricks his own body was playing on him.

The air temperature continued to drop pushing him further and further to the brink. As his breaking point approached he lost consciousness. Death neared. The inevitable consequence of his mortality became apparent.

But, just as he edged closer to the end, temperatures began to rise. The earth's gradual rotation, slow as it seemed, brought the sun back into the horizon. Night began to fade as day emerged. Birds sang their early morning songs. The cold lifted as photons crashed towards the earth's surface in increasing numbers.

During the next few hours the temperatures lifted. Johns brief and almost unknown run in with death was over, his body slowly recovering from the physical ordeal it had been subject to.

After several hours of fatigue induced rest John came round. His head ached. The lack of hydration caused pain to emanate around his skull as if something was in there trying to get out. The reality of the situation was still unknown but, fatigued to the point of helplessness, trying to figure it out was beyond him. John simply sat there, drowsy and without concern for anything other than rest.

Hours passed. John didn't move a muscle. Not a single fibre in his body wanted to be forced into action. His drowsiness, caused almost entirely by the hypothermia he had endured through the night, now controlled him.

Footsteps, faint at first but increasing in volume as they approached, could be heard outside. John stirred slightly in reaction to the sound. His attention, although lacking, was diverted to the noise emanating from nearby. His head moved from one side to the other and he forced his eyes open.

The person, their identity still unknown, reached the building and paused for a moment to gather themselves before entering. The door slowly opened, creaking as torsion was applied across the old oak frame.

John, his eyes now firmly fixed on the door, was alert beyond his current capabilities. Adrenaline had prompted his body into action, fatigue disappearing almost instantaneously.

As the door moved from left to right it revealed a male dressed in ill-fitting jeans and wearing a heavy rain coat. He stood with a strange hunch as if somebody was pulling his torso to one side. His face was gaunt, his features sharpened by lack of flesh. His hair, unkempt, was a light brown colour. Lack of washing had left it greasy.

His demeanour was of someone uncomfortable in their own skin. His underweight body, his affected posture, his overall lack of masculinity for man of his age all influencing the way he carried himself.

He walked towards John slowly, trying to do so in a manner that would appear intimidating but wasn't. Despite John being tied to a chair in poor physical condition with no idea of why, when or where he was, he wasn't scared as he approached. His lack of intimidation meant that, even in this situation, he failed to impose himself.

In his right hand he held a metal bar. It was about a foot long and was clasped by his long, bony fingers. He smirked at John as he neared. He tried to replicate the look bad guys give in films as they approach their victims. The unhinged psychopath staring with both anger and, in the knowledge of what they were about to do, an element of gleeful pleasure. But he couldn't pull it off. He just looked odd, like a confused teenager both repulsed and enticed on seeing an explicit sexual image for the first time.

John's eyes felt heavy under the burden of his fatigue but he forced them open as wide as they would go. He starred at this strange figure as he approached with nothing more than confusion. He wasn't scared by his presence. His physical frailty made him seem feeble and pathetic.

Stood in front of his victim, he tapped the metal bar on the palm of his hand. He looked at John, feelings of rage, uninhibited and raw, grew inside of him. This was his own, personal Satan.

He looked at the presenter for moments which seemed to last for years. He scanned the features of his face, perfect from a distance but flawed up close. Time, alcohol and drugs had taken its toll on John. The impeccable looks he possessed as a young man had faded leaving him looking haggard like a well read book.

Bending down, he looked straight into John's green eyes. He stroked the side of his face with his index finger, John remaining motionless as he did.

He studied the face of the man who had given him such grief, the man who had pained him to the extent that he began to question the point of his own existence.

Forgiveness is powerful. It's something which can rid you of burden, can repeal the most oppressive pain. It can free a man's spirit and lift him to a higher plane, one where suffering seems like a distant evil, something of another place and time. But sometimes forgiveness is unobtainable, out of reach and distant.

John was beyond forgiveness. His crimes, although unimportant to most, resonated within his onlooker. He looked at John like a father looks at his daughter's murderer. This man was not worthy of forgiveness. Forgiveness would free him from the responsibility of what he had done.

John, slowly and without any leniency, would have to suffer. That was the only way to right the wrong. It was the only way justice could be delivered.

John was still confused, unable to process what was happening. "Who are you?" he muttered, the words limping reluctantly from his lips. "I'm the last face you'll ever see" he answered softly, delivering his rehearsed line, one said a thousand times stood in front of a mirror, honed and readied for a moment he'd been thinking about relentlessly over the last few weeks.

Fatigue had so greatly reduced his capacity to feel emotion the intimidating nature of this line had little impact on John, he just starred at his captor confused but unworried.

Minutes passed without a single word being said by either. Eventually he answered john's question.

"You can me call me K if you like" K said, continuing to tap the metal bar on his hand.

K reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a half empty bottle of water. He unscrewed the top and carefully poured water into John's mouth which had been willingly opened. Excess water ran down his chin which K wiped away with the sleeve of his coat.

Once the water had been consumed K carefully placed the empty bottle on the floor. He reached back into his coat pocket, producing a small red alarm clock about two inches in diameter. He placed the clock on the floor just in front of John so it was easy to view.

The clock had been meticulously selected. One rainy Saturday afternoon K had visited a shop which sold second items which either didn't work or were outdated to the point of uselessness.

But K, being the character he was, adored quirky establishments often shunned by others. He'd wandered up and down the aisles, perusing the assortment of items littered untidily on shelves that were old and creaked under the weight of the stock.

He loved the smell of the place. The old wood infused the atmosphere with a scent that reminded him of the stately homes he visited with his grandparents as a child.

K had been looking for something particularly. He wanted a clock with a loud, clearly audible tick, one which could be heard above thundering rain and strong winds.

The shop had a section filled with old clocks of all shapes and sizes. Searching from shelf to shelf he listened with devout concentration to each clock. Mentally he scored them both for clarity and volume on a scale of one to ten.

The shopkeeper, an old man with a weather beaten complexion, starred at him cowering down next to each clock, listening to them intently. He thought it was strange behaviour, but fascinated he watched him as he wandered around the shop.

When K had finished, he walked down the middle aisle and picked up a small, red clock which fulfilled the criteria and paid for it in coins.

John looked at the clock. It enabled him to establish the time but not the day. He'd been in such a state of confusion with the repeated loss of consciousness he had little idea how long he had been here for.

Just as John was about to speak K turned and left, locking the door as he did. "Wait" John shouted after him, realising that in all the time he had been here John had found nothing out, not one reason or explanation that might lift his ignorance. But his words fell on deaf ears. K was gone and John was left on his own with only a clock for company, its purpose now clear.

The ticking clock, loud and clear as it was, tormented him. The second by second passing of time, something that usually went unnoticed, was inescapable.

John had little choice but to face a clock and watch it as it ticked, the second hand moving in a circle, never going anywhere, ceaselessly moving through the same positions.

It was unrelenting. The noise began to drive John crazy. He wriggled and squirmed trying to free himself so he could escape but his efforts were futile.

After an hour he tried to fall asleep. He put his head to one side, resting it on his shoulder as if it was a pillow and allowed his eyes to close, but it was no use. The ticking invaded his thoughts. It was always there. He couldn't think of anything without it rupturing his thought process, announcing itself like an unruly and unwanted guest at a party.

Hour after hour his sanity gradually waned. Occasionally he would fall asleep and dream of being chased by a grandfather clock. He would run through the fields he used to play in as a child, the grandfather clock gaining on him with every step. As it neared him it felt as though his efforts to escape it were in vein, as if he was running in treacle, unable to move his legs at a consistent speed. The ticking noise of the clock increasing in volume as it approached until it was deafening. Just as he was about to be caught he would wake, his clothes soaked in cold sweat.

He dreamt of being strapped to the hand of big Ben, gradually moving towards the hour mark where the violent reverberations would rip through his body causing him to shake with such vigour his limbs flew off, the tower laughing as his body was dismantled as if it was a living creature tormenting him.

The dreams were so lucid he was shaken when he woke. It took several minutes to regain a sense of where he was and what was happening as if it was only becoming apparent for the first time.

He couldn't handle much more of this. He tried to keep his spirits up and calm himself by day dreaming of better times. He reminisced about celebrity parties and award ceremonies he'd attended. He lost himself in memories of his old life, when times were good and his career seemed to be taking off.

He cherished these experiences, neglecting the memories people usually held dear. He seldom thought about his childhood or family Christmases. He rarely pondered the more important aspects of his life with the delight they deserved.

He had never fully grasped how unimportant and trivial some of his fondest memories were because he had always failed to understand what really mattered.

Thinking about the time he was drunk on air he began laughing to himself as he remembered the look of utter shock on the producers face as he came stumbling in and tripped over a camera cable.

The re-running of these trivial memories had managed to calm him down. Rational thought began to return. The process of mentally dotting the Is to draw logical conclusions, something he'd found difficult after the physical trauma he'd experienced, now seemed a possibility.

John attempted to re-trace events and build up a picture of what had happened. What was the last thing he could remember? He trawled through his visual archives trying recall where he'd been, asking himself questions that felt pertinent.

He remembered setting off from his house on the way to the pub. It was raining, not heavily, but enough to be noticeable indoors.

He left the cottage. He'd walked down the road on the grass verge. He remembered a car passing but couldn't recall its make or model. Just before the road reached the outskirts of the village he'd climbed over a stile to take his usual short cut.

He remembered the ground being wet and difficult to walk across. After that he couldn't remember anything. It was just blank. He tried to recall further details but there were none.

That must have been when it happened. He must have been following him and, when he turned off the road, leaving the comfort of the street lights to be guided only by the moonlight, taken it as the ideal opportunity to knock him unconscious.

This had established the where and he knew who had done this but the answer to the most important question still eluded him. Why? He felt defeated because establishing where he had been taken was meaningless. It didn't provide any further insight into the situation. It still left him in the dark.

What could his motives be? He was strange man but he didn't seem like a criminal. The lack of confidence in the way he spoke and the awkward way he carried himself supported this assessment. So if he wasn't a criminal, if he wasn't doing this for a ransom or for some other tangible reason why was he doing it?

The only logical conclusion that could be drawn was, given the tiny amount of information available to John, that he was a deranged, unhinged fan. A celebrity stalker who had issues only a trained professional could deal with. Someone who had become so obsessed with John that abduction made sense to him. Someone who had become so detached from reality that their perception of acceptable and tolerable behaviour had warped. This appeared to fit. It made sense given how John had defined the context.

He scanned looking for something that might provide further information but there was nothing. Other than the chair he was tied to, the pitchfork and the wooden door the room was completely bare.

Outside a light wind rustled through the nearby trees. With the sunlight fading the temperatures began their daily descent. In the distance he could hear footsteps. As they increased in volume it became apparent someone was approaching. It made John feel uneasy. The slow approach, the sudden anxiety caused by the unknown settled within him. His heart began to beat faster and faster like the drum of a roman ship quickening as it approached battle.

The door opened revealing K wearing a navy blue puffer jacket and white chinos. He looked ridiculous. The overall size and diameter of the puffer jacket accentuating the slightness of his build.

In his hand was a hammer, not very large, with a handle wrapped in yellow tape. The hammer had rusted badly, the edges flamed with red.

He walked from the door taking long exaggerated steps as if trying to navigate his way through a precarious situation. John readied himself mentally. He was more alert. His mind was functioning as it should.

He watched closely as K approached. He scanned him looking for clues or an indication of who this person might be. John, exhaling with a long un-interrupted breath, steadied himself before speaking. "I want to know why I am here?" he asked.

"You don't know why you are here?" K responded trying to sound menacing but failing badly, his high pitched voice unable to be lowered to a level that would facilitate this.

"Yes. Why am I here? Who the hell are you? I want to know" John sounded exasperated rather than scared.

"You must know why you are here?" K said. He began tapping the hammer on the side of his leg, his eyes focused on John, his head lowering and his eyelids closing slightly.

"No. How the hell could I know why I was here? You can't do this to me. You need to fucking let me go you, fucking, weirdo!" John shouted. K continued to stare, the intensity of which increased every time John pleaded ignorance.

"Why am I here you psycho!?" John shouted angrily like an irate football fan shouting at a referee.

Ks attempts to appear intimidating were not working. John's angry yells were testament to that. K stepped forward and began tapping the hammer in his hand, signalling his intent but John continued unperturbed

"Why am I here you fucking nut job!?"

Why wasn't John scared? He expected him to be a quivering mess begging for mercy, pleading with him to be let free, fear gripping him like an aggressive viral infection. Yet here he was, shouting at him without restraint. That certainly had to be stopped. The dynamic had to be changed.

"You want to know why you are here?" K said lowering himself so they were at a similar level. "Yes I fucking do" John exclaimed.

"You are here to pay for your crimes"

"What crimes? I haven't done anything" John said, confusion returning.

K turned so he was facing away from John. His breathing became heavy and he began tapping the hammer in his hand harder and harder. This made John nervous; perhaps it was a mistake to be so forthright with someone who was holding him captive.

"You are evil" K muttered quietly, still turned away from John.

"What?" John asked in reply. K turned to face him. The expression on his face had altered. He looked deranged. An evil smile appeared. "I haven't done anything" John pleaded.

"She is an angel!" K shouted, his voice losing control, squeaking slightly as he said the word angel. "An angel?" John asked confused. "Who is an angel? What are you talking about? I don't understand?"

K reached into the inside pocket of his ridiculously sized puffer jacket and pulled out a picture, creased in half. He unfolded it and held it in front of John. It was a picture of Taylor. It looked like a head shot, the type sent out to casting agents.

"I don't understand". John's voice had quietened. His worry was evident. The confident John of a few moments ago, the John who wasn't scared of this child like man stood before him, the John who'd gathered himself and was ready for confrontation, was long gone. The way K was acting, the tone in his voice, the malice that underpinned his words frightened him.

It was like there'd been a switch, as if two people were playing the same part. He'd walked in attempting to be intimidating but only looked weak and pathetic. But then a darkness had grasped him changing the way he carried himself and the way he spoke.

His gaze narrowed, his posture stiffened. He was now genuinely terrifying because it was if he'd passed control of his actions to something else, some malevolent force intent on harm.

"She is an angel and you abused her. You took this woman, so pure and beautiful, and you violated her. How could you do this to her? How could you have the gall to do this to someone so divine? She is perfection and you came into her life and ruined it? If there was a hell I'd hope you'd rot in it" he was now hovering just in front of John. He could smell his breath. It smelt of cheese and toothpaste.

John's eyes darted from side to side. Desperation clouded his thoughts. Sentient conclusions could no longer be drawn. Tied there, afraid and in a state of overwhelming panic, he didn't know what to do. His speech, so free flowing before, stopped. He made strange panting noises as his breathing became erratic.

K looked into his eyes. His face only inches from John. He starred at him with an intent that scarred him more than anything he'd ever experienced in his life. He tilted his head one way then another, continuing to look directly into Johns eyes as if he was trying to control him with his gaze. Then he stepped back.

John was sweating profusely. He could feel streams of moisture pouring from his forehead down his face. He began to wriggle, adrenaline causing the pain to disappear as he moved his sore wrists back and forth struggling to free himself.

K took great pleasure in seeing fear grip his hostage. It felt like bliss. For a few moments he just looked at John, looked at the way he was panicking, watched his eyes moving without reason from side to side, searching for things that weren't there and he felt momentarily at peace, as if this lifted a great weight from his burdened shoulders.

But this moment didn't last long. Anger soon returned. He began casually tossing the hammer up in the air, twisting it on release so that it span, catching it and repeating the process again and again.

This action, although seemingly meaningless, alerted John quite accurately to what was about to happen. He knew what was coming. He grimaced as K stepped forward. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain to erupt from whichever area K chose to strike him.

K lifted the hammer into the air so his arm was almost straight and then, bringing it down with as much force as his limited strength would allow, struck John on the knuckles of his left hand. The hammer crushed the knuckle of his middle finger. The noise of the steel hitting and breaking bone would have been audible to anyone within a hundred yards.

John screamed at the top of his voice, the volume of which surprised K. Pain shot up his arm. He rocked back and forward in the chair as he shouted. The fingers on his right hand straightened as he struggled to cope with the agony.

He clenched his teeth, biting down as hard as possible and pushed his legs down with all his might trying to straighten them, trying in vain to stand up.

K was taken aback. Seeing someone in that much pain, listening to the screams of agony, it made him feel uncomfortable. Impulsively he wanted to untie the ropes and help him. There was empathy and innate compassion that exists in most humans that still existed in K. Not all of it had been stolen from him. Some of it, small fragments of what it means to be human, still existed.

He stood there in silence for a moment, uncomfortable with what had just happened. He was worried for this man reeling around in pain in front of him. Had this been a mistake? Maybe he had taken things too far? Maybe this wasn't right?

But then, looking down at the photograph of his angel he realised what had to be done. He had never shown her any compassion so why should he be afforded it. This man sat before him, this excuse for a human being didn't deserve anything from K. The only thing he deserved was to be punished for what he had done.

K grabbed John's left hand and lined up the hammer onto the knuckle he'd already struck. John wriggled in desperation but it was no use, his hands had been tightly bound to the arm of the chair with the expertise of a veteran scout master. He lifted the hammer, not as far above his head as before as this strike required greater accuracy, and brought it down hitting the damaged knuckle again.

John screamed even louder, his cries hurting his throat as they were forced out with all the might his diaphragm could muster.

K took hold of the middle finger and began moving it from side to side to increase his agony. The knuckle crunched as it was moved by the finger bone. John began crying. Tears streamed down his face.

"Stop it" he muttered through the tears

"Please. Please. Please" he whimpered over and over again but K ignored him. He was beginning to take pleasure in causing another human being such devastating pain. It felt good to have power over someone, to have them at your mercy. He continued to move the finger enjoying the crunch of the broken knuckle.

Johns pleas quietened as the pain became too much. He could no longer cope. He needed this to stop. It was like nothing he had ever experienced but he couldn't escape it. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. There was no A&E. There were no strong painkillers or gas and air. This pain was not going to be taken away by a doctor or a nurse. He was going to have to live it.

K stopped, the amusement he gained from the infliction eventually disappearing. He looked at Johns face, dirty, frightened and saturated with tears and smiled. He had done well.

The pain was shooting up and down John's arms forcing him to grimace and clench his teeth. But there was a certain amount of relief that his finger had now been left alone.

K stood up and pulled a small, blue packet out of his coat pocket. With his teeth he ripped the top off and leaned towards John placing it against his lips and pushing an artificial looking, viscous syrup into John's mouth. At first John resisted, in his panicked state he assumed it was another designed punishment. But once he realised it was sweet he sucked on the packet.

K put the photo of Taylor on the floor next to the clock. He rotated it so was facing John.

He stood up and gazed at his hostage with indifference. Johns hand was already bruising, blood rushing to the damaged area. This gave him some of the satisfaction he was hoping for.

He placed some blankets over John to protect him from the cold, unaware how close his hostage had come to dying during the night.

He walked to the door and disappeared.

John began to cry. He whimpered like a child with a fresh graze. His life was in the hands of a stranger who was looking for the satisfaction of revenge.

After several minutes, acting on the assumption K had moved beyond the range of his voice, he began shooting as loud as he could. "Help!" he bellowed again and again. He knew this was pointless. The calculating coldness of his captor suggested the location would have been remote but John persisted anyway.

As long as he had some vague shred of hope he wouldn't give up on the idea of being found.

He continued for the next couple of hours, the volume reducing as he grew tired. He hoped someone might be near. Maybe a rambler lost in the countryside, straying from approved footpaths, might hear his screams.

His only two options were to give up or scream for help. His hands and legs had been too tightly bound for him to wriggle free. Giving up at this point, only a day or so after being abducted was not something he could do.

He wondered whether he was being searched for. Had his parents contacted the police when he'd failed to show up for Sunday lunch? Was there a police search meticulous enough to uncover his whereabouts? It was definitely plausible. From what was said in local papers and other media outlets it seemed that resources were ploughed into the search for those unfortunate enough to disappear.

But then again those people were often never found. Despite all the press and police resources they vanished, their whereabouts never ascertained. Thousands of leads pursued in vain, people disappeared without a trace never to be seen by their love ones again.

It was a sobering thought that he might be another missing person whose picture would appear in the local paper for years to come, his parents never put out of their misery, living with the indelible and misguided hope that one day he might re-appear on their doorstep like nothing had happened.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was after another cold night. John found little sanctuary in sleep but fortunately the hyperthermia experienced previously had been avoided. The blankets covering him, although providing minimal resistance to the cold, shivering as he did almost uncontrollably, prevented his body from experiencing the full effects of the evening temperatures.

As the sun gradually climbed through the sky, making its apparent ascent, the temperatures slowly increased until John's body stopped shaking.

The one advantage of the freezing temperatures was the numbing affect it had on his injured hand. But as his body thawed the pain returned. It ached and pulsed arriving in sync with every heart beat.

The blood dispatched to the injured area had turned his hand a variety of purples, blues and greens. The range of colour displayed in this small area was almost impressive. Comparing it with his other hand it was obvious how much it had swollen. There was something cartoonish about its appearance. It didn't look real. It looked a pantomime prop.

He started to shout for help. His yells and screams became a routine broken only by sleep. His throat was dry so it hurt to be vociferous but the situation required it. Pain was a hurdle that needed to be overcome.

He knew he couldn't give up hope. He knew it was necessary because it made his situation less terrifying. Convincing himself of his eventual and inevitable escape eased the fear.

He wondered how far the shouting would carry. He didn't know how much of the sound would be absorbed by the building. He hoped little.

After an hour or so throat hurt so much he was forced to take a break. Outside he could hear footsteps approaching. He hoped it might be a stranger or a policeman stumbling across his location but he was not in luck.

K, carrying a holdall burdening his weak and wiry frame, came through the door, an odd grin on his face.

He walked into the middle and put the bag down. As it hit the ground it made a confusing range of sounds, the physical nature of its contents not revealed. "Morning" he said politely as if greeting a neighbour over the fence.

"Fuck off" John replied. The fear K had brewed inside of him had all but disappeared. The pathetic shell of a man stood in front of him invoked nothing but hatred and loathing. John may have been many things but he found himself to be braver than he expected.

"That is no way to talk to someone"

"Well if you let me go maybe I will speak with more courtesy" John said with a snarl. K, desperate for John to fear him, knew he had to dissolve any will or fortitude he may have had left.

He knelt next to the bag and opened it. John peered intrigued but couldn't see inside.

K pulled out an old cassette player. It was black, although some of the colour had faded, with two cassette decks and a silver, extendable aerial.

K produced a tape and placed it in a deck and pushed play. At first there was nothing but a faint noise that was difficult to decipher. But when K turned the volume up the noise became clearer.

It was a woman screaming and not a B movie horror type of scream, but one clearly enticed by real fear. It was hideous and unsettling. The same scream which lasted between two and three seconds was repeated over and over.

K stopped the tape and pulled out two large photos. Both were of John's mother.

K propped the photos next to the cassette player and pressed play. The screams were difficult to identify such was the magnitude of horror in the victim's voice but John endeavoured to make them out nonetheless.

Surely it wasn't his mother. It didn't sound like her. The voice sounded younger.

K smiled at him with a grin defining his pleasure. He could see John trying to figure out whether the screams were his mother. His eyes darted from side to side as he attempted to remember a time his mother had screamed and what it might have sounded like.

It didn't sound like her but as long as the insinuation was there he couldn't help but panic.

John noticed K starring directly into his eyes. "That's not my mother is it?" he asked firmly. K shrugged, smiling like a child waiting to open his Christmas presents.

"It better not be or I swear I will fucking kill you!" John shouted.

"And how would you do that. You're tied to a chair John. Your whole existence is in my hands. Your threats mean nothing. You're like a vole trying to scare a lion. You are mine to do with as I please" he neared him as he spoke.

John said nothing in reply. He was certain it wasn't his mother. He may be suffering doubts but if he thought about it rationally, if he considered only the facts and the evidence in front of him, he could safely assume it wasn't her. He knew it. It was obvious. But that didn't stop him panicking. It didn't stop the onrush of fear, rage and feelings of guilt. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to know she was safe. He would have given anything to be allowed that small piece of information.

K pulled a bag of crisps out from his jacket, opened them and force fed them to John.

He resisted to begin with but eventually succumbed, his hunger getting the better of his anger. He then pulled a cheap energy drink from the bag, opened it and poured it into Johns mouth.

He put packet and can back in the bag and pulled out the rest of its contents.

There was a yellow file containing sheets of paper, a piece of wood, discoloured by exposure to the elements with a nail sticking though one end. There was a cordless drill, another sleeping bag which was old and tatty, a large container filled with water and a thin rope.

John couldn't help but stare at the cordless drill. K saw him looking at it so he bent down and picked it up. He pressed the trigger, the drill piece making a high pitched whirring noise as it rotated at several hundred RPM.

He stepped closer holding the drill in his left hand, bringing it slowly towards the side of Johns face.

He took great pleasure seeing the distress in his eyes. The fear he was able to induce encouraged him and for the first time in his life he knew what power and control felt like, what it was to have a hold of someone else, to know they were vulnerable to you and that your decisions could affect them in ways that theirs couldn't affect you.

It gave him a rush. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A sinister smile eased out across his face.

He liked how this made him feel. He liked the feeling of control, the knowledge that in this moment he meant something to somebody, that he mattered, that he could do things that affected a life.

Power is a realised desire. It roots itself in those seeking control, those who wish to command influence. In its purest form it is one individual stood over another exerting their choices upon them.

Here he was, a man previously forgotten, someone of no importance, a vessel for a life drifting along unnoticed, no more than that, exerting his force, his ideas, his will over another human being. He wasn't going to be ignored any longer. He was somebody, he mattered. He wasn't just another person drifting through life. He had a purpose, one he was now fulfilling.

John's pupils dilated as the drill neared him but, inches from John's head, it ran out of power.

K flicked the switch a few times in the hope it might re-start but it didn't.

He unclipped the power pack, walked over to the bag and replaced it with a spare he'd diligently packed.

John's momentary relief disappeared. Instead K picked up the rope and the container of water and began constructing a Chinese water boarding device.

He took the rope and tied it behind John on a hinge previously used to support a stable door. He threw the rope over a beam above Johns had so that it dangled above him.

Drilling two holes large enough to pass the rope through, he tied the container onto the rope. The torture device, although homemade and rather rough around the edges, was serviceable.

At the bottom of the container he'd made a small hole inserted with a rubber plug he'd was purchased from on-line chemistry lab supply Company. The hole was only a few millimetres in diameter, its circumference calculated to allow drops to form without the water flowing freely.

He needed the water to be dispersed evenly over a twelve hour period. When empty he would re-fill to enable the flow to be continuous.

K pulled the plug and stepped back, observing the tiny hole with great attention and excitement. John watched in silence. He was both intrigued and frightened as K went about his business meticulously.

"What the fuck are you doing?" John asked eventually.

"What does it look like I'm doing John? I'm creating a Chinese water boarding device. Isn't this fun?"

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?" John's voice began to show panic in the way his pitched varied, uncontrolled and erratic.

"You know perfectly well why I'm doing this!" K responded with intent, anger suddenly erupting from him like a volcano unexpectedly yielding to the powerful forces acting beneath it.

"It was all lies. I never did anything to her. I was always nice to her. She just lied to for her career can you not see that?" John pleaded

"She would never lie!" K slapped him across the face impulsively.

John wasn't hurt but he got the message. Maybe it was best to shut up? When he pleaded his innocence it only made things worse. But surely he couldn't give up pleading. He would never get out of this situation by sitting in silence and accepting his fate.

"She did lie. I have never mistreated her. Her agent told her to say those things to increase her exposure because he thought it would be good for her career. It was something they concocted together. I have never done anything to her you have to believe me. I would never hurt anyone. Do I look like the sort of person who would do that?" John tried to sound sincere. He needed to somehow get through to a man who had abandoned all rational thought in favour of delusion.

"She would never lie" he said, shaking his head slowly.

"How would you know, you don't even know her?" John replied.

"I do"

"Well have you ever met her?"

"No I haven't. I don't need to. I can feel her close to me. Our spirits our intertwined. Physical closeness is no substitute for spiritual closeness" K said, deluded into thinking it meant something tangible. He polluted his own mind with ideas based on a way of thinking he wouldn't otherwise employ.

He was, on the whole, rational and logical and often coldly so. But in a life spare of affection, love and relationships romantic or otherwise there was void that needed to be filled. One which this presenter, someone he had never met, never known, could never understand had stepped into.

"If you haven't met her then you haven't spoken to her. So if you haven't spoken to her how the hell can you know what she is like?" John was beginning to talk with greater calm. He hoped his words could pierce the fantasy K had created.

"Because I know her. You don't have to speak to someone to know them in your heart" K smiled as he said this, as if uttering these words gave him great pleasure.

"You may feel like that but she doesn't know you exist, trust me"

"She does!" K shouted, hitting John on his injured hand with a clenched fist.

John yelped like a wounded animal, the pain bursting up his arm and into his shoulder.

He clenched the fist of his uninjured hand, and grimaced, making noises through his closed mouth like a pregnant women pushing in labour.

K walked over to the bag. He knew he was right. His thought process, usually so coldly pragmatic and devoid of any emotional or empathetic influences, somehow allowed this whimsical fantasy. He didn't believe in an afterlife or any form of deity yet he somehow convinced himself that his soul and Taylors were linked eternally.

He had neatly slotted his fantasies into his metaphysical views on life without any consideration for the contradictions he was creating. To K he didn't need to justify himself to anyone else because the way he felt about Taylor and his observations of the world and how it functioned didn't need to be compatible, he considered them to be exclusive of each other despite this impossibility.

Belief in spite of contradictions is how we justify our behaviour. We want to do something so we do it, the results tied back to ideas that cannot exist alongside other ideas used to justify other actions.

K was no different to anyone else. He was forming a view on the world shaped only to justify what he wanted to do, what he wanted to believe.

He pulled a metal tin from his bag. John, though his eyes were half shut due to the pain, noted Ks movements. K placed the tin on the floor and took out a pair of heavy duty gloves and a white helmet with a plastic visor.

He put the gloves and helmet on and removed the tin lid carefully. He walked over to John ensuring none of the contents were spilt needlessly onto the floor.

He grabbed John by the wrist of his injured hand. John writhed around attempting to free himself from Ks grip but couldn't. K poured the liquid carefully onto John's hand.

As soon as it made contact vapour, the result of the reaction between the battery acid and John's skin, rose up. The acid instantly removed the top layer of John's skin and continued eating away at his flesh as it burnt through his hand.

John screamed like he'd never screamed before. The pain was so instant and so overwhelming he lost all control. In swift movements he vaulted forward and back in his chair.

His thought process narrowed. He could only think about the agony. His mind was overwhelmed with information from the nerves.

K walked calmly over to his bag like a veteran CIA agent torturing someone for information, feelings and emotion absent as a necessity.

He pulled out a two litre bottle of water and poured it over Johns hand to remove the acid.

That would be enough for today. He needed to keep John alive, at least for the time being.

John stopped screaming but continued to writhe in the chair. He couldn't take the pain anymore. He just wanted it to be over. He never wanted to feel pain like that again.

K sat down next to the bag and starred at him expressionless. Once John had settled K scanned the room contemplatively.

Johns hand was red and covered in huge blisters, its texture altered by the chemical reaction.

"Now John are you going to speak to me with a bit more honesty or would you like some more acid?" K said so calmly it was frightening. John's eyes darted across the room. He couldn't think straight. The pain, the terrific agony, persisted hindering his ability to process information.

He didn't want to speak. He just wanted this to stop. He could no longer construct a sentence because he didn't know where to start. He looked down at his hand and began to cry. He mumbled the occasional unintelligible sound through the tears. His shoulders began to shake as he sobbed like a man on the edge, a man close to giving up.

K ignored Johns sobbing. He didn't care. Inflicting pain was now performed with ease as he was able to detach himself. He had lost the ability to sympathise. The unique ability humans have developed to feel someone else's pain; a mechanism evolved for self preservation no longer functioned within K. His mental state allowed him to act without empathy like a tyrannically leader unmoved by suffering.

The burning sensation persisted. John couldn't take his mind off the pain. He was completely overcome by it. His teeth were gritted. Occasionally he would push air through his nose forcefully in short bursts as he battled against the sensations rushing up and down his arm.

K sat down and crossed his legs, watching studiously like a keen student as John struggled. He looked content in a way that he rarely did.

K had never been content at any point in his life. He'd always felt unsettled as if at any given moment something could happen that would make his life even more unbearable than it already was.

This sense of unease was always there, lurking in the background. He never felt settled or comfortable. He had never felt as if he had a place in this world. He had never considered himself as part of wider society but an alien within it, someone who didn't belong, someone who was defined differently.

But sat here, watching someone he thought of as pure evil get their rightful and necessary punishment, he felt at ease.

He pulled an elastic band out of his pocket and played with it, wrapping it around a finger until the blood supply was cut off. He watched it turn slowly from red to blue before releasing the impeded blood supply and moving on to another finger.

This was something he did as a child. With no siblings or friends he didn't have anyone to play with. Sometimes he would lie under his bed and imagine he'd been transported somewhere else, somewhere away from his aggressive father and unstable mother.

He would wrap string round his fingers until they went numb and watch the colour change. It took his mind off what was happening around him. It was an escape from the beatings and the arguments.

Eventually the pain began to settle and John's thoughts cleared. He knew it was hopeless. This wasn't someone who could be reasoned with. His views were warped.

He'd received the harshest physical abuse every time he'd angered him. For purposes of self-preservation he would avoid making him angry. He'd began to realise there was little hope in being rescued by a passerby. K was far too cold and calculating to have picked a location where this was a possibility.

His only hope was the police. This kind of person, someone with an obsession that dictated their life must have left clues in chat rooms or forums. Surely it was a matter of time before they stumbled across information linking his disappearance to K. And there was always conventional policing; Re-tracing steps, eye witnesses, vehicle sightings. He must have used some form of transportation to move him. If he'd been spotted at the time of his disappearance maybe, with the aid of a few eye witnesses, the vehicles route could be loosely mapped?

The desperation John felt had caused him to pray quietly. He mumbled and muttered things, imploring to a higher power he didn't believe in.

K watched John's lips subtly moving and wandered what was going through his mind.

Maybe he'd broken him. Maybe whatever will he'd had was gone.

K stood up and walked around the room to stretch legs that were somnolent from sitting down. He yawned. It wasn't a normal yawn, but a needlessly vociferous one produced as if to exaggerate the noise for some unknown reason.

"Please let me go" John pleaded. K ignored him and continued walking to increase the circulation.

"Please" John spoke with palpable desperation.

K didn't appreciate his tone. He felt vaguely sorry for him and this was not a reaction he desired. He didn't want to feel sympathy for this evil man, this man who had caused such pain, such suffering.

"Please let me go" John repeated. K was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He liked the screaming. He liked the yelps of pain. He liked the uncontrollable sobbing. He wanted to see John suffer physically not plea pathetically like someone held at gun point, desperate as their life was on the brink of ending. It created a connection to him on a human level and this was not something he wanted. It made him feel weak and vulnerable when he knew he needed strength and courage.

He walked over to his bag, placed the remaining items inside, and walked through the door checking it was locked as it was left.

He needed to get away. He needed to get some fresh air and clear his head. In this situation focus and concentration was essential. He couldn't show weakness, that he knew.

Edward made his way down a path winding its way through a small wood. Foliage was growing over it as it was no longer used as a public footpath. This made it difficult to define where it was and where it was going.

Above him clouds were darkening given a visible indication of their intent. He quickened his pace not wanting to be caught in a deluge.

He had always hated the rain ever since, as a small child, his father would make him do his outside choirs when it rained. Even if it was pouring down he would be forced outside coatless, his father insisting a real man wouldn't wear a coat.

As he made his way through the trees the rain began to come down, the clouds of condensation inevitably defeated by gravity. The trees sheltered him to an extent, but large droplets managed to work their way through the canopy above.

Edward began to run, something he did rarely as he was conscious of how awkward he looked, his legs flailing around with little coordination or control like a drunk man in a hurry.

He quickened his pace as the rain became heavier. He longed to see the end of the wood. Further down the path he reached the edge of the wood. Climbing over a small dry stone wall he made his way down a road until he reached the van which had been parked in the gateway to a field.

By now he was soaked through. His trousers were damp and uncomfortable so he changed into dry clothes before setting off.

He drove for a few miles to a village which had a quant teashop. He felt he needed a cup of tea.

The café was empty except for an elderly couple sat in the window, sipping tea and munching on scones. The woman behind the counter smiled politely as he made his way to a table in the corner. He tried to smile back only managed to force out a confusing expression that made him look even odder than he already did.

On the table was a menu on a small piece of lamented paper. It was cheap and tacky. A homemade construction using an old printer and crude 90s style images of cakes and drinks. He found it refreshing. It was different in a world of increasing technological advancement to have a menu that a small child with access to a PC could have bettered.

After a short period of time, long enough to have given the customer time to settle but not too long as to make him feel neglected, the waitress and proprietor came over. "Afternoon Sir. Are you ready to order?" She asked politely. "Yes can I get a bacon and sausage sandwich and a pot of tea?"

"Certainly" she said whilst noting his order with a small pen.

Edward waited patiently for his food to arrive. To the right of him was a notice board with information about the local area and upcoming events. He browsed through the notices reading them without taking anything in.

When the food arrived it was pleasant enough. He ate it quickly, but took time over the tea, sipping it between long intervals whilst he tried to gather himself. After half an hour or so, he felt composed so he paid and left, leaving a small but noted tip in a jar on the counter.

The short but fulfilling excursion left Edward feeling calmer and much to his delight the rain had stopped.

He drove back to the same place he'd parked previously. He hadn't passed another vehicle on the way there, something which further calmed him. He knew no one would ever find John but being cited still made him nervous.

Making his way back through the woods, the branches dripping water onto him from above, he noted how beautiful and tranquil a place this was.

Once you'd retreated a reasonable distance from the road you could hear only the sound of your own footsteps and the occasional movement created by the wind moving the branches.

Nature, in all its abundant majesty, was something to enjoy. Away from everything you could be who you really were. There was no reason to strive to be someone you weren't or mould an identity you felt you were required to blend in with everyone else.

You were at one with the world which created you, beyond the reaches of a society and a world manufactured by humans to fit a purpose no one would ever understand.

Once he'd reached the building, rather than immediately enter, he circled it several times, attempting to unnerve John.

Edward unbolted the door and K walked in, a smile forming as he saw John in a state of severe physical deterioration.

The retched sobbing and screams had stopped. He was tilting his head back, his eyes half closed. He looked vacant as if nobody was there, barely registering Ks entrance.

K lied down in front of John and shuffled into a comfortable position. John didn't even look at him. John was breathing heavily as if sleeping but he was still conscious.

K lied patiently watching him. Lack of any sustained hydration had left Johns his lips dry. Thick saliva, viscous and sticky, coated his mouth.

He occasionally moved his head from one side to the other, doing so to relieve the tension in the side of his neck needed to support his head.

He appeared dormant. He wasn't dead, he was alive, but he was no longer seemed to be there. He no longer appeared to be participating in life. He was like a coma victim lying in a constant state of physical and mental regression, neither dead nor alive, still in existence but only technically.

But beneath this physical frailty he was thinking. Some of the pain had subsided, it was by no means comfortable but he was able to think clearly.

He knew his greatest chance of survival was by being found as he was certain he couldn't escape. To increase his chances he needed to remain alive for as long as possible.

It was obvious that pleading his innocence wouldn't work. K was too delusional and caught up in the whims of his own imagination to let his opinion of what John had done be altered.

He doubted he could be bought off. That's not what this was about.

Pleading for forgiveness wouldn't help as it would be an admittance of fault.

He needed to minimise his anger. He needed to make every effort to avoid further physical punishment but how could he do that when confronted with someone who was unhinged, someone who had no grasp of what was appropriate and proportionate.

Then a spark. A memory ignited. He did not know where it came from or how it emerged but it formed into an idea, some piece of information unlocked from a vault in his memory shaped into something tangible, something he could use.

If he whispered a few words to K, a name perhaps, maybe intrigue would get the better of him, his natural curiosity pushing him to search for answers to a meaningless riddle.

Maybe it could work. Maybe whispering something vague and irrelevant to K would intrigue him enough to keep him alive. As long as he feigned injury and made sure he didn't appear able to elaborate further, as if on the cusp of death, his last words falling from his mouth, he might be kept alive and fed and given water to recuperate enough to yield information and relieve his captor of his curiosity.

He knew it was a long shot, he knew he was clutching at straws, but he needed to keep himself alive. He needed to avoid further suffering. The pain had been so great he wasn't sure if he could handle any more.

Amongst despair he found remnants of hope. He didn't want his life to end like this. He didn't want to die a nobody, a forgotten man rotting in a barn never to be found.

K stood and was about to leave when he heard John's croaky voice splutter out words through the pain. He walked over and bent down beside him.

At first he couldn't make out what he was saying. His voice was faint.

"Rollo Tomasi" John repeated ensuring his voice sounded weak. It was vital to appear on the point of physical annihilation. He knew that if he was in better health he would be forced to explain what he meant and his vague mutterings would achieve nothing.

"Rollo Tomasi" he said again.

K looked at him confused. "Rollo Tomasi" K repeated. John slowly shook his head to confirm and then pretended to drift off, closing his eyes as if he was sleeping.

K stood up and looked at him baffled. What did he mean? What did Rollo Tomasi have to do with anything? Was it a name? Was it something important or had the injuries and the resultant shock relieved him of his senses, his words now meaningless, simply the mutterings of a desperate man.

K knelt down and slowly shook John to wake him but his eyes didn't open. K checked his pulse to make sure he was alive. His heart was still beating.

K left the building and made his way down the path and into the wood. The sun was beginning to plummet towards the horizon. Under the canopy created by the branches of the surrounding trees it was difficult to see where he was going. Several times he almost tripped over, his feet hitting roots he could no longer make out in the poor light.

Once he reached the van, he jumped into the cab, tuned the radio to Radio three and let the calming tones of the classical music wash over him.

He enjoyed classical music. It wasn't something he listened to often but when he did he found it comforting like snuggling next to an open fire with a cup of cocoa.

K thought about what John had said. Was it significant? What did it mean? Was it something he should worry about? Was it something worth finding out about or researching?

Who was Rollo Tomasi?

Caught up in the intrigue he didn't consider the possibility of it being meaningless. Johns plan had to some extent worked. K was thinking about the irrelevant words as if it meant something as if they were cloaked in mystery.

The country roads winded back and forth, the heavy vehicle thrown from side to side.

He found driving at night tranquil. It relaxed him. Maybe when this was all over he would take long drives through the night to the coast and walk up and down the vacated peers of old seaside towns. It sounded like something he would enjoy. The quiet streets, rested in the evening from the pounding of tourists through the day. The sound of waves hitting the sand forming a blanket of background noise that soothed and relaxed.

He could take a flask of tea and find a spot on the beach out of reach of the night-time waves and sit in silence, gazing across an ocean lit only by light reflected from the moon.

If only he realised this version of his life, one he occasionally thought about in moments when he felt relaxed and at one with himself was so easily obtained. He could be happy. He could be content. There was enough for him here, enough to give him the joy we all seek. But he was ignorant of this truth. His mind would soon fill with images of her and he would feel a want that couldn't be met, misdirected desires and hopes that could never be realised.

What he needed and what he felt like he needed were separate. His happiness was lost the moment he'd been sold the idea of what his life should be like.

Arriving back at the flat he parked the van with expert precision. Back in his flat he made himself a sandwich. Taking it through to the living room he sat and ate it carefully.

His mind drifted back to that name. He rolled it round his head saying it over and over, his lips moving slightly in time with his internal monologue.

He needed to know what it meant. He had to find out.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Edward was kitted out in clothing that made him look like a backstreet boys reject. He was wearing a grey hoody with a meaningless emblem embossed in the middle, baggy jeans, huge bright white trainers and a New York Yankees cap turned backwards.

He was attempting to look young and cool, something he failed to do because he had no understanding of the whims of fashion and popular culture.

He drove the forty miles of his journey slowly, the speedometer never touching fifty Lengthy queues of cars formed behind him, each vehicle impatient with the hold up.

When he reached his destination he felt anxious. This was risky. He knew how potentially unwise this could turn out to be but at the same time, having considered it logically, he knew there was little chance of being caught. This wasn't something someone in his situation would do and therefore it wouldn't be expected.

He pulled into a parking space in front of the village post office and went inside. He browsed through the shop looking at the envelopes and stationary, finding the order with which they'd been arranged comforting. He liked order. It made him relaxed because it reduced uncertainty.

He approached the counter and purchased a book of stamps, something he did weekly despite never needing them. It was strange compulsion that stemmed from nowhere. He also liked buying road maps. He had fifteen copies of the same 2007 AA map, all, except one, untouched. It wasn't even his favourite road map as he found the colour coding particularly poor. His favourite was the 2012 RAC annual road map. It was exquisite.

Stuffing the stamps into his trouser pockets he set off down the street, visualising the layout of the village in his head.

The village was quant. The houses were old but well maintained. The affluence of the area revealed in the quality of cars which lined the streets. The vehicles of choice seemed to be BMWs, Audis and 4 by 4s that had never once been off-road, their primary function ignored like a book used as a doorstop.

This was middle England. Quiet comfort. A Tory stronghold. A place of unrelenting tedium yet desirable to almost everyone.

When he turned left he saw hordes of people congregating outside a house fifty metres away. As he approached he realised they were reporters which shouldn't have been a surprise.

Vans with television station logos were parked straddling the pavement. Bored camera and sound men stood nonchalantly around munching on insipid sandwiches and drinking coffee so strong it could make your heart skip a beat.

They looked uninterested. It wasn't the excitement and furore you would expect when the media suddenly descended on a small village. But, having been here for over twenty four hours, the cold and miserable weather not letting up, they were reduced to a group of haggard people wanting nothing more than a hot shower and a bowl of soup.

K approached nervously. He lowered his head so they couldn't see him as he made his way past.

At first the tired journalists weren't interested in the passerby but as soon as he turned up the path and began walking towards the house they suddenly jumped into action like a dog hearing a knock at the door.

He could hear them shouting questions in voices that all sounded the same. The reporters, trying to be heard, drowned each other out, their voices combining to produce nothing but a noise loud and indiscernible.

K knocked on the door as the journalists continued to shout questions at him and thrusting their cameras towards him, their interest peaked, their lethargy forgotten.

An elderly woman shouted from behind the door. "I've told you lot to go away and leave us in peace. I'll call the police if you don't get off my property. You're all vermin, the whole lot of you. You should be ashamed harassing an elderly couple like this. Just go away, please". She tried to sound forceful but couldn't manage it. She just didn't have the voice for it.

"Hi Mrs Dobson. I'm not a journalist I'm an old uni friend of Johns. I've just popped round to see if there is anything I can do for you. If there is anything I can help out with?" K said imitating sincerity.

Then he heard a bolt being slid across the door and it opened revealing an elderly woman worn out to the point of exhaustion, wearing an apron and some blue slippers.

She smiled at K and gestured for him to come in. He smiled back as best as he could and followed her.

The house smelt of cakes and fresh bread. She showed him through to the kitchen where he found the source of the smell, the windowsill lined with cakes recently baked and still in their tins.

To take her mind off the agony caused by the abduction of her only child she had baked without pausing for the last twenty four hours. John's dad, looking for a similar distraction had been in the shed for last ten hours taking apart his vintage lawnmower piece by piece and cleaning each component until they glistened like the day it rolled off the production line.

"Would you like a cup of tea dear?" she asked Edward, her eyes cupped with dark skin through lack of sleep.

"Yes that would be lovely" Edward replied

"Sorry dear I forgot to ask you what your name is? My head has been all over the place these last few days with everything that's been going on. I don't know whether I'm coming or going" she looked at him, expecting an answer but Edward just starred at her.

As meticulous as he usually was he'd forgotten to plan an appropriate alias.

"Erm. Michael Fish" he said, regretting spluttering this out but unable to draw the words back into his head.

"Michael Fish?" John's mother asked, looking perplexed.

"Yes Michael Fish. No relation to the weather reporter" he added.

"I bet people ask you that all the time don't they love? Bless you". Edward smiled at her as if in pain.

He was unused to conversations with other people. He felt uncomfortable and awkward. He rubbed his hands together nervously unsure how to act or behave. This wasn't him. This wasn't what he did. He had spent his adult life avoiding people, resisting conversations and refusing small talk.

But here he was talking to the mother of the person he'd kidnapped, hoping for answers to a question he barely understood.

"Where do you live Michael?" she enquired as she poured boiling water into a teapot.

"Chapingdom"

"Really" she responded as if this was a miraculous piece of information.

"My sister June, she's dead now god bless her soul. Used to go out with someone whose brother lived in Chapingdom. It's a small world isn't it" Edward nodded, unable to respond to something so irrelevant he had no idea how it could be noteworthy.

After the tea had finished brewing it was poured into her best china as Edward was a guest. She handed him a cup which he took trying to feign gratitude, his mouth pushed up into a smile that was almost a grimace.

"This whole business with John, I just can't get my head around it. Neither of us can. It's just such a shock you know. The police have been very good to us and everything but you can see from the look in their eyes they haven't got a clue where he is. I know they're trying their best but sometimes it's just not good enough is it? I mean what happens if they never get any leads or clues, does my John just disappear forever? I just don't know what to do with myself. I keep on worrying some officer is going to come walking up the path, knock on the door and tell me they've found him dead. I don't know what I would do if that happened, I really don't. He's my baby boy you know. My little prince. I wouldn't be able to cope if I never saw him again. I really don't think I'd be able to carry on. A mother shouldn't outlive her son. A mother shouldn't have to bury her own child".

A tear formed in the corner of her eye as she spoke. She was visibly shaken. Her lip began trembling and her hands were shaking as she lifted the cup to her lips. She was in a state. She wasn't coping.

But Edward was unmoved. John was getting what he deserved. He had no sympathy for him or his family because this was justice and justice was important. It didn't bow to the pain of the people involved but was concerned only with what was right and good. And Edward, feeding himself lies and believing without due consideration or self awareness that he was able to define what was right and therefore administer the justice that was necessary.

"Did you say you knew John from university?" she asked, wiping the tears away from her eyes with her cardigan sleeve.

"Yes. We were on the same course, sociology".

Edward had done his research. He knew the course he had studied, which halls he'd lived in, the names of his friends and their hangouts. He knew he should be prepared and this is why he was annoyed he failed to create a suitable alias. Mistakes like this should be avoided. He couldn't allow another slip up because that could undermine everything he had been working towards.

"That's nice. Were you good friends? He never used to tell us much about university. He was still in his quiet sulky faze at that point"

"Yes we were very close. I lived next door to him on Cavenor street in the second year" K pictured the list of details he'd memorised. He was determined to get through each of them to provide his stories with irreproachable credibility.

"Have you got any stories about him? I'd love to hear them if you do. He never used to tell us much you see. Would be nice if I could hear what he was like". She leaned forward looking at Edward imploring him to say something, hoping he could reveal details of her son so she could remember him in happier times and form a picture to replace those currently in her mind of the pain she feared he may be suffering, a John lost and scared.

Edward gathered himself and, clearing his throat, began creating a story on the fly. "Well John, I don't know if you knew this, was really into magic when we were at university"

"Really, I can't imagine that. John into magic. Well I suppose he always liked to perform and magic is just a performance isn't it?" she interjected smiling, believing she was learning new things about her son and his life.

"Yes. He loved magic. He had a massive poster of Paul Daniels in his room"

"Did he? I can't remember seeing that when we came to visit" she said. Edward panicked. He wasn't expecting to have to regale stories of their fictional friendship. He presumed a few important details to provide evidence they'd known each other would be enough.

"He did but security told him he had to take it down because they found short magicians creepy". John's mother shook her head in agreement as if that made sense. Edward, took another sip from his tea, grimaced and continued.

"One day, after seeing a magician perform at the student union, he went to a second hand book shop on Faulkner Street and bought himself a magic book. He started off with simple card tricks. Then he got more confidence and began doing tricks for friends and performing at the bar in the union. Eventually he began to really immerse himself in the whole thing. He started reading magic books and missing lectures to read them in the library. He became fascinated with Houdini. I remember one day we were down in the bar drinking Kronenberg, which was his favourite beer, and he talked about attempting a Houdini escape trick. He said card tricks were all well and good but that's all they were, just tricks. What Houdini did was real. He didn't pretend he was part of some mystical process. He didn't act like there was some force beyond our comprehension guiding him to the card in the middle of the pack when really he knew which card it was because he'd put it there. He was escaping from situations that were real. There was no magic. There was no trickery. There was no deception. What you saw was exactly what happened. At first we thought he was going crazy. We liked to have a laugh and get drunk but we still did our work and John was beginning to really slip behind but he seemed so enthusiastic about it. We thought maybe it was a phase. Another fad. Anyway so he decided that he was going to attempt an escape so one night we go down to an old barn on an abandoned farm a few miles from town where John has told us to meet. He brought with him a chair and some chains and one of those brown, fabric bags. We went into the barn and he sat down on the chair and put the bag over his head. He said that we had to chain him up as tight as we could manage and leave him there and in two hours he'd turn up the union bar. One of our friends, Johnny Devon, asked what the point was. Escape artistry has to involve some element of danger like water or fire. But it was winter and as John pointed out he only had a t-shirt on and would probably die of pneumonia if he didn't escape in less than five hours. So we chained him up and went back to campus but we weren't stupid. We knew there was a big chance he wouldn't get out so we decided we'd have a few beers and then go back in a couple of hours. When we got back there he was still in the bag writhing about like a mad man. The only problem was he hadn't counted on needing to go to the toilet and had wet himself. His trousers were soaked through. So we unchained him and took him back to halls. Needless to say he never did any magic tricks again. I don't think he ever lived that down"

"What a silly boy. He was always getting into scrapes as a child. I remember he once set of a fire alarm at school because he was tired and didn't want to do PE. He was a little tyke. The headmistress was so angry. I said to her my little John was just being creative and taking the initiative. I said she should be praising people for thinking on their feet, not telling them off. But the old bat wasn't having any of it. I never did like her. She was always smelt of car wax".

For a moment there was silence as they both finished their tea. John's mother stared blankly out of the kitchen window, her mind filled with too many thoughts to process.

"Would you like to see some pictures of him?" she enquired with a mother's eagerness to show off their children as if people are interested. Edward moved his head up and down slowly in response.

She scuttled off into another room bringing back a box filled with photo albums, the strain of which had caused the sides to begin parting. She pulled out a red photo album with gold lettering on the outside and opened it in front of Edward.

"This was at his second birthday. He was such a beautiful boy. Had such lovely hair". She turned the pages looking at each picture with great fondness. This was for her benefit. Deep down she knew she may have already lost her son and she wanted to remember him, to immerse herself in memories of better times.

Edward only pretended to look at the pictures as they made him feel sick. He hated this man. He hated what he had done. He had no desire to look at pictures of a monster in the making.

He tried to fane enthusiasm. He made facial expressions he felt were appropriate but it was hard to mask his true feelings. Johns mother however, wrapped up in her own world, staring at the photos of her little boy with both joy and sadness, did not notice Edwards reaction to them. She was lost in her own memories.

Eventually Edwards's facial muscles began to ache from the fake grinning so he excused himself and went upstairs to use the bathroom. As he reached the top of the stairs he noticed an open door and wondered if it might be John's room.

He peered round the corner to investigate. There was a single bed in the corner with Tottenham Hotspur bedding. Edward knew from his research that Spurs were John's team. On a shelf on the nearside wall trophies were lined up side by side. Edward walked up to them and read the tiny inscriptions on their bases. They were all for sporting achievements, something Edward immediately dismissed as irrelevant as he considered sport a waste of energy, a needless activity designed primarily as an outlet for the testosterone.

He used to hate the end of year assembly's when the sporty boys would get their awards and trophies for running around muddy fields on cold January mornings achieving nothing but successfully moving a ball from one place to another.

He had never understood the adoration granted to these imbeciles. They achieved nothing with their physical prowess. They never endeavoured to help the human cause, their natural gifts were never put to constructive use yet they were acclaimed more than those endeavouring to do something useful.

Edward looked through the drawers in his desk, searching for a clue as to what John had meant, some indication as to the significance of the name Rollo Tomasi. Apart from a few photos, some stationary and magazines they were empty.

Looking though his cupboards he found nothing of interest. All they contained was clothes and the odd computer game and playing card lost from the pack.

Disappointed at the lack of information his bedroom had yielded he headed back downstairs to resume the banal conversation with Johns mother.

"You ok dear" she said as Edward walked back into the kitchen.

"Yeah fine" he said and sat back down.

"Would you like some cake, it's been baked fresh this morning?" she asked holding a tin in front of him containing slices of what looked like fruit cake.

Edward hated fruit cake but to appease her he took a piece and began eating it slowly.

"Can I ask you something?" he enquired, still finding it difficult to look her in the eye. "Yes of course dear" she said politely.

"It's just something John said to me a few months ago when I was talking to him. He mentioned someone called Rollo Tomasi and I don't know what he meant. Have you any ideas? Does that name mean anything to you?"

She looked at Edward as she considered it before shaking her head. "Sorry dear. I've no idea who that is"

"Are you sure? You can't think of anybody with that name. It's just it might be important. You know to his disappearance. I mean I don't know that obviously but you never know do you? Anything could be important" he said looking her in the eye, wanting her to reveal information that would put his mind at rest.

She took a moment to think about it. She strained as she searched through her available memories, trying to extract something of use but it meant nothing to her. "I'm really sorry but I've no idea. I've never heard of a Rollo Tomasi. Maybe it was someone he used to work with?"

Edward was becoming frustrated. He needed answers.

"Are you sure? Please try. It could be important".

As he starred at her with intent she noticed for the first time just how odd he appeared. His face looked as if it had been assembled from the features of different people. There was no proportion to his features. They seemed out of place, random, unrelated to each other.

She began feeling uncomfortable. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel nervous. His eyes restless, constantly darting from one side to the other, never fixed on one spot. It made her feel uneasy. "

I'm sorry dear. It means nothing to me"

He looked frustrated. He starred at his feet and exhaled loudly. She no longer wanted him in the house. There was something about him that wasn't quite right. "Anyway sorry love but I really need to get on. It was nice meeting you. Thank you for coming round. I'll show you out".

She stood up and waited for him to leave.

He rolled his eyes and pushed the sleeves of his hoody up his arms. He stood up and walked to the front door. "Bye" she said without looking at him. He left without responding.

The reporters were gathered at the gate, swarming around the premises like a plague of locusts. Their intent all too obvious as they jostled for position, shoving each other and fighting for a better view of Edward as he left the house.

They had no idea who he was. They were ignorant of his connection to John or the family but he was here, he'd fallen into the story and so they wanted a piece of him, a picture, a comment, anything they could use.

Edward put his head down and pushed through the rabble as they closed in on him, cameras in hand.

"Are you a family friend?" short women shouted whilst trying to jam a microphone into his face.

"What's your name sir?" a tall man with terrible side burns bellowed in a brummie accent as he pushed through the crowd.

Edward, head lowered, cap obscuring their view of his face, continued fighting through until he eventually emerged on the other side.

They continued down the street, pacing alongside him shouting questions and pointing their microphones towards his face.

The reporters formed a crowd that acted as a single entity. A barrage of similar questions was thrown in his direction, each reporter wanting the same thing, just a shred of information they could take back to the office, something they could use.

When he reached the van they stood around it, the cameras pointing towards him. They circled the vehicle creating a human perimeter. He turned the engine on, revved it like a teenager waiting at traffic lights and drove away almost knocking over one of the sound men.

In his mirror he could see the crowd running down the street in pursuit of a vehicle they couldn't possibly catch. They were desperate. They needed something. They were like hungry wolves after a cold winter hunting for anything they could feed upon. They knew not what they were. They knew not what they were about. Their understanding of themselves and what they were apart of was a mystery to them. All they understand was motives and outcome.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

John couldn't sleep. Even though he was physically exhausted he failed to drop off because his mind wouldn't shut down. He'd made a deal with himself that whatever happened he wouldn't give up, that he would carry on until the bitter end.

He'd spent the night shouting for help. He realised, given his current position, this was the only pro-active action he could pursue. It may only increase his chances of being found by a fraction but that was more than enough to make it worthwhile.

He hoped the police had something to go on. He began re-tracing his steps once again building a mental picture of what had happened on the night he'd been abducted. Surely there must be something to go on? It was implausible he could have been adducted without Edward leaving at least some evidence for a competent detective to work with.

As careful and as meticulous as he may have been no one in a densely populated country such as this could kidnap someone without leaving a trace, some tiny piece of information that, once discovered, could shed new light on an investigation, that could provide enough evidence to point towards an assailant. John could only hope as hope was all he had.

For the rest of the morning he dozed. He was too tired to stay awake. His body needed rest and although he tried to fight it, fatigue won in the end.

Towards midday K arrived to find John snoring loudly, a noise he found repugnant. He was carrying a small rucksack having abandoned the holdall. It had been a huge effort dragging it from the van so, despite its storage space advantages, he no longer considered it a viable option.

He placed the bag on the floor without diverting his gaze from John. He strode over and grabbed his chin, moving his face from side to side. John woke but tried to limit the physical reaction to his surprise. He continued in his attempts to feign injuries worse than those he had sustained.

He murmured whilst he was being examined. He kept his eyes shut and allowed his head to be moved without resistance.

When K had finished he went back to his bag and pulled out glucose syrup contained in bright blue sachets.

He opened John's mouth with his left hand, pulling his jaw down with his thumb whilst pressing against the top lip with his forefinger to keep it in place. He pushed the contents of two of the sachets into his open mouth and then tilted Johns head back until he heard him swallow.

He then produced a bottle of water and followed the same procedure, being carefully to pour the liquid into his mouth steadily, ensuring no sudden gushes that might cause John to cough or splutter.

John, his throat dry and soar from an evening's bellowing, found the water a welcome relief. It wasn't cold but the refreshing sensation it produced as it passed down his throat was one of the nicest feelings he'd ever experienced.

It's the simple things in life we appreciate most when they haven't been available to us.

Water, a significant and necessary molecule for survival, can be the most glorious of discoveries in the right circumstances. John was beginning to understand and appreciate this.

After the water and glucose had been consumed K knelt in front of John.

K grabbed hold of Johns jaw with his left hand. He forced Johns left eye open by rolling the eyelid upwards with his right thumb.

John stared ahead, trying to remain unresponsive. K took a pen from his pocket and hovered it an inch or two from John's eye. He made vague stabbing motions towards the pupil being certain not to make contact.

John's eye moved in response to the motion. He tried to control the movement of his pupils but he couldn't, his reflexes overcame what his mind was telling his body to do.

K understood what was going on. John was faking. He was feigning the extent of his injuries in order to save himself from further punishment. This was clear.

"I know you're in there John" K said. John continued the pretence like an arrested man persisting with a story everyone knows doesn't add up.

"Do you think I was born yesterday John"

Still no response.

K pulled out a bar of metal out from his bag. In the end he'd drilled six small holes. In each hole he'd pushed through two inch nails which were held in place by a small piece of metal he'd welded over the top of them.

John eyes still shut, persisting with the pretence, could only hear what was happening.

"Why don't you start talking John" K said, lowering his voice. John could sense he was trying to sound intimidating as he had done before. This concerned him. What was he doing?

John, knowing his plan had fallen apart, desperately tried to think of a response.

"Rollo Tomassi" John whispered quietly, rolling his head from side to side as he spoke. He then mimicked a cough. He let his head flop to the side, unsupported as it hung next to his left shoulder.

"What do you mean? Who is that!" K shouted. John did little to respond.

"I know you're fine John. I know your faking. You can't pull the wool over my eyes".

But there was nothing else John could do. He was in a hopeless situation.

"If you don't answer me soon John you will feel pain like you've never felt before" K sounded sinister. His tone changed. The anger, that raw, repressed anger was bubbling to the surface again.

John sensed a change in him. He sounded like he had done yesterday. The hate was in his voice. You could hear it.

John's heart raced. He knew what was coming but he had no way of preventing it. He was like an animal caught in a trap; he was helpless to prevent whatever it was his captor decided to do with him.

He felt tension in his face. His cheeks pulled tight. His eyes were still shut but he could hear K approaching.

John could hear his breathing. It had been regular but now he was pushing air firmly through his mouth, his lungs exhaling with greater and greater force like a bull before a charge.

K picked the wooden object up above his head and held it there for a moment before bringing it hurtling down, assisted by gravity. The nails lodged themselves into John's leg just above the knee.

John's eyelids burst open, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets in response to the pain.

He screeched. The low rumbling shouts of pain he had delivered yesterday replaced with a higher pitched noise.

The nails were lodged in Johns flesh. K had to apply more force than he'd anticipated removing the bar from John's leg, pulling harder and harder to overcome the resistance of Johns muscle tissue contracting around the nails.

Pulling the weapon out was more painful. It felt as though half of his leg had been removed with it.

K looked with glee at the nails dripping with John's blood. It was a bright, crimson colour, the freshness of it immediately apparent.

John couldn't stand any more of this. "Help me!" he shouted amongst the screams of agony but this only angered K.

K, without realising the futility of such an action, slapped John across the face. "Help!" John continued to shout.

K picked the metal bar back up above his head and, with as much force as his poorly formed arms could muster, brought the object down at the same spot. John screamed again, this time at a lower pitch.

In a moment of madness and acting purely on instinct, John spat in Ks face. This act of disrespect displeased K. He felt like a mafia boss who hadn't been shown the proper and expected respect.

He picked the bar up above his head for the third time, bringing it down with even more force as if the other two had merely been a warm up.

As the weapon came hurtling towards Johns leg one of the nails in the top right caught the rope tied around John's left hand slicing a number of the strands that intertwined to form the structure.

K was so full of hate and rage, so concentrated on inflicting pain that, even though this would have been noticeable, the deflection reverberating up the shaft of the bar as it glanced off the rope, he didn't notice.

John screamed. He tried to stifle the noise by clenching his teeth but this was redundant, his mouth opened by the force of his body wanting to respond to the pain.

K stepped back and watched John. He was to enjoying this. It was exactly how he imagined revenge would feel like. Contentment had finally been realised diminishing the mental anguish and emotional torture caused by John actions.

He felt freed from a burden he'd been carrying. He felt relieved, he felt vindicated.

He liked this feeling, he liked it a lot. Maybe this drive for revenge, this settling of scores could be extended to others. Maybe all those who had wronged him the past could suffer to. The bullies from school, the unkind teachers, the family members who dismissed him as if he was nothing, maybe it was time they paid for their crimes.

John was squirming in the chair, trying to fight the pain, hoping it would disappear. He just wanted to feel normal again. He couldn't bare this any longer. It was too much for one man to suffer and what made it more intolerable that he did not know when it would be over.

How could he cling on, how could he have any semblance of hope when he didn't know how long this would last for?

K was satisfied that John had suffered enough for the time being. In a triumphant mood he took a large, Cuban cigar from his bag.

The cigar had been stolen from a former colleague, Ethan. It had been bought by his colleague's brother on a trip to Cuba and was being saved, so he told everyone, for the birth of his second child who was expected shortly after it was received.

K hated Ethan with a passion. The hate was partly born of jealousy and partly because of the way he treated K. He made him feel small in front of colleagues with unfunny putdowns people found amusing. Most only laughed because he was an Alpha male and therefore they sought his approval like children giggling at the physical harm inflicted by a bully.

One evening K left work early making sure it was known he was doing so. A few hours later he came back in through a side entrance to avoid the security guard at the front desk. He stole the cigar from his draw then left through the same side door.

The next day, when the item was discovered missing, Ethan was incensed. Without reason to believe it would have been someone he worked with he assumed it was one of the early morning cleaners. K was both relieved and pleased with himself. He took great satisfaction wiping the smile off his almost permanently smug face.

K tried to light it with some matches but struggled. After several failed attempts he held out the unfamiliar object and starred at it puzzled.

He'd never smoked a cigar before and didn't realise the end needed to be cut off. He sucked and sucked on it until it became damp from his saliva. Put off by this he gave up and tossed it onto the ground exasperated and disappointed, cursing his life because of another failed promise.

The cigar had removed the sheen off his day but, scanning John's injuries and watching his jeans slowly soak with the blood seeping from his fresh wounds, the feeling of triumph returned.

He sat and watched him. He enjoyed viewing John like this, injuries obvious, pain etched into his contorted features.

K was getting hungry and decided to pay another visit to the quant café he had visited the day before. In a mood that couldn't be altered, he set off, whistling tunes out of key as he walked. The notes formed eventually fading as he disappeared into the murky, overcast day.

John felt relief once he'd gone. With K absent there was time for recovery. The pain in his leg was gradually subsiding. In comparison to the acid burns it was nothing/

He would normally be squeamish at the sight of so much blood but, given the circumstances, it was an irrelevance. It would be like watching your house burn down and worrying about the uneaten food perishing.

Looking down at his leg he noticed the rope tied around his left hand was frayed. He tugged with his arm back and forth to examine it.

Before it had been taut, binding him tightly to the chair so that he could move his arm only a matter of millimetres but now there was some give. Only a small percentage of the rope had been cut but it was enough to have weakened it, the structural integrity of the knot compromised.

John pulled his arm back and forth in swift motions, tugging at the rope to loosen it further. He knew this was an opportunity for escape however slight it might be.

A man who was broken, a man who had been clinging on to the last shreds of hope had been relieved of the despair that was suffocating his will to carry on. The situation no longer appeared so abject. He finally had a real and genuine chance of escape.

The more he pushed and pulled his arm forwards and back the more the knot began to loosen. He started yanking his arm up and down rigorously, trying to replicate the motion and control used when sawing a piece of wood; Long, steady and forceful movements with a smooth rhythm.

He continued with this motion for two hours. His persistence was remarkable. Spurred on by a primal instinct to survive he worked the rope continuously and without rest.

He knew this was his chance. He knew if he could loosen the rope enough he might be able to pull his hand through and free himself.

With every passing minute the knot loosened. Eventually he was able to pull his hand through the binding.

The pain from the friction of his skin against the rope was excruciating. His hand burnt by the acid, the fresh layers of skin sore and exposed, scrapped painfully underneath the rope. He gritted his teeth and grimaced.

Once his hand was free he paused and gathered himself. He lifted his left hand as he tried to fight back the pain.

He untied the knot from around his right hand. This was more difficult than he expected. The knot was tight and only able to use his injured left hand, trying to undo it was almost impossible.

Outside he thought he heard somebody. He paused for a moment, his heart racing, sweat streaming down his forehead. He listened. What was it? Was K back? Listening with great concentration he realised it was the wind outside unsettling nearby branches. He carried on.

When the knot began to loosen John felt a huge sense of relief. Maybe this ordeal would soon be over. He undid the rope that tied his feet to the chair and stood up almost falling straight to the floor.

Through lack of use his legs had become weak. Much of the muscle had wasted leaving him with little strength to support his own weight which was not helped by the injuries sustained to his right leg.

Walking like a man who'd consumed several special brews, he stumbled to the door but it was locked. He pulled the handle as hard as he could. He turned it and yanked it back and forth but it was no use.

He knew K locked the door when he left. In a state of both panic and excitement he'd neglected this small but crucial piece of information. There was no way for him to get out of the building as the door was the only exit.

The only realistic chance of escape would be to wait for K to return, let him open the door and come through before jumping him.

John was severely injured. He was weak and in no condition to fight. However he had the element of surprise on his side and K looked weak and feeble.

Now John had to play the waiting game. He sat down next to the door and tried to find a comfortable position. He manoeuvred his body, shifting his weight from one side to the other attempting to find a position that didn't hurt his badly injured body. Eventually he stretched both of his legs out and sat up against the wall, his back pushed up against the cold stone.

He felt his eyes getting heavy. He needed sleep badly. He could easily have drifted off but he knew he had to stay awake. It was imperative. If K arrived finding him asleep his chances of escape would be over.

His eye lids grew heavy. He could feel them closing, his head slowly dipping forward before he forced them back open.

He tried to keep his mind active whirling irrelevant thoughts around his mind. He day dreamed about his favourite restaurant, Cellinos, and how much he would love to go there and devour every item on their menu.

He fantasised about their Veal and polenta. He was so hungry he could almost taste it. The texture, he could feel it as if it was on the tip of his tongue. The smell, that deep aroma, meaty and with fragrant herbs and pungent garlic as if the plate was in front of him.

He longed for his old life. He longed for everything he had known, all the luxuries once taken for granted were desired with an intensity he had never felt before.

Eventually he could fight sleep no longer and his eyes slowly shut. A smile broadened across his face as he drifted into dreams about his old life and all the trivial things that he missed.

When he woke he was sweating and felt nervous.

He panicked until he realised K wasn't there and everyone was fine.

He felt refreshed. The sleep had done him some good but he had to stay awake, it was imperative regardless of how badly his body craved the rest.

In the distance he could hear the familiar sound of Ks approach. With great difficulty he stood up and steadied himself. Realising for the first time that the chair could be used as a weapon he quickly scuttled over and picked it up.

The steps were getting louder and louder as K neared the building. John felt the tingling of nerves. Adrenaline coursing through his veins made him more alert and it numbed some of the pain making him feel stronger and more physically capable.

He had positioned himself behind the door so that, as it opened, he would be hidden from view.

He could hear the door being unlocked, the mechanisms inside the lock grinding together as they were turned by the key.

The door opened and K took a few small steps inside scanning the empty room. John lifted the chair above his head with until both arms were straight and brought it crashing down, striking K on the back of the head. K fell to the floor making no sound.

John looked down at him. He was drowsy but not unconscious. John picked the chair back up above his head and struck him again with less force but greater accuracy.

One of the legs hit K clean on the nose. Blood gushed from it as if suddenly released like water escaping through a damaged pipe.

K put his hand on his nose and wiped some of the blood away starring up at John just as he brought the chair down for a third time.

It was a relatively heavy, pine chair with thick legs and seat making the impacts against Ks body effective. K spluttered blood out of his mouth as he attempted to plead. John continued to hit him over the head with the chair, Ks arms flailing above his head, employing vague preventative but pointless motions.

John carried on the fear from his eyes replaced with the madness of rage.

When he finally stopped K was unconscious, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.

The serious of blows, although significant, were not life threatening. K was still breathing but he was in a bad way. He would have significant bruising and possibly fractures. He would not walk with ease. He would not get away.

John tossed the chair on the floor. Blood was smeared on its legs. Taking one last look at K he made his way out the building and into the outside world.

The sun was shining brightly from its low, winter position. The strength of the light coupled with John's lack of exposure to it made him squint, unable to open his eyes fully.

He tried to establish where he was. He scanned the surrounding area looking for some indication, some little clue as to where he should head.

The building was on its own surrounded by oak and ash trees. He was in a small clearing maybe thirty metres across. He walked to its perimeter and looked for a path.

In front of him he saw what appeared to be a track running below the trees and vegetation that grew around them. It was overgrown but it was the only possible route away from here he could see.

When the adrenaline wore off he found it difficult to walk. His left knee was in great pain and his wasted legs were struggling to support his weight. Every so often the breeze lightly swayed the branches of the trees above and John panicked worrying it was K coming after him.

He worried that he should have tied him up. Surely that would have been the sensible thing to do, immobilise him so John would definitely get to safety without chase. But in the heat of the moment it wasn't something he considered. A mind driven by fear seldom acts rationally.

He quickened his pace, lengthening his stride and puffing deep breaths of air out through his dry mouth. He had to get away. He had to be sure he wouldn't catch up to him.

The pain was becoming too much but he knew he had to continue, he knew he had to get to safety.

He hobbled as he walked, his right leg pulling him along while his left leg dragged behind. His face contorted. He grimaced and pulled odd expressions as his facial features gave indication of the pain.

The path became difficult to navigate and the harder his journey seemed the more paranoid he became that he could hear K behind him, closing in on him.

Finally when he reached the end of the path and emerged from the trees he felt an eruption of emotions he could barely comprehend.

He had no idea what to feel. He couldn't understand. He couldn't think. His mind toiled with ideas and feelings that past him so quickly, that vanished and re-appeared without sense, his only reaction was to sob.

Then he pulled himself together. The tears stopped. His shoulders ceased to move up and down. He looked up at the sky and admired it. It was a deep, bluish grey, black clouds drifting slowly across it and in that moment he felt joy like he had never experienced before.

He had never starred in awe at nature as many did. He ignored it. It was irrelevant to him. But here, in this place, in these circumstances his outlook changed as if a new John had emerged. The old John dead, abandoned in the stone building he had fled.

Looking across the horizon he could see buildings in the distance nestled into the side of a hill, smoke bellowing from their chimneys as people snuggled in front of open fires.

It was civilisation. It was people.

On the other side of a stone wall there was a main road. His hope had not been in vain. He had escaped. He would be fine, this ordeal would end and he would live and live some more.

He clambered over a stile. His weakened body shifted from one side to the other with great effort and little poise as he groaned and dragged limbs awkwardly.

In the distance he could hear a car. He smiled and threw his head back. He exhaled, his eyes lost in the grey emptiness above.

As the car approached he stuck out a hand but the driver carried on as if he wasn't there.

A couple of minutes later another vehicle approached, an elderly gentleman perched close to the wheel peering studiously at the road in front. John, desperate to be picked up, stepped out onto the tarmac hoping to force the driver to stop but he swerved around him and carried on regardless.

John walked down the side of the road picking a direction of travel on a whim.

He looked across the fields, the rolling hills crisscrossed with a patchwork of squares all different colours, farmed to provide a country with more food than it could ever need.

Migrating birds flying in an arrowhead formation passed above. He looked at them contemplating questions he wouldn't usually ask.

He looked at nature. He absorbed it and for the first time he understood its importance. He felt freed from a life defined by urban living, a life that had seemed like his only choice. Maybe there was another way. Maybe he could change.

A minivan appeared from a bend. As it approached it slowed. John smiled and waved thinking they were stopping to help. The passenger in the front having noticed who it was wound his window down, poked his head out and shouted "Have a great weekend, we will" through the open window, a catchphrase of Johns from a TV show he'd presented.

Having delivered the pointless quote the van sped off, the passengers inside laughing heartily, congratulating themselves on their ability to remember.

Johns head fell. What was he supposed to do? He bemoaned society, what it had become, how people failed each other. He did not possess the self awareness to realise he, given the same circumstances, wouldn't have stopped. He would have viewed it as an inconvenience, an unnecessary complication to his journey.

We expect people to make choices that we don't ask of ourselves. We see the world through our own eyes establishing a narrative shaped by our experiences, our emotions. How we apply right and wrong, how we evaluate morality isn't fixed. It floats and changes. We don't define it because that limits the blame we can place on our own actions.

John, head bowed, continued to walk. When vehicles passed he waved at them frantically but no one stopped.

Above the sky darkened. Cracks of lightening filled the air with low rumbles.

Twenty minutes later, exhaustion almost defeating him, he arrived at a village. He looked at the buildings and hoped this would be the end.

Up ahead he saw a sign for a cafe and ambled towards it. He peered inside. There was a solitary customer, an elderly man sat in the corner reading a paper through heavy glasses, a cup of tea on the table, a dog at his feet. John pushed through a heavy, dark green door which creaked as it moved.

Behind the counter a middle aged women with hair pulled into a ponytail so tight it made the skin on her forehead stretch, starred at him, her lips pursed.

She looked him up and down. "I'm sorry no. You'll have to leave. I'll not have vagrants in her. Go on be off. You can go and find a shelter or something but you're not coming in here"

John's tatty clothing, his dirty, bloodied face and noticeable stench led her to assume he was homeless. He began to plead, his hands held in front of him as if in prayer. "Please I just"

"No go on. Get out or I'll call the police" she said cutting him off. She came from behind the counter and wafted a tea towel in his direction as if she was trying to shoo away a stray cat. John, too weak to protest, left.

He walked slowly down the pavement desperate for help. All he asked was for someone to stop and offer assistance. Was that too much to expect?

Grey stoned terrace houses lined the pavement. John stopped outside the window of one of the homes, noticing his face out of the corner of his eye. He looked into the front room through a window.

On the TV was a picture of his face being shown as a newsreader spoke. A couple were sat on a sofa cuddled up together, dirty plates from their evening meal placed on the table in front of them.

Noticing John they turned and starred at him. Then they turned back to the TV and looked in disbelief as they realised the man from the story, the presenter John Dobbs, was stood outside their house looking in through the window. The man, short and stocky, stood, approached the window and slowly drew the curtains whilst looking at John, their faces only inches apart.

It was as if John wasn't really there, as if the idea of him being stood outside was so extraordinary that it was too much for them to comprehend.

John trudged on now wondering if this ordeal would ever be over. He longed for a hot shower, for a bed, for warming food and a cup of tea.

Ahead two men walked towards him. They were young and dressed in shirts, jeans and shoes, their hair over gelled into side partings. They looked at each other before knowing smiles widened across their faces.

Their pace quickened. Eagerness was obvious in their expressions. "Mate are you John Dobbs?" the taller of the two asked.

John nodded.

"No way. Mate. Honestly. Mate. I used to watch that shitty show you were on when I was a kid. It was fucking awesome. Danny mate can you believe it" he turned to his friend who was wide eyed and smiling.

"Can you please ring an ambulance" John said in a weakened voice but they ignored him. The taller of the two took out his phone and without prompting his friend positioned himself to Johns left whilst he moved to his right. He held up the phone and took a picture of the three of them, their faces smiling brightly, John grimacing in obvious pain.

"Can't believe this. Absolutely mental. Going to have to tell Dave"

"Please can you call me an ambulance" John pleaded, his eyes imploring them to take him seriously.

"Yeah hang on mate. Will do. Just going to ring my mate Dave. He's going to fucking love this. He'll shit"

He held the phone to his ear. John felt his legs give way and found himself sat on the floor, his back resting against a public bin.

"Dave mate. You'll never guess who I'm with. No. No. Mate that's not. No. Can we talk about this later mate, fuck sake. Guess who I'm with? John Dobbs, no word of a lie. Nah. He's here now. He's on the floor. I'll put you on"

He put the phone to John's ear. John looked up at him confused. "Can you say hello to my mate Dave. He doesn't believe it's you"

"I need an ambulance"

"Yeah in a minute mate. Just do this first"

John spoke reluctantly into the phone, his eyes beginning to glaze.

"Hi Dave this is John. Yep. Really me. Yep"

The phone was then pulled away from him. "See I told you fucker. Yeah just down near The Bull. Yeah I reckon so. Don't think he's going anywhere. No he's in a right state"

"I really need an ambulance" John said tugging at the tall mans jacket.

"Yeah in a minute mate, fucking hell. I'll ring you one as soon as I've told everyone in The Bull. Jamie is going to freak. His girlfriend used to have a massive poster of you. It'll piss him right off"

The two of them left and walked towards the pub, laughing as they strode, their heads shaking in disbelief, their strides bouncy.

John dragged himself to his feet and walked back towards the cafe.

When he got there he opened the door and just about managed to get in before his legs gave way and he slumped to the floor.

The proprietor exhaled loudly and shook her head. She looked at him with disgust. She was appalled by the sight of him. It offended her middle class sensibilities.

"I'm calling the police. I don't want you in here scaring away my customers"

John was glad when he heard her dialling 999. Finally the authorities were being alerted.

Thirty minutes later he heard commotion outside. His head was pounding as a result of dehydration which could have easily been cured but his pleas for water had been ignored. Assuming it was the police and grateful they had arrived he pulled himself to his feet.

Looking out of the window his jaw dropped in horror. It wasn't the police. It was the press.

The two men from before, eager to spread the news of their sighting had taken to social media. It had spread quickly and the press previously stationed outside Johns parents home only twenty minutes drive away had arrived, their zeal for something to report on rampant after days spent standing in the cold with nothing of note to talk about.

Seeing John, cameraman and photographers rushed towards the cafe. Inside the dog barked furiously at the noise, the owner struggling to keep control of the animal as it yanked on the lead.

Flashes went off. Questions were shouted. Johns name was repeated as they tried to get him to look their way for a shot they could use in the next day's papers.

He slipped back down and sat under the window ledge, partly hidden.

The noise didn't abate. They were hungry for news, images and quotes. They needed them after days of nothing. This was a real story. This is what they could sell, this is what the readers of the national press wanted.

They fed off it. They felt a buzz. They felt adrenaline. They wanted to get in. The pushed up against the cafe door which had been locked. They shouted his name over and over and over. "John. John. John"

They acted without restraint. They acted without respect. They acted without compassion but most of all they acted to meet the demands of what people wanted

Fifteen minutes later the police arrived. They struggled through the crowd of reporters who would not yield. Once they'd managed to reach the door they were let in, pushing the crowd back as it was relocked.

The proprietor, utterly confused by the rabble gathered outside, finally realised who it was. She felt embarrassed, approached John and tried to apologise but she was met with a blank stare from someone currently unwilling to remove her guilt.

The police called for an ambulance and an hour later John was being taken to a nearby hospital whilst a paramedic evaluated his injuries and administered pain relief.

He drifted in and out of consciousness and in one beautiful moment he forgot who he was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The hospital bed warmed until it become uncomfortable. He rolled from one side to the other trying to find a cool patch but the heat from his body had dissipated making this a pointless endeavour.

On the TV rolling news looped round, repeating the same nothing stories until watching it became intolerable. Occasionally he was mentioned. A well-dressed reporter stood outside the hospital spoke in the professional, accent less but slightly authoritative tone used to sound controlled and objective.

It was a bizarre experience, watching a reporter telling you they had no further news on what had happened when you knew everything about the situation. It made John feel detached from the world, as if this reality was something he no longer belonged to.

Despite the endless drone of the same reporters reporting on the same stories he didn't want to switch it off because it was like having somebody there, the repetitiveness comforting after such turmoil.

He had some idea of the coverage he was getting from the news but the extent of the media's interest became brutally apparent the evening before.

Paparazzi, disguised quite vaguely as a doctor, wearing a white coat over his normal clothes and holding a stethoscope, had managed to get into the room and had taken several pictures before hospital security had forcefully removed him.

It had been a long time since the paparazzi had been interested in John. The shock and outrage he felt when realising what they had done was matched with a fondness for a life he'd almost forgotten.

Around lunch time a care assistant delivered his meal. She dithered after placing the tray down as if she wanted to say something but didn't have the courage or conviction to do so.

"I used to be a big fan of yours when I was a teenager" she muttered shyly.

"Used to be?" John said in a rude manner that was uncalled for. She became flustered. Her eyes darted around the room as her cheeks turned ruby red.

"I still am I mean. Me and my sister had a poster of you on our wall" she said carefully. John, not even looking at her, played with his food, pushing the mush around the paper plate with a flimsy plastic fork. "Well you wouldn't have a poster of me now would you?"

John was in no mood for conversation. He was acting like a sulking child, one who'd been told there would be no desert. It was odd. It was not the behaviour you would expect from someone who had suffered what he had. His irritability and immaturity was bizarre.

You would assume quietness, starring with a blank expression through the hospital, a melancholic and sombre tone and outlook, a detachment from the world absorbed by the terror of his memories to be a more appropriate response to what he had been through.

But he was impatient. He didn't want to be here. Everything in the hospital reminded him of things he wanted to escape and it frustrated him.

As she turned to leave he felt a pang of guilt as he realised he'd acted poorly. She was, after all, only trying to be nice to someone who looked like they needed cheering up. "Sorry" he said as she reached the door. "Thank you for bringing me lunch". She turned and smiled at him before leaving, wishing she hadn't insisted on being the one to take him his lunch.

The rest of the afternoon was spent dozing, dropping in and out of sleep almost at will. Occasionally he would wake confused, not knowing what was going on. In those moments that were brief yet chaotic, he woke with no understanding of where he was, the remnants of his dreams still lucidly cycling through his imagination, his understanding of reality momentarily suspended as he adjusted to being awake.

His dreams, usually so lucid with imagery clear and defined, were a melting of colours and unformed images. They were punctured with sounds, random and unknown, that reverberated, their volume altering.

People appeared but would vanish before they had been brought into view, slipping away into a colourful abyss. Time seemed to change, slowing down and then speeding up. Confusing patterns formed from various two dimensional shapes oscillating across his mind's eye.

They were so strange it left him bewildered and in a trance like state for several minutes after he woke. The longer the day wore on the more confused he became. When evening arrived, he stopped falling asleep, forcing himself to stay awake for his parents visit.

He usually felt indifferent about visits from his parents but, lying there with his life in tatters, he longed for their re-assuring presence. There was something obdurate about the paternal presence in his life. Despite everything they were always there, their availability stubbornly unaffected by how he behaved. Their love was indelible, an eternal connection that bound them together.

They'd visited him the day before. His mother, shocked by his appearance but relieved that, given the circumstances, he was doing well was hysterical fuelled by joy, relief and worry.

His father, solemn and unemotional, the embodiment of British reserve, was less energetic but nevertheless John had noticed slight changes in his behaviour. His mouth kept twitching. He persisted in wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve as if he was sweating but it didn't appear as though he was.

They must have been physical ticks, slight changes in his behaviour induced by stress and tension that John had never noticed before. Maybe he was so absorbed with his own life that he had never paid attention to how his father's behaviour changed under different circumstances.

They had brought some cheap chocolates and a few magazines. The extent to which they no longer knew him, the result of the distance he himself had introduced, was evident in what they'd purchased. A fishing and football magazine, two pastimes he'd liked as a child his mother had explained in response to the bemused look he gave her as she handed them to him.

They were still on the table next to the bed unread but crumpled. After they'd left the previous evening John had repeatedly rolled them up so they appeared well read to save his mothers feelings.

As the clock reached six O'clock he readied himself but they didn't arrive. This was unusual. His father's punctuality practically defined him.

As the minutes past John became worried, not for their safety, he couldn't imagine anything would have happened to them since their last visit, but because they might have decided not to come.

He'd been so neglectful of them in the past. He was by no means a terrible son but neither had he been the best.

Maybe one visit was all they could muster for someone they no longer felt close to after years of slowly drifting apart. But just as these quite horrific and sobering conclusions were being drawn, they arrived looking spent and damp from the rain outside.

His mother shuffled in, her small legs hindered by a long, navy raincoat. His father sporting the hat he usually only wore to church, walked in behind smilingly as much as his oft sombre face would allow.

"Sorry we're late dear. We had awful trouble trying to get in. Those damn reporters all mooching outside wouldn't let us past. Your dad even swore at one of them!" she exclaimed.

This may appeared trivial to most but John had never heard his father swear. She continued "They kept on asking us if we had anything to say, what your condition was like, who had done it. It was pandemonium. Eventually this nice hospital security man who could see we were in a spot of bother came out and managed to get us through the crowd. Your father was nearly knocked right of his feet. Absolute vermin they are. I don't know how you ever put up with it John, I mean" she paused momentarily, shaking her head slowly from side to side in disapproval as she thought about it.

"They need to learn some manners. A few clips round the ear hole would do em good but I suppose you can't do that these days. The EU probably wouldn't like it. Against health and safety they'd say" she gestured with an open palm towards the window as if the European Commission was actually outside.

He could tell from his dad's vacant expression that he'd tuned out. John's mother had a habit of whittling on regardless of whether anyone was listening. His father knew when and where to listen and chose to apply his attention economically.

"Anyway dear, enough of my whittling on, how are you feeling today? Any better?" she was now sat on the side of the bed, looking down at his bruised and battered face, talking to him as if I was recovering from a cold. "Not bad mum" he replied, his voice still hoarse.

John's father had a habit of pacing around a room, an inherent trait of his generation when confronted with a situation they weren't entirely comfortable with. He walked slowly up to the window and peered out at the cityscape enveloping the horizon, looking peacefully around as if he was studying some colossally beautiful and staggering view looked at with a fresh pair of eyes.

His mum pulled some lemon bon bons from her handbag, and placed them on the table next to his bed. "Do you remember when you were a kid and you would spend all of your pocket money on lemon bon bons?" she enquired.

"Yeah I do" John said to appease her, having absolutely no recollection of this.

"Martin, you remember Martin well he's just bought a holiday home in Scilly. Oooh they've a beautiful home John, Germaine showed me the pictures. Absolutely beautiful. You used to play together down the park when you were kids, remember? Always coming home covered in mud, clothes filthy". John smiled as best he could as she chortled on regaling stories she'd already told him yesterday.

"And I saw Stephanie the other day. You remember she's Katherine's daughter, absolutely stunning she is and she's such a lovely girl. The type of girl you should be with John. I told Katherine as much. Never liked any of those girls you used to hang around with. They were never marriage material John"

John, lying in a hospital bed after the biggest ordeal he would ever suffer, his life collapsing around him like an England batting line up, still couldn't escape his mother's incessant questioning and protracted and unwanted observations concerning his love life.

If he'd been dying of cancer, his life all but expired she would still be advising him of the type of girl he should be seeing. It was like a personal obsession, something that had existed ever since his first girlfriend.

His dad, needing something to do, walked towards the bed before coming to a stop at its foot. "Does anyone want a tea from the machine?" he enquired.

"Oh could I have one of those fancy frothy coffee things, what are they called John?"

"Cappuccino mum"

"Yes a Cappinchinos please dear" she miraculously managed to miss-pronounce having only just heard the word.

"John? Tea maybe" his dad said, looking at him directly for the first time since he'd entered the room.

"No I'm ok dad"

"Are you sure? It's no trouble" he asked again, John fearing he may continue to insist as if he was Mrs Doyle.

"No dad really I'm sure" John tried to be forceful so the question wasn't repeated.

His father left the room, whistling as he walked down the corridor as was his way when he was alone, the soft noise eventually disappearing as he left the ward.

His mother carried on with her updates. She told him about his cousins despite there being nothing to tell. Geoff was still working nights. The kids were getting so tall she told him. He felt like telling her that of course they were growing, that's what children do but, thinking better of it, he kept these needless comments to himself.

Twenty minutes later after his father had returned and the hot drinks had been consumed, John realised that neither him nor his father had uttered more than the occasional word the whole time they'd been together.

His mother had relentlessly chatted without pausing for responses or possible comments.

John wondered whether it was a coping mechanism, a desire to fill the void so she wasn't forced into confronting what had happened to her only child.

When his mother finally ran out of things to talk about she looked almost embarrassed, like she didn't feel comfortable being there. A strange atmosphere descended as she scanned the room in silence trying to think of something else to talk about. At that moment, and very much out of the blue as John both hoped and expected to never see her again, Taylor appeared in the doorway.

She was wearing a cream Mac, tight against her torso and fanning out just above the knee and red, strappy heels. Her long, lustrous hair was flowing in loose curls that cascaded down her shoulders. Her lips were coated in a deep red lipstick. A colour John had always thought suited her.

She looked stunning. For a moment, before all the emotions came bubbling to the surface, he just starred, his attraction to her, an attraction that had always been there, made him tingle. He could feel the hairs all over his body simultaneously shoot up, as if suddenly commanded to stand to attention.

His mother, turning to see who it was, stood up abruptly as if she'd been stung by a cattle prod. His father, forever the calm and sedate person he was, was motionless, his face showing little of the antipathy he felt towards her.

"What are you doing here?" his mother snapped. Her attitude towards Taylor had seismically changed. The girl she had once liked she now loathed. She starred with an intent that made Taylor feel uneasy.

"I came to see how John was" she replied as meekly as possible.

She sounded different, something John noticed instantly. Her voice was softer. She spoke with a different tone, one which dropped the words soothingly out of her mouth. The harsh intonation she spoke with off camera had gone. She was different.

"Well you can't" Johns mother fired back before she'd finished speaking. "He doesn't want to see you!"

John's mother leaned forward as she spoke. John had never seen his mother act aggressively. It was bizarre and unnerving because it changed her so abruptly and so completely.

His father walked across to his wife without looking at Taylor, and put his arm around her to calm her down.

"Mum! I can speak for myself" John intervened.

He may have been in need of help physically but he was sick of people talking on his behalf. Statement after statement had been given over the past few days by a variety of people to a variety of media outlets all talking on his behalf without any input from him. John, wanting to re-establish control of his own life, wanted to speak for himself, needing to be his own man.

"I think it's best if you and Dad go and get a bite to eat" John said calmly, his mother starring at Taylor while he spoke.

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither is your father!" she exclaimed.

John sighed, exasperated by the situation. "Please mum can you just go. Dad can you take her to get something to eat?"

His father compliantly led his wife away. He had no desire to be held in the uncomfortable atmosphere that had been created by Taylor's arrival. He loathed confrontation and arguments. He'd always tried to avoid them regardless of the situation or his proximity to it.

After they left Taylor went towards the seat near his bed. She walked with a grace, gliding effortlessly from one place to another. She never looked hurried or flustered. It's what had first attracted him to her. He'd never seen someone move with such poise.

There was a part of John, the part that still loved her, that was pleased when she appeared unannounced. It had excited something in him, a feeling that made all his troubles fade away for a brief moment, that, as he looked upon the girl he used to love, made him forget where he was as if they were the only two people in the room, the rest of the world fading into the background.

But, as he looked deep into her eyes, turning his head instigated a pain that shot down his spine forcing him to exhale through his teeth. And like that, the moment vanished.

He looked at her for who she really was. The deep rooted feelings that would always be there overridden with anger, a pure, base anger that erupted through him like a volcano.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped at her once his parents had left.

His eyes were bulging and focused. The affects of his drowsy afternoon had worn off.

Standing she held her hands in front of her, the right hand clasping the left adopting a submissive pose. She wanted to show contrition, she wanted to appear remorseful.

She stalled leaving the question unanswered. She starred at the floor like a child being told off.

"I just wanted to see how you were John" she said softly, her voice barely audible above the background noise of a hospital busy with patients.

"You've got some nerve" he fired back. His voice had changed. The accommodating tone he'd used around his parents had been replaced by a harsher, more abrupt voice. He sounded like a terrible actor playing an Eastender's villain.

She looked up from the floor, tears streaming down her face, her lip quivering. Her stare was pleading as if she needed comforting.

He didn't know whether this was genuine or just a performance. He'd never seen her cry before. It was unexpected. She rarely expressed emotion. Feelings were an inconvenience to her, something that got in the way. The only time he'd ever seen her noticeably upset was she'd been called talentless in a magazine article.

"John I'm so sorry for what happened. I feel terri" she spluttered out before she erupted, tears cascading down her face. She doubled over as if she'd been punched in the abdomen and cried uncontrollably.

"And I suppose you expect me to feel sorry for you?" he said less forcefully than before, finding it difficult to talk angrily to someone who was in such a state.

"No" she said, her words hard to identify through the tears.

She tried to get a hold of herself. She took a tissue from her handbag and wiped the tears from her eyes.

She looked delicate in a way that John had never seen before. She seemed vulnerable like someone trying to find their way in a strange and scary world, unsure of themselves and in need of guidance.

There was something about her that had changed. She seemed different. The hard exterior, the poised and purposeful way she carried herself, the confidence and toughness had softened.

She no longer appeared to be the strong, calculating, determined women John knew but a frightened girl unsure of herself and timid. As much as he wanted to be angry with her the state she was in made it difficult. Nevertheless he persisted. A part of him had been hardened by his experiences and he understood she deserved his wrath.

"Do you know what you put me through?" Do you know what you're lies have done to my life? I was kidnapped Taylor! Some twisted, psychotic little bastard almost killed me because of what you did" he spoke with an assurance that had been missing from his voice.

She looked down at the floor, not wanting to see the anger in his face, avoiding the look of a hatred she was sure was in his eyes. She tried to gather herself. She wiped the remnants of the tears from her cheeks and took several deep breaths.

"I know what I did was bad John, I know that. You'll never know how sorry I am"

"Sorry! I don't need your hollow apologises Taylor. You don't give a damn about me. You've never given a damn about me have you? If you cared about me you wouldn't have ruined my career. People just don't do that to people they care about. Just look at what he did to me! Go on look!" John was pointing to the wounds on his face. Taylor looked down to her left. She couldn't bring herself to look.

John continued pointing at his face "Look Taylor, look at what he did. Look!"

The volume of his voice increasing with each word as his pity for her faded.

"Stop it John!"

"This is what he did to me because of you. All I did was try and love you. I might not have been the best boyfriend but I didn't deserve this! I didn't deserve for my career to be ruined. I didn't deserve for my life to be put in jeopardy? You and Malcolm can fucking die for all I care"

He was now sat up, his face thrust forward as he spoke.

He continued. "Was it worth it Taylor? Are you happy now? You got what you wanted. You got your dream job. Your career has really taken off after you sold me down the river. I bet you got some sick satisfaction from that didn't you? I bet you and Malcolm had a good laugh about it. I bet you took great pleasure in how easy it was to dismantle my life. Well you make me sick. What you did to me is unforgivable. For the sake of a presenting job on some shitty talent show you took my life and ripped it to shreds. Well I hope you're fucking happy with yourself, you and that sweaty bald prick. You two deserve each other. Now get out!" he pointed to the door as he bellowed this command.

"Get out you fucking, back stabbing bitch!"

Taylor could no longer cope. She collapsed onto her knees next to his bed, tears stripping her makeup, shoulders moving rhythmically up and down as she sobbed. She pulled at his blanket and looked up at him as if pleading for her life. She couldn't speak, words just rolled around in her mouth as she cried, unable to escape through the tears. It was Oscar worthy.

He looked down at her with sympathy. He wanted to pull her up and hold her. He wanted to calm her down and tell her everything was going to be alright but he couldn't, that would be weak. She had done something with little or no regard for how it might affect him. She might have been here now, pleading and crying but wasn't this just the result of guilt?

If he hadn't been abducted she wouldn't have pleaded for forgiveness even though her intentions would have been identical.

She would have been content with his life and career ruined. The only difference was that the physical harm he'd endured was there for everyone to see. There was no escaping it. He had sustained injuries people knew were caused by her obsessed fan seeking revenge for what she had said.

That was where the guilt came from, it wasn't because she felt sorry for what she had done and all the lies she had perpetuated about him in the press, she was only guilty because people could connect what he had suffered to her. It was superficial and based on self-preservation, a front designed to show remorse to those who required it of her.

"I said get out" he said calmly to her as she peered at him through the mascara running from her eyelids.

"Please John" she implored.

"I'm sorry Taylor but I can't forgive you. I just can't" he said sounding genuinely apologetic.

Taylor stood up and walked over to the mirror. She took out a tissue and patted at the tears. She turned to look at John one last time, smiled at him and walked out of the room.

Half an hour later, when his father was confident Taylor would have gone, his parents made their way back to the room. His mother continued with idle small talk for an hour or so, his dad sat on a chair occasionally looking at his watch.

When John began struggling to stay awake his parents left. He felt relieved to be on his own again. He wasn't in the right frame of mind to be interacting with others. He wanted space to absorb what had happened, to try, as best he could to come to terms with it all.

A life that had once seemed so simple had become complicated. He knew he could never go back to how things were. He had left his old life behind. It trailed away into the darkness, forgotten, losing all relevance until eventually it would only seem like a dream.

Later when his evening meal was delivered, he asked about the nurse who had been previously and whether an apology could be passed on. He was told she had left for the evening so he wrote down a note and asked if it could be delivered to her. He never saw either of those nurses again.

The next day was Valentine's Day, a day he'd often taken advantage of in the past. Whether having an over the top romantic evening with a girl he was seeing, or capitalising on the sadness it can bring to those who were lonely, he rarely went home alone. But this year would be different, this year he was marooned in a hospital bed, alone, in a poor condition and with little desire to interact with the opposite sex.

He remembered at the height of his fame, or at least at the small summit of it, he would receive hundreds of valentine's letters. Some scented with perfume, some incorporating cute messages, some containing lewd photographs, some accompanied with disturbing messages that could be chilling but all an indication that people knew who he was.

For the first few hours of his day he watched QVC. Last year they'd offered him a job but he'd refused without considering it. Now he watched the presenters with envy as they talked about the crap they were selling.

A doctor came to see him before lunch. He was a Hungarian man in his mid thirties with a soothing bedside manner. He informed John he was pleased with his progress and that he was almost ready to be omitted.

John didn't want to leave. He may have been in a physical state that allowed this but mentally he wasn't ready. He felt safe here. He didn't want to face the outside world, not yet anyway.

Drawn in by the terrible products they were selling, unwittingly convinced that he needed them, he tried to buy a new vacuum cleaner but his credit card was declined. Immediately he rang the credit card company to discover his card had been cancelled. Apparently abduction was no excuse for non-payment.

The phone call depressed him almost as much as his everything else he'd been through. For the first time since he was a student he was flat broke.

After lunch he watched a John Wayne film. He liked watching his old westerns because that's what he aspired to be like, the strong alpha male, unwavering in their convictions, sturdy in the face of adversity, exuding masculinity and always in control as if there was no situation that could faze him. These were qualities John desired. He wanted to be strong and unyielding, the type of person people looked to in a crisis.

As he was watched a member of the hospital staff came into the room and dropped a letter on the side table, smiled and left. John engrossed as he was heeded little attention to what been left.

When John Wayne had finally left his screen, walking solemnly off into the mid-western landscape, John picked up the letter.

It was white and had his name elaborately scrawled over the front in long sweeping letters. John failed to recognise the writing.

He opened it, hooking his finger in through a gap at the side and ripping from one side to the other. Inside there was a piece of paper that smelt strongly of expensive perfume. The bottom of the letter had been signed by Taylor.

As he took the letter out a lock of blonde hair fell onto the sheets. He picked it up holding it between his index finger and thumb. As he held it out in front of his face, he moved it and watched the light dancing through the strands as it was turned.

He looked back at the letter and wondered what he should do. What good would it do him listening to the whimpering of the women who had ruined his life? Would it not be ill-advised to give her the opportunity to put forward her pleas for forgiveness? Did she deserve such a courtesy after what she'd done?

He screwed it up into a ball and tossed it in the direction of a bin but it hit the rim and fell onto the floor.

For a time he forgot about it. Its importance was not to be understood, it was to be forgotten. He flicked through the channels, watching pointless shows about nothing, wondering if they could provide future employment.

He casually read the magazines his mother had bought him. He looked at the pictures and read parts of the articles, paying little attention to much of what his eyes were scanning over.

He played angry birds and candy crush on his phone until the monotonous games started to drive him insane. He didn't understand how people could play a game that rarely evolved until they become addicted and constantly repeated the same set of actions. Maybe the simplicity was an escape from a complicated world, a useful and readily available distraction.

Time had seemingly stopped. The clock above the door no longer moved but had trapped him in this hospital bed, injured and alone.

He glanced down at the letter lying balled up on the floor. Boredom searched him. Maybe he should read it? What harm could it do?

Swinging his legs out of the bed he sat upright. He pushed down on the floor and carefully manoeuvred his weight slowly onto his legs. As he walked towards the letter they began to shake. His leg muscles had deteriorated badly through lack of use. They were now thin and looked as though they belonged to someone. They didn't correspond to his torso. He was like an action figure made from different pieces.

When he reached the letter he bent down carefully, his movements slow and ginger, and picked up the piece of paper.

He walked back to the bed, gaining confidence with each step, and sat down.

He unscrewed the letter and smoothed out the creases. It had been written in fountain pen. The lettering was archaic, slanting letters stroked at angles that were long and exaggerated.

He began reading but did so slowly. He was tired. He was always tired.

"Dear John,

I wanted to write you a letter so that I can put into words exactly how I feel about you and to explain everything that has happened between us. I know how angry you must be but I hope you will listen to what I have to say I really do.

Hopefully you will be reading this on Valentine's Day. Do you remember the Valentine's Day we spent in Rome two years ago? I have never been as happy as I was that weekend. I think that was when I realised just how much you meant to me. You do mean a lot to me John. I want you to know that. After everything that has happened I can imagine you probably don't believe me but it's the truth. My heart has always belonged to you. I know sometimes I haven't shown it but it's always been you.

I know what happened was inexcusable but I would like you to hear my side of the story. I told Malcolm that things weren't going particularly well between us. I'm not sure why I told him but I felt as though I needed to talk to someone. He said maybe it was time for me to leave you, that maybe things weren't working and that it would be best for the both of us. I shouldn't have listened to him but I did. It was stupid of me to bail on things just because we were going through a rough patch. I have regretted it ever since. I made a terrible decision. If I could live my life over and was given one opportunity to change something I would never have broken up with you.

After we split up Malcolm discussed taking advantage of the situation. At first I didn't know what he really meant. I thought I would just purposefully get papped in sweat pants looking sad and maybe make a few comments about being heartbroken to garner some sympathy. I didn't realise what he had planned. I promise you John. If I'd have known I never would have agreed to it.

As you know it started with a few rumours he put out on twitter and then the whole thing escalated. I didn't know what he was up to at first but when I found out I was horrified. I went to the office to see him with the intention of sacking him as my agent. But he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He said if I played along it could make my career. I know it was selfish and stupid of me but I couldn't help myself. I convinced myself that it wouldn't cause any real trouble. I didn't realise what it would lead to. If I'd have known that I would never have gone along with it. I thought it would just be a couple of brief interviews and that would be it. I didn't realise what it would do to your career John, you've got to believe me.

After it had happened I wanted to come and see you, to make sure you were alright and to apologise but Malcolm wouldn't let me. He'd got me the Celebrities do the funniest things presenting job and threatened to give it to someone else if I dared go anywhere near you. I wanted to see you so bad but he just wouldn't let me. I just didn't know what to do.

I know after everything I've done I can't expect you to forgive me. I know what I did was wrong and selfish but you have to believe me when I say I love you. I love you more than words could ever say. You're my world and the only thing that matters to me, I can see that now. I just want to make it up to you. I'll do anything to win you back. I've got rid of Malcolm. I told him where to go. I did that for you John. I don't care about my career anymore I just care about you.

I hope you will read this letter. I hope you will try and understand what happened and that I never meant to do any harm. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I want nothing more than for you to hold me in your arms. I want to be with you forever John because my heart belongs to you.

With all my love

Taylor"

John didn't know what to make of it. On the one hand he felt some sympathy for her. Maybe she just made an honest mistake? Maybe it was just a bad decision that got out of hand very quickly? But how could he ever forgive someone who had ruined his life like that. Surely a letter, filled with excuses and blame shifting, wasn't enough to absolve her of what she had done. Surely she couldn't expect it to be swept under the carpet, forgotten about with a few words written neatly on some expensive paper.

John spent the rest of the afternoon reading the letter again and again, judging its tone and content, looking for something beyond the words that could give him an indication of how to proceed.

The way she spoke was so markedly different to the Taylor he knew.

She was usually such a hard person, uncompromising and unwilling to let her emotions bleed into her actions or words. But this letter was different. There was a vulnerability she'd never shown before. There was a softness and openness to how she was communicating. It was almost as if the experience had altered her, had softened her hard edges and exposed the vulnerability we all have.

John wanted to believe her words. He wanted to buy into them because he still loved her. It would be convenient to believe her but something wasn't right.

The way she pleaded, that wasn't her, it wasn't in her nature. She was self assured, always believing in her own actions, in what she did and how she did it. She was strong, she didn't crumble, she didn't relent. The letter almost sounded as if it had been written by someone else yet he had seen how upset she had been the previous day.

He was confused. He hoped for clarity. He wished he could rely on the assurance of others, an old friend who could sit and discuss it with him, wise enough to cut through the accompanying drama and lead John toward a sound conclusion. But he didn't have a friend like that. He was alone. He always had been.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After being omitted from hospital John decided to walk back to his flat. He was still weak, his legs slowly recovering, their strength overburdened by their load but he didn't want to take a cab. He wished to avoid frivolous interaction with a stranger.

A nurse, wide as he was tall, with the reddened face of a drinker showed him to the staff entrance in hope of avoiding the waiting media.

Emerging from the building into a bright day John sucked in the air as if freed from prison and wishing to indulge in simple pleasures.

He said goodbye to the nurse, a smile wide across his face and walked steadily down an alley running from the hospital to a side street.

Once on the street four paparazzi huddled together under a bridge, noticed John and sprinted towards him shouting his name.

He ducked his head and walked in the opposite direction. Rounding the corner he unwittingly emerged into a media furore.

Dozens of faces turned towards him and within seconds they were on him like a hawk diving on a field mouse.

The cameras clicked and flashed. Journalists pointed their microphones in his direction and shouted questions that were lost in the noise of the rabble. Television cameras roamed the perimeter of the action too cumbersome to be carried closer.

The crowd closed in on him. The noise rose.

It scared him. He felt his hairs stand on end and his mouth went dry. He tried to push his way through, lowering his head and driving forward with his legs but they moved with him as if they were one body acting in unison.

Whichever way he turned they followed, pushing and shouting, the cameras flashing repeatedly, the sharp light making him wince.

He had to get out. He needed to escape.

He panted hard as he moved. He pushed them back and wrestled with them. But it was no use. He was trapped.

Not knowing why he sat down, put his head in-between his legs and placed both hands on his forehead, rocking back and forth slowly.

The shouting didn't abate. They pointed their cameras inches away from his face. They jostled for position. They shoved each other in the back and clawed at each other's clothing trying to get closer, trying to get that picture.

They wanted him. They needed him. He was their livelihood. They wouldn't stop. They wouldn't give in just because he was a person with thoughts and feelings. He had sold his soul. That's how it worked. He had made the deal and now he had to live with the consequences.

Fame and fortune didn't come for free. There was a price to pay. He was indebted to those who had put him there. Without them he would be nothing and therefore he owed them everything.

Three hospital security guards tall and broad shouldered, made their way through the crowd moving people out of the way with short sharp, shoves. When they reached John they picked him up and escorted him back through the crowd.

Emerging from the rabble, they walked him to one of the hospital vans used for transporting the elderly and helped him inside.

As they van pulled away the paparazzi banged on the outside with their fists, shouting his name over and over again as if it was the only word they could say.

A short while after John, having managed to settle himself asked the driver if he could get out.

The driver, a woman in her forties with a low husky voice, shook her head and said it wasn't wise. He pleaded, explaining he would be fine and that just wanted to enjoy a walk. Understanding she pulled over. He stepped out of the van, thanked her with a sincerity he rarely used and shut the door.

He hoped, finally, it would be over.

It was a beautiful day so he made a detour through the park. His legs were tiring rapidly, his calves aching, but he wanted to be amongst nature, even if that nature was a few trees and patches of grass trapped in a sea of concrete.

He would often walk through the park with Taylor on clear summer evenings. They would sit on a bench by a small pond in the top corner of the park as it was the only secluded spot surrounded as it was by tall willow trees.

They would stay until the temperature was no longer bearable, sitting in silence, words unimportant, soaking up the beauty around them. At peace and enclosed in each other's arms they would occasionally look across and smile, John gradually pulling her in closer as it cooled.

They were precious moments, moments that define a relationship, moments that linger even when you are no longer together because they have such purpose and meaning. Those moments are indelibly etched in your memory, they never fade but form part of the narrative of your life, a narrative you remember until you're old and grey when all other memories have faded and disappeared.

The sun was setting as he strolled slowly along the path. The park was frequented with joggers, some alone, some in pairs, running in the cool evening breeze. He walked up to the bench and paused to look at it for a moment. He noticed a plaque he'd never seen before. It was brass but had faded, time removing the sheen.

He peered down to read the inscription made difficult in the fading light.

"In loving memory of Ray Downton, beloved husband, father and grandfather you will never be forgotten 1922-1996".

Looking at the plaque, thinking about what it meant, what it symbolised made him contemplate his own death. It was a morbid thought but as mortal beings such considerations are unavoidable.

Would anyone care if he died? His parents would be upset but other than that who else did he have in his life? Who would miss him if he died tomorrow? Who would be devastated on hearing the news? Who would care?

This was a sobering thought. He was alone, just another person meandering through life with no one to share his experiences with. Loneliness had always been there but its implications were suddenly apparent.

He sat down on the bench and looked up at the sky. Vibrant orange and red clouds drifted across the light blue background, the patterns of colours merging together, blending in to each other with faded edges. He starred for a few moments trying to wash his mind of questions about life and death. The way it had made him feel, the way it had confronted him with who he really was surprised him.

He hadn't contemplated his life in these terms before. He had suppressed the concerns and worries most people have, ignoring them as if they weren't important to him, as if somehow he was above them.

Standing he set off towards the parks exit. On the way he saw an elderly couple, possibly in their seventies, sat on a bench eating sandwiches from a tupa-wear box and drinking tea from a flask.

John's attention was drawn to them as he approached. They seemed happy and at ease in each other's company. They were smiling and talking as they ate. Just as he walked past they both laughed heartily at something that had tickled them. You could see, just from a brief study of the way they were together, that they fitted. It was almost as if they were an extension of each other, as if they were two parts of the same being with shared thoughts and feelings, two people made whole by each other.

How did you find someone you could still be happy with even in old age? How did you find somebody who would love you until the day you died?

This was beyond him. It seemed distant and unachievable. But maybe it was something he should be searching for? Regardless of how unconceivable it appeared given his present circumstances surely love was what life was all about, finding that special person who understood you, that person who loved you despite your faults. Someone who appreciated every moment they spent with you and worshipped you for your true worth. In the end that's what every individual wants and needs.

As he reached the edge of the park, just before he headed through the black iron gate, he looked back at the elderly couple packing their things away into a wicker hamper. When they finished they strolled off, their arms interlocked as they walked in her head resting on his shoulder.

John crossed the street, a taxi beeping as it come hurtling towards him at a velocity far exceeding that allowed by law. He made his way down the street and walked until he arrived at the main entrance to the block of flats he had once called home.

He made his way to the flat, opened the front door. The familiar sound of the key grinding in the lock made him feel at ease. He scanned the flat, saddened by the state he'd left it in. There were dirty clothes thrown everywhere, piles of letters strewn across the coffee table. In the bedroom there were cans of beer cast over the floor. The bed was unmade, the duvet hanging off the side and in desperate need of a wash.

John went into the living room and looked at the photos he'd arranged on shelves opposite the TV.

The photos weren't of friends, family or acquaintances but celebrities he'd met over the years. Looking at them he realised that maybe it was all over. These pictures were just a reminder of how his life had been. They embodied nothing but a life he had left behind, a past that would soon fade, the memories blurring as he aged.

He'd never contemplated the end of his career before. It had never dawned on him that one day it would end. He'd always assumed, with the naivety that comes with youth that it would last forever.

He often used to wander down the corridors of the BBC bumping into great titans of TV like Terry Wogan and Bruce Forsyth. He assumed he would be like them, an indelible presence, irremovable from our screens.

But this was never realistic, he knew that now. He was someone who had gained a career through looks, looks that were inevitably fading. He had little else to offer. He wasn't intelligent, charismatic or funny. He had nothing but physical appeal.

He walked into the kitchen and searched the cupboards for something to drink. He found a bottle of apricot snaps in the fridge and unscrewed the cap.

He found a clean glass and poured himself a large measure. He downed it, grimacing afterwards as the syrupy alcohol hit his stomach, and poured another which he took back into the living room.

He put the glass down and walked back over to the shelves. He picked up the award for the 2000 Reem magazine sexiest male and looked at it studiously as if scanning a great piece of art.

He remembered how indifferent his parents had been when he'd told them about it. He assumed they'd be proud but they realised, just as he did now, how trivial the recognition was.

It was the physical embodiment of everything he used to be. It represented what he had been about more than anything else. His career, based on something so facile, was next to meaningless.

With this understanding, this acknowledgement of the truth, he felt sad. It made him feel as if his life and career had been pointless. He felt like an actor who'd never been given a major role, someone on the periphery, never allowed the opportunity to really be who they craved to be.

For the next couple of hours he watched the DVDs he'd assembled of himself. They contained most of his significant interviews, clips from shows and award ceremonies. Some of the footage was almost seventeen years old.

He watched with a mixture of fondness and regret. He'd enjoyed his time. In many ways he would do it all again because of the fun he'd had. He'd genuinely been happy, that was something he was certain of, something he could hang on to.

It wasn't some brave face he put on whilst the hedonistic lifestyle and celebrity excesses gradually wore away at his emotional well being. He wasn't unhinged and in need of institutions and physiatrists, the clown crying on the inside.

He'd loved his life and although the realisation that he wasn't as important as he'd believed was difficult to accept, he would have spent the next twenty years living this way because it made him happy. The thought of being a normal person, with a normal job both scared and depressed him.

He didn't want to be a plumber or an accountant. That wasn't what he was about. He'd spent his entire adult life being a presenter. That was all he knew.

His whole identity was defined by his career. The two were no longer separate but coalesced. His career dictated how he lived his life and how he was as a person.

Maybe it wasn't healthy. Maybe it had never been healthy. When you cannot separate your work and from your ordinary life it can end up influencing your personality, you become defined by what you do rather than who you are but John didn't care. He knew what made him happy and it wasn't this.

In his room he had a stack of photo albums under his bed. He pulled them out and started sifting through.

He had no pictures of family and very few of his life prior to being on television. There were a few from his university graduation and the odd one from school trips and summer balls, but for the most part the albums consisted of pictures with celebrities he'd interviewed, parties he'd attended at the exclusive clubs he was allowed in to.

In the second album he looked through holiday pictures from a trip he and Taylor had taken to Greece. They looked happy together. He felt something, like a tiny electric shock that rippled across his skin. He missed her. He didn't know why. He'd realised on reflection they hadn't always been good together. Their relationship, although not disastrous, didn't function as a good relationship should. There was problems caused by a clash of egos, something that had led to many pointless but ferocious arguments but he did love her.

He assumed after the way she'd treated him that she didn't love him. But maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe the letter was an honest account of how she truly felt.

She certainly was a stern person, very cut throat and determined, but he'd never taken her for someone who was cold and devoid of emotion. The more he thought about what she had said the more it made sense.

Maybe they were right for each other. Maybe there was still a chance for them.

He closed the album and slid it back under the bed. He walked out of his bedroom and grabbed a leather jacket from the coat rack near the door and left the flat.

He left the block of flats and hailed a black cab that was hurtling down the street just as he reached the pavement. Sharply it swerved towards him, coming to a halt a matter of feet from John.

He climbed in to the back and sat down relieved. "Where to mate" the bald cabbie enquired with an east end accent so strong it almost sounded put on.

"Mansion house, Maida Vale please" John replied. The taxi sped off with the same velocity at which it had arrived.

The driver tried to strike up a conversation but John replied in muttered and vague noises. As they neared the destination he began to doubt his decision.

"Actually mate can you pull up her" John asked trying to match the cab drivers tone and delivery. The car slowed down. John handed the driver a twenty and told him to keep the change. This wasn't generosity but because his wallet had nowhere for change to be stored.

He stepped out onto the pavement and walked towards a pub called The Golden Lion. He needed a drink. He needed some Dutch courage.

The pub had the musky smell of stale beer and was populated by one old man sat at the corner of the bar. He looked close to death as he drank his bitter, holding the glass with a hand that trembled incessantly.

"Rum and coke please mate" John said. The bar man took a glass and began filling it from the optic without saying a word.

When he'd finished injecting coke into the glass he held up four fingers to indicate the price, unwilling, it seemed, to communicate with John. He paid with a five pound note and walked away before the barman had chance to give him the change.

The old man muttered something under his breath. John sat down, thought about it for a moment and realised he'd been called a puff, possibly because of his choice of drink, his clothes or his hairstyle.

When he finished he went to the bar and ordered another. The old man shook his head as the drink was handed to John by the mute barman.

"Do you want a drink old timer?" John asked, trying to curry his favour as he found his physical and vocal remarks off putting.

"No, I'll buy my own drinks thank you very much" the old man spoke with a snarl as if John had said something greatly offensive.

"Go on, have a pint on me" John asked again.

The old man gripped his pint tightly with his yellow, tobacco stained fingers as if he was reaching a point of extreme anger.

"Go on mate" John said. He took out a fifty and waved it in front of his face like an eighties yuppie revelling in needless excess.

"Barkeep there's fifty quid. Keep this good man topped up with drinks would you" John handed the money to the barman who took it and put in the till, grateful in the knowledge it wouldn't be spent.

"I don't need your money" the old man said, looking up from his pint for the first time. John shrugged casually and worked out of the pub, the old man muttering expletives as he left.

John felt invigorated. His early nerves had been replaced with excitement.

He walked to his destination briskly. His legs hurt but he strode through the pain as if it wasn't there.

The building containing Taylors flat was new and pleasant. It was unremarkable yet satisfactorily constructed with clean lines and an understanding of the aesthetic of the area.

He pressed the buzzer and waited patiently. There was no response. John was disappointed. He felt on the cusp of an important moment. He wasn't expecting her not to be in. It didn't fit the narrative created by his imagination.

He pressed the buzzer twice more. Eventually Taylor answered, slightly exasperated and a little out of breath.

"Hello"

"Hi Taylor it's me. Can I come up?" John asked attempting to sound serious, trying as best he could to mask the excitement and glee he felt.

"Erm it's not a great time for me at the moment" she said dithering. She was fumbling for words. She'd been caught off guard.

"Look Taylor I just wondered if we could talk. I really need to talk to you"

"Look why don't you run down to the shop and get us a nice bottle of red and we can have a drink together like we used to. Don't go to the local shop though, terrible choice. Remember that little wine merchants on Belfry road?"

"Yeah I remember. Next to the Brie specialists?"

"Yeah that's the one. Why don't you go there and get us a nice Barolo or something?"

"Ok I'll see you in a bit"

"Yeah" she replied a fleeting response as she dashed off. The line went dead. John turned and made his way to the wine merchants. He walked briskly. There was a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. He glided as he walked helped by some unknown force guiding him through the city streets.

The wine merchant was situated on a busy street populated with delis, cafes and restaurants. It was occupied exclusively by middle class people wandering up and down casually searching for the perfect cheeses to have at their uneventful dinner parties.

John entered the shop and browsed for the cheapest bottle. Once found he took it to the counter and paid, the owner not saying a single word throughout the transaction as if John was not worthy of his conversation.

After John left the proprietor went back to the industry magazine he'd been reading, hoping to further understand a business he knew nothing about.

By the time he arrived back at the flat he was exhausted. He buzzed and was let up.

On reaching Taylors door he took a deep breath and steadied himself.

The door opened revealing a dishevelled Taylor. Her hair was messy and her makeup was smudged but John didn't notice. He smiled at her, a smile that beamed from ear to ear. She forced a smile back at him, her mouth moved into the required position but her eyes betrayed her true feelings. John was oblivious. His mind was made up and nothing including reality would get in his way.

He kissed her on the cheek before they made their way quietly inside. The flat was cold. All the windows were open which was strange given the time of year. Taylor was wearing beige trousers and a hot pink t-shirt that didn't go as if she'd thrown on the first items of clothing she'd found.

She went into the kitchen to find a bottle opener. John scanned the room. Cushions were scattered everywhere. Some lay on the floor, others were assorted chaotically on the sofas. Taylor, being the meticulous person she was, usually insisted on a tidy flat. He'd never seen it this messy. It was curious.

She came back carrying an opener and two oversized wine glasses, carrying both upside down whilst gripping them at the bottom.

They drank the wine, Taylor forgetting she'd asked for a Barolo. They talked. They laughed. They reminisced and before too long she led him by his hand into the bedroom. John felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt alive again. He felt like he was finally back where he belonged.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

John was returning from a romantic break he and Taylor had taken in Brighton. He'd wanted to go to Paris. He'd wanted to pull out all the stops but a nearby English seaside town was he'd been able to afford.

Nevertheless he considered the trip a success. Full reconciliation had been achieved. They were in love again. They were happy.

When he arrived at the foyer to his flats, he found his mailbox overflowing. It was as if his mailbox had vomited letters all over the floor. They were scattered everywhere, the size of the small, metal container unable to cope with the demands that had been made of it.

He went to his flat and came back with a black bin-liner. He filled it until it was half full and dragged back up the upstairs.

Sitting down with a coffee he began opening and reading them one by one. Some were sweet, containing kind words and wishing him the best. Some were more provocative. Some professed love. Some were just obscene.

After he'd read forty or so he gathered them up and put them in the hallway cupboard.

He now boasted a sizeable collection. Stacks of letters from fans and well wishers were piled so high they almost reached half way up the ample sized hallway cupboard.

Only three weeks before he'd began to receive thousands of threats and letters detailing people's disgust but now, here, in a world that seemed markedly different to the one he'd left behind when he was kidnapped, he was loved.

People, the great British public, had judged him to be worthy of praise and admiration. He read about it. He felt it when he walked down the street and passersby would stop, shake his hand, ask him how he was recovering and wish him the best for the future. He knew it in the way people looked at him, the excitement in their eyes when he was spotted, the screams of delight when he was recognised.

He was a new man. He was different. He'd been elevated to a place occupied by very few. He was no longer a figure of hate. He was no longer derided but loved.

But with the adoration came the inevitable and inescapable paranoia. How long would it last? Would they turn on him again? How could he maintain his new profile? What could he do to maintain their love? What could he say? What did they want?

This was how he had lived. This is how it had always been. The anxieties, the fear that it would all disappear, vanish without a trace leaving him with nothing, consumed him. He wanted something to the point of needing it. And when it was realised, when he'd been delivered to where he wanted to be, living the life he had chosen for himself he couldn't help but worry it would all be taken away.

Fear drove him to be the person he didn't realise he'd become. It pushed and pulled him, acting on tiny insecurities until they became exaggerated overwhelming him with a sense that something was bound to go wrong.

He had that feeling again. He didn't understand it. He wasn't able to break down, to think it through and realise how it affected him but it was there.

John had heard from an acquaintance that he was to be the subject of today's Loose Morals. He turned on the TV and selected the correct channel. He hoped it would be favourable. He assumed, despite what had happened last time he'd been discussed on the show that it would be.

He was, after all, being lauded in the media. He was the celebrity of the moment. He was in demand. Media outlets and television channels rang him constantly, all wanting a piece of him, all desperate to be the ones to tell his story, to have that exclusive, to be the publication or the channel to feed the nation what it so desperately wanted.

He had been talked about and praised as if he'd achieved something distinguished and outstanding. He was the nations new darling. It wouldn't last. It never does but at this moment in time there was no one the media wanted to talk to more, there was no one the public wanted more.

He poured himself another coffee and topped it up with some whiskey. He took a deep breath as if preparing himself for something of great importance and watched as the letters came in and out of focus, expanding and contracting as their colours changed until the graphics faded and the camera panned in on a presenter positioned behind a red desk, the shows name embossed on the front, the audience clapping in unison as he nodded appreciatively.

"Hello and welcome to Loose Morals, a show all about news, current events and opinions. I'm your host Josh Haddocombe". The audience clapped again. All pleased, all prepared to will the panellists on with their approval.

"Coming up on today's show. Does your dog want to murder you? Are immigrants affecting your credit rating? Does apathy give you cancer and this week's list of what to be fearful of" he paused, the audience clapping again performing the only task required of them with aplomb. "On my panel today Journalist and anti-MMR vaccination hero the British Mail columnist Janet Swail"

Janet smiled and nodded slowly, clasping her hands together in front of her as she did. "Star of the real geezers, Danny Forsyth"

A man in his late twenties with teeth so whitened it looked as if they were illuminated waved with enthusiasm.

"And finally judge of the hit TV show Celebrities do the funniest things, Michael Wishbourne"

A middle aged man, greying slightly and with an orange face, smiled as if he'd just won an award. His face was tightened from Botox making his eyes looks as though they were trying to escape from the side of his face.

Once the clapping abated the show began.

"So before we get in to today's topics I was just wondered if any of the panel had seen the recent reports about John Dobbs" John took a deep breath. A burst of nervous energy had him tapping his foot on the floor and rubbing his hands together.

"Obviously we all know what happened to him. What he had been subjected to by that monster was a tragedy. We hear he has left hospital and I would like to wish him, from everyone here at Loose Morals, our best wishes and a full recovery. What do you make of what's happened Janet?"

The show was part of the media which had destroyed him yet he was so delighted to be discussed positively on national television that he didn't care. He had forgotten their crimes.

"Well I met him a couple of times and I have to say, looking back on it now, this is such a shock. I met him at a charity auction and we shook hands and I could see the warmth in his eyes. You could tell he was a lovely, lovely man. He really made you feel good about yourself. He was that sort of person. A truly wonderful, wonderful human being. I think he could be one of our greatest living Britain's"

The rest of the panel nodded in agreement as if it was a perfectly sensible observation.

"Michael any thoughts on this tragedy?" he asked without even a cursory glance in his direction.

"Well I, like Janet, also met him once and he was probably the nicest man I have ever had the pleasure of spending time with. A real gentleman. He radiated such warmth and generosity and made you feel really at ease" Michael's hands gestured as he spoke like a media savvy politician.

When he finished speaking the camera cut to Josh who was nodding. He looked across at Danny. "So Danny what are your thoughts?"

He smiled, whitened teeth gleaming in the studio lights, the brightness of them in stark contrast to his sun bed tan.

"Well" he began before pausing as if uttering words was a great difficulty. "I just think and like the others said. Like. He's obviously, like totally bossed it. Do you know? Like really, really and like he's obviously been there and it's been awful but then afterwards he got out and was good and that takes a lot you know? Really takes a lot of like you know, real like, you know. I think he's really done well and I think he's good and I'm glad and it's all good. I think literally, if that would have happened to me, maybe man, like I really don't know. He's totally bossed it and I just think that is well good and that". He paused gathering his thought.

"Maybe it would be good if the queen or like someone from radio one gave him like a medal or something for being, you know like super brave and that". He stopped, members of the audience nodding as if he'd spoken sense. They understood him, however that was possible.

"Yes I can understand what you mean" Josh said, nodding slowly.

He looked down at a piece of paper resting on the desk in front of him. It was filled with tweets to read out so the public could hear their own opinions.

"Here are a few tweets from our viewers at home. John from Crawley says he should be knighted. Good point John. Allen from Derby says flailing would be too good for Edward Rowlins #brokenbritain. Alex from Tyne and Wear says this is what happens when schoolchildren stop being indoctrinated with Christianity, people start kidnapping celebrities. Barry from Chisolm by the sea says I was kidnapped when I was a kid and it never did me any harm. Darren from Bairstow says John is a legend maybe he should be prime minister instead of those idiots in the suits. And finally Andrew from Berkshire says isn't this praise over the top, what has he actually achieved?"

Josh looked down at the piece of paper confused by the last tweet. It wasn't part of the agreed narrative.

"Sorry folks I don't know how that one got in there". He shot an angry look across at the researcher.

"Any final thoughts before we move on" he enquired of his panellists. Janet looked indignant. Her anger, an emotion she felt perpetually invoked by anything that was different or in any way progressive, bubbled to the surface, her face muscles contracting, her eyes narrowing.

"I think what he was subjected to by this maniac who, let me remind you, was unemployed was disgusting. That's right he was unemployed and although I don't know this for certain, I wouldn't be surprised if he was an immigrant or worst still an illegal immigrant. This kind of behaviour is what happens when you're too lazy to work and is another example of people abusing the system and then abusing others just because the PC brigade think they should be treated with common sense and respect. Well I think this story, like every story anyone ever asks me about is indicative of BROKEN BRITAIN" she raised her voice as she delivered last two words and rose slightly out of her seat.

The audience clapped raucously providing emphatic support to her illogical words. They muttered broken Britain and nodded, all in agreement as a collective, one body voicing one opinion. Their individual thoughts and reasoning eradicated by their desire to agree with the people sat next to them, to blend in, to disguise themselves as being just like everybody else.

Josh nodded as the audience sounded its approval. The show moved on. John turned the TV of and sat back. His phone began ringing. Unknown numbers flashed on his screen. With each rejected call a new one appeared. He was in demand. They wanted him. They needed him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Edward lay in the hospital bed motionless. His eyes were fixed on a TV screen but he wasn't watching it. The images made no impression. He was too busy losing himself in his own relentless misery.

His head throbbed. The beating had inflicted four huge gashes; Two on the back of his head, one above the eye and one on the chin. In total he'd had fifty two stitches.

His other injuries included a fractured arm, two broken fingers and several painful lacerations.

He had strong painkillers available but refused them. He wanted to feel pain. His failure deserved it.

He understood from the conversations he could hear outside his room that the police would be arriving soon. The doctors had warned them off for the first day, unsure his current state could handle questioning but it was inevitable.

He didn't know what they would ask. He didn't really care. He would go to prison. Probably for a long time and that was something he was prepared to accept.

In his eyes he had not committed a crime but he knew the laws he was subject to disagreed. His philosophy, his thinking was out of step with polite society. He knew that. They would know that soon.

When the police arrived he had begun to drift. Their appearance startled him out of a doze.

"Edward Theodore Berkley?" an officer asked. She was tall and spoke professionally. Her manner befitted her job.

Edward failed to respond. This was to be a difficult conversation. Words would not come easily. Answers would be hard fought for.

"Are you Edward Theodore Berkley?" she asked again in the same tone. Her experience and insight resulted in a patience to suit the many difficult people she had to deal with.

Edward shook his head slowly before shutting his eyes. For the next five minutes he dozed. The officers remained until he opened his eyes.

He looked at them as if to ask why they were still here. The male officer was growing irritable. He was impatient and impetuous. He didn't understand that each situation required a different dynamic to be established. Police work was about adapting more than action.

He took a step forward but she put her arm across halting his movement.

"Edward I am Detective Sergeant Rawlins and this is my colleague Detective Constable Jones. We would like to ask you questions. I understand you are in a great deal of pain but its imperative we talk to you while the events are still fresh in your mind" she spoke holding a pad of paper open.

"No need" he responded whilst gazing absently across the room.

"Excuse me" she enquired

"In the eyes of laws you work to uphold I am guilty. I will go to prison. There is no need for questions. What would be the point?"

"Well Edward we still need to establish a clear picture of what happened. So can you just start from the beginning and walk us through what happened?"

"Okay but I'm thirsty. Get me a drink and I will happily oblige" he responded.

The two officers looked at each other and shrugged. DS Rawlins left the room leaving DC Jones and Edward alone. When DC Jones was certain she had left and was out of ear shot he took his pen and paper and stepped towards Edward.

"I don't suppose you could sign this could you?" he asked hesitantly.

Edward took the pen and signed with a quick flick of the wrist before turning on to his side and looking away from the officer.

"Thank you. If you could keep that between you and me and not tell the sergeant that would be much appreciated. Could be worth a few bob but you know, it's not exactly professional"

He ripped the sheet of paper with the signature on, folded it and placed it in his inside pocket. DC Jones would later sell the signature to a seventeen year old from Memphis for two hundred pounds.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"How is your starter" John said to Taylor, smiling warmly. She shrugged in response and continued starring around the restaurant like a bored teenager uninterested in the company.

"It's nice in here isn't it?" John enquired.

"I guess" she responded with limited enthusiasm.

"I thought you'd like it ".

John was happy. He felt back to his old self. He was in love again and it felt great. He knew they were meant to be together, something a part of him had always known. He loved how warm she was, how compassionate and understanding. She seemed to get him like no one else had before.

"Where do you want to go afterwards? Maybe go for a cocktail at Dirty Martinis?"

"Whatever" she replied, still scanning the restaurant completely disinterested in anything John had to say.

They continued eating in silence. Taylor pushed her food around the plate. She had eaten before they'd met up and wasn't hungry. John ate carefully, trying not to exhibit the poor table manners he knew she had always found annoying.

When they finished John settled the bill and gave a large tip to demonstrate over the top generosity despite his increasing levels of debt. Taylor didn't notice and even if she had she would have remained unimpressed. She continued to limit her engagement with John, noticeably distant and cold.

The restaurant was brimming with people enjoying themselves and indulging in the finer things in life. Old friends met to catch up over Turbot and Chablis. There were couples looking longingly into each other's eyes whilst they spoke in hushed tones and fed each other desert. Large groups of Lawyers, investment bankers and marketing executives sat on messy tables, talking at an unreasonable volume about things they wrongly considered were amusing whilst they drank expensive Brandy they didn't even like.

In amongst all this activity John and Taylor had little to say. John tried to strike up conversation but everything he uttered fell on deaf ears. Yet he was oblivious to the stifled conversation and Taylor's obvious boredom. As they left the restaurant John put his arm around her and tried to bring her close to him, but she seemed to resist. In the end they walked side by side.

They flagged a taxi and got in. "Seventeen Marlow road please and then Placer street afterwards" Taylor ordered sternly like Victorian head mistress.

"Oh" John said.

"Oh what?" Taylor replied, starring at him with raised eyebrows.

"I thought maybe I could stay the night". John looked hurt, like a child who'd received nothing from the tooth fairy.

"Fine" she said.

When they reached her appointment and walked in through the door John began kissing her neck. She winced as he did but he didn't notice. He pulled her close to him so that their bodies were pressed tightly together. She led John into the bedroom where they had rigid and impassionate sex, like two planks of wood rubbing against each other.

Afterwards John lay smiling whilst Taylor starred aimlessly at the ceiling like someone who was completely lost.

The next morning, while she laid in bed sleeping peacefully, John went to a nearby deli and picked up fresh pastries and coffee. By the time he got back to the flat she was already up, talking to someone on the phone. "No erm. I. I. I'm happy with my broadband thank you" she said and hung up when she noticed John standing in the door way.

She was noticeably flustered and stood awkwardly not knowing what to do with her hands. She run them through her hair then dropped them to her side before bringing them back up to her face and then held them out in front of her. She gave a forced smile that was more of grimace and then went back to the bedroom.

John ate the pastries. Taylor said she didn't like croissants, something John found strange because he was certain they used to eat them every Sunday.

John was becoming increasingly nervous about today. He found vodka in the kitchen and poured some in his coffee. He had cut down on his drinking, making a promise to himself that he wouldn't let it ruin him like it had his uncle but he needed it to take the edge of.

This was his big opportunity. He knew how important today was and understanding the significance made him feel nauseous and uncomfortable. He began perspiring. He walked to the bathroom but felt unsteady, weaving around as if drunk.

He threw cold water over his face and starred at himself in the mirror. Wrinkles he'd noticed before looked deeper and more embedded. His skin seemed grey, and his hair looked finer. It was as if the aging process had sped up. The man in the reflection didn't look like him. It was someone else looking back. An unknown character in a strange story he was watching but not a part of.

He went back into the kitchen and poured more vodka into his coffee. He needed to settle his nerves. He needed to focus and be prepared. This would be his first television appearance in months and it had to run smoothly.

A career that had been all but over was resuscitated. There was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

When Taylor had finished the onerous task of getting ready, having spent hours putting on makeup knowing it would be removed and re-done once she was at the studio. They climbed into a cab sent by the channel and sat apart in silence.

On the journey to the studio John starred out of the window at the world as it passed them by. He watched people going about their daily lives with fascination. He found it soothing and his nerves settled. He felt steady again. He felt like himself.

Once they reached the studio they were shown to makeup by a runner. He was a young man in his early twenties so thin it looked unnatural as if he was a plasticine doll that had been stretched.

Taylor and John were led into different rooms so the artists could work on them separately. Just before they were separated, John kissed her softly on the lips, lingering afterwards he noticed, for the first time, how she grimaced when he kissed her. Perplexed, he went into makeup and sat down in the chair he was shown to.

He was troubled by Taylor's reaction to his kiss but, caught up in the fervour of the studio and the world of television, his attention was quickly diverted. He felt at home. This is where he belonged. This is where he had always belonged and it made him feel content in a way that soothed him.

All his worries and anxieties drifted away. A calm washed over him. His face relaxed, his frown removed he sat back and enjoyed his surrounds and the attention he received.

He liked people fussing over him. He liked the over attentive runners bowing to his every need, just wanting, as a means to progress their own careers, to do everything you asked of them with the zeal only someone with a carrot dangled in front of them can act with.

It had been a long time since he'd appreciated just how much people will do for you when you're considered the talent.

After an hour he was transformed. His face, the face he'd been starring at disconsolately just hours before, was refreshed and full of colour. It was a new John, a cleaner, smarter, healthier more attractive version of the man who had walked into the studio only an hour before.

About half an hour before they were due to go the producer came in to have a word with his guest.

John and Taylor were appearing on Good Morning to discuss, in interview format, their troubles, Johns abduction and their reconciliation. It was an opportunity for John to continue riding the public support and sympathy he'd received with the hope of firmly reestablishment himself.

John had been in the media constantly since he was released from hospital so the producers understood what a major coup this was for them. Everyone wanted to hear his story. The nation was restless for the details, wanting to know, wanting to see someone made vulnerable by an experience and open up so they could feel close to them, so they could feel as if their lives were similar and that, given the right circumstances, they could friends.

John wanted the attention, the publicity and all the rewards it could bring. He wanted his life back.

"Hi John. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm the producer Davey Jones". They shook hands and flashed each other a formal smile.

"Hi Davey"

The producer hovered around him for a moment, continuing to smile until it felt awkward.

"So John. The format for today is pretty straight forward. You'll be introduced by Daniel and Laretta. Then you'll come out and sit together on the red sofa. You'll be given a short introduction by the hosts. Just a few details about who you are and why you're on and what you'll be talking about. Then they'll begin the questions. They'll be the same as the questions we sent to you on Tuesday except we've added one about your favourite breed of dog which they'll ask you at the end. I know it sounds a little trivial but the next segment is about dogs so we thought it best to ask you this to ease us into the more light hearted segment with a bit more fluidity. Is that okay?" he spoke quickly and concisely.

"Yeah that makes sense. I don't really like dogs though" John added.

"Just make something up. Just say Border Collie or something. It doesn't have to be true. It's just television after all" he said smirking.

The producer left for a few minutes before coming back in looking slightly worried. "Just another thing John. If we feel you're straying onto ground that might not be appropriate for morning television, and you've got to remember this is going out live, there is a red light positioned behind the cameras that will flash. This lets you or the presenters know when something inappropriate is being said so if this happens just move onto to something else or stop and let Daniel or Laretta pick it up. Hope that's okay?" he asked John who nodded in recognition.

"I'd also like to say what a pleasure it is to have you on John. I know talking about the abduction must be difficult so we really do appreciate you coming here". He then paused and smiled. He continued to look at John as if there was something else he wanted to say but was finding it difficult to extract the right words.

"Hope you don't mind me saying but I was very surprised how quickly after your abduction your agent set up this interview. I just hope, you know, it's all not too fresh"

"What do you mean?" John responded perplexed.

"Well we got the call that you wanted to come on the show when you were still in hospital". John didn't understand. The producer must have got this wrong. Taylor had asked him last week about it. She'd told him they'd contacted her that morning wanting to know if they'd do an interview together.

"But I thought you asked us to go on? Taylor said you'd contacted her last week about the interview" he said frowning, making it difficult for the makeup artist to apply the foundation to his forehead.

"No we were contacted by your agent in February about the possibility of you and Taylor coming on the show to discuss your salvaged relationship". He then paused, thinking for a moment, shutting his eyes as he did and resting his left hand on the side of his forehead.

"I think it was the thirteenth. Yes it was definitely the thirteenth. I remember it was the day me and my wife were setting off for our annual valentines trip to Valencia".

"I don't have an agent" John said angrily, wanting to know what was happening, his grip on the situation was beginning to loosen.

"Well someone claiming to be your agent rang me personally. Malcolm I think he was called. Is he not your agent?"

John gripped the armrests with both hands, his knuckles whitening.

"Former agent" John said quietly in a way that carefully reflected his change in mood.

"Well your here now John so I guess that doesn't matter. We can do the show which is what you would have wanted anyway I suspect so no harm done" he said trying to placate John before leaving, knowing he'd been angered but not fully grasping why.

John sat in quiet anger. He gripped the arm rests of the chair, tension making his forearm muscles harden and shape. He wanted to rip them off and throw them across the room. He was seething. He felt urges, strong urges to do something, to say something.

He felt hazy. There were too many thoughts, too many considerations, emotion that was unclear and ill-defined coming in and out of focus. He felt something, something visceral. It was instinctive.

He scanned the room, his eyes fixing on faces with an unusual intensity. He breathed in and out. The breaths were deep.

He replayed last month's activities. He thought about Taylors grimace when he kissed her. He saw her face. He saw her eyes and everything cleared. It unravelled in front of him, the whole story, the whole sorry episode.

What he'd considered to be truth was nothing but a thin veil hiding what was really happening behind the scenes. Taylor didn't want him back. She didn't even like being with him, that should have been obvious.

The silences. The lack of enthusiasm. The moods. The indifference. The complete lack of interaction. The unwillingness to be affectionate. It all made sense. She didn't want him. She wanted to bask in his new found fame, to carve out her own piece of the action.

He was everywhere, peddled as someone the public should automatically like just because of the ordeal he'd been through and she wanted in. She didn't want him for him, she wanted a career enhancement.

She was still in cahoots with Malcolm. He was still there behind the curtain, pulling the strings, manoeuvring people where he wanted them.

The thirteenth of February was the day before she'd visited him in the hospital. The interview, which had been set up for them to discuss amongst other things, how they'd gotten back together had been arranged before they'd even reconciled.

Malcolm, in all his evil glory, like a totalitarian propagandist, had set the whole thing up. He'd no doubt convinced Taylor it would be best for her career to get back with John. That's why she'd visited him in hospital. It wasn't guilt. That wasn't her motivation. She wanted to share the limelight.

John had been played for a fool. They'd ruined his life and now they wanted to use his resurgence to carry their careers.

They would stop at nothing to further their own interests. John hadn't seen it until now, but it was obvious. It was all so obvious. He was angry with himself for not noticing just how distant she'd been, how clear it was that he meant nothing to her.

He stood up and paced up and down the room, his head dipped, his fists held clenched in front of him. They makeup artists watched, wondering what was happening. They presumed it was part of a ritual, a way for him to cope with nervous energy before he went on air.

He knew he had to stop them. He knew he had to wrestle back control of his own life, of his own career. The truth, a value long since forgotten in the world of television and fame, was going to be used against them. They were not going to get away with what they had done. They couldn't do this to him. He didn't deserve it. They had used him as if he didn't matter, as if he was a commodity they could exploit.

When he'd finished in makeup he was led out by the runner into the studio. Taylor was waiting for him smiling and looking incongruously happy. She had her game face on. She was in character, ready to act her way through the interview, ready to deceive people into thinking she might be a normal, decent human being.

John leant and spoke softly into her ear. "I know what you two are up to"

He smiled like the Grinch, an evil grin beaming from one side of his face to the other. She looked at him confused. She had no idea what he meant.

"And after the break we have Taylor Lincoln and John Dobbs who are here to talk about their relationship and Johns abduction" Daniel spoke with a picture perfect smile.

"On you go" an assistant producer prompted and motioned them towards the set with an outstretched hand.

They walked towards the sofa and sat down. Taylor reached over and tried to grab his hand but he quickly moved it away. She looked at him curiously but he ignored her.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, waiting for the ad break to finish. Polite smiles were exchanged but no one spoke. If they'd have been guests unused to television, a couple brought on to discuss real life issues lapped up by TV executives who used them as a way of engaging with an audience they knew nothing about, the presenters would have spoken a few encouraging words and asked questions to make them feel comfortable. But they knew Taylor and John didn't require encouragement. They were pros. They knew what to do and how to behave.

The advert breaks ended and the presenters were counted back in.

"Welcome back. Today we have the privilege of being the first to interview John Dobbs after his horrific abduction. Hi Taylor. Hi John. Thank you for coming on the show it's really great to have you. I guess we'd like to start by asking how you are John because we know you've been through a lot recently" Daniel said this with a serious look commensurate with the topic.

"I'm fine. Well I am now anyway" John replied without emotion.

"That's really good to hear John. We've had a lot of sympathetic comments sent in by the viewers this morning. Would you like to hear a few?" Loretta asked, her Welsh accent being exaggerated as the producers felt it added warmth.

"No" John responded abruptly. The three of them were taken aback by this and for a moment no one said anything. Behind the cameras, Davey paced up and down sensing something was not quite right.

"Ok. Well John I know it's probably difficult for you to talk about but can you take us through what happened?" Laretta asked. She was sat upright. Her arms were placed on her lap and she was holding a card containing key information.

"Well some crazy psychopath who was obsessed Taylor abducted and tortured me for days because he read, as did everyone that I had mistreated her. And do you know why he thought that?" John spoke with something new in his voice, a tone never used before, and a quality that was surfacing for the first time born of indignation, rage and determination.

He felt a stirring. He was lifted by a desire for people to know the truth, pushed on by a sudden and overbearing need for people to understand, for the public to finally get it, finally see the light through lies they were told on a daily basis.

"Er no" Laretta responded, hesitation in her voice, her confidence compromised.

"Well it's because Taylor" John pointed in her direction without looking at her. "And her agent, my former agent, concocted stories to get her public sympathy and further her career" John noticed that the red light behind the cameras was flashing but he continued. "My agent thought my career was over so he threw me under the bus to further push her into the limelight. They sold me down the river. They started internet rumours saying I'd mistreated her because they thought it would be good for her career and didn't care about mine because I was considered washed up. Just another nobody who used to be on television"

The cameras were still rolling. Davey's initial panic over, he now realised, although it was a gamble, that this could be gold dust. Celebrity meltdowns were the holy grail of interviews. The sheer number of hits the channels on demand website would get could be off the scale.

"And so I was abducted and tortured. And then, as if that wasn't enough, as if ruining my livelihood and my career, turning the whole country against me so the public was baying for my blood, they still wanted more. While I was in hospital recovering they decided, given how much publicity I was getting that Taylor should get back together with me so we can all act like one big happy fucking family and get every ounce out of me until I have nothing left to give. Is that about right Taylor?" John turned and faced her but all three of them remained silent. Taylor didn't know how to defend herself, she was cornered. The two presenters were panicking not knowing what to say but being told in their ear pieces to keep the interview going.

John turned so he was starring right down the camera as if talking directly to the viewer.

"This is all bullshit. It's all meaningless. One minute everyone hates me, the next they love me. It doesn't mean anything. It's all just a big facade. Nothing you see coming through your televisions, nothing you read about in your shitty magazines or terrible newspapers is true. They just tell you anything because all the care about is how to get more viewers or sell more papers. The truth doesn't matter to these people. It's not even a consideration because all they care about is making money. If the truth gets in the way they think fuck it, we'll just make whatever crap up we want. Honesty and integrity don't matter to these people"

"Shall I stop filming" one of the camera men turned and said to Davey.

"Definitely not. This is gold. Keep rolling"

Davey was clearly in his element. He was smiling, concentrating, revelling. Maybe his overdue promotion might be finally back on the agenda.

"Don't believe anything they tell you. Don't form your opinions based on what you read or what you see because what they tell you is not based on fact. Don't be someone who follows the crowd think for yourself. That's the only way you'll ever find the truth, by not allowing yourself to think how you've been told to think. You need to make your own mind up. You can't let editors, journalists or anyone else make your mind up for you. Fuck what society thinks. Fuck what everyone tells you, think for yourself" John finished speaking. By now he was stood only a metre away from the camera.

He felt alive, he felt free. Adrenaline pumped through him. He realised for the first time how trapped he had been by an expectation of what and who he should be.

He'd been trapped by an unnecessary desire to be perceived in a certain way, to fit a certain mould to be a certain person but now he finally realised it didn't matter.

A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He could finally live his life in a way he'd never allowed himself to before. This was the start of something new, something that would change his life and its course forever.

Taylor began to cry uncontrollably. He had no idea why. Maybe it was a terrible attempt at salvaging something from the interview, her commitment to playing the mistreated girlfriend. John didn't care. She could cry all she wanted. He hated her and everyone like her.

He walked past the cameras and threw his microphone on the floor like the rebel he now thought of himself as. A few people clapped as he walked out of the studio. The runner, towering above John like a giraffe smiled and patted him on the back. It made him feel good. He could see he'd touched a few people with his words and that he might have made a difference.

On the way home he picked up some expensive champagne he couldn't afford, but he didn't care. This was a key moment in his life, one that defines you as a person. He didn't want to celebrate with cheap sparkling wine he could get anywhere, he wanted the best.

When he arrived back at his flat, he burst through the door as if making an entrance to a surprise party he'd secretly known about and ran into the kitchen. He got out a glass and opened the bottle, the cork flying into the roof, the golden liquid trickling down the neck of the bottle.

He poured it into the glass and twirled it in his hand watching the bubbles form and ascend. He wanted to drink it and then finish off the rest of the bottle. But maybe he didn't need to. He'd always drank heavily, living a life of excess, perceiving drink to be an integral part of his enjoyment but maybe it didn't need to be. Maybe he had let it become so entrenched in his lifestyle that it began to define it.

He poured the glass and the rest of the bottle into the sink. He didn't need a drink. He no longer had to be a slave to these impulses.

This whole experience had been so invigorating he felt his entire life had started over again. The old John had died and a new one had been born, climbing out from the rubble of a career that had been destroyed.

He went into his bedroom and found some empty boxes left over from when he moved in. He took them into the living room and filled them with everything associated with the old John.

He threw in his television awards, his files filled with interviews in newspapers and magazines and DVDs of his television appearances. He tossed in trinkets he'd stolen from celebrity events and photos with celebrities more famous than himself. Everything he had once cherished, items he had wanted to keep until the day he died had been nonchalantly thrown into empty boxes with little care or concern for their condition.

After he'd filled three boxes to the brim he loaded them into his car.

He left the flat, driving through the busy city streets until he joined the motorway, leaving the city behind.

He found classic FM on the radio and let the calming tones of an orchestra sooth him. He usually hated classical music but sometimes, on rare occasions when he was brimming with nervous energy or feeling anxious, it calmed him.

After driving for a couple of hours, he reached his destination. He pulled into a cliff top car park and drove to within a couple of metres of the edge.

He got out, stretching limbs stiff from the journey and starred out across the sea. He'd always found its vastness, its limitless scale so impressive. Nature has the capacity to humble because it puts us, our species, ourselves as individuals into perspective.

He used to visit here as a child. They would bring a hamper to the cliff on warm summer days and sit on an old picnic blanket eating sausage rolls and triangular cut sandwiches.

Afterwards he would play Frisbee with his dad, throwing the red plastic disk around gleefully whilst his mother sat in a beach chair reading romantic fiction. They were happy memories.

He opened the door, and lifted the handbrake off. Pushing on the underside of the roof, the car began rolling towards the edge of the cliff. When he reached the edge he let go, the car hurtling down the cliff face towards the sea, rolling several times as it hit rock outcrops until eventually it crashed into the icy water.

Everything he had once thought of as important, all the photos, awards and his car, were now gradually sinking towards the sea bed, a place from which they would never escape.

As he watched the car sink, waves crashing over the top of the vehicle as it descended towards its final resting place, he felt content as if he had been relieved of everything that had been weighing him down.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Edward was led by a prison guard to the visitor's area for an unexpected meeting with his lawyer.

He was confused by the request. A guilty man, condemned by the law and the society which had created it to serve twenty years, he had no reason to be visited by his lawyer. His case was over. No appeal was needed for he readily admitted his guilt although he accepted this only as it was meant by law. He didn't feel guilty. He had no regrets, no remorse no feeling that his actions should have been avoided.

He was led into a room reserved for legal council, the guard stepping outside to wait until his five minutes were up.

His lawyer, Michael, was a small man with a shiny forehead and a nervous manner, his hands always moving, never settling. He was wearing a blue suit and red tie.

Edward sat down his hands clasped together in front of him. Michael, unnerved by his client, fixed his eyes on his hands. He didn't like to look into his eyes. He knew, more than anyone, what he had done. His prior experience in the criminal courts had been limited to public order violations and petty crimes committed by bored teenagers but Edwards's case had been different.

He understood nothing of the man in front of him. He could not relate. He could not grasp for reason or search for answers.

Michael, sensing a silence was building tension, spoke hesitantly.

"Hello Edward urm. Hope you're doing okay. I. Errr. I've. I've. I've been contacted by several parties. Publishers and. And a TV channel who are interested in your story"

Edward frowned confused. "Interested in my story?" he repeated.

"Yes. They. Well they think urrr. People would want to urrr. Read about it and maybe, be interested in a documentary. I think it's because it was such a public, you know, crime. They think people would be interested in you, you know, what, you know happened. Your side of the story" he wiped his forehead quickly and shuffled in his seat.

"Why?"

"Because true crime sells. There is a sizable market for it they led me to believe. People like hearing the exploits of criminals and the producer I spoke to said audiences particular like hearing it from the criminals side, like those mob documentaries you see, you know the ones with the ex mobsters giving the inside story on what it's like to be a part of something like that?"

"No" he replied abruptly.

"Arr. Well. You know. People. People like them"

Silence. Michael shuffled again. Edward stared vacantly, his eyes looking nowhere.

"Well. Edward. They want to write a book on you. You know from your side. It would be in your name but they'd assign a ghost writer to give it that professional finish. The book would be accompanied with a documentary. I spoke to the production company. They were very enthusiastic"

"What's in it for me?" Edward asked. His voice was emotionless but high in pitch. In any other circumstances he would have appeared vulnerable. Physically impaired with a childlike frame he couldn't intimidate, he didn't have the presence or the voice. But people knew what he had done. It wasn't a normal crime. It wasn't committed for the sake of money or male bravado. It came from a darker place. It was committed through reasons people couldn't understand. There is nothing scarier, more unsettling than what you don't understand because there is an uncertainty, a sense that you cannot control what happens.

In prison he was left alone. No one troubled him. No one wanted to because they didn't know what he was capable of.

"Well money Edward. They're offering quite a lot of money. Twenty five thousand for the book and fifty thousand for the documentary"

"Seventy five thousand? What would I do with that? I'm in prison?"

"Well not forever. Out in ten for good behaviour. That would be a nice little pot to come out to. You could buy a flat. Would set you up?!

Edward exhaled and then stretched his arms up towards the ceiling. He thought about it. He considered it. He wondered what it would be like to tell his story. The egomaniacal side of him, that pulse of self importance which had driven his desires into a reality in the first place, liked the idea of it.

"I'll do it but I don't want money"

"You don't want the money?" Michael asked confused. He'd hoped for a different answer. He'd hoped for his cut.

"No. I will do it but they have to do something for me" he said, a smile spreading across his pale face.

"What?" Michael asked, almost not wanting to know.

Edward explained his demand. Michael looked confused then pleaded with him to accept money as it was a simpler, easier form of remuneration.

Edward insisted and with some reluctance Michael left with a counter offer, one which, to his surprise, would be met in a desperate attempt to ensure the documentary would go ahead.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Edward sat alone pushing unidentifiable food around a metal tray. He found the food difficult to eat. It was so bland, so devoid of flavour or texture that he often left meals untouched.

When he'd finished he took his tray to a bin attempting the remaining food into it quickly and left, making his way briskly back to his cell, a guard watching him studiously as he walked.

He didn't like being out of his cell. He didn't like being amongst the other prisoners. He felt he was above them. He hadn't committed the crimes they had. He was different.

Back in his cell he sat on his bed, the mattress old and uncomfortable, the springs easily felt as you sat upon it.

He looked at the poster in front of him that stretched almost to the ceiling. It made him feel calm.

Prisoners were allowed some personal items such as photos and picture frames. At first they had been unsure about his poster because of its size but they had little reason to not allow it.

On a small table at the foot of the bed used to store what few items Edward was allowed was a package.

He picked up the package, holding it in both hands. He felt nervous but was unsure why. He began to rip the brown paper, discarding it carelessly on the floor of his immaculately maintained cell. Inside there was a garment wrapped in plastic. He ripped the plastic revealing a white silk scarf. He brought up to his face and smelt it, drawing in a long, deep breath. It smelt of perfume just as he had hoped.

He took the scarf and placed it on the side table and sat back, his spine pushed up against the cold wall and continued to admire the poster.

He couldn't believe he had her scarf. It made him feel close to her. It was as if they were sharing an experience, that somehow, through this, they were together, part of each other's lives.

Amanda Dickson. Weather presenter come daytime television presenter. To him she was perfection. She was all he wanted. She was all he needed and he felt like she was all he would ever need.

Taylor, an infatuation that had driven him commit a horrific crime, had been forgotten. They had given him someone else to lust after, someone else to fill a void in his life created by a perpetual unhappiness they would never resolve.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

John strode with purpose. He carried shopping and whistled tunes he didn't know the names of.

The sun was piercing through the white clouds that filled the sky. The air temperature rose as the clouds broke up allowing the sun's heat to hit the earth's surface. It was turning into beautiful day.

He arrived at a supermarket and went inside, passing between two security guards who starred at him, both understanding that they knew him from somewhere.

He filled a trolley with vodka, single malt whiskeys and crates of imported beers. When he reached the checkout he noticed the check out boy looking at him with suspicion. As he scanned the items he continued to stare.

When finished he smiled and began to blush.

"Oh my god" he said, face lit up. "You're John Dobson aren't you?"

John smiled and nodded. "I can't believe it. I'm serving John Dobson. This is completely insane. This is off the hook. Oh my fricking god. Can I have your autograph?" he said with too much excitement.

"Yeah sure" John responded. He handed him a pen and John signed the receipt with something none descript. Handing it back he started laughing uncontrollably, nerves getting the better of him. His face was bright red and he had lost all sense of where he was, ignoring the customers waiting patiently behind John.

John left the supermarket, his bags for life bulging with bottles, the handles being stretched and weakened. He flagged down a taxi and decided to stop off at his local on the way back to get a quick drink.

He dragged the bags into the pub and found a seat near the dartboard. He went to the bar and ordered a lager, sipping from the long glass as he walked back to his seat. The last few weeks had been so hectic he felt he needed a few moments to himself just to sit in silence and be.

Whilst he sipped his cool drink he noticed a couple sat on the table opposite arguing. They were speaking in angry, hushed tones. Quiet words were said with force, their faces pushed forward as they spoke, their eyes fixed, both failing in their attempts to mask the true nature of their conversation.

As John watched, the woman suddenly paused and looked across at him curiously. She was momentarily transfixed as if unable to divert her attention away from him. She whispered something into the ear of the man she was with and pointed subtly in John's direction, using a menu on the table to shield her finger.

He looked over at John and nodded. He then whispered something in her ear and they both smiled at each other with warmth that instantly broke up their argument, pushing it to the back of their thoughts for another time.

At first he ignored them but they continued to stare without relent until it became unnerving.

When he visited the facilities and returned to his seat they continued looking across, for some reason fascinated by him as if they were starring at a rare animal spotted in the wild. He quickly finished his drink and left, walking out of the pub with alacrity.

As he walked down the street he turned to notice a man running towards him with a shopping bag.

As John continued walking he glanced back every four or five steps. The man was closing in on him. He was running, the shopping bag swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

By the time he reached John he realised it was the man from the pub.

John put his head down and began walking even quicker. His heart began to race. He turned down an alley hoping to lose whoever it was pursuing him.

His walk broke into a jog. He dipped his head, forearms rising up from his sides as he began to pump them back and forth.

The end of the alley was a dead end. John panicked. He turned around. The man approached. He was panting like a dog. He looked tall and bulky. He had a scar above his eye and had thick curly hair that was jet black.

"You left this mate" he said holding up the bag to indicate what he was referring to. "Oh shit. Thank you" John replied, the relief palpable.

"Are you John Dobson?" he enquired, struggling to get his words out, impeded by heavy breathing.

"Yes"

"Massive fan mate. Really big fan. Me and the wife both are. Would it be alright to get your signature?" he looked at John imploringly and smiled. He had a nice smile that broke the menace, altering his face instantly so he looked kind and approachable.

"Yeah of course mate. Have you got a pen and some paper?" John enquired.

"Look this may sound a bit odd but would it be ok if you signed her tits?" he asked, wincing slightly as he spoke, aware what he was asking for was a push.

"Erm" John vacillated not really sure what to say. This was something he expected from marauding hen parties not middle aged couples. He continued looking at John, his hands gripped together in front of him as if praying.

"Ok" John said not knowing what else he could have said as he stood literally backed into a corner.

"Thank you so much. She will be well happy, honestly. The names Terry by the way". He held his hand out which John shook, Terry's machine like grip squeezing it until John winced.

They both walked back to the pub, John silent, Terry wittering on enthusiastically, listing every programme they'd seen him on as if he felt the need to prove they were fans. When they reached they walked in and on seeing John, Terry's wife began giggling uncontrollably like a school girl who'd noticed a cute boy starring across at her.

John sat down next to her feeling somewhat awkward, not really knowing what to do with himself. Terry handed him a pen and his wife, Sandra, pulled her top down and pushed down her bra revealing one of her breasts. John quickly signed it with the marker pen provided resolute in his intentions not to look.

Terry offered to buy him a drink but John refused remembering to be polite but explaining he was late for an important function. John left leaving the couple to text everyone they knew to tell them what had happened.

John walked home swiftly. His arms began to ache under the strain of the alcohol he was carrying. When he finally made it back to his flat, his hands hurting as the handles had dug themselves into his skin, he collapsed onto the sofa.

He watched TV for a few hours. Flicking restlessly between channels until he finally found a documentary on Trotsky he'd been meaning to watch, Russian history being something which interested him greatly.

Half way through he fell asleep. The late nights of the last week were taking their toll. When he woke an hour later, slightly startled as he hadn't planned on falling asleep, he stood up swiftly, blood rushing to his head making him feel dizzy and weak.

As he walked towards the kitchen the doorbell rang.

Opening the door revealed two men and a woman dressed in chefs whites carrying large containers. It was the caterers. He guided them in to the kitchen, detailing where everything was.

The caterers, busying themselves in the kitchen, pots and pans flying all over the place, were making a racket. John needed to get away from the pandemonium and so decided to take a stroll.

He walked casually like someone with nowhere in particular to go. He merged into the crowd that moved through the city as if it was one great, living organism.

Everyone was connected yet unique. It was the peculiarity of our existence, something that constantly perplexes that we can be so alike yet so different.

Turning down a side street he headed for a deli he'd discovered a few weeks ago that had a little cafe at the back. There was something he liked about it but he couldn't put his finger on it. He thought it might be the atmosphere or the interesting decor but in reality and unbeknown to him, his self awareness not far reaching enough to decipher many of his motives, it was the price.

It was reassuringly expensive. Fundamentally, like most of us, he was insecure and needed to show people he was successful as if it somehow mattered.

People care little about what you do. Pointless it therefore is to assume they will pay even the slightest bit of attention to where you chose to consume coffee. But ignorant as he was to the intricate workings of his own mind and the real perceptions of others, John entered and purchased a latte for seven pounds, a sum almost three times the market rate, but a sum that made him feel happier about himself.

As he sipped the frothy liquid, enjoying alongside it an overpriced and quite stale biscotti, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Darren sat near the back reading a copy of the financial times, cross legged, a pot of tea on the table.

John having noticed him made the decision, almost instantly, to avoid a conversation. He drank his latte quickly and kept his gaze fixed in the opposite direction.

As he was nearing the bottom of his mug, Darren, having noticed John, strolled over, warm smile on his face, his hair flopping as his long legs were jerked into motion.

"Hi John. Wow. How are you?" he said with genuine joy.

"Hi Darren. Nice to see you. Would you. Erm. Would you, you know. Like to join me?" John said with so much reluctance it should have been obvious the invitation was extended out of protocol and not because he desired company. But, pleased as he was to see his old friend, Darren sat down.

He looked different. His hair had been dyed dark brown and the sides had been shaved. He looked younger and trendier. He looked like John.

"So John. How have you been? It's been so long since I've seen you. Have you fully recovered? Or is that a bit personal, sorry?" he asked looking at him with concern. "No no, its fine. I'm fine. Thank you for the flowers you sent. I should have thanked you before now but I've been busy. You know what it's like"

"Yes, yes. This city never rests does it?" he said and smiled.

"Can I get you another?" Darren enquired noticing Johns drink was empty

"Yeah that would be great. Skinny latte"

"One skinny latte coming up"

As Darren walked over to the counter to order the drinks, John slipped discreetly out of the cafe. He had no time for his old friend and the regaling of pointless stories he'd heard a thousand times before. His childhood was a distant and almost forgotten memory. It represented a different John, a John he wanted to forget.

John arrived back at the flat, three messages on his phone from Darren he planned to ignore.

The caterers were running in and out with trays of canapés as if their lives depended on the promptness of their delivery. The flat was beginning to feel like the location of a sophisticated and indulgent party.

At seven waiters would arrive to assist in the hosting of the event. The only thing John needed to do was get ready.

After finishing his beer which he washed down with three gin and tonics he went to his bedroom to get ready, a simple process he would achieve with complexity.

He sat down and looked at himself in the mirror. What a striking man he was. Such a strong jaw line, such blue eyes, such chiselled, masculine features. He really was an attractive man, someone who stood out from the crowd, someone to swoon over.

He no longer noticed the crow's feet or the scars and other blemishes scattered around his cheeks. He no longer paid attention to the way his left eye was slightly smaller than the right or the way his right eyebrow was raised higher than the left. All he saw was perfection.

By the time he'd finished getting ready, every strand of his hair carefully placed to produce maximum wow factor, it was dark outside. He felt apprehensive. He tingled with it.

In the kitchen he poured himself another gin and tonic to subdue his nerves. The caterers must have finished and gone as he was alone in the flat. Peace had been restored. The food was scattered on silver serving plates waiting to be dispersed amongst the soon to arrive guests.

John looked at the time. It was quarter past seven but the staff hadn't arrived. In a panic he rang the agency supplying them and asked, with a furious and unnecessarily rude tone, where the hell they were. Just as he was shouting down the phone, the buzzer went.

It was them. John let them in, made sure his disapproval of the tardiness was understood, and showed them around the tiny area they were to be working in.

Just before the arrival of his first guest John's phone rang. It was his mother. He exhaled loudly and answered.

"Hi mum" he said trying to disguise his irritation unsuccessfully.

"Hey darling. I'm not disturbing you am I?" she asked politely.

"No mum its fine. What do you want?" he said as he rubbed his forehead with his available hand.

"Well me and your father are coming to London tomorrow and I was just wondering if you would like to meet us for lunch. It would be nice to catch up John. We haven't seen you since you were released from hospital" she said with genuine affection. "Tomorrow isn't good for me I'm afraid mum. Very busy tomorrow"

"Oh ok dear. Well if you change your mind just let us know dear. You've got my new mobile number don't you?"

"Yes mum. Anyway mum I'm going to have to go. Bye". With that he hung up the phone just as she was about to say something else.

John went into the kitchen, poured himself another drink and started consuming canapés. Just before eight his guests began arriving. The waiters greeted them and served champagne John had ordered from a particularly expensive shop in Chelsea. He'd invited people he had loose connections with, mainly professional acquaintances. He'd filled his guest list not with the people he most enjoyed the company of, but those who made the very list he was compiling look more impressive.

Once all twenty of his guests had arrived, the barman began preparing elaborate cocktails, showing all the knowledge and skill you would assume of someone who cost £1,500 an hour to hire. The canapés were being taken around by the two waiters and eaten straight from the tray by guests who didn't even considered a thank you.

John glided from conversation to conversation laughing at the inane and unfunny comments of his guests. He wanted to please them without realising they were doing the same thing. The room was filled with the chatter and laughter of people trying desperately to make others like and accept them.

As it neared nine o'clock John switched the TV on. Soon the chatter subsided and people began turning to face the television. John waited nervously. His palms were to sweating profusely. After the adverts finished the channels announcer spoke. "Now on channel nine, New to Friday night a programme where you favourite celebrities discuss the things that really wind them up, hosted by John Dobson its Grind my gears!"

Everyone in the room clapped. John felt relieved. After the introductory music had finished and gaudy, fast moving graphics had faded, John appeared on the screen. He was sat behind a desk in a brightly coloured studio dividing two teams of guests. "Hello and welcome to Grind my gears, a programme all about those little things that really wind you up".

Johns mobile started ringing. He answered speaking loudly into the receiver to cut through the noise of a television to maximum volume.

"Thank you so much Malcolm, I couldn't have done with this without you. I'm prime time baby, YEAH!"

