 
# SHORT SHORTS & LONGER TALES

# John Muir

Copyright John Robert Muir 2006. John Robert Muir asserts the legal and moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent and permission of the publisher.

DISCLAIMER: These stories are a work of fiction. The names and characters are from the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you think the author has written about you, your ego is greater than your imagination or common sense.

Licence Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your chosen retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Acknowledgements: The author and publisher wish to thank the many individuals for ideas, editing, encouragement and support. Without you, this book would never have been achieved.

Paperback 1st edition published 2011 by Imp Publications

c/o Agar & Crombie

P.O.Box 117

OTAKI 5512

NEW ZEALAND

Paperback edition ISBN: 978-0-9876-581-0-4

Published in EBooks 2013

Smashwords Edition 2013

EBooks ISBN:

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# SHORT SHORTS & LONGER TALES

# John Muir

# CONTENTS

# INDEX

An Artist's Freedom

Bath Night

The Shell Game

A Boring Life

Crab Catcher

Fin Sighting Memories

Bowls Opening Day

Fire Red

Something Like That

The Glass Surprise

Possum Night

The Sumo Wrestler

Anniversary Lighting

About The Author

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#  AN ARTIST'S FREEDOM

I had finished work early and was waiting for her arrival at the little suburban station.

The oblong building straddled two pairs of tracks. The balcony on the city side was a good viewing area. The waiting room contained the most intricate, eye-catching and thought provoking piece of aboriginal art I had ever seen. Behind thick glass, it was about a metre wide and 60 centimetres high.

"For a brief period we had the original." The sudden statement from behind startled me. I had not realized the station master had been watching me.

"A print?"

"Yeah. Four done. The others are in Australia House, the Governor General's residence, and the PM's office."

"Takes my breath away. Where's the original?"

"Canberra Art Gallery. A precious native art worth tens of thousands."

"Not signed. Who's the painter?"

"We know who, just don't know his name."

"Dead?"

"No. Alive. A local actually. Lives in the bush somewhere around here. That's his only known painting."

"How'd you get it?"

"He was carrying an incomplete canvas and paints with him when he was scrounging around the platforms out there. Found a whisky bottle and within minutes was asleep on the rail line. The police took him, canvas and painting gear away. He was mute and didn't understand English."

"Local aboriginals tried to communicate with him, but our painter only understood some. They decided he's not originally from here. They reckon he'd found the abandoned canvas, paint and brushes on a bush track, then started to paint his life on canvas."

"The cops cleaned him up, and fed him. They left him with his gear in a cell over the weekend until a court hearing on trespass and public drunkeness. In that time he completed the painting. Magistrate found him guilty and fined him. He had no money so the Court confiscated the painting in payment. It was just another painting. Nobody knew its value then, until the experts saw it."

"Now he wants his painting back because it contains his soul. He thinks we have the original behind the glass. We put strong bars over the waiting-room windows and leave the lights on at night. He can see his painting when he sneaks around after the station is closed. He stays because his spirit can't move with freedom into the dreamtime. It's all locked into the painting."

As if on call I saw him. He moved as smoothly as a gentle breeze across gardens. Images of Nature's best wild hunting creatures flashed through my mind. Unconcerned with the presence of anyone or anything around him, he was fully aware of exactly where and what they were, animate and inanimate things.

A dozen waiting travelers watched the same thing. Black hair so soiled it looked brown, he was probably in his late 20's. To him he was doing nothing to attract anyone's attention, he totally ignored them in his search.

A soiled short-sleeved once black T-shirt, with a faded Che Guevarra screen print covered his lean but not skinny torso. The shirt hung outside the baggy green knee- length shorts. The legs matched the arms, muscled but slim.

He eyed a token prize and headed towards it. The woman occupying the bench-seat in his sight quickly evacuated to get away from the creature with days of accumulated dust and dirt on its body. Oblivious to her presence or departure he stooped, picking up two cigarette butts, and a third further under the seat. Putting his prizes into his pocket, his eyes swept the tar-sealed platform.

Gliding down on to the rock-metal floor of the shoulder-depth trench, where the wooden sleepers supported the rail lines, our seeker never paused in his movement and efficient search along the track. Bare feet so hardened, the sharp edges of the metal were unfelt. Our athletic seeker picked up three or four more butts.

"He's on the tracks now." The station master was on a remote phone.

"I've got 4:15 country bound, then, 4:16 city bound a few minutes away. The non-stop expresses aren't racing through for a while."

The sound of running feet caught my attention and eight uniformed police ran on to the balcony. The station master quickly explained what was happening.

For the first time, the seeker glanced up at the activity above him, so quickly it was imperceptible to most watchers. His search was outwardly unaffected.

Four more police arrived. A quick group huddle saw them split into equal teams and head to each platform. The seeker gave the movements a disinterested glance as he pocketed more butts

Two police went past the seeker to the city end and with difficulty lowered themselves onto the track; two more did likewise at the station end. The cordon was complete and closing.

Two officers rushed forward when the seeker's back was turned. As they were about to grasp him, our athlete dropped to the ground, did a perfect gymnasts backward roll and stood up behind them, then glided onto the country arrivals platform as easily as if he had run up a ramp.

The platform police made a grab but he dived through at knee level, regained his feet, and ran for the two metre security fence with four officers in pursuit. He hit the fence at full speed, but instead of bouncing off, the speed took him to the top and over before dropping lightly to his feet. The frustrated police stood only centimeters away through the mesh.

The seeker jogged toward the city and into the low scrub. The 8-car train from the city slowly entered the platform to my right. Doors opened and passengers disembarked.

The police were all back on the balcony talking to the station-master as the country train pulled in. The carriage doors opened and the platform passengers entered. One departing passenger, in his haste, had forgotten to pick up his pack of cigarettes and lighter from where he had placed them next to him on the seat.

"Hang on I'll give both drivers the all clear to go."

The gap between the trains was barely a body-width. Between platform and the trains was even narrower. The soiled apparition glided up between the city-bound platform and the train carriage, grabbed the forgotten cigarettes and lighter from the seat, and scaled the 2-metre fence before the police moved. Within seconds he had disappeared among the scrub.

"Jeez, where'd he come from?" The station-master moved back inside his office, seconds later a bell on each platform sounded and the commuter trains pulled out.

Two police, doing a goodwill act for a young mother, carried a baby-stroller and groceries to the city bound departure platform. She carried a month-old baby. A two year old on a lead gingerly made his way down the steps. A quicker four year-old led the way.

Tasks done, the police drifted out of the station.

"Cleared just in time," said the station-master as he passed. "The expresses will roar through in a few minutes."

More passengers started to gather on the departures platform, watching more appealing entertainment. The toddler was dancing to the platforms' background music while tied to one of the seats. Crouching, leg stomping, clapping and pointing; the crowd whistled and clapped. The four-year old began rap-dancing.

Unnoticed in the shadow of a large tree outside the fence, our athlete watched the infants perform. A smile on his face, he danced silently and rhythmically the dreamtime movements of ten thousand years.

The mother was changing the baby's napkin. In the distance the approaching city-bound express was making its dull sound on the rail lines. She knew this train would pass through without stopping.

An upbeat Michael Jackson song crackled from weak speakers. Both children burst into a wilder dancing frenzy.

The two-year-olds body jerked hard on the lead. The tied end flew free, and the toddler stumbled into his older sibling. The elder already off-balance from an exaggerated routine, grabbed at the younger for support and both fell toward the edge of the platform before rolling into the trench. The mother had not noticed the collision.

Women screamed and men yelled as the express train entered the country end of the platform. A grey figure flashed over the two-metre fence, past the woman, and swooped into the trench metres in front of the fast traveling engine. Brakes making banshee sounds, the squealing sixty-ton engine and carriages flowed past the platform. The helpless spectators' view was blocked by the blur of passing carriages.

I stood frozen on the balcony watching the two infants tumble on the track. The express rumbled beneath me hurtling toward the helpless infants. My view of the blurred figure's entry onto the track blocked by the front of the engine as I saw two small bodies tossed into the air before they landed heavily, then tumbled and rolled onto the safety of the arrivals platform, and immediately started crying. The grey ghost was nowhere.

The station-master rushed out of his office.

"No!" he screamed.

The last carriage was past the end of the platform. I stared down at the grotesque half figure cut clean through at the waist. Its arms tried to turn the upper half of its body around and reach up and scramble back onto the platform, but they could only reach half-way up the dirty concrete wall.

Spectators rushed to the platform's edge, women screaming. Some women and men vomited at the sight they could now see.

The station-master ran into his office, threw some emergency switches, then out and down the stairs knowing it was too late. As he got to the half-figure he jumped onto the track. My sight seemed to magnify the detail and I could see the clear brown eyes of the dying man as if they were in front of my face.

With the station-master bending over him, his mouth and lips moved in silence. With his strength fading, he slowly raised one arm and pointed to the waiting room. The station-master understood and turned to look up to the balcony.

"Get it," he screamed.

I knew what he meant and ran into the waiting room. The cabinet was padlocked. I picked up the nearest chair and swung with all my might. Shattered glass emptied out of the frame. The print was attached to light corkboard. I yanked it off the hook and ran down to the platform.

The station-master put it front of the eyes of this greatest athlete and artist. The weakened bloodied hand moved forward and touched the print. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes and a smile beamed on his face.

The station-master and I both looked up at a figure that had appeared, and was leaning over the edge of the platform. He was a distinguished looking man in a dark blue suit with a face showing very obvious aboriginal features.

He quickly removed his suit jacket, tie, shirt, pants, shoes and sox, then went to an area with soil and rubbed some on his face and body before coming back to where our victim lay.

He began to dance and sang a haunting refrain which took over the atmosphere as he moved as smoothly as we'd seen our athlete do. Some nearby kookaburras joined in, and the gentlest of breezes began to blow over the platform.

The fingers of the half-man gently, but weakly, caressed the painting and the smile stayed. There were two quick jerks of the fingers and the life in the eyes died as the body expired.

Our dancer stopped. In a clear educated English voice he said. "Now my brother, you can rest with your freedom in the spirits of our sacred world."

The station-master and I just sobbed at the now very frail looking body. The infants' mother was on the arrivals platform comforting them.

We looked down the platform at the stopped train.

Then we looked around for the man who had done the dance and singing. He and his clothes had gone. Police were arriving and talking to witnesses. The station-master clambered onto the platform, slowly walked back to his office and locked his door. The painting still under the hands of the hero, art now gently marked with the extra beauty of the bloodied finger strokes of the painter.

I walked slowly back to the apartment.

I do not wait at station platforms any more.

### **********

#  BATH NIGHT

The day had been another high humidity scorcher. For foreigners in the rural tropics it meant sweat-drenched clinging clothes, perspiration dripping from the forehead and tip of the nose, and sodden damp hair. Tim O'Grady longed for the air-conditioning of the city hotels. In this remote rain forest village, very few of the local residents would have visited a western-style hotel and understood his wish. He was regretting trying to rough it on his own private home stay safari "budget" holiday.

Though now past midnight, there had been no reduction in temperature, no cooling breeze through open windows. He lay naked on top of the bed-sheets with electric fans on full merely providing a hot breeze over him.

The night was deathly still. Sound traveled huge distances. The wing-beats of local bats and night-birds could be easily heard but nothing of the nearby ocean with its supposedly great surfing waves. He had checked the ocean on sunset; flat as a billiard table.

Infrequently old trees would give a last gasp and crash like an explosion to the rain forest floor. The sounds of snoring for a hundred metres around would briefly diminish then start again. Smaller branches breaking off and falling barely diminished the snores.

A late night cold bath would give a temporary relief. The locals here used the term "bath" beyond its conventional sense, and it was outdoors.

Tim donned his rubber thongs which the locals called "slippers" took his towel and tried to quietly make his way outside. Floorboards creaked with every step and the front door squealed like he had just stood on a sleeping cat's tail. But there was no diminution in the volume of the household snoring.

Thoughts of snakes crossed his mind. He delved into his memory banks to recall what it was they did at night. They were definitely around the village; some local children had shown him a poisonous one they had killed a few days before. He had seen a snake on another island drinking from an outside fish garden. But all that was during the heat of the day. If snakes ate rats, which came out at night, and there were lots of rats locally, then the snakes had to be out hunting rats at night.

Preceding each footfall toward the "bathroom", Tim used his penlight torch to illuminate the area for a metre around each footfall just to be safe.

The back of this square "bathroom" was the unpainted corrugated iron of the outside of the house. The left and right walls were two pieces of rusty corrugated iron, each nailed to decaying posts sunk not too securely into the ground. These sides stood about one and a half metres, though rusted down to considerably lower in some places.

The front was a half sheet of loose iron leaning against the side walls. Through the gap access and egress was made. For privacy he could hang his towel across the entry. Rounded pebbles from the size of half a thumb to a match box provided a floor and drainage.

The roof was the thousands of stars that could only be seen through pollution free skies. A new quarter moon, slightly west of directly overhead, gave enough light to see the ground clearly in un-shaded areas, yet do little to diminish the display of the stars.

His torchlight searched all the nooks and crannies inside and outside the "bath" for snakes. He looked at the one hundred litre drum filled with water sourced from the crystal clear chilly mountain fed stream. A quick finger test of the seemingly ice-chilled water temperature felt like death's fingers doing a quick sprint from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck. It was one of the great mysteries of nature. Why was the water so ice cold when it emanated from such high temperature forests? A two litre plastic scoop with handle floated at the drum's top. He took the soap from where it sat cradled on two nails embedded into the timber post, and presumably there for that purpose. His body perspiration provided sufficient moisture to lather his skin.

He took up the water filled scoop and in anticipation took a deep breath. When the mountain chilled cold water hit his face and sweat glistening chest he still managed to suck in more air before he felt it all release. A few seconds later he wondered with embarrassment how far away his scream had been heard.

It did not take long to get an answer. Dogs began barking, voices were heard and lights from dozens of surrounding houses were suddenly switched on. Within his hosts' house there was yelling, followed by banging before someone cheered loudly. Seconds later people were outside their doors and chatting away in the local dialect, presumably looking for the source of the agonized scream.

He crammed his sticky soap-suds body into a shaded part of the bathroom and waited for all the villagers to complete their search and chatter, return indoors and settle down to sleep.

After an interminably long time the snoring returned to its previous crescendo. With steely resolution, clenched teeth and strength of mind, he managed to remain silent for the next bucket of soap removing chilling mountain water. By the sixth or seventh bucket his body had acclimatized and he was enjoying the coldness.

After toweling down he returned to his room, past the banshee door and squeaking floorboards. Within minutes he was sweating again but finally managed to sleep.

The magic aroma of frying bacon woke him. His barely opened eyes recognized the sun must be up. With sarong covered waist down and singlet covered top, he emerged from his room to see his hosts actions confirmed the smell, and with eggs and miniature sausages was organizing his breakfast.

"Good morning," said Tim.

"Good morning," replied mine host. "Sorry about the disturbance last night. It woke all the neighbours. I'm sorry if it woke you. We don't know what it was."

Tim felt his face redden.

"I didn't hear anything. I slept like a baby."

Mine host turned back to his gas-burner stove and while cooking bacon and eggs chatted to his wife in their local dialect. Tim could not understand their words, but if he could he would have heard mine host say.

"As soon as I saw his bed was empty and his towel and slippers gone, I knew it was him. I wonder what he screamed at. Thank goodness he'd gone outside. God knows how he would have reacted had he seen the size of that snake on his bed that I killed while he was out."

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#  THE SHELL GAME

At their age there seemed little of great importance to talk about. They were too old to change the world, yet old enough and with sufficient of life's experiences to reminisce with some valid authority.

Clive was visiting Paul for the first time in many years. Previously they both had wives who were both now deceased.

"You seem to have changed things a lot inside the house since I was last here. I presume you did that after your wife passed," said Clive.

"Yes. I'm not into doilies, linen curtains and family photos. I like masculine stuff."

Clive looked around the room and a large glass fronted cabinet attached to the wall caught his attention. Through the glass he saw a large collection of sea shells. He walked to the cabinet for a closer inspection and oohed and aahed at the many diverse shapes and colours inside.

"Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"Did a lot of scuba in my young days," answered Paul. "Collected a lot of shells, including some pretty rare ones from all around the world. Part of the fun was cleaning and polishing them up, painting them with varnish and identifying what they were. I've only got the special ones there. There's hundreds more in boxes in the garage."

"You've got some real beauts. Gee that one's great," he said pointing to a large elongated trumpet shaped shell with its broad opening on one side.

"Oh. That one. I remember it well. I got it when I was diving in Asia. A bit of a long story actually. There'd been quite a bit of navy activity in the bay the day before looking for pirates. And this was the last shell I ever picked up before I gave up scuba diving. I got the biggest fright of my life. I found it near a boat anchor and long chain from one of the more recent slave trade ships."

"What? Pirate ships and slave traders? Gawd; you're still the same old bull-shitter aren't you? You not an archeologist, or a metallurgist. How the hell would you know it was from a recent slave ship?"

"I guessed it when I saw the sharks feasting on the 24 manacled and partly flesh-stripped bodies still attached to the chains."

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#  A BORING LIFE

"Oh look. The poor old spinny's getting her thrills picking the weeds from the garden," said one of the girls.

The five others, also in their late teens and early twenties, made little effort at hiding their giggles behind their hands as they neared the elaborately gardened entry of the brick three-story 12 apartment block.

With her back to the approaching group and gently raking the freshly turned soil, a slightly built old woman, grey hair tied tightly back and covered with an ageing straw hat, pretended not to hear the remark. She dropped her head and then raised it again to look at them as the girls walked past her and into the entry door.

"I hope you all had a good day at work girls," she said.

Immediately they were through the double entry main door the girls began shrieking with laughter which remained unabated as they ran through the doorway of one of the two ground level apartments they rented between the six of them.

All the girls had shifted into the apartments on the same day over a year ago and two months before Christmas. They went everywhere together.

Maybe they were not aware that their ongoing conversation could be heard outside the apartment entryway through the security covered open lead-light windows. Then again maybe they were. To the old lady the conversation was the same as it had been so many times before.

"But the old biddy never goes anywhere or does anything," said one.

"How does she get her groceries?" asked another.

"I saw the internet grocer truck deliver stuff to her place one day when I threw a 'sickie'."

"Gawd, you mean the old bag can use a computer."

"Maybe she's into computer dating without the dating bit."

The laughter and giggling wafted loudly outside to the ears of the old lady who was now gently pruning back some of the shrubs and putting the cuttings into a small wheel-barrow.

The sound of a two champagne corks popping and the clink of glasses drifted through the window as the girls had their nightly after work drink. It was this week's supermarket special at $3.95 a bottle.

"Look. None of us here have ever seen her have any visitors, let alone any man. I still reckon she's just a dithering old school teacher and still a virgin."

"Maybe she's a lesbian."

"You're not listening Cheryll. I said there've been no visitors."

"Hey, perhaps she's a retired Nun?"

"Nah, if that was it then she'd still go to church on Sundays."

"If the boring old fart got a man to play around with then she could get a life."

They watched her through the narrow slits of the Venetian blinds as the old lady trimmed the last of the bushes by the letter boxes. Then putting the rake, hoe and secateurs onto the small wheelbarrow she wheeled the lot along the driveway at the side of the apartments where she would empty all the weeds and cuttings into a carefully prepared compost bin. It was so well disguised among the flower beds that the occupants of the back apartments could barely see it.

The girls had become aware of the old lady and her gardening exploits soon after their arrival. Hers was the third apartment on the front ground level. All her windows and external doors were covered with strong easy sliding security screens, which could be left open at the occupant's whim.

Other tenants were rarely seen coming or going as they made their way down the stairwell into the underground car-park to drive in or out. The girls did not have a vehicle, but visiting overnight boyfriends would frequently use their parking spaces.

From early on the girls nick-named her Miss Lardy-Dah, behind her back, because she spoke clearly and enunciated her words. Even then, they were not too careful or caring if she did hear. There was no name on her letterbox which was always padlocked, even though they had never seen any mail put into it. They presumed she got a discount on her rent for all the gardening work. A normal "mower man" still cut the lawns and did the garden and path edges, taking all that away.

The block stood out from the other four in the street because of the neatness and expanse of the gardens. It seemed there was always something blossoming whatever the time of year.

On weekends the girls were dressed up early to catch buses or trains to get to parties, dancing or drinks. Departing so early they frequently had to pass the old lady who would still be gardening late into the afternoon. She would look them up and down with a slight look of disapproval before smiling.

"Have a safe and enjoyable night girls. But please do be careful."

In response the girls would giggle and pass by. They knew the old lady's eyes watched as they disappeared down the road.

On their first Christmas in the apartments they thought they would make a surprise visit and bring Christmas drinks. They were sure that if they shared their experiences of life the old lady might feel that she had lived some of it by verbal association. All six girls, wearing three inch high heels below their black stretch tight pants, short halter-neck tops revealing flattened stomachs, costume jewellery and half a years' purchase of make-up misapplied to their faces, smelling of two dollar market stall perfume, they felt ready to impress the old lady. They took their bottles of bulk buy champagne with them and knocked on the old lady's door two nights before Christmas Eve.

She greeted them wearing some old fashioned type of blue coloured floral nightgown they later agreed was a caftan. The old lady's clear bright blue eyes; slightly softened by age, showed surprise when they arrived. The girls noticed the make-up free clear clean face, and though showing the right amount of wrinkles for her age, it looked baby-skin soft.

The girls had expected to be invited in to share in their 'goodwill' visit. The old lady plainly lived such a dull and boring life. Maybe she really was a retired school teacher? She was definitely a spinster.

Their presumed confirmation of the old lady's prudishness seemed proved when the old lady spotted the champagne and said.

"Sorry girls, I don't drink alcohol."

The old lady thanked them for their thoughts and advised that she could not invite them in because she was going to spend the night in the company of old friends.

Returning to their apartment, the girls kept a close eye on the old lady's door through the peep-hole in their door. No visitors came or left the old woman's apartment. The only sound issuing forth from the old lady's flat was the same boring classical music interspersed with some 50's and 60's hits that they had heard before.

After that Christmas the girls made no real attempt at disguising their contempt, openly giggling as they passed the old lady when she was in the garden. The old lady would look up and say "Hello," or nod a greeting as they walked by.

The over-dressed girls responded with giggles. They would see the old lady put her head down and nod negatively.

Then, loud enough for the old lady to hear, someone would make a derogatory comment, typically such as:

"That old, and still a virgin. What a shame."

"I wonder if she gets high on garden weed."

"Why doesn't she get a life."

The old lady remembered the girls shifting in. She inwardly disapproved of their dress and make-up sense. She felt it was all far too promiscuous and would attract the wrong sort of attention from the wrong type of man. In her teens that type of dress sense was called 'sluttish'. Though, that seemed to be the appearance that these girls wanted to portray; they looked easy pickings as though accepting all-comers. Seeing a stream of different young males leaving the flats many mornings seemed to soon confirm that.

On the Christmas Eve, she was pleasantly surprised at their unexpected call. She noticed they were carrying copious alcohol, internally and externally, but she had already organized her night and was mere seconds away from beginning when the girls arrived. She noticed they seemed a little surprised at her rebuff but she was about to indulge herself in the enjoyment of a gift to herself that had taken many years of research to gather, prepare and document. The registered parcel had arrived by courier only an hour before and now she wanted to enjoy the fruits of her labours.

A small time film production house had converted all the old time 8 mm film and precious photos she had accumulated and collected from others, and arranged for it all to be put on DVD.

She had bathed and just donned her favourite and well preserved 1960's blue floral caftan to add to the ambience she wanted. The girls' knock at her door was an untimely interruption in her preparation.

As soon as they left she loaded the three stack CD player with her choice of classical pieces and favourites from the 50's and 60's, slotted the D.V.D. into the player, and sat deep into her comfortable lounge pulling a couple of soft cushions into her lap.

She rolled herself a joint from her home grown marijuana and pressed the play button on the remote.

Memories flooded back as she saw herself at 22 years old serving as a nurse in the Korean War. That was where she first discovered marijuana and where she got pregnant to a young officer who was then killed in action one month after their rushed wedding.

Shipped home, pregnant and widowed, she felt bitter about the deal that life had dealt her. After her son was born, society in those days rejected her as an outcast. Those that readily accepted her were also the outcasts of society, the early bikie gangs. Some of those were Korean War veterans too. As a bikies mole, even with a 'brat' in tow, she was treated as an equal when she became partnered with the gang leader. She smiled with pride watching the jerky black and white movie clip of her precious young helmeted son, crammed between her and the gang leader on his Harley Davidson.

Perhaps it was in her genetic make-up. Though way back then, she would never concede to herself or anyone that she was out of control and having a problem with alcohol. All the bikies drank and she could out-drink any, as she did, every day, even when the others were not drinking.

At the start of the 60's she got pregnant again, this time to the leader of the bikie gang. Marriage was not in his plans, but a future together with his unborn child and her were.

That was before the brief gang war which saw him killed pushing her out of the line of fire. His death and the futility of the shooting saw the immediate end to gang hostilities. But this second tragedy was too much for her to stay in that environment.

Hippie communes had sprouted all around the country with their alternate life styles, preaching love and tolerance. That became the refuge for herself, her first son, and the place her second son was born.

Apart from the commune leaders, who used their seniority to bed the naïve young female members, she was older than the recent converts, yet at 30, younger than the spiritual leaders. Her nursing experience was frequently sought as she had mixed her formal teaching with alternate medicines and remedies.

Though not a chemist she was able to mix the ingredients for some wonderful hallucinogenic potions. For herself, these self invented drugs mixed with her home brewed alcohol gave her senses that she felt beyond the range of mere mortals. That was when she could remember after another temporary state of oblivion.

Wisely, she kept the recipes secret. Her knowledge of such arts established her as a wise sage as far as any group was concerned. She became a co-leader of a commune. Though the music was Joan Baez and Bob Dillon, another group called the Beatles had begun to earn acceptance with their later music.

She had been fortunate to be in India studying under Ravi Shanka when the Beatles arrived for their 'enlightenment'. Her smile broadened wider before she let out a sigh at the newsreel footage of a then youthful face of the Beatle she had slept with for three nights.

Soon after that she had begun tripping on LSD and then caught the heroin bug. But the latter was not cheap.

Even with a now well addled brain she still knew that stealing to finance her daily heroin craving was wrong. There were other ways a body could finance that expense.

Her years of attracting unpaid and often unwanted sexual partners had gained her skills and ability few women could attain even with years of training. But she needed to dress well as an escort to accompany some very affluent and influential clientele. Her wardrobe soon overflowed, not by choice but by necessity to retain the premium paid for her escort services.

The video tape flickered on through to the 70's. The accumulated abuses of her body were showing on the film. The responsibility to her children though was never forgotten through all that. The oldest, approaching 20 years, had decided to join the military. Perhaps for him it was a sub-conscious desire to have stability and certainty in his life. The younger, approaching 16, though dragged from school to school through her transient lifestyle, was showing scholastic ability far beyond what she had achieved. Somehow through those years she had kept her children away from alcohol and drug usage; protected them from the abuses that went with it and showered them with the powerful love she knew she was capable of giving.

In her mind befuddled state, she took little notice when the Army shipped her oldest son to Vietnam to serve in that conflict. It seems he had barely arrived in the 'other world' as he wrote about to her, when she heard of his death. 'Killed in action against the enemy.'

Only through a letter from another soldier in his platoon was she able to learn of the true circumstances of his death. Returning from patrol he had been shot inside the base by a drug hallucinating soldier with crazed images of being attacked by evil spirits.

No other tonic, medicine, drug or alcohol association could have snapped her mind back to life quicker than that tragedy. Drugs had killed her son. Alcohol and drugs had robbed her of many of the memories that she had wanted to have about her children.

The power of her mind showed she could discard those evils. One day at a time she fought through it. The body's cravings screamed at her to give up fighting against the evils that had become her daily sustenance and routine. Always by her side with love and affection, her remaining son poured all his being into helping in her fight.

That was only one source of her determination. Through this time she had joined the anti-war activists to become one of its most vociferous and active members. Her Korean service elevated her as a leading member of the cause.

The Vietnam War ended soon after and the cause for which she had fought so hard for was over. But some of the friendships established remained. One, a returned 'Viet-vet' pilot from the early days of the war after the Gulf of Tonkin incident, proved to be special. The relationship between the ex-pilot and her surviving son grew to be as strong as any genuine father and son relationship. The ex-pilot knew nothing of her past and asked nothing about it.

By the approach of the 80's, now almost 50 years old, she had at last found the missing link in her family and a soul-mate. She was not even distraught at her surviving son's decision to join the Air Force, obviously influenced by the hero worship the son had for the step-father he loved as much as he ever could love a real father.

She was not unduly concerned because there was no conflict on the horizon; the 'Cold War' was over. The son was in no danger.

As the 90's began approaching she and her husband, both approaching 60 years old, glowed with pride as their 'son' had graduated with his wings as a fully fledged fighter pilot. The Air Force education system had done them all proud.

While their son was on an overseas posting tragedy struck her life once more. An unexpected heart attack cut short the life of the only real adult love she had ever known. Her survival instincts of a 'day at a time', learned from life's school of hard knocks, had managed to keep her from breaking her self imposed drink and drug ban.

Then came August 1990. That was the Iraq and Kuwait war. For the first time she felt concern for the safety of her sole surviving son. To reinforce her fears, he was posted early to that conflict. Dread exceeded her pride as she saw nightly TV reports of the bombing missions. Smart bombs or not, pilots were being killed.

The daily letters she received from her son both cheered and frightened her. He told her about how proud he was of her, that she had overcome all the hardships that life had thrown at her. That her love was what had kept him going through his years of doubt. That his knowledge that she would never revert to the weaknesses she had before meant he could achieve what he had wanted without ever worrying about her future.

Then the dreadful knock on the door, the Air Force uniform, the words seeming so vague and so clear at the same time. An accident during re-arming the plane caused an explosion while he was still in the cockpit. The Air Force regretted and so on.

The following weeks of 'a day at a time' were once again sorely tested. Her garden allowed her to drift into a pleasant memory lane until she discovered the three small marijuana plants struggling among the other growth. She took them inside, replanted them under a grow-lux lamp and kept them to maturity reaching above her own height.

Since then, from her annual crop, her iron will had limited her to one joint a day. She had not broken that promise to herself and felt she had not betrayed the faith her pilot son had in her.

Now, past 70, she looked at these young girls with sadness. They knew nothing of life. Thick make-up, 'come-on-to-me' clothes and alcohol did not make a happy life.

When they walked past her with immature giggles she would lower her head and nod with sadness at the stupidity of the memorable times they thought they were having.

None were like the daughter she always wanted but never had. None displayed the caring or sensitivity of her sons who she both loved. With these immature girls, she knew she could never share the secrets of her experiences.

So often she had considered getting a pet cat or dog as a companion and to share her love. But knowing the shorter lifespan of these pets she knew she could not bear the loss through death of even a loving pet. To this end and her feeling of guilt through not giving a lost pet a home, and in the absence of any known living relatives, her last will and testament instructed the transfer of her ownership of the 12 apartments to the Society for the Protection of Animals. The two million or so dollars worth of cash and shares she had invested elsewhere was to be donated for research into drug addiction.

She suddenly felt deeply sad that her memories and experiences could not as easily be transferred by will and would die with her.

### **********

#  THE CRAB CATCHER

The parents were keeping a dutiful and attentive eye on their young son while he was exploring the low-tide pools among the small rocky outcrop separating the two long sandy beaches. They had chosen the eastern side of the rocks to catch the occasional cooling breeze that puffed along the beach from offshore. At the moment there was no breeze.

Mid-week, with schools in and being just prior to lunch, they almost had the beach to themselves. Whether the beach was deserted on the other side of the rocks they did not know as the rocks were just a little too high to see over. Frankly, lying in the sun and picking up its warm rays, they did not care about the other side.

The occasional exerciser would power-walk from the distance until they reached the rocky outcrop, then, rather than risk wetting their expensive 'walkers' scrambling over the rocks or into the shallow sea, they would return the way they came. The crowds would start after lunch, but their family would be gone soon to have lunch at a picnic spot further along the highway they were traveling on this holiday. The only other human in sight was a man in a sailing dinghy apparently making his way back to shore.

Their nearly five-year-old, pre-schooler, gave them a wave. His parents both answered and watched him return to his engrossing rock-pool exploration.

He poked his driftwood stick into the first of the small rock-pools and swirled the stick to panic or disturb any of the inhabitants into moving. He was annoyed with himself; the disturbed sand swirled and floated in limbo hiding anything that might be swimming around.

While he waited for the sand to settle he glanced up at the ocean. He used both hands to shade his eyes. Just beyond the small breakers was a man standing in a heavy wooden rowboat with a sail. He was easy to see; the waves were small. The man was lowering a sail. Then the man sat down, his back to the beach, and put an oar into the 'thingy' on one side, then put the other oar into the 'thingy' on the other side. The man turned his head slightly each side firstly using one oar and then the other as he came in gently on the waves. It had always been a mystery to the child; people who rowed boats did not face the way they were going. It was stupid. What would happen if his Dad drove the car with his back to where he was going?

Where he was standing on the higher rocks he had a view in both directions all along the beach. His parents on one side of the rocks, the strange man on the other. He looked again at the man in the rowboat. The man was definitely heading toward his bay as the place where the beach was steeper and the water deeper than anywhere else along the beach.

Briefly he thought about abandoning his post and running back to his parents.

Then focusing his attention back on his rock-pool, and this time with much more care, he slowly and carefully moved the stick around. Still nothing.

He looked again toward his sunbathing parents to confirm they were still near his rocky playground. A strong breeze in his face made some of the finer sand grains flick into his face. As he rubbed sand away from his eyes he saw his parents' were both lying on their backs. At about thirty metres away he knew he was about at the distance limit he was allowed to roam. He had already explored ten metres of rock without any success. The breeze blew an occasional waft of his Mum's perfume.

He loved playing here. His little rock-pools were like secret caves from where he could shoot the invading pirates and charge out to rescue the princess. It was his island where he had been washed ashore in the shipwreck. All the other passengers had died in the storm. The lions, tigers and elephants which had been on the ship in cages had all escaped and he had been left alone with his pet dog to survive. He was sure he would get a pet dog next year, so there was no trouble in practicing for its arrival now.

Again he looked up toward the sea for some sign of a sailing ship to rescue him. The man in the dinghy did not count. He did not want to be rescued by pirates; so he had to be careful. If he saw any ship with skull and crossbones he knew he would have to run into the jungle and hide. Again there was the same silly man, still with his back to him, the rowboat starting to glide in on the surf. It looked like he had sun-burnt skin. He must be old as well as silly because the man still could not see where he was rowing.

The boy could see the man was old and had a grey beard just like Santa Claus. But it was not Santa because this man did not have a red hat. He could also see that the old man was wearing a rain parka just like his Dad had. But one of the arms of the jacket was empty and tied up above his shoulder. He realized the old man must have only arm and was why he was only using one oar at a time. He thought about one-arm pirates. Long John Silver had one leg. This man was not carrying a sword that he could see.

For now he was safe. Only the approach of the old man worried him. It looked like he was going to come close. Maybe he was a pirate in disguise. Because the man had his back to him he could not see if he was holding a cutlass in his mouth.

When the bow of the sail-lowered dinghy touched the broad band of sand, the man jumped out at the stern. Using his shoulder he began pushing the dinghy higher on the sand.

The old man stopped and gave a wave with his one arm. He noticed the previously empty arm sleeve had come loose and was flapping in the breeze. Instinctively he waved back; then remembered his parents' instructions about not communicating with strangers. He hoped they had not seen his action

One of the stronger waves, with its last dying gasp, just managed to reach one of the rock pools and poor a few precious drops of water into a pool. He knew his parents would come to collect him soon. They had tried to explain to him about tides and that his rock pool would be covered in water when the tide came in. He just did not like the idea that it might come into his castle first before it went to the rest of the beach.

The second pool was a bit larger. He took his time gently poking under the rock ledges. Success; several tiny silver fish scattered in various directions, quickly taking shelter under other ledges. A tiny crab was standing on its haunches waving an even tinier claw at him in remonstration.

Not in the mood for any show of defiance, he pushed his stick down on the crab and buried it under the sand.

A bigger fish, larger than his finger, darted from one side of the pool to the other. He had to find it again.

He sat on a flat rock and put his feet into the water which almost came up to his knees. It was nice and warm. It made him feel like he wanted to pee, then he remembered he had done that just before they came to the beach. The thought quickly vanished. He leaned forward prodding under the ledges where he thought the fish might be. It would not come out. The fish had tricked him and swum under the ledges to another place.

Wanting to both catch the fish and run up the beach to tell his father about the pirate at the same time, he did not know which to do. A quick glance toward his parents showed they were now both lying on their stomachs allowing the sun to cook their backs. Because this part of the beach was deserted, his mother had removed her top. They would be annoyed if he disturbed them now.

With a gentle stir under another ledge, a much larger crab emerged. This was bigger than his thumb. It took up the same stance as the previous one. He rejected the urge to squash it into the sand. Gently he lowered the stick on top of it. The crab grasped at the stick with the larger of its two claws. The little boy slowly raised it above the water to his eye level to have a closer look. The crab hung on precariously.

Directly behind his line of sight to the crab he saw the dinghy, old man still behind it pushing it higher on to the beach with his shoulder and one arm, making use of a higher extra wave.

The wave quickly surged back pulling the dinghy back into the sea. Its bow still clung to the sand. The old man had suddenly slipped and went down behind the dinghy. He looked around but there was no sign that the old man had magically appeared on the beach. He looked intently at the boat.

The loose arm of the man's parka suddenly appeared over the stern and flapped in the breeze. It bobbled around like the tall skinny balloons of figures he had seen at the side-shows. Next he saw the man's leg doing a funny dance over the stern. The empty arm had disappeared.

He wondered what game the crazy old man was playing. It was not peek-a-boo like his parents tried to play when he was small.

The leg began to flail wildly. The little boy became frightened. Something was wrong. He looked toward his parents. They were now standing up, his mother with her top now on. They were rolling up their beach towels in readiness for departure.

He dropped his stick, skipped quickly over the rocks and onto the sand before running at his fastest speed toward them.

As he approached his mother realized that something was wrong.

"What's happened?" she both mouthed and signed at the boy.

"Uurrgh, uurgh, uurgh," answered the boy waving his hands frantically in front of him before pointing back past the rocks.

"What's wrong?" asked the father who also both mouthed and signed at the boy.

"Uurgh, uurgh, uurgh," repeated the boy grabbing his father's hand trying to pull him towards the rocks.

"Something must have scared him in the pools," said his mother.

"Maybe he wants to show us something in the pools," said his father.

The boy then grabbed his mother's hand and started pulling her.

"Dammit," said his father, "I wished he could learn to hand- sign."

"It's not his fault, he's not stupid," the wife reacted. "Deaf mutes are slower to learn sign language."

The boy kept pointing, but apparently at something past the rocks.

His mother pulled her hand away and mouthed and signed, "Not now darling we have to carry on driving on our holiday."

The boy turned and started to run toward the rocks but his father was quicker and grabbed him before he had time to get away.

The boy kicked and gurgled in an effort to get released. The harder he struggled the tighter his father held him.

His father looked along the beach at a distant approaching get-fit beach walker with his dog. He suddenly felt embarrassed that someone might think he was kidnapping the struggling child or being physically abusive.

They made their way back to the car, the boy still struggling and gurgling. His mother sat him in the back-seat child booster seat and snapped the child-proof locks shut. The boy continued to gurgle loudly and wave his arms around as they drove off.

"Bloody hell," said the father, "I hope these tantrums won't happen too often."

"Let's skip stopping again and go direct to the motel. He probably needs a sleep, maybe too much sun," said the mother.

After a couple of hours, they arrived at their booked motel. The boy's actions had continued for nearly an hour until finally diminishing to a small crying session. The boy then fell into a fitful sleep.

The latter part of the afternoon was spent passing time with the child who seemed to have overcome his earlier upset, even going to bed without a fuss at the usual time. The parents had fed him first and waited for him to fall asleep before phoning for a motel delivered meal. The boy had fallen asleep quickly, much to their relief.

Soon after the meal was delivered they heard the boy's gurgles from the bedroom. The mother rushed in to check on him. After she had been gone a few minutes the father too entered the bedroom.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"He's having nightmares, maybe about whatever upset him today. Who knows?"

"Well hurry then, it'll be a pity to let dinner get cold."

The father left the bedroom and while sitting at the table used the remote to switch on the television with the sound down. A few minutes later his wife emerged.

Hearing the sound of the introductory music for the news he turned up the volume.

"Ah good, just in time for the 7:00 p.m. news," said the father. Behind the head of the newsreader was a film of a wreath floating on a quietly moving sea. The background then changed to a photo of an old man in sporty sailing clothes standing on a racing yacht.

"Today saw a tragedy for one our yachting greats in yacht design while doing recreation sailing in the sport he had spent donated his life to," started the announcer.

"His body was found at Kennedy's Beach jammed under his old family single man sailing dinghy. A man walking his dog found the body and said the accident must have happened only moments before as the dinghy was at the low tide mark on the turn on the tide. The whole country will mourn the death of this courageous man who only three years ago lost his arm in a tragic car accident which also took the life of his wife of 40 years."

The man looked at the woman. "Isn't that near where we were today? A pity nobody was around to help him. He was a great sportsman. Such a tragedy."

They finished eating and watched the rest of the news. Then both picked up the books they had selected a few days before as holiday reading.

### **********

#  FIN SIGHTING MEMORIES

I recently revisited the beach at Waipu Cove in the winter and therefore non-tourist season. I had not been back in thirty years. That once only happy Christmas and New Year period scorched deeply into the enjoyable section of the memory banks of a pubescent teen. Everything was different from the way I remembered it, yet nothing had changed. As I stood at the top of the very gentle slope of the beach down to the surf, the sun and the sand peeled away the fog of all those many years since those early high school days.

Strangely, rekindled out of some long ago ingrained habit I found my eyes casting just beyond the surf-line for the telltale fins of any shark who might threaten the swimmers, even though there were no swimmers in the winter-cold surf.

Then, it was summer school holidays and therefore beach time. It was special for me at that early teen stage of life. It was the time when male bonds and friendships are not threatened by the presence of nubile female bodies, only a distraction. Maybe I am lying just a little bit, as I do remember a lot of time spent looking at those angelic creatures as they walked by. I just did not know what to do about it. Well I guess I knew, but I was too shy. At that age I had not yet learned a tried and proven "line" for an approach.

The holidays were special too because I was allowed to visit and stay with my far away friend Joe. He was about a year older than I was and his influence on me was more like that of an admired older brother. Everything he did, I wanted to do.

One of Joe's skills was his qualification as a lifeguard, a duty he took seriously during his summer school holidays. Any working volunteer lifeguard member of the Surf Lifesaving Club stayed rent free, in the clubhouse. Though I could barely swim to save myself, Joe had somehow wangled it for me to stay overnight at the clubhouse.

The mere thought of it. Me, with all those "heroes to the female species" lifeguards. Joe even borrowed a spare tie on head cap so I looked like a member. There was nothing wrong with my physique, just something lacking in my swimming abilities and other qualifications. I marched well in the surf carnival anyway.

To justify the cap and the accommodation I was allocated duties. I would sometimes tread the shallows where the infants were playing outside the safety flags. Then with all the authority a breaking voice can deliver to young children who knew no difference in the pitch of a voice, I would say, "Please move between the safety flags so we can keep an eye on you, thank you."

At other times, it was shark watch, with other more qualified personnel. I had never seen a shark, except dead fillets, cooked in batter.

There was no viewing platform, the clubhouse veranda would be ideal, except it was too far back from the sea when the tide was out. On my first day of sharing the shark watch duty, I was standing on the beach midway between the clubhouse and the sea. It was not very highly elevated. The view was almost at sea level and therefore the angle of view was almost flat. Every one of the distant dark shadowy wavelets took on the ominous shape of the fin of a man-eating shark, which would disappear below the surface for a few seconds then re-appear a few metres further on. Over the long hours of watching there was never any diminution in the numbers of shark fins. There were dozens out there.

The urge to run off to the clubhouse and start turning the handle of the shark siren only needed the hint of an approving nod from the experienced surf club member. I remember he was old because he must have been 19, maybe 20 years old. I do not recall if I ever knew his name.

He never relinquished control of the shark spotting binoculars. They were ideal for girl spotting too and he had long since given up using them to look in the direction of my frequent frantic pointing. The shark watch duty was a serious responsibility, not be undertaken lightly, I was not impressed by his cavalier attitude.

Though I will concede, it was he not me that spotted the fins away in the distance. They were still at least a long 100 metres beyond the furthest offshore swimmer, probably more. I made ready to dash for the clubhouse and start the shark siren. Though I was not a good swimmer, I was certainly a very fast runner. It would be a slaughter if the sharks started a feeding frenzy. I would be saving scores of lives.

Every few seconds I would look at him and ask again then again if I should sound the alarm. Every question replied to with the same negative nod of the head. This was frustrating me. Here we were in a position to save hundreds of lives and we were doing nothing. I had to blurt out some sort of protest.

"Well then, when are you going to sound the alarm?"

"Oh," he replied in a casual uncaring tone, "I'll wait 'til they get among the swimmers."

I was shocked. Horrified! Aghast! Totally mystified by his response, I was quite determined to take matters into my own hands and dash for the clubhouse and the siren. Thousands would escape those gnarling teeth. I would get a Victoria Cross, maybe a Congressional Medal of Honour, even a knight-hood?

A chubby youngster about nine or ten years old came running from the sea, and across the flat sand toward where we were standing. He was yelling to us at the top of his voice.

"Mr Lifeguard, Mr Lifeguard." He stopped breathless in front of us. Bending at the waist, arms extended reaching down to his knees to support his body as though just having completed a marathon.

"Yes, what is it son?" responded my lifeguard colleague.

"Out there, out there," the kid panted on and weakly pointed out to sea, "just past the low breakers."

"What is it son?" I mimicked my colleague.

"Fins," he went on between puffs, "several."

I thought, 'Good on you kid, you know what to look for.' I was ready for my heroic dash to sound the alarm. In my mind I could already see the sea being pink with the blood of so many innocents like this youngster.

The kid straightened up and took a few more deep breaths, then looked directly at my old colleague.

"What sort of dolphins are they?" the youngster asked.

I thought, 'Stupid smart-arse kid, what would he know?'

"Bottle-nose from the shape of the fin," my experienced colleague replied. "We get quite a few around here."

All three of us looked out to sea in the direction where the fins had been. Just as quickly as they had arrived, they had disappeared. I did not see any more fins that summer. I am still not sure whether to count that summer as my first sighting of dolphins. They were the only fins I saw. After all, maybe it was sharks.

### **********

#  BOWLS OPENING DAY

I had emerged enough from the hazy existence of the pain-killers and anaesthetics of the previous three weeks to realise there was a routine going on around me. Big hospitals are like that. They must have organisation and routine to operate at minimum efficiency.

It is only the inconsiderate patients having heart attacks; admittance at inappropriate moments; babies not arriving as scheduled, or taking too long to be born; and the inconsistencies of an accident and emergency ward that upsets interns and nursing staff.

Hospitals, I am sure, would run far more efficiently without patients.

Though confined as a total 'bed rest' patient, I was able to watch all those intricate things going on around me. What I could not see I imagined from the sounds generated.

I was obviously now healthy enough and ready to be transferred from 'Intensive Care.'

It was a mid-afternoon when I was wheel-chaired into the furthest room of the new ward. Not an evil place as you might consider. In fact it was the best room in the ward. Quite capable of easily fitting six beds, it only had one. Mine.

The other patients I could see in my wheelchair journey all seemed to be old. Old that is in comparison my early thirties. The fleeting glimpses through the doors of the side rooms showed some patients connected to heart machines or other equipment.

Initially, the still slightly hazy thought processes read many suspect reasons into the types of connections. My bed had the standard iron frame surrounding it with curtains attached, ready to be drawn closed for privacy from outside prying eyes. "Privacy from what?" I wondered. I was the only one in the room. There were no monitors or suchlike intrusive machines in the vicinity to be attached to my body.

The room was not quite as Spartan as my description so far suggests. Eight comfortable looking easy-chairs, or single-seat lounges, were close to the two outside walls next to the ducted central heating water pipes.

Perhaps ill-described as walls, as above the level of the heaters was a shelf broad enough to sit on, and the shelf was the base of the windows which ran from the shelf right up to the ceiling and the full width of the wall. Excepting of course at the corners where structural support existed.

This ward was on the fourth level; all of the surrounding buildings were a maximum of three levels. From a prone position, through one window I could see the distant hills away to the east from where the sun would rise. The other window was already giving the full benefit of the afternoon winter sun. It was a gloriously sunny winter's day. My bed was backed up against the only solid wall.

The fourth wall was broken by the entry door to my room. Not just a standard double door as the other rooms had, but a three-fold door, only one of which was open. This was a little annoying as it meant I had to lean right forward in my bed to see what was happening in the corridors of the ward.

For privacy I could lean back and become unseen except for the foot end of the bed, and could sleep as and when I pleased. That was what I thought anyway.

A hand basin with a soap dispenser above it, elbow- operated taps with a single faucet, a hot air drier and a dry roll towel dispenser were the only other features of the fourth wall.

Those of you who have been in a bed in hospital for any reason will know. There is a highly secret society in action within hospitals to make them noisier places than a site of road-workers hired to intermittently use jack-hammers.

I knew I must be recovering well, because a few days prior to this I had been totally unaware of my surroundings, or any noise. I could not even remember if my previous room had a window. I had not cared.

For now I had the penthouse.

My private musings about my new surroundings did not last long. A trolley wielding nurse entered the room with a beaming smile on a pretty face.

"Mr. Plover. How are we today?" she greeted me.

"You look alright. As for me I thought that was what I was here to find out."

"Ooh I can see we have a cheeky one here," she replied.

That introductory greeting question from the nurses seemed standard; but my sarcastic replies had developed only over the last few days. Some of these uninvited visitors that came had caused me physical pain. I had become alert enough to recognise those faces, and to analyse from their conversation anything which might mean I was going to suffer more pain.

She was a new face, not surprisingly. I was in a new ward and the nurses in the previous ward would obviously not have transferred with me. I tried to vary my responses with originality to this same question with each successive nurse. Sometimes a new nurse would mean a different procedure in the degree of applying pain. So each new face was met with a little suspicion, until after they had done their deed and I was able to assess their performance on the pain, or pleasure scale.

I knew what the routine was. The nurse would take my wrist for 30 seconds apparently to read my pulse. One of the first things an observant man can learn is about the deception nurses use. Only the first ten seconds are to read your pulse. In the remaining 20 seconds the nurse watches the rise and fall of your chest to check your respiration.

This nurse was cute and young. It was her first visit with me, so I decided I would be on my best behaviour. I breathed normally which allowed my natural heart beat to be read and respiration to be visible. There was also the next procedure to follow which I did not enjoy. So I did not want to upset her before she showed her ability.

Satisfied with the pulse and respiration, she made the relevant notes on the chart.

"O.K. Roll over please."

It was one of the parts I hated about the routine; four-hourly injections, into the buttocks. That was six times a day including being woken at night. This was one of the 'pain' feature tests on which I would judge the nurses suitability to be concubine of mine in a future life.

"Ooh," she said. "Quite a lot of bruising. I'll try and find a fresh spot."

There are "spear-throwers" and there are "spear-throwers". Some nurses can give almost painless needle injections. Sometimes needles are blunt. A good nurse will recognise a blunt needle immediately it fails initial gentle penetration. They will generally try another needle. Others do not care how blunt it is. They would still use a twenty centimetre long needle with a point as blunt as a vacuum cleaner nozzle, then inject the contents at the same rate as a Boeing 747 burns up fuel. That hurts.

It does not take long to remember which nurses are welcome as part of your four-hourly buttocks-up routine.

This nurse was a good "spear-thrower." I would behave.

For some of the others, I would intentionally hyperventilate when they were not watching before they took my pulse and then secretly hold my breath. This meant my pulse fluctuated wildly and they were unable to get a reading of my respiration. Many were puzzled and just wrote the same data on the chart that had been previously recorded. Others would proceed with the injection; then depart only to return a few minutes later to re-check my pulse and respiration again. I would be fully compliant the second time to avoid possibly having my secret discovered.

Alone again, after her departure I would have undisturbed privacy for a short while. Then in the distance I could hear the unmistakable sound of the food-trolley for the evening meal.

Though hospital food, all in all, is not that great. I recalled my visits to the zoo before the feeding time of the carnivores. It used to amaze me to see the heightened arousal of the lions, or tigers, when they could hear the feeding-truck in the distance. A truck, to all intents and purposes should sound like any other truck working the zoo area. But the carnivores could tell the difference, just as I knew it was the dinner-trolley and not any of the other dozen or so trolleys used in the ward.

But what was the routine? Was I going to be the first, or the last fed? I was furthest from the entry to the ward. The continuous clattering sound meant that it was not stopping at the other rooms. This joyous non-stopping sound meant they were heading straight for me first.

A chubby faced female head looked around the edge of the door.

"Just one?" she asked as she looked around the room.

I guess if I had not been food-deprived, and quicker in my thought processes, I might have replied; "the others have gone to the toilet for a moment, may I order for all five of them?" The presence of only one bed in the room was also a strong clue that I would have been lying.

Instead I just replied; "yes please."

When her whole body came through the door I realised that it was possibly only slightly overweight, but the legs were so slim they would seemingly break if she jumped and had to land back down on them. The trace of her nice smelling perfume as she approached would have aroused me under different circumstances.

She looked at my patient chart with greater interest and intensity than any of the physicians, surgeons, doctors or nurses had done so when they visited me.

"I see there are no diet restrictions on your chart. So, what would you like?"

'Yes,' I thought. 'This is the penthouse. I've struck the jackpot.'

"Crayfish mornay with a selection of roasted vegetables and a few crispy chips thanks."

She burst out laughing with a joy that I had not heard for a long time.

"No," she got out between the subsiding giggles. "I've only got......"

As she spoke the choices of five basic meals I realised that though I was in the penthouse I was still eating food from the church 'soup kitchen.'

"And you can have a pudding," she added.

I picked whatever it was with ice cream.

After putting my selections on my bed-tray she left.

"See you tomorrow night," she called back over her shoulder.

"Thanks," I replied. "See you then."

Strange? I could never remember hearing the sound of a departing food trolley. I suppose it could be because my attention was always diverted to the meal.

Dinner finished, I sat back to enjoy the view. Winter does not allow a long time between sunset and darkness. That had happened in the short time this carnivore had devoured the fat-trimmed lamb chops and over-cooked vegetables, dessert of low-cal ice cream and skimmed milk fat free custard. I looked under the plate just in case those removed parts had been put there. I was not going to leave a tip.

The distant hills were no longer visible. They must have departed for their places of night rest while I was not watching. I knew though they would return before sun-up tomorrow just to make the picture the same as it had been earlier. Blackness had already drawn her curtains across my windows.

I fished around the headboard and located the air-line style ear-phones. There was only one station. It was playing only instrumental music. The choices never being songs you could sing along to. It was quite understandable really. It would be most inappropriate for some patient to burst into song and sing horribly out of key, as people tend to do under ear-phones. Even worse if the patients of one room started singing Queens' 'We will rock you', while a distraught family sat beside vigil with a dying patient in the next room.

My eyes were closed as I listened to the disinfected music. Even though my ears were muffled by the ear-phones, I could hear the approach of the trolley coming to collect the dinner crockery and cutlery. This job was always done by a ward nurse, never the food deliverer.

At 6:00 p.m., it was the change of shift from the day staff to the night staff. Some people are just naturally either day people or night people.

The ward nurse who entered to collect my dinner utensils was obviously a day person, and was not looking forward to spending the next 12 hours over-night in a hospital tending to sick and sometimes demanding patients.

She walked in, immediately going to the windows and pulling the long heavy drapes across the windows. Then walking to my bed snatched the bed tray with the dinner utensils and headed for the door.

"I think the bed-tray stays here," I called after her.

"I was bringing it back," she snapped.

She returned the tray to the box at the foot of the bed and left without any further conversation. I tried to assess the number of nurses on duty in this ward and my chances of being "speared" by this one at my 8:00 p.m. or 2:00 a.m. buttocks presentation. That would reveal if there was a God or not. That is, if he was not busy somewhere else in this same hospital at that time.

The 8:00 p.m. injection was given by a non-descript humourless-by-pass nurse with a surprisingly gentle touch. She went on the tick side of the ledger.

Soon after 9:00 p.m., another nurse entered. She was Asian, nice body, obviously had black hair, wore thick glasses and was barely five feet tall. I imagined she was quite attractive under the glasses. She smiled as she picked up the urine bottle beside the bed.

"Still empty?" she said in clipped English. "You don't want to pee pee? Then I get you a new bottle."

Though Asian, she was not Japanese or Chinese.

"Not yet. Are you from Thailand?" I asked.

"Close. Malaysia."

"K.L.?"

"No. Johore Bahru. Have you been to my country?"

"Not yet. One day I will. Maybe you can take me."

She smiled again as she gave me the two sleeping pills. I knew the routine. I had to swallow them while she was watching. I casually threw them into my mouth as she gave me my glass of water. I quickly slipped them under my tongue and took a couple of swallows of water. Then as silent proof of my having swallowed, I opened my mouth wide for her cursory inspection. She was not wearing any wedding ring.

"O.K.," she said. "I'll be back at 9:30 p.m. for lights out."

I nodded my response with a closed-mouth grin as she left the room, then slipped the pills out from under my tongue and put them in a handkerchief in the bedside drawer. I did not want to develop a sleeping pill habit. But if I needed them I would take one later.

Dutifully she returned at 9:30 p.m.

"Goodnight," she said, as she switched off the light just inside the doorway.

"I've warmed your side of the bed," I answered.

"That's nice. I'll phone my husband and tell him that we can all be warm together."

She departed silently.

After waiting for a few minutes, I slipped both my legs off the side of the bed and gently put my feet on the floor. Steadying myself with my bruised buttocks against the side of the bed I balanced on my muscle wasted legs. I had never been able to urinate into a bottle while sitting in a bed. With great satisfaction I relieved my bladder, and placed the bottle on the floor, covering it with the small towel provided.

I changed my mind about the sleeping pills, un-wrapped them, and swallowed both without water.

Getting back under the sheets, and surprisingly efficient single blanket, I eased my head onto the pillow and listened to the wind starting to build outside. Tomorrow would be an interesting day I felt sure. I could do all the exciting things like comparing the routine of this ward with that which I could remember from the previous ward. At 2:00 a.m. the grumpy nurse woke me surprisingly gently, took my pulse and respiration, and did a quite caring spear-throwing job. I barely noticed it happening.

What seemed like minutes later the lights were switched on. I sat up quickly wondering what was wrong. I saw two female nurses pulling back the curtains. Their voices almost simultaneously said "Good morning."

"Thank you God," I thought, "A ménage a trios. But why did you pick a time when I'm too sick to manage it?"

With the curtains open I could see it was still dark outside.

Through bleary eyes I tried to see the time on the wall clock.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly 5:30," replied one.

I waited to see what routine they had come in to perform. They simply leaned against the warm ducted-heaters, and ignoring me, chatted between themselves.

Over the next twenty minutes, another seven or eight nurses arrived, all carrying their own personally-named cups of tea or coffee, and warmed themselves against the heaters. I realised that this must the incoming staff for the day-shift, starting at 6:00 a.m. My room was obviously the one they used to gather in before formally going on duty.

At 5:50 a.m., they all left together. Each one walked past the end of my bed with a farewell to me of some type.

Room now empty, I took this possibly rare opportunity to put my feet on the floor and relieve my bladder. The floor was stone cold in contrast to the central-heated air in the room. It was a pleasure to get back into bed.

I was tired after the early wakening. Maybe still sleeping pill affected. The dawn was revealing a new day. It was cloudy with rain in the distance. The far away hills had not returned after all. Wisely they stayed away from what looked to be the start of a lousy weather day.

Soon after 6:00 a.m., another buttocks spear-thrower arrived. She might as well have used the vacuum cleaner tube.

Sadist bitch! Another one that I put on my unwritten list to kidnap after my recovery, and put through a torture chamber of horrors so evil that I still yet had to consider what instruments of pain I would use.

6:45 a.m., the pill dispenser arrived with his trolley of drawers full of drugs to make both a drug addict and a hypochondriac joyously happy. Two palm-sized stainless steel trays were welded to the trolley handle. Each contained a small saucer sized and shaped stainless steel plate with a pourer.

A bright blue clipboard swung on the trolley handle. He took his clipboard from the handle, went to the end of the bed, and examined my patient chart. Every couple of seconds he would nod and hum a quiet note of approval.

I am sure I would have felt quiet uneasy if I saw him suddenly inhale a deep noisy breath through his teeth and nod his head negatively in disapproval.

He replaced my patient chart and flicked over a few pages attached to his bright blue clipboard.

"Mr. Plover?"

The sudden boom of his deep and loud voice caused my heart to skip a beat in fright.

"Yes," I replied.

He put the clipboard on the foot end of the bed, began opening selected drawers in the trolley, selecting bottles from the drawer, and setting them on a sunken tray on the pusher side of the handle.

Pouring each type of pill I had been prescribed onto the right palm tray, he would count them a second time, then pour them onto the left palm tray. On finishing, he returned all his bottles to their relevant drawers.

Moving to the right side of my bed, he collected the nearly full glass and took it to the sink and emptied it. Returning to my bedside, he filled the glass from the pewter jug, and handed me the glass. Proffering the tray containing the pills he said; "palm please," and poured them all into my palm.

Ten pills again. There were more colours than a pack of jelly-beans. Throwing them all into my mouth at one time I took a gulp of water, and they all went down.

The pill dispenser opened his mouth intending me to copy.

"I don't see any need for fillings there," I wisecracked.

With his dead-pan reaction and unexpressive eyes, I realised that I was flogging a dead horse and obliged, though wishing I had cheated and kept a couple hidden under my tongue just to get one over him.

Next he opened his mouth again and lifted his tongue. I was suddenly pleased I had not tried to cheat. This guy probably got his laughs from giving the wrong pills, like giving diarrhea to a sufferer of piles or someone who had just had a rectum operation.

Having completed his task, this 'communication king' wheeled his trolley out. I felt sorry for the guy. He would never have much success opening his own pharmacy.

7:15 a.m. I heard the approach of the food trolley. This briefly cheered me. The high spirits ceased immediately I realised the stop-start sound meant that all the rooms closer to the ward entry were being fed first. I would be last.

So far, this day was giving all the signs of being a bad day.

When the breakfast trolley arrived it was not the same Ms. Giggly of the previous evening.

"Good morning," she said with a toothpaste advertising smile, picking up my chart.

"Good morning," I responded.

"Lucky thing," she said, "no special diet." Then just as suddenly, "Oh dear. All the non-diet stuff has gone."

Under my breath I muttered "shit," then for some reason thought of the pill-dispenser.

"I'm sorry, this is the best diet meal I've got left. But I'll give you a couple of extra bits of toast."

"Thanks," I replied conditionally appreciative.

"I'll see what I can keep you for lunch, if your chart doesn't change."

"That would be great." I could really fall in love with this nurse.

"See you later then." She turned the trolley and departed.

"'Bye," I called out loudly, trying to sound really sexy, as she passed through the door.

Then I tasted what was on the plate and decided that I would save my thoughts of undying love until after lunchtime.

In less than 20 minutes she was back to collect the tray and I felt guilty about leaving the plate of 'whatever' virtually untouched.

"Not hungry?" she queried.

"No," I lied. "I just felt like pigging out just on toast," I half lied, "but thanks anyway."

Smiling, she picked up the offending meal, empty side plates, empty tea cup and departed.

All of this had happened already, and it was not even 8:00a.m. I simply wanted to go back to sleep, but I knew the hospital routine well enough to know that was an impossibility. Those who were able to sleep were those who were too ill to be aware of their surroundings. I was aware of my surroundings so I knew my health had improved remarkably.

About 8:15a.m., a very quiet trolley wheeled into the room pushed by a tiny black haired lady I guessed to be in her late forties. At first glance I thought she was Asian, but not Chinese, Japanese, or Korean. She nodded toward me, and smiled as she pushed her trolley to the middle of the room; then began to dust the shelf under the window, humming quietly to herself.

She was efficient and fast, quickly wiping over the chairs and the areas of the walls she could reach. The hand basin was thoroughly wiped over with disinfectant, as were all the handles of the doors and anything likely to be touched by hand.

As she began to wipe down the iron frame around the bed I decided to speak.

"Hello."

"Eello," she responded. "No Inglesh."

"O.K., O.K., never mind."

She carried on, wiped both bedside tables, and trolley, and was gone.

Another area of nature was making its call on me pretty much at the regular time. As I rang my buzzer for assistance I once again thought of 'Mr Personality', the pill dispenser. I was careful not to press the emergency buzzer.

I had accidentally done that just once; in the previous ward when I was still in the hazy disoriented and unreal world of pain-killers and other drugs. It was meant to request an escorted wheelchair assistance to take me to the toilet.

Then, within seconds, nurses and aides appeared and began checking me all over for the problem. A puffing doctor tore open the front of my pyjamas and slapped a stethoscope on my chest.

Even through my doped-up haze I wondered what was happening. Had I suddenly suffered from something I was not aware of but the staff had somehow picked up. Within a few seconds everyone realised it was a false alarm. As each member left the room they shot me a glance of disgust. The sister stayed, and, through my haze, tried to give me a lecture on the importance of only using the emergency button for an emergency.

This time there was no confusion. An aide entered, helped me into the wheelchair and into the toilet. In the toilets you were allowed to close the door but not lock them. Because the door hinges were spring loaded to keep them in an open position it always required one hand to keep the door closed.

Toiletries completed, I was returned to my room.

Except for the personnel changes, and the gathering of the nurses' coven at 5:30 a.m., the routine had so far been the same.

Normally, and with a bit of luck, there would be time for a brief doze before the "bed bath" people did their rounds. I carefully slid down under the sheets trying to reduce the pain to my dart-board used buttocks.

As I reached for the earphones a white-jacketed man, stethoscope hooked around his neck with the drag end tucked into his left waist pocket, entered the room. On seeing me, he nodded in my direction, and then proceeded to the window, felt the warm bars of the water heaters and sat in one of the easy chairs.

Minutes later two more white-jackets entered, stethoscopes hooked around their necks and drag ends tucked into their left had waist pockets. They nodded in my direction and moved toward the sitting white-jacket who stood up.

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

My chin fell at this little charade and I smiled to myself.

They had barely begun their 'doctor-speak' when two more entered. The three already in the room turned to greet the newcomers, stethoscopes hooked around their necks with the drag end tucked into their left waist pockets.

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

"Good morning doctor."

And so it went on until each had greeted the other individually. I could not suppress my laugh any longer. They looked at me. I am sure I went red with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," I said pointing at the earphones. "It's just there was something funny on the radio," I lied. I sat up unable to take the pain in my now throbbing lung and aching buttocks. I was sure I had seen this played out in and old Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello movie.

As I enjoy little mental calculations as a past-time, I started to calculate how many 'good morning doctors' would have passed between them, then gave it up as I knew I would need a calculator.

When three more white-jackets entered, I totally lost control. Despite my severe pain, for a few brief seconds, I roared my laughter out loud in anticipation of what was to come. All the doctors were looking at me incredulously.

When I had recovered sufficiently I pointed to the earphones. "God it's a funny show." Tears caused my vision to blur. I hoped that none of them could hear the music of Mozart's Mass in C, "Missa Solomnous" emerging from the earpiece.

One of those in the last group to enter said, "Right gentlemen, we're all here, let's get the day under-way."

Unlike Lady MacBeth's guests, they left in the order of their coming, and I was alone again. Wiping the tears from my eyes I was still in considerable pain from the laughing. I lay back and with a hand pushing hard on each ribcage, I tried to control my breathing to ease the pain.

It was after 9:15 a.m. The 'bed-bath' nurse with her bed massage hands was running late.

Resplendent in full nursing uniform, a face I recognised came through the door.

"Good morning Mr. Plover," she cheerily said as she came toward the bed.

"Margaret," I replied, "Great to see you after all these years."

"Matron Taylor," she said. "This is my ward. I just thought I would pop in and say hello, and maybe set a few ground-rules."

"It really is good to see you."

"And to see you too."

"Ward matron and all eh? I didn't know you'd gone into nursing."

"Certainly did. Just to avoid any embarrassment for me, if staff are around, please call me Matron. It all has to be very formal," she said as she took my hand and checked my pulse.

"Sure. No problem. Hell you're still looking good."

"Cut the crap Mr. Plover, we're both over twenty years older since High School days." At least she managed a smile as she said it. "And don't you give my nurses a hard time."

"No. I won't embarrass you. You can count on that."

"I know." That was said with an edge of steel.

Another nurse wielding another trolley entered the room and waited by the door.

Matron Taylor released my hand. "I'll pop by later," she said as she turned and walked away.

"Thanks Matron," I called after her.

She turned at the door, and nodded her appreciation. She made sure the young female nurse was not looking, gave me a wink, and left.

"Your bath Mr. Plover," said the new arrival.

"Wonderful. Thank you, James. Please lay out my formal dinner jacket. I think I might pop into the club afterwards for a couple of G & T's."

The nurse briefly looked at me from the corners of her eyes. "You're joking, right?"

"Lighten up nurse," I responded. "Don't you know that there's death all around you in a hospital."

"I know," she said. "Six of our long term patients in this ward passed away last night. So sad for all their families."

"Oh hell, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make light of it all."

"Gotcha," she said, and she burst into laughter.

"We've been warned about you," she said with the smile still reflected in her eyes. Now. Shall I help you wash your back, arms and legs and let you wash the other little bits."

"Have you been peeking at my little bits when I've been asleep?"

"No. Now lean forward."

I obeyed as she stripped off my pyjama tops and pants, covered my private parts with seasoned practice with a large towel, and expertly washed my back, arms, armpits, body and legs, without getting any part of the bed damp.

"Lift your buttocks," she insisted. I obeyed and she slipped a towel covered rubber mat underneath.

"I'll be back in about five minutes. You should be finished by then."

Immediately she left I began cleaning the other bits and my painful buttocks. After drying it all off, I reached into my drawer for the baby powder which I liberally sprinkled around.

As I waited for her return I remembered my hazy first couple of days in the hospital when it was 'bed-bath' time. With prudish self-consciousness I would not allow the nurse anywhere near any part of my body to wash it; even though I was too weak and dazed to manage it myself. The nurse relented on the first day and allowed me to be unwashed. The same procedure happened the second day. But when she returned and saw I was still unwashed, a steely resolve entered her voice.

She simply said, "Alright, if you don't want me to wash you, go ahead and try to stop me." She raised one of my arms into the air and I did not have sufficient strength to hold it up. It slowly fell to the bed.

She proceeded to 'bed-bath' me from head to toe. After that I never objected, and in fact looked forward to the whole procedure.

I had barely finished that reminiscence when today's nurse returned.

"Time for the rub to prevent the bed sores."

I willingly rolled onto my stomach, a little pained by the sore ribs. I lay in ecstasy while she gently massaged my hips, buttocks and lower back. I wanted to marry this nurse too and imagined a life of her giving me regular massages and 'bed-baths'.

"Enough for today," she said. "I could hear you starting to snore."

I rolled onto my back. "I was just imagining being cuddled up next to you on a cold winter's night."

"I'd rather have a good book," she replied.

That should have deflated my ego. I was sorry to see her leave. But she had other patients to see who I am sure were as equally in love with her as I was.

9:45 a.m. two male physiotherapists arrived. Partly welcome, partly not, depending on who was going to 'beat the daylights' out of me today. The enjoyable part was the massage of my severely wasted leg muscles, now thinner than my forearm.

The younger was obviously in training. The senior instructed him in the leg massage technique by starting the procedure then allowing the apprentice to take over.

Both were fine, no drama there.

Then came the part I dreaded more than the 4-hourly needle.

Asked to lift my right arm and roll onto my left side, which was painful to my ribs anyway, the tutor began a steady drum beat on my ribcage below my breast using slightly cupped hands. Done correctly it was not unbearably painful, but still not something that would be requested to be done for pleasure.

The tutor muttered something to the student about loosening sputum within the lung to avoid long term retention and possible infection and also break off small blood clots reducing the formation of larger ones.

The tutor had handed over to the pupil. The latter had no sense of timing or regular force on his down-beats. Also, the hands were not cupped but open causing a hurtful painful slap adding to the deep seated thump within my body. Within seconds I was lowering my arm to protect my side.

"Enough!" I growled, with considerable anger in my voice.

The physiotherapist looked at me startled, not expecting a practice dummy to reply. The student went red-faced and stepped away from the bed sensing the immediate threatened danger of physical retaliation.

"Just take my notes down to the nurses' room and wait there for me," the teacher said to the student.

The student turned and left.

"Bloody prick," I uttered.

"He's trying his best."

"No, you're the bloody prick."

The teacher gave me a black look and walked out.

About 20 minutes later Matron entered, took my hand to read my pulse, and instead of looking at my chest to read my respiration, she looked me directly in the eye. I knew something was wrong. Then her teeth flashed in a smile.

"So," she said, "you insulted our physiotherapist. Bloody prick is he Mr. Plover?"

"Yes Matron."

"Let's see your ribs." She undid my pyjama front and slipped the sides of my pyjamas under my back.

"Jesus," she said. "It looks like you've been in a fight. Both sides are covered in bruises."

"You should check my bum."

"I will, but that's a different problem which generally can't be avoided."

She moved to the foot of my bed and checked my chart. Nodding her head side to side she said. "It's all here, the naughty man."

"Why didn't you say something before?" she asked.

"I just thought it was part of the treatment."

"Not with that chart."

"What? My bum is on that chart."

She laughed. I had forgotten the sound her laugh. It was natural and beautiful.

"You haven't changed thank goodness," she said. "No your bum isn't on the chart but I'll see if I can get those shots changed to 6 or 8 hourly."

Another trolley wheeled in the door with its two accompanists. I knew what these people were here for. Pathology Department. They were here and I was not even dead yet.

Matron stood, and as she left said in her best Dracula imitation, "They are here to take your blood."

"Thanks Matron, I know."

"You're welcome Mr. Plover."

"Good morning," one of the new arrivals said with a smile. The other nodded.

"Which arm do you want today?" I asked offering both.

"You've got good veins generally. Let's see which will be easiest today."

He took my elbows gently in his palms. "Which one did we do last-time, they're both still bruised."

"I don't remember."

"O.K. The right one today then." He wrapped the rubber tourniquet around the arm above the elbow and flicked on where he could see a prominent vein.

"This vein looks good."

He wiped some disinfectant over the spot, turned quickly to the trolley, and produced the usual giant needle with an accepting glass tube at its end.

Gently he slipped the large needle just below the skin surface, directly into a vein. When he saw the blood begin its free flow into the tube he nodded in satisfaction. As soon as the first thumb-sized tube was filled he magically withdrew that and exchanged it for another. After repeating this action a few times he had five glass vials of blood.

With cotton wool he pressed gently down on the entry point of the needle, withdrew it and put it on the tray while still holding his finger over the cotton wool at the entry point. Grabbing the forefinger of my unused arm he pushed it onto the cotton wool.

"You know the story; keep a slight pressure on for a few minutes." With that he bent my arm at the elbow and tucked my fist under my chin. He went back to the trolley where his assistant had sealed the tubes and then used a marker pen to write something on the bottles.

Returning to my bedside, he opened my arm and checked the entry point.

"Looks good." He took a small Elastoplast and stuck it on.

"Just keep the elbow bent for a while. G'bye."

They departed.

Even though their department used the largest needles they had certainly caused me the least amount of pain in my daily routine. I was genuinely grateful.

11:15 a.m. 'no Inglish' arrived. She nodded in my direction and smiled, then began part two of her tasks. Using an expensive looking but very noisy vacuum cleaner she moved just as quickly and efficiently through the room as she had done with her dusting and wiping. In less than five minutes she had finished her task, gave me another nod and was gone.

Again, not expecting interruption for a while, I lowered my legs out of the bed and relieved myself into the urine bottle, then quickly climbed back into bed.

It was still grey outside with low clouds swirling in random patterns. The wind was strong enough to blow plastic bags and leaf litter high up between the buildings. I got a sense of coldness that would be felt much worse by people walking outdoors. And the distant hills had still not returned to view. Perhaps they had decided to take the rest of the day off and stay indoors or wherever hills go at night to shelter and sleep.

I had been watching this cloud movement for quite a while when I sensed I was being watched. I looked toward the door and saw a shortish and slim grey-haired man wearing a long multi-blue check dressing and light green slippers.

"Hi," he said when he saw that I had seen him.

"G'day," I replied.

"Wanna visitor?

"Why not?"

He walked slowly, but steadily, into the room pulling a long upright steel pole at the base of which was four wheels. At the top of the pole was a bag from which a long tube hung down and went into the sleeve of his dressing gown. Another bag sat much lower on the pole, another plastic tube running up to just below and inside the waist level of his gown. I guessed he was in his late sixties.

As he approached he gave me a wide and confident smile. "I saw you yesterday from my room when you were wheeled in, and again both times this morning when you commoded to and from the toilet for the 'number twos'."

I guess it is a natural thing among patients, but there is a lack of hand-shaking in case something unknown is transmitted on contact.

"Hell," I said, "I haven't seen that much plastic tubing since I was breeding tropical fish. Are you allowed to do that in this ward?"

He smiled. "Nah, Bloody water works problems, so at the moment I've got all this temporary plumbing hanging around."

"That bottom one, does it go into where I think it goes?"

"Yeah. Drains the bladder because of the prostate problems."

I screwed up my nose. "Gawd, I can imagine how much that hurt when they, you know, I hate to think of it."

"Yeah. It does make the eyes water for a bit."

"I'm Bill Plover."

"Jake Fantham," he replied.

"Been in long?"

"Nearly a month, all in this ward."

"I had three weeks in another ward before I came here. You know we sound like a couple of criminals?"

"Discussing our sentences?"

"That's right."

"Isn't that what we've got? We're serving time until they fix us up and shunt us out."

"How much longer for you then, before the plumbing's fixed?"

"Maybe two to three weeks, then I've got plenty of time to get myself fit for bowls opening day."

"Lawn bowls?"

"Yeah. It's only a country club I belong to, but it's been my life since the kids went. They have board and president elections the night before and I've got a good chance of being president this year. I've had eight years on the committee. It's coming up to the 50th anniversary of the opening of the club in 1925. My Dad was the first president. I'd like to be president at the 50 year celebration, you know, for Dad's sake and all that family tradition."

"What? Is your Dad still alive then?"

"No. He said he was eight years younger than he really was on his enlistment papers and went away to W.W.2. Got killed in the Western Desert."

"That really was for King and country."

"Yeah."

"Your Mum still alive?"

"No. Mum was a talker. Drove Dad mad with her non-stop chatter. Dad, my brother and I would all go out to the back of the farm to get away. Always doing fencing or gate repairs. Anything, sometimes just sittin', doin' nothin'. We had the best fences in the district."

"Where's your brother?"

"Went to Korea in '53. Got killed near Pusan."

"My Dad played lawn bowls too. He was like an addict. Even played the club tournament a few days before he died," I replied.

"What happened to him?" Jake asked.

"Road accident."

"Bowls gets into you blood."

"Mum hated it. Tried to play, tried the social side but just never fitted in."

"My wife loves it, talks the opposition to death, but I doubt she'll make the opener," said Jake.

"Why not?"

"Cancer. She's just a couple of wards away."

"Oh shit Jake, I'm sorry."

"I'm not. We haven't exactly been close the last hundred years or so. I don't even bother to visit her. Told her not to bother me either."

"That's a double pity. I always thought it would be nice to grow old together with someone. You know, nursing the grand-kids, telling the fairy stories and stuff."

"Yeah. I guess that's the way I pictured it too but life plays its games."

Three white-jackets came into the room. One I immediately recognised as my physician. Of the other two, one looked familiar, the other I had not seen.

"Looks like official business," said Jake.

"Pop back later if you feel like it," I said as he turned to go.

Jake slowly but steadily eased out of the room, pulling his wheeled pole with him.

"Good morning Mr. Plover."

"Good morning Mr. Bourke." He was a physician and apparently the Mister in the medical profession ranked higher than a doctor. I could not figure it.

"This is Doctor Kirk who you've met before. He did the procedure on you last time."

"Yes I remember; you're a friend of my G.P."

"That's right. Played 18 holes with him last Saturday. How've you been?"

"Good," I replied. "Or I guess that's what we're all here to find out."

"Yes," went on my physician. "This other gentleman is Doctor Knight. He's an anaesthetist."

"A good name for putting people asleep," I said.

"That's been pointed out before," he replied.

"I'm pleased your name isn't D'Ath then."

"As a matter of fact that's my mother's maiden name." He must have seen the change of expression on my face. "Only kidding."

"We're here to try and work out why it's taking so long to get you out of here," said Mister Bourke.

He examined my sputum dish and showed it to the other two.

"Things should have well and truly cleared up by now, but there's something happening that we can't figure out."

I just nodded, a little apprehensive at what they might be going to suggest.

"As well as some more x-rays which I'll schedule for later this afternoon, I want Doctor Kirk to go in as before and have a good look for anything we might have missed."

My memory of the last intrusion was not good. Sore body, sore throat and a massive hangover from the anaesthetic. A bronchoscopy then used a rigid metal tube stuck down your throat and into your lungs. That was about as intrusive as it could get. At least it meant it would be knife free which should mean a quicker recovery time.

"Whatever you think," I tried to answer bravely although my mouth and throat had already gone dry.

"You know, now that we're in the 1970's we do a lot more without having to cut into the body to explore," said Dr. Kirk. "The bronchoscope is a marvellous thing. I reckon by 1980 they will have learned to bend the light rays so we can have a flexible tube rather than the rigid pipe, even a camera maybe."

His description did not make me feel a hell of a lot better.

"You're quite a solidly built man, and we have to have staff to lift and shift your anaesthetised body so I can see into all the nooks and crannies I need to. You possibly had a bit of muscular soreness after the last procedure."

A squeaky "Yes," popped out of my dried mouth, and now dry lips.

"Dr. Knight is the one who has to keep you asleep the whole time, so your body doesn't twitch at the wrong time."

"If it's alright by you," said Mr Bourke, "and if we can arrange theatre time at this late stage, we thought we'd do it tomorrow morning."

"Yes," came the squeaky voice again. I cleared my throat. Trying to talk as if in control I went on, "yeah find out what's wrong." My voice came out quite strong even if a little louder than I meant.

"Well let's get it organised then. A few things to change," said Mr Bourke.

With that, the three wise men left.

I sat contemplating the after-effects of the previous 'procedure', even the pre-effects. I was not looking forward to it.

I do not know how long I had transported my mind away, but I did not hear the food trolley arrive.

"A change for you sir." It was the toothpaste smile nurse who had made the promise of a better meal than the morning breakfast she had provided.

I sparked up at the thought of a nice meal. Dinner for the condemned man and all that stuff.

She presented me with a large bowl of clear soup sitting on an even larger saucer.

"What happened to my promised fillet steak, chips and vegies?"

"Last minute change apparently. No solids for the next 36 hours."

"Shite, oh, sorry nurse, not your fault. Preparation for surgery is the reason. I just didn't expect the change to be so quick."

"I see. I hope it all goes well then."

"So do I."

"See you tomorrow morning, I won't be delivering tonight."

"All right. Bye."

She left me looking into the clear soup trying to spot some prawns or pieces of meat accidentally overlooked by the fastidious dieticians.

Soon after that, another ward nurse popped in and gave me a pill. "Soon be visiting time sir, about 30 minutes, this'll help."

"I looked at the damn pain killer pill and thought twice about swallowing it, then did so. It was better that way if my expected visitors could not see the effects of the continual ache or occasional jabs of extreme pain. Also if my children were there they would want to climb up and be cuddled and the affects of the innocent accidental banging would be eased. My wife would not be as worried.

The two hour 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. visiting period arrived with me as usual being on a high. It only ever took about 20 minutes for the pill to work. But the beneficial effects on me only lasted about 90 minutes.

During this time the mailman arrived dishing out anything he had for the patients, like get well cards. Mine were in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.

My wife and infant children were the first to arrive. They had been stripped of food, chocolate and fruit goodies by the Matron who told my wife about the next day. The in-laws arrived soon after, and after a short stay departed with the children who were already becoming fidgety despite the exciting, but grey view from the window.

It was good to cuddle them all. Then, just as much fun to have multi-way and multi-level conversations as the children and my wife all spoke of different things at the same time. Seemingly in different languages including child-speak.

Other friends popped in at different times for different intervals, all stripped of goodies and advised there would be no visiting tomorrow, all given the promise that I would be given all the goodies in two days.

As the visiting time entered the last 20 minutes, I was very conscious that the drugs effects were wearing off. Trivial bumps to the frame of the bed sent pains up my side. It is natural for visitors without chairs to lean against the frame for support. I had never advised them of my problem. Just tried to grin and bear it.

Thankfully people were thoughtful enough to leave my wife and me alone for the last 15 minutes. There had been a lot of work absences and home doctor visits leading up to my hospitalisation. Therefore all sick-leave had expired and my wife had tired of my illness and now was feeling the financial strain as well. Neither of those factors disturbed her social life however, and she had begun to treat me as a reliable baby-sitter before I was hospitalised.

In fact it was only after her return home in the early hours of one morning and seeing my condition that she phoned the physician, who visited despite the hour, and he suggested taking me straight to hospital without waiting for the ambulance. The physician was a golfing friend of my G.P.

The in-laws arrived within minutes to baby-sit, the physician wrote a letter for the admittance desk, and I was bundled into the car.

I have no recollection of what happened then, and apart from small windows of recollections, nothing much at all about what happened over the next two maybe three weeks.

The last few minutes of the visiting time were always uncomfortable. Her wanting to go, but feeling obligated to stay. Me feeling in pain and wanting to be left alone, but wanting her to stay, preferably as silent company, as if her presence protected me from the next needle.

When the bell sounded for end of visiting, she would wait a polite time after the bell, give me a quick kiss on the cheek, and be gone to the relief of us both.

I settled back and began to concentrate my brain on pushing the steady pain back again to the recesses where it could be easily tolerated.

After about ten minutes I felt comfortable enough to pick up one of the daily newspapers. I soon put it down, disinterested in the type of articles they described as news. Then I looked up at the door as I became conscious of being watched again.

"Jake, come in."

"You sure you don't want to rest after your visitors?"

"I have, but its good you're back."

"Do you enjoy visitors?"

"Yes, but in a strangely different way to what I expected."

"How do you mean?"

"I guess there've been a lot of surprises. Some people I thought were friends have never visited. While others perhaps on the outer circle, or some who would have to make a helluva big effort to get here, have turned up."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he replied.

"Some during the week visitors from work have turned up in office time because they've been given paid time-off to visit. So the true friends from work have been the ones who have visited in the weekend using up their own time."

"Makes you reassess some workmates huh?"

"Yeah, sure does. Still it's good to see the kids."

"What do you got?"

"Two daughters. So far. Maybe we'll try for a son. You got any grand-kids yet?"

"Naah. Your kids look great. Enjoy them while you can. They leave too soon. Give them lotsa love while you can."

"You said you had some kids."

"Son and daughter. They really only got to know me in their late teens. Realised their Mum was full of bull-shit as well as a nag. We then got on well. Sounds sloppy, but you know there was heaps of love between us."

"So they've left home. What are they doing?"

There was a long pause as if he was trying to remember; but it seemed to be just a little beyond recall.

"Both dead."

"Oh hell, Jake. What happened?"

Jake looked away toward the window and said nothing. I watched his small chest rise and fall rapidly under the dressing-gown as he fought the demon of tears released in front of a stranger.

"Long story really Bill," he said with a broken voice.

"None of my business. But if it's not too painful. Otherwise don't worry about it."

"My wife's one of those people that talk. And talk and talk. Hardly draws breath. Hates being by herself, because she doesn't have anyone to talk to. When we built our home on the farm she had to have it designed open plan. No walls between the kitchen and lounge or dining room. Just so as she could talk. She'd even try to talk to me through the toilet door when I was inside. Used to drive me mad. The only way to get away from it was to leave the house. Nobody could get a word in. Funny thing was that before we got married she would hardly talk at all. Then she turned into a monster worse than my Mother. Talk about marrying someone like your Mum. I did."

"When the kids' were young they used to think I was terrible. Just to avoid coming home to that nagging voice going on and on, I'd stay out as late as possible. In the early years my kids' hated me for that. My wife obviously used to bad mouth me to them as often as she could to poison their minds against me."

"I just thought I'd wait until both the kids' had turned 21 and then leave. The kids' would do what they wanted."

"My boy was 18 months younger than my girl. In his early-teens he started to tinker with engines. Became an absolute bloody wonder. Could fix anything. On our farm he fixed the tractor, the car, farm bike, water-pump; then the neighbours' vehicles from combine harvesters to tropical fish-tank motors. Everybody brought their broken down vehicles to the farm."

"A few weeks before my girl's 21st we thought we'd better start organising a bit of a gig for her. Well, my daughter wanted a smallish party, maybe 30 people, my son wanted about 8-10 friends to come, I thought we'd invite a couple of neighbours as well. Maximum 50 to 60. But my wife produced a list of over 200 people for the 'coming out' 21st."

"Everybody argued. As usual my wife talked and never listened. She'd booked a hall and got 250 invitations printed without asking my daughters opinion of the cards. The first sight my daughter had of them was when my wife gave her 25 cards to invite her friends. My wife had already posted out the rest of the cards."

"I'd had enough of her voice that day. I got into the car and drove into town for a few beers. What I didn't know was that the kids wanted to get out as well. My boy could ride a motor bike, you know the small putt-putt farm bikes for rounding up sheep. But at that time we didn't have a farm bike. So he grabbed this 850cc bike he had just finished repairing. His sister came running out when he started up the bike. She jumped on as a pillion passenger."

Jake looked away toward the window again. His chest pumping up and down.

"It was just too big for them, too powerful."

He slowly turned and left the room.

I slid down into my bed and closed my eyes. I knew what the weather was like outside, grey and raining. And I knew how Jake felt inside.

### \----------

The food trolley came, though its delivery for me was hardly worth the extra metres the nurse had to walk. The nurse was cheery, apologising for the meagre ration she was allowed to give me; though she topped up my drinking water. I thanked her anyway. My thoughts were not really with the meal.

When she returned to collect the plates, I feigned sleep. She removed everything quietly, closed the curtains, and left.

It had been dark outside for a while. The distant hills had failed to make an appearance all day. That had been wise. There had been absolutely no reason for them to come out at any time this day in such lousy weather. They would only have got wet and cold without a sunbeam to show for it. I just wished I knew where their secret hiding place was so I could hide too when I needed.

I started to think about Jake and his bowls. Wondered if he was any good or simply a drinker who bowled.

There was a light tap on the door. I looked up and suddenly a hand appeared low around the door. Newspaper, screwed up into a large tight ball skidded across the floor.

Jake's head appeared. "He's taken the jack and with it the club championship in this 50th anniversary year."

He moved inside and flashed the biggest smile he had given me since I had met him. He suddenly looked 10 years younger.

"Hey give me some of what you're on," I asked.

"Release young man. I'm outa here in three or four days."

"Bloody marvellous," I responded. "When did you hear about this?"

"Just before dinner. Matron said the tests are all fine. I'll have the plumbing just one more night. They want me to stay just a couple more days after that to ensure that I'm peeing alright by myself, then its freedom."

"You'll miss all these gorgeous young nurses."

"The hell I will. At my age I'd rather have a cold beer."

"That's great news."

"I've been trying to practice bending my knees to deliver the ball, but with all these attachments it's not easy. Even without that though, the knees need a bloody lot of exercise. They've stiffened up. Never mind. Bowls opening day, here I come."

"What about the wife?" I suddenly thought it was a stupid subject to raise after his earlier revelations.

"No. Her cancer is terminal, and very advanced. She'll never get out of here alive. Probably dead before opening day."

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say.

"You know what? It just struck me. The bitch might hang on as long as she can and die on opening day just in an attempt to piss me off one more time. You know, expecting me to mourn over her body on opening day."

"Jake. C'mon. Don't be that hard on her."

"I suppose I'll have to get a message to her and tell her that I'm out of here."

"We've got a few days then to swap addresses. I'm gonna be a bit busy tomorrow though," I added.

"Why. Are you going to the Monday horse races?"

"I wish. No they want to just have a quick peek inside in theatre. Just to see if there's any reason for the slow recovery. No big deal. I'll just be a bit groggy and hung-over afterwards."

A nurse entered.

"Ah, there you are, Mr. Fantham. Time to change your bags, possibly for the last time I hear."

His smile lit up again.

"Yes nurse. I'll miss your tender caring touch."

"Perhaps we can return you to your room," she said.

"Sure." he looked at me. His expression changed to one of seriousness. "I'll watch out for you tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Escorted by the nurse, he left the room.

I was pleased there was no visiting that evening. The fear of the unknown in tomorrow made me a little edgy; even though I was quite sure the doctors had been honest about the simplicity of the routine.

The evening drifted by, only interrupted by the usual routines before final pill popping and lights out. I was pleased to take the sleeping pill tonight. I did not want to have a long period of sleeplessness worrying. That would be easy as I could feel the stomach protest the hunger pangs.

### \----------

5:30 a.m. the first of the witches coven arrived with a cheery "good morning, Mr. Plover," as she drew open the curtains. She warmed up her hands on the heater.

"Still cold outside," she said, "though it looks like we're gonna be in for a fine day."

I looked at her through my sleepy eyes then looked at the windows. It was still night black outside.

I sat up knowing that I would not get any further chance to sleep.

One of the night-duty nurses came in. This was not routine. She poured less than a quarter-glass of water into my glass, put a coaster on top, and removed the water jug.

"What's that for?"

"You're having theatre this morning. Can't have you drowning in water or peeing on the table can we?" She left.

I just nodded. No fun on theatre day.

Other nurses, many whose faces were now familiar, trickled into the room. Some nodded to me while others proffered a "good morning," or other greeting; friendlier than yesterday.

Again at 5:50 a.m. they exited en-masse and I had the room to myself again.

As I had little recollection of the routine the previous time I went to theatre, I was curious as to what would happen. I had already seen the starvation diet and water deprivation torture applied. I sub-consciously looked at my finger nails and wondered if they would pull those out next to prevent me scratching myself when I was asleep.

Just before 7:00 a.m. I heard the food trolley arrive. The nurse had the kindness to put her head in and apologise for not having anything for me this morning. I thanked her, listened to the trolley's stop-start progress down the ward. I pictured all the carnivores tearing the tossed meat carcasses to shreds, while I was near death from starvation.

The day soon became bright and sunny. The hills had returned to their sentinel position. I was pleased about that. The skyline would not have looked as nice if they had failed to turn up for the day.

7:15 a.m. Matron entered.

"Good morning, Mr. Plover."

"Good morning, Matron."

"Sleep well?"

"Yes thanks. It was the early waking that was the problem."

Matron undid a tissue containing a pill.

"Take this please."

I popped the pill and tried to swallow. My mouth was dry. I reached around for my quarter glass of water.

"No water," she said. "That water should not have been left there."

"I've got a dry mouth, can't swallow it."

Matron stood up, taking the glass with her she poured all but about a teaspoon-full into the sink "This'll have to do."

As soon as the scant moisture reached my tongue I was able to swallow the pill.

She then proceeded to take my pulse, blood pressure, checked my eyes and mouth. Then with a stethoscope she thoroughly warmed the end in her hand then checked out various areas front and back, including the usual breathe in, breathe out. I guessed somewhere in there she had estimated my respiration. She made various notes on my chart and then pulled up a chair and sat beside me.

"You'll be heading off to pre-op in a couple of minutes. We had you scheduled for first thing this morning. However an emergency op on a baby is now scheduled before you. So you're number two cab off the rank. But you have to be in there and ready."

"I just hope the driver knows where he's going."

"You haven't changed, which is good. Dr. Kirk is tops, one of the best in the country."

"Is he much good in the city?"

"Shut up. I'm trying to do all my Psych 2 build-up to reduce tension in a pre-op situation."

"Me too. I don't want you to worry while I'm gone."

I felt the effect of the drug she gave me start very suddenly to take effect.

"Hey Margaret, that shit you gave me's real good."

"Matron, Mr. Plover."

"You say potato I say potarto." I knew I had slurred my words but I did not care.

With that, I slipped into a state where I must have closed my eyes because I had become oblivious to my surroundings.

I was not aware of being transported to the pre-op room. I woke when they inserted the needle into the back of my hand for use by the anaesthetist. I recall asking about how the baby was, but I did not remember the replies.

"Tell Dr. Kirk to look out for the dog-leg on the left when he goes in." Then it was only a faint female voice saying "not long to wait now." There were no faces. Total unconsciousness followed.

### \----------

A jack-hammer headache, dry throat, muscle sore body and a hacking painful cough made me aware that the procedure was complete and that I had been through the recovery ward and was back in my own ward.

My headache was too painful to open my eyes. I was aware of a slightly damp and very cool flannel being regularly wiped over my head and face. It eased the head pains.

After what for me was an indeterminate time, I opened one eye-lid, then the other very slowly. I saw the curtains closed around the bed. I closed my eyes again and became aware of all the hospital noises. When I tried to adjust my body position, my muscles ached as though I had done gymnastic exercises way beyond my body's capabilities.

About two minutes after that, I heard the curtain rings slide on the tubing.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Plover. Welcome back."

I turned my head slowly, my neck muscles protesting painfully. "Hello, Matron."

She took my pulse, blood pressure, and checked me with her stethoscope with the usual breathing exercises.

"That all seems good."

"Thanks."

"Dinner will be here soon, but you'll still be limited to soup for tonight. I'll see you get a couple of pieces of fresh but unbuttered bread to go with your soup."

"O.K., why?"

"Nothing bad. Merely to reduce the chance of you throwing up after such a long time under anaesthetic."

"How's the baby?"

"I was told you'd probably ask. As well as can be expected."

"C'mon Matron."

"Alright. The baby's a bit sick but with a good chance of full recovery. The op was a bit more complex than they anticipated. That was why you were out in pre-op for more time than expected."

"What was wrong with the baby?"

"I don't know. I was only given some 'info' because I was told you kept nagging them about the baby being alright. They suspected you might ask. Aren't you interested in what happened to you."

"Of course."

"Dr. Kirk thanks you for the warning about the dog-leg to the left, whatever that was about. They trimmed the area around the infection they already knew about. And the search revealed nothing new."

"So. what happens now?"

"Mr. Bourke has the results of the tissue sample. He'll probably visit tomorrow. The recovery nurses say thanks for the songs especially 'Raindrops are falling on my head'. The swearing was hardly mentioned."

"God. I didn't did I?"

"Apparently. You brightened up their day. This is only between us. Recovery room happenings are confidential."

"Thank the nurse with the cool damp cloth too will you."

"You can thank him yourself later. He insisted on an eye-dropper too so he could put the occasional drops of water on your lips to reduce your sore throat. It was Mr Fantham."

"Good God."

"He had his plug removed early this morning. As soon as you got back he started to nag me about a nurse to watch you full-time. When I said I didn't have a spare one, he offered. Said he'd had more practical experience in nursing valuable stud stock, and was therefore more experienced in nursing than any of the quacks in the hospital. He's been sitting silently in that chair next to the bed for the three hours you've been back. Wiping your face, checking your breathing."

"Where's he now?"

"He came to fetch me as soon as you were out of the anaesthetic. Probably in his room. He said he'll pop over and see you after dinner."

"Thanks."

"You want the curtain open yet or closed for a while longer?"

"Closed. I might doze off for a while more."

"If you're asleep when the trolley comes I'll get them to put the soup aside. I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Thanks Matron."

She gave me a wink and left.

Over the next hour or so, I dozed.

Thankfully my eyes were open when the dinner nurse put her head between the curtains.

"You're awake then?"

"And hungry."

Two beautifully fresh bread rolls were delivered with the soup. I ate one just to get the after effects of the anaesthetic out of my mouth. The other I dunked into my soup and soaked up as much juice as possible. When the second roll was finished, I ignored any pretence of manners and put the soup bowl to my mouth and drained the contents.

Within minutes I felt my stomach churning. It was protesting painfully. I lay down again, pleased at the wisdom of Matron as to how much extra I could have without vomiting.

The nurse collected the bowl in silence when she saw my eyes were closed.

I was aware of other voices in the room on an irregular basis and other longer subdued conversations.

About 9:00 p.m. a nurse came in, gave me a half-dose sleeping pill and watched me swallow it.

"Do you want me to leave the curtains closed overnight?"

"Yes please."

As soon as she left, I eased my legs off the bed. My back muscles screamed in protest. The feeling of relief after urinating almost made up for the aching muscles.

Soon after resettling into bed a nurse from the door called out. "Goodnight everyone."

I heard three other voices reply. "Goodnight nurse."

I began to wonder where the hell I was. The sleeping pill and the effects of the rest of the day's drugs put me to sleep before I could even think of a first possibility for my changed surroundings.

### \----------

The sound of brass rings sliding on tubing woke me up.

"Good morning," said the bright chirpy voice. "We don't want to be anti-social do we?" I opened my eyes as the nurse pulled back the curtains surrounding my bed.

"Hi," I replied as I looked around at the surroundings of my new room. There were three other occupied beds. The faces of the patients all looking at me as one by one they greeted me with a "good morning," or "hello and welcome." I returned each greeting with a polite one of my own, despite the fact that I really felt like saying, "what the hell are you guys doing in my room?"

It was a different room. Slightly smaller than my previous room, it had one bed in each corner. I noticed the other three patients were all 'wired for sound' with various monitors delivering varying sounds or wave patterns on their screens. Probably all heart patients.

I would have liked to have tried to tune one or two monitors into a T.V. station to give us all a more exciting day. The wall clock showed 6:20 a.m. I had been given an extra 50 minutes sleep by evading the morning meeting of the 'witches coven'. I would leave it until the end of the day to judge whether there was benefit in losing the 'penthouse' or not.

Breakfast was wheeled in and I saw the other three get their 'special diet meals'. Mine was a bit sparse for the way I was feeling. Two little-finger sized sausages, two very well poached eggs and two pieces of toast that looked like they might have almost touched a butter knife, together with a tumbler of orange juice. I would not have swapped with the other patients even if they promised me eternal life.

After breakfast was over, the other patients introduced themselves. Various medical technicians entered removing the wiring to other patients. Obviously the link-ups were only a means to make night time monitoring easier.

All now wire free, the other patients, dressing gowned and slippered, made their way to the toilets and bathrooms. I wondered how I was going to do my urine relief act unseen. Two patients were out of the room, the third had his face hidden behind the day's newspaper which he was reading. The smile I had after performing my secret act would have made some people suspicious as to what heinous crime I had committed and got away with.

I sat forward in my bed to check the view out the wide single window to my right. The day was clear, and yes the distant hills had come back to sun themselves once again. Though I had lost one window, at least I could still keep an eye on the comings and goings of my hills.

The double entry doors to my far left were open. Across the main corridor of the ward I could see part of the room beyond.

Its occupant was receiving some form of physiotherapy. Because much of the view was obscured by the angle I could not see what treatment it was. I guessed it was a single room.

My thoughts of the pain freak, the 'Dr. Mengele' type physiotherapist, pounding out my ribs with a crow bar, crossed my mind. I watched the goings on through the door. The physio' stepped back. My God, there he was. Still at liberty. I wondered how he had not been arrested and tried by the war crimes tribunal.

I thought about my reaction if he was to come for a session today. Then I wondered about his reaction if he saw me.

Sitting back, I watched the small scattered clouds through the window. They were changing shape with a slow gentleness.

"How are the ribs?" came the voice at the foot of the bed.

My God, it was Dr. Mengele himself.

"Oh, O.K. I think," I lied.

"Sorry about the other day, I wasn't aware of the pneumonia/pleurisy thing. I can well imagine the pain I caused."

"That's O.K.," I still lied.

"I'm surprised that you tolerated it for so long over these last couple of weeks."

"I thought it was all supposed to help me get better quicker, you know, getting rid of the fluids."

"The good news is that I'll be leaving your lungs alone until the pain subsides. However I've still got to work on your legs to reduce the chances of clotting. O.K.?"

"Yes please."

"He went to work on the ankles, calves and thighs, and I felt the tension ease from the weird contortions they must have gone through during yesterday's bronchoscopy. When he finished, I felt like asking him if he also did backs, but decided after calling him a 'bloody prick' two days before I would be pushing my luck.

"How's that?" he said.

"Not out," I replied. "In a cricket sense of course."

He grinned at my response.

"No, it feels great, thanks."

He nodded and left. Even Dr. Mengele must have had a good side.

Soon after that Jake came in, 'sans' tube, 'sans' wheels and fluid bags.

"How are you?" he smiled.

"Bloody good. What about you without the plumbing then? No more tropical fish, eh?"

He stooped at the knees and made an imitation of delivering a lawn bowl.

"Over six weeks to the tourney, but I'll need practice if I'm to sharpen up. Being club champ again would be nice."

"Hey, I had some really bad dreams while I was under the drugs yesterday."

Jake looked at me seriously. "What happened?"

"I dreamed of an ugly old hag dressed in the Crimean War style nurses uniform, looking like a 150 year old Florence Nightingale. She was washing down my face with lovely cooling water. But the face was ugly beyond belief."

"Bastard," he said.

"Thanks, Florence," I said, "It really was appreciated beyond belief.

"That's all right son, you're welcome. It's just that your snoring and farting meant I had to take a whiff of oxygen occasionally."

"So," I said. "When's release date?"

"Two more nights. I don't know what the house is going to be like when I get home. Neither my wife, or me, have been home in over a month. The yards are probably a mess."

"Are you a keen gardener?"

"Hell no. I'll need the time for bowls practice."

"Bed bath time," came the cheery voice from the nurse.

"I'll leave you to it," said Jake. As he turned and left, he again made an exaggerated bend of the knees and pretence of bowling. He looked back at me and gave me the thumbs up.

I relaxed, allowing the nurse to work. I still did the personal stuff.

About ten minutes after she left, the same nurse, now as the 'bed sores' nurse, massaged my pained back and eased the buttocks soreness. I could not remember her face or body but I would still marry her hands if I was single.

The rest of the day passed as per standard routine. Injections, toilet on commode, lunch, blood, mailman, visitors etc. interspersed by a couple of five to ten minute visits by Jake. It was good. He never stayed too long.

That night, next day, and next night, followed much the same pattern but all passed very quickly.

Jake's company was never dull, boring or unwelcome. The stories of his life were always delivered with fervour, sometimes comical, sometimes serious, but always interesting.

Throughout, I could see his dedication to whatever he applied his mind to; and that, certainly at the moment, was his precious bowling club. Because his father had been the main catalyst for establishing the local club he seemed to feel slightly inferior and perhaps even a disappointment to his father's memory. To me he was always welcome company, with deep thought and consideration of the feelings and sensitivities of others.

On the morning of his departure when Jake came into my room, I did not recognise him immediately. Initially I thought it was a smartly dressed Doctor doing the early rounds visiting one of his patients. He was wearing a navy blue blazer with a monogrammed pocket, light blue trousers with a prominent crease, white shirt with a red, white and blue angle striped tie, black chisel toed shoes. His grey hair was neatly parted on the left. He looked fit, rosy-cheeked and very happy.

I'm already packed. Just finishing up with some important details."

"Jesus Jake. What a change in you."

"I feel bloody marvellous. I have a friend picking me up at 10:30 a.m. But before then I have to get all the post hospital info and lecture from Matron and my Doctor. Then get my pills and instructions for their use. So I thought I'd better see you now just in case I can't get back later."

He had neatly cut a small envelope from corner to corner. It formed a slightly out of shape triangle. He gave me a pen and one half of the envelope.

"If you want, I'd love to contact you later after your escape. Maybe have a chat on the phone occasionally to keep in touch. Or call me and I'll help you build a tunnel for your escape."

"I'd love to Jake."

I wrote my name, address, telephone number and place of work and work number on the blank half that he had given me.

When I gave it to him he examined it carefully, making sure that it provided all the details. Carefully he folded it from corner to corner, making a smaller triangle. He withdrew a fine dark leather wallet from inside his jacket, placed the triangle inside, and re-pocketed the wallet.

He handed me the other triangle, already folded.

"My address is written inside. Look at it later."

He grabbed my right hand before I could open the triangle and shook it. He had a good strong grip.

"I'll get going, Bill. I'll drop in just before I go if everything else goes to time."

"Thanks, Jake. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"No. Thank you. Now, shut up you're getting all sloppy." He turned and walked out the rom. I wondered sadly, when or if I would see him again.

I gazed at the folded triangle he had given me. Then noted he had written his name, address and telephone number on the bottom segment of the triangle. On the top part of the triangle he had written the inscription, "Bill, I'm sure the spirit of my son lives on in you."

I closed my eyes and tried to doze off.

### \----------

I returned from my commode visit to the toilet, back into my room about 9:30 a.m. Matron and an aide wearing a radiation indicator badge, and holding a wheelchair, were waiting in my room.

"X-rays for you Mr. Plover," said Matron.

The aide assisted me from the commode to the wheelchair and started to wheel me out.

"Matron," I called out. The aide paused the wheelchair. "If I miss Mr. Fantham please give him my best wishes and thanks."

"I will be seeing him in a few minutes. I'll definitely pass on your best wishes."

The aide wheeled me through about 150 kilometres of passageways, alleyways, up and down various levels in elevators and finally I was sure, into a basement prepared for a nuclear explosion.

Then parked like a taxi rank with two other wheelchairs in front of me, there were only four windowless white painted walls in the wide passageway. No paintings, flowers, scratches on the walls, or wheel-marks on the floors. I wondered if this was like a smaller version of a Nazi gas chamber which was still in pre-production. Gassing only one each time.

The two earlier arrivals went through the doors heavily marked "Radiology Room-Do Not Enter". There was a ten minute gap between each. They never returned through the same door. Did this add credence to my theory? Presumably they were exiting elsewhere. But it added to my concerns about a gas chamber for defective people.

Eventually my time came and was given x-rays in standing and laying down positions, then wheeled out through another door and told to wait until the x-rays were developed and checked.

I tried to consider what other options I had. I could never have found my way back to my own ward. I imagined another generation of archaeologists, maybe one thousand years in the future, excavating the old hospital site and discovering my bones, lost in a never used passage, and still sitting in a rusted up wheelchair.

"We'll need to take those x-rays again I'm afraid," came the female voice from over my shoulder.

Hell, if she was afraid, how did she think I felt?

"Through the same routine again, sorry. I messed up last time."

Oh sure, sure, I thought. After this second lot of x-rays I'll be glowing blue in the dark. If all this x-ray stuff was so safe, why did the staff hide in little bomb proof shelters every time they took a shot.

After being shunted out a second time, I seriously began to examine the floor assessing my chances of tunnelling out to freedom. Together Jake and I could rob banks and trains to support our bowling habit.

In a very short time, a different aide seemed to appear from behind some secret wall panel and started walking me back to ward. We covered the 150 kilometre return journey in about ten minutes.

It was after 11:15 a.m. when the aide returned me to the ward. As we approached the Matron's room she emerged.

"Am I glowing bright blue?" I asked.

"Very pretty blue it is, she replied.

"Did you give my message to Mr. Fantham."

She took the wheelchair from the aide, and with difficulty wheeled me on and into my room followed by the aide. I noticed the door to Jake's room was closed. The aide helped me onto my bed and left with the wheelchair.

Matron sat in the chair next to the bed.

"Well, has he gone?"

I saw her take a deep breath, and then audibly exhale.

"What's happened?" I asked.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," she started. "Soon after you left, and after he returned from visiting his wife, we had begun talking about his self treatment after he left. He started to complain about feeling some chest pains and numbness in his right arm and leg. I guessed what was happening, and we got the right equipment and treatment to him in time before any damage was done."

I simply lowered my head and nodded it side to side.

"It was a mild stroke and he should be fully recovered in a couple of weeks," she said.

"It's not fair Matron. He's a nice guy."

"I'll arrange for you to be wheeled in to see him later this afternoon."

"But what about his bowls opening day? There's not much time left."

"When's that?"

"In about six weeks."

"He'll be out well and truly before then."

"I hope so."

She took my hand to check my pulse, but made no attempt to touch my vein with her forefinger. "You're something else aren't you? Smiles on the outside, and who knows what inside."

She patted my hand, stood up, pulled the curtains closed around my bed, and I presume left the room.

A handsome lunch arrived, consumed with great appreciation and followed with a 'feet on floor' bladder relief into the urine bottle.

After the pain killer pill of 1:30 p.m. the curtains were swept back. Thankfully few visitors arrived after 2:00 p.m. I feigned tiredness which was easy, because the disinterest was real. Nobody stayed long, not even my wife, though she suspected something was amiss. She asked what was wrong. I just nodded negatively and said I had a bad night.

Unconvinced, and after her usual annoying habit of opening my mail for me, she left. She no doubt stopped in to have a chat with the Matron. They had both been in the same year at the same High School.

About 4:30 p.m. a ward aide pushing a wheelchair came in followed by Matron.

"You can see Mr. Fantham now, if you wish. Just five minutes," she said. "If you do, I'll wait outside the door."

It was something I was not looking forward to. I nodded my agreement and quickly got into the wheelchair unaided to the frown of Matron.

"Only five minutes remember," she said.

The wheelchair fitted through one door.

Jake's appearance shocked me. His eyes followed my entry. His right eye half closed and the right corner of his mouth dribbled spittle. Wires connected him to monitors and small twin oxygen tubes whisked purer air via his nostrils into his lungs. Other tubes from his arm and hand ran to who knows where.

This did not look like the same well dressed man that I had swapped addresses with a few hours previous.

He tried to speak but the words were garbled and indecipherable.

Eventually I controlled my shock and sadness. Pulling myself together I said "Shut up you silly old fart. You're drunk. I can't understand a word you're saying."

His struggling to talk stopped. A type of S-shaped smile formed on his face.

"Jesus," I said. "If Matron finds your stash you'll be in deep shit. Look I'll do you a deal. Tell me the name of your supplier, split your existing stash 50/50, and I'll just tell Matron you're not drunk, you've just had a mild stroke."

The crooked smile continued while uncontrollable moisture rolled out of the corner of his eyes as well as the spittle out of his mouth.

I pulled some tissues out of the box on the bedside table, wiping away his tears and spittle.

He was trying to say something. He kept repeating the same word, and it took a several attempts before I thought I had it correct.

"Bowling?" I asked.

His head nodded slightly.

"O.K." I said. "I did tell Matron about it and this is what she told me. Facts now, no bull-shit, this is serious. I know how important opening day is to you."

Again, his head nodded slightly.

"Your stroke was mild in nature and the present disabilities will be very short-lived. It was lucky you were with Matron at the time it happened because she was able to swing into action immediately and give you the right needles."

"You'll be on intense physio for the next 10 to 12 days, then a few days after that your rent here is expired and out you go."

Again the nod.

"Matron also said there were a few conditions to your rapid recovery."

The nod.

"No sex with the nurses or secretly sneaking out for a few holes of golf during the period of recovery."

The S-smile came again.

"Jake, I'm serious again. Matron did say you will get to opening day. Perhaps with bugger all time for practice, therefore maybe without the singles championship under your belt, but certainly with the chance of accepting the presidency if you win. She can't guarantee that. She's gonna get your shirt washed. The jacket and pants dusted off O.K. Thankfully you didn't piss yourself or take a shit during your wobbly."

His blue-grey eyes looked at me for a certainty of truth behind my words. I held his gaze strongly to confirm my words, then, I began to nod positively.

Eventually I broke eye contact and said, "I'm only allowed to stay for five minutes, so where's the booze hidden."

He mumbled out some more unintelligible words as I wiped his eyes and mouth again.

"I'm gonna get lessons in that language. Mate, I'm serious again. Don't get frustrated. I'm just across the hall, remember. So if you can't control your arms and speech I suspect you can't control other parts as well. So because I'm so close, try to keep your farting and snoring as quiet as possible after lights out because I might think you're calling for help.

Matron stepped into the room at the end of the conversation.

"The end of that conversation sounded interesting," she said.

She began to wheel me out. "I might catch you later, Jake."

"No, not tonight," picked up Matron. "We'll give him an overnight rest from you."

"Goodnight mate."

A gurgle came from Jake.

Matron wheeled me back to my room and helped me into my bed.

"You all right?" she asked.

"No I'm bloody well not. It's just not fair on Jake." My Adam's apple in my throat jumped as I swallowed.

"Thank you for what you said in there," said Matron. "Except for your wild statements, most of what you said about his recovery was true."

"You mean he can still have sex with the nurses?"

She took a pretend slap at my face. "I will get his shirt fixed and washed though."

"Perhaps you could hang the clothes up in his room where he can see them. You know, visual incentive."

"Motivational eh? Good idea," she said.

Matron nodded thoughtfully, gave me a smile, and a look that was enigmatic. She took the wheel chair and walked out.

I was now feeling genuinely tired, as well as feeling gutted from the day's events. Attempts by my room-mates to start up a conversation I replied to with monosyllabic grunts. They soon gave up.

The rest of the day, dinner, visitors, pills injections and so on all passed without my really noticing. Within seconds of the end of evening visiting, apart from remembering my wife was there I couldn't remember who had come in. I had just let the visitors talk among themselves.

When I was given my sleeping pill and lights out came, I was pleased that this horrible day had ended.

### \----------

The cheery morning nurse turned on the lights, walked across the room and slid the thick curtain back from the one large window.

"Good morning everyone," she called out.

The responses were my "Hi", a couple of "Hrrumphs" and a loud fart from the old Scot in the bed opposite mine.

The old Scot sat up quickly. "Who said that? It looks a bonny fine day t'me."

It was still dark outside.

"Nurse," I called out as she was leaving, "have you seen Mr. Fantham this morning?"

"Yes, he seems as well as can be expected."

"Oh c'mon nurse, don't be a pain."

"You'll have to ask Matron when she arrives, Mr. Plover."

With that she left.

The other three looked at me for an explanation. I told them that Jake was due to be discharged the previous day after getting over his prostate problems only to have a stroke minutes before departure. Then I explained about his bowls opening day.

The others shook their heads in disbelief.

"Och," said the Scot. I ne'er can understand the workings o' the Lord. I've given up trying."

"I guess that is why we don't try to make too many close friendships in this ward," said the Englishman in the bed next to mine. "They're too likely to be short lived."

The next lot of nurses, working quickly, unplugged the various cords from the others that they would not need during the day. Then I could hear the distant food trolley.

The other three got theirs first. Then mine came. I ignored the obvious looks of envy as they saw my two small sausages, two eggs, a rasher of really hard bacon shrunken to the size of a cigarette lighter, two slices of toasted bread, two sachets of butter, one sachet each of Marmalade and Strawberry and a large glass of Orange juice. The others only had small glasses.

"Well oyl be fooked," said the Irishman in the bed at the far corner. "Can you see that now? Who've I gotta fook to get a meal like that then?"

We all burst out laughing, but I was wondering what Jake was having, if anything.

After the nurses had cleaned up, we four room-mates chatted for the first time since I had arrived in the room. Although it was my third day there, on the first I had been sedated, the second I was at x-rays and been concerned with Jake. Even while we talked I kept looking across the corridor at the still closed door to Jake's room.

Occasionally someone would go in; stay varying times; then leave. A couple of white-jackets stayed about twenty minutes. The chiropractor, hopefully with his human face, also spent about twenty minutes with Jake.

So I had my mind going three ways; the normal hospital routines, our room conversation and the eye across the corridor.

When Matron came through on her ward rounds she checked everyone's pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and briefly chatted. Then, checking their charts, she would make notes where she felt necessary.

Doing the same tests with me she said, "x-rays were clear except for what we knew about. The reason for the second take was that we don't tell radiology where the problem is. So if they see a problem they'll take a second x-ray. Yours was just a repeat of the scar tissue tidied up by Dr. Kirk the other day. Nothing new. A good result."

"Your mixture of pills will change. You'll only get three injections. We will be dropping the 2:00 a.m. shots. It'll help, get you some uninterrupted sleep."

"Pathology will still of course need their daily blood, to keep an eye on the changes, especially with the different pills. Checking your gamma globulin, the thickness of your blood, and other stuff like that."

"Yeah," I said "but what about Mr. Fantham?"

"Normally I'd be restricted in what I could say as you're not family. But he seems to be treating you as family. He's surprisingly good actually. He's reacted swiftly to treatment, his speech is already improved, and he seems to be getting some controlled movement back in his right arm and leg."

"When can I visit him?"

"Later today if all goes well."

"What caused it?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out."

"Did he see his wife yesterday?"

"Why?"

"I just wondered."

"Yes, he visited her before he came to see me for his discharge talk. He went to tell her he was being discharged. According to the cancer ward matron there was an argument."

"He hates her with a passion."

"Why?"

"You're not family. I can't tell you," I said with a grin.

Matron poked the tip of her tongue at me in a gesture of rudeness. "Out with it Mr. Plover."

"Apparently she just nags and nags him. He blames her for the death of their two children. Now she says if she can't make opening day she's praying he'll die before her."

"Where'd you get this?"

"Sometimes us guys can be serious. Man-talk."

"Interesting. O.K., thanks Mr. Plover. She hasn't got long left, confined to bed and wheelchair now." Matron turned and left to continue her rounds.

It was late afternoon before I was allowed to be wheeled in to Jake's room. He weakly and slowly raised his previously useless right arm and did a pretence at a wave. The smile on his face was barely contorted, and the dribble from his mouth and watery tear ducts were gone.

He uttered some words, but as I was unprepared for concentrated listening, I missed it. I was looking at the assisted breathing tubes up each nostril. His speech was still garbled and slow.

"What did you say chatterbox?"

With an effort, he managed to get out some words. "Did you say, How are you, you bloody prick?"

The smile beamed on his face.

"Yeah," came back a loud reply that required him to discharge a large amount of oxygen.

He raised his good left arm and gave the thumbs up. It was still attached to a monitor

"I'm fine. You had me worried yesterday, but you look a lot better today."

"Yeah," again came the loud reply.

"I've seen the physio come into your room several times. Are they starting that stuff already?"

"Yeah."

"Firstly I've gotta warn you about that guy."

The curiosity showed on his face.

"Because of your age you'd remember the Nazi doctor who practiced medical experiments in Germany on people, then fled to South America after the war. That was Dr. Mengele."

He nodded.

"Your physio is his younger brother."

Two garbled words came out. The second of which was definitely the word "Off."

I then told him of my run-in with the physio, then his transition into an angel after my description of his methods.

I was hoping his laughter was not going to set off some alarm in the monitor.

I did all of the speaking after that, rather than let him get frustrated with my inability to understand what he was trying to say.

About 20 minutes after I entered Jake's room, the physio entered.

"Good afternoon Mr. Plover," he said to me with a smile. Then, "you're looking better Mr. Fantham."

"Hi," I said. "I suppose I should be leaving."

The physio nodded.

"He needs to get out in time for bowls opening."

"So I've heard," replied the physio. "We'll have him back on his feet in a day or two. We've just got to get his balance right. Might need walking-sticks for a week or two though."

I tried to steer the wheelchair with arm-power toward the door. I suddenly realised how weak I was.

"Hang on a second," said the physio, "I'll get a nurse to help."

While the physio had his head out of the door to signal a nurse I turned my head back to Jake.

"Remember South America."

The nurse entered and wheeled me back to my own bed.

### \----------

Over the next three days I visited Jake twice each day, but was only allowed 10 to 15 minutes each time. He did indeed show a remarkable improvement. With considerable concentration I could understand most of the words he was saying.

On the fourth day I saw the physio take a walking frame into Jake's room. My opinion of the physio had changed enormously. It seemed he had taken Jake's bowling day opening as a personal challenge.

I was not able to see Jake until the next afternoon. As the nurse wheeled me in, Jake was out of bed leaning on his walking frame. The nurse panicked, rushed over to grab Jake, and lowered him gently back into bed.

"Why'd you do that nurse?" came out the slightly garbled words.

"You're not meant to be out of bed yet."

"Oh yes I am," he went on. "I'm practicing."

I could hear the steely resolve.

"I'll be back in a minute," said the nurse. She vanished out the door.

"What the Hell are you doing Jake?"

"I want to play too, not just sit and watch."

"For Christ sake, leave some glory for someone else."

"But my father did it."

"For how many years."

"Singles champion six of the next ten years. President for eight years."

"How many members in the opening year?"

Jake paused, "about 20 I think."

"How many now?"

"Over 300."

Matron burst in the room.

"What do you think you're doing, Mr. Fantham?"

"Just trying to do some extra therapy."

"Don't you think we know what we're doing here, Mr. Fantham? Don't you think the physio is qualified in rehabilitation?"

I noticed she cast a quick glance in my direction when she said that.

"You'll be no good to anyone with a pulled muscle or sprained ankle. The physio knows when and how to maximise your recovery."

Jake lowered his head. He knew he could not win this argument.

"Sorry Matron."

"Rest up now. Mr. Plover can visit you tomorrow." The Matron turned my wheelchair, took me back to my room and helped me into my bed.

"You're not part of that stupidity are you, Bill?"

It was the first time she had used my first name. It sounded good even if was said with a touch of anger.

"Of course not, Margaret."

"Matron," she said strongly.

"Please keep an eye on him," I said.

"Just what I was going to say to you," she replied. A curt nod to me and she left the room.

My room-mates looked at me for explanation. I briefly explained what happened.

Little conversation followed, and the evening followed the usual routines.

### \----------

Over the next three days I visited Jake on a daily basis, still limited to 10 to 15 minutes. By the third day he was using his walking frame, always in the company of a nurse or the physiotherapist; in 10 to 15 minute spells up and back the corridor of the ward, three times daily. Each day the distance covered was slightly greater.

In our conversations it seemed Jake had accepted the realisation that he was unlikely to be able to play to his best form on opening day, but at least he might be able to play a few ends.

His mind had begun concentrating on the things he could do for the club as president.

A further three days after that I was surprised to see him appear at the door of the room. Big smile on his face, he was leaning heavily on two walking sticks.

He acknowledged the look of my three room-mates with a nod; then slowly made his way to my bed-side.

I sat up in my bed unsure as to whether to call Matron, or what else I should do.

He flopped into the chair next to my bed.

"Don't worry," he said. "This is all approved by everyone. In a few more days I should be down to one walking stick."

"Congratulations. Bloody marvellous."

"I see you've had a room-mate change," he said quietly.

"Yeah, the English guy was discharged. New guy's Australian, quiet, doesn't say much."

"You know, I've been thinking about running some ideas past you about how I can attract more and younger members of your age group to the club. Probably better if you make some suggestions. Think about it eh?"

"Sure."

The old Scot opposite called out. "What weight are you using?"

Jake replied something in pounds and ounces.

"What's the green speed?"

Again Jake replied something about seconds, then, asked "Where do you play?"

"West End," replied the Scot.

"I was there last year for a round of the grade inter-club tournament."

I sat quietly by, saying nothing and pretending to be an interested spectator. I was pleased Jake had met someone with the same fanatical interest.

A few minutes later, a nurse put her head in the door and walked up beside Jake's chair.

"Time's up Mr. Fantham. I'll help you back.

Jake tried with difficulty to stand up by himself. Then with the nurse helping his balance more than lifting him, he stood. The nurse removed the obstacles in his path and he shuffled off slowly, followed closely behind by the nurse, arms ready in case he lost his balance.

I watched the sad figure depart. I was still sad despite the fact that he was showing remarkable resilience. He had compromised on his targets and shown practicality and acceptance of other people's wisdom, knowledge and experience.

Over the next few days I watched him set out on his three time a day routine walks up and back down the ward, walking sticks at times askance as he would try something else in his walking style. He would acknowledge my seeing him with a smile, depending how far through his exercise routine he had gone. At the end of the routine he could be seen to be visibly tired. Those times, I would get only a very cursory nod, as he would return to his bed to rest. But frequently before his physical routine began he would visit for five to ten minutes.

Over those same few days the Irish patient was sent to a general ward, replaced by a Turkish patient who talked loudly in his sleep, in Turkish.

It meant I was able to discover a secret that the old Scot thought he had kept to himself. Because he woke as easily as I when the Turk started his sleep-talk, he would take the opportunity to release the wind in his bowels and stomach as loud as he could. "Bloody wog," he would mutter. The noise was obviously enough to disturb the Turk who would stop talking.

### \----------

It was three weeks to go to opening day. Jake came into my room, all smiles. He was still using two walking sticks and still slurring his words slightly, but no worse than anyone who has had false teeth newly fitted.

"I've shown them I can dress myself. I've been helping the nurses change the bed. They get pissed off though because it slows them up. But I've shown them I can even get up steps."

"Great, so what happens now?"

"I've told them that I'll be staying with my cousin and his wife when I first get out."

"You're not bull-shitting them are you?"

"No. They've agreed to come in and chat with Matron about what they have to do."

"That's all?"

"Well, as long as I don't drive a car until I've been cleared for it, no alcohol; stick to my diet and pills, and be sensible in not trying to over-achieve. As long as I continue to progress like this, Matron said the 'doc' would let me go before the weekend."

"Hell that's only four days away."

"You're damn right. Hey, it's a bit scrawly but I can even write my name."

"What about the bowls?"

"Stuff that. Just get me out by opening day. I've got lotsa friends they'll get me around."

"Then?"

"Well, voting for president starts a week before opening day. I'm on the papers. It's between me and an old guy that's just moved to the district. Never even been on the committee. No-one else stood."

"Rigged ballot eh?"

"Yeah, but I'm still not officially president."

Matron entered. "I thought I might find you here."

We both turned and greeted her.

"Telling you about his good news then?"

"Yeah," I said. "It is."

"I was going to send Mr. Fantham to a general ward for a couple of days because he's well enough. Seeing we've got a few spare beds in this ward at the moment, he's staying here."

Jake and I nodded.

"Well then," said Matron, "I was pretty sure you'd lost track of time."

"Jeez," said Jake, struggling to get up quickly. "My physio."

"Yes," replied Matron. She stood by, not assisting Jake to rise to his feet pushing on his sticks. "Mohammed goes to the mountain now. Part of his therapy."

"See you later Bill," Jake called over his shoulder as he shuffled to the door.

"You've plenty of time Mr. Fantham," said Matron. "Don't overdo it."

He didn't reply. The determination was visible in his dogged but still a little shaky step.

"What about my release, Matron?" I asked.

"Gotta get your condition settled first."

"Go on, you love me so much you can't let me go."

"That'll be enough of that, Mr. Plover."

I knew immediately I had overstepped.

"Sorry."

"I'll see you on afternoon rounds," she said, and left.

### \----------

When Matron returned after visiting she had a concerned look. It did not change while she took my pulse, blood pressure and so on.

"You look worried, Matron."

"Just wondering how to approach a problem."

"Hey, I can be sensible sometimes."

"I know; that's why I'm going to ask you what I should do."

"Go for it."

"I know how close you and Mr. Fantham are, so I guess you might be able to suggest an approach."

"Oh God, they haven't changed their minds about his release."

"No. It's his wife. She's slipped into a coma. Last few days of the cancer. She won't come around. She'll go at any time in the next few hours."

"Well, quite honestly, I think he'll be relieved. I know he was worried about the bitch dying on opening day to try and piss him off'."

Matron smiled.

"No, he won't suddenly become melancholic. I think he'd actually be quite happy or relieved. He joked about wishing she was on a heart monitor just so as he could turn it off. He was serious, but he worried what would happen if he got caught."

"I just didn't want anything to upset his progress," said Matron.

"If she's in a coma she can't get to him like last time."

"Thanks."

She made some notes on my chart and left.

About an hour later I saw her enter Jake's room and close the door. I guessed what was going to be said and waited anxiously.

After 20 minutes she emerged, left the door open and came directly to see me.

A smile on her face, she said, "you were right, I almost had to stop him dancing."

I smiled back.

"He's putting on his gown and slippers. Wants to come over to tell you the good news, so pretend you haven't heard anything please."

She left rapidly to avoid being seen in my room by Jake.

When he came in he started to sing an out of tune and garbled version. "Ding, dong the witch's dead, which old witch? The wicked witch." He sat down, putting his walking sticks across the foot of my bed.

"What the hell are you on about Jake?"

"The old bitch is in a coma. Can't touch me any more. She'll be dead before I leave. There is a God after all.

"C'mon Jake. Have a heart."

"Hell no. I never wanted to marry her. My wedding was a shotgun. The bitch lied, she wasn't pregnant. I had all those years paying for her lies. No more nagging lies."

I just nodded. I had thought that possibly somewhere deep down there might be some sadness. I was wrong. Even looking at his face it looked like he was suddenly ten years younger.

"God," he said, "it's like all my burdens have gone. Better than having your mortgage wiped. She's gone."

"Not quite, Jake. Just in a coma."

"But just hours away," he said with a smile. Then he punched the air. "Yes."

He saw me looking at him.

He said, "Sorry Bill, I know a normal person would not react like this. I should at least pretend to show some sense of loss, but apart from the days my children were born, this is the happiest day since before I met the witch."

I tried to keep changing the subject, but it kept returning to this happy event. I even asked what his proposals were for changes to the bowling club. Even those only temporarily distracted him.

Thankfully Matron returned and ordered him back to his room.

With considerable reluctance he left.

The rest of the day's routine followed, broken only by the night until the morning brought its 'de ja vu'.

Jake followed the breakfast trolley on its rounds, thankfully without trying to pass plates to patients. He broke off his pursuit at his own room to eat his own breakfast sitting in his chair.

On the collection round he followed the trolley again from his own room around the rest of the ward. Even though he knew Matron could not see him, her hours were around 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m., he was trying to reinforce in everyone's mind that he was fit enough to leave. He knew Matron would get to hear of his 'breakfast round'.

It was late morning when he popped in, appearing at the door like a gunfighter with two long barrelled pistols. When he saw that I had noticed him he swirled one of his walking sticks in a bad Charlie Chaplin imitation. It was not to flaunt his Chaplin skills, but to show he could support himself on one cane if necessary. He sat quite easily in the chair by my bed.

"If I get the O.K. from physio this morning, the doc'll rubber stamp it and I'll be gone tomorrow."

"I guess I have to finish the escape tunnel by myself then," I said.

"You know," he said suddenly becoming serious, "it's been an interesting time in here. Yeah, it seems boring at the time, and everything seems dull routine, but when you think about the room door that was open last night might just as easily be closed when you wake up this morning. You know then some old bugger's died. Yet you never see the body removed. It's all covered up in the routine."

I nodded. I thought back over the last three weeks in this ward. He was right. At least a dozen patients had died in that time and I had not seen one wheeled out. I did not know about the previous ward as I was not conscious enough to be aware.

"The routine protects us like a flock of sheep. Immediately we break away from the flock, like having a heart attack, the doctors, physios, everybody works hard to get us back into the flock where the nurses can handle us with the everyday routine."

"You been reading Aristotle or Plato, Jake?"

"Nah. Its just that my mind's been clearer in the last 24 hours or so than its been for years. Makes me feel good. No burdens."

Rising quickly with now well practised skills, he looked at me and started another out of tune vocal "Hi Ho, Hi Ho, to the physio I go," then he turned and left.

I saw him return just before 1:30 p.m. He pointed one of his walking sticks at me, then, waved it like a musician's baton. I knew I was going to miss him when he left. I just hoped it was not going to be too long before I was also able to leave.

### \----------

The pain killer pill arrived at the same time as the mailman, just before visiting. After swallowing the pill I thought I would show my independence and upset my wife by opening my own mail. It was only two get well cards from out of town friends, but appreciated nevertheless. I think my wife had been checking my mail for some card or letter from a secret lover. I had never been that lucky.

The visitors came and went, and I knew that soon after they had gone the late afternoon rounds of Matron and the ward doctor would begin. Good old routine. I anxiously awaited this one though as Jake would hopefully get his all clear.

I looked toward his room and could see only half of him. He was putting on his dressing gown ready to visit me. He rounded the end of his bed and stopped when he saw me. He had a strained expression on his face.

Then he dropped one walking stick, swayed a bit, dropped the other and put both his hands to his chest. His mouth opened wide and his face contorted as he crashed to the ground.

I sprung out of bed and as fast as my wasted legs could move I ran to his room. As I passed through the corridor section I heard Matron's voice scream, "Mr Plover."

As gently as I could I picked up the suddenly frail looking Jake, still clutching his chest, and lowered him on his bed.

He gurgled out, "Fuck. Pain."

I grabbed his emergency button and pressed it hard though I guessed Matron would soon be behind me.

"I can't make opening Bill."

"Shut up Jake."

Matron pushed me out of the way and yelled at me. "Get back to bed Mr. Plover."

I moved slowly toward the door and looked back at Jake. Matron was already astride him pumping his chest. More nurses brushed past me as they ran through the door. Matron calmly called out orders as she continued to pump his chest. As I crossed the corridor I saw a nurse rapidly pushing a box shaped container on wheels.

'Thank Christ for wheels,' I strangely thought.

As I entered my own room a nurse closed the door to our room behind me. I could no longer see what was happening.

My room-mates looked at me in surprise. I could not say anything. I got back into my bed and lay on my sorest side so the pain distracted me.

Whatever they were doing it seemed to take too long for anything good to come out of it.

Eventually Matron opened the door and came across to my bed. I looked past her to Jake's room. The door was closed. I looked down, but I did not know what I was looking at.

"Firstly," said Matron in her sternest voice. "Don't you ever get out of bed like that for whatever reason. It was a stupid thing to do."

I waited for her second and maybe third point. They never came.

She sat down in the chair and took my hand to check my pulse.

"See, this is racing, you've broken out in a sweat, you're respiration's fast. You silly dear sweet man; nobody knows why he suddenly had that attack"

We sat like that for a few minutes, her still holding my hand. I needed it right then as I felt the tears stream down my cheeks.

I tried to pull myself together. I sniffed, cleared my throat and used my fingers to wipe away the tears.

"Can I pop in and see him for a few minutes alone please?"

She delayed for a few seconds. "No Bill."

Frustrated anger swelled up. "Oh shit," I yelled. I'm not asking for the moon, just to pay my respects while he's still warm. He has no family for Christ sake."

"Bill, when someone dies they loose bladder control and..."

"I know that," I interrupted. "Some people call it the smell of death."

She paused. "All right then. Just five minutes."

She left the room and returned a couple of minutes later with a wheelchair.

She stopped outside Jake's door.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She opened the door and wheeled me in, then left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The smell of urine was already permeating the room. A sheet was pulled up over his face. For some illogical reason I thought it might be stopping him breathing; I reached up and pulled the sheet down below the level of his mouth.

I took a sharp breath when I saw his face. No mortician had yet done the make-over. Though his eyes were closed, his mouth was open and slightly pushed to one side. His face was a light grey in colour as the blood had already drained from his face.

He looked ten years older than he looked on the first day I saw him. Shrunken cheeks, hair messed up.

I sat back and rolled my wheelchair half a wheel away from the bed and looked around the room. I wondered how many other deaths this room had seen.

His dark blue jacket, red, white and blue angle-striped tie tucked into the pocket, buttoned up white shirt underneath and light blue trousers were on a hanger on the wall opposite his feet. Matron had done her thing.

An opened envelope sat on the table beside his bed.

'What a tragedy,' I thought. 'From some well wisher whose wishes could not save him.' I wondered what they would think if they knew what had happened.

I picked up the envelope and pulled out the contents. It was a letter. I opened it up and started to read.

"Jacob, By the time you get this I may already be dead, but I hope not. I want to stay alive just long enough to see you burn in Hell. Then I would like to chase you through eternity screaming at you for all the abuses you put me through. You made my life a misery from the first day of our marriage. You never had the guts to talk to me because you never listened to what I had to say."

"The only time you wanted sex after we married was just to satisfy yourself. Thankfully that was seldom but still too often for me. Having sex with you was repulsive. But thankfully I still enjoyed my sex life, just not with you."

"I was still pretty to look at way back then. I had several lovers from among your neighbours. How else do you think I ever managed to have the two children. So you were never blood father. My children weren't yours that's for sure."

"In the early years I managed to keep them away from your influence. Then, you buddy-buddied them into your confidence. You don't know how much I then laughed to see you playing with someone else's children."

"I wish stronger than anything that you die a painful death before 'opening day'. You deserve that. And I hope I see you die first."

"Your hating wife."

"Alma."

I folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and put it in my pyjama pocket.

Matron put her head around the door. "Had enough?" she asked.

I exhaled deeply, and nodded. Matron wheeled me back to my room.

"Heard anything about his wife?" I asked as I crawled into my bed.

"Funny you should ask. The Matron from the cancer ward phoned while you were in Mr. Fantham's room. She died about 15 minutes ago."

"Oh shit," I said. "The bitch has won it all."

She looked at me with a questioning expression and made me sit up while she ruffled up my pillow.

I took the envelope from my top pocket and gave it to her. "Here's the reason for his last attack."

### **********

#  FIRE RED

Bob noted there were no cars on the expansive 12 pump garage forecourt which was glistening wet. He was not stopping for petrol. It was merely an excuse for a journey break, and late morning 'cuppa' and snack; or as Trish called it 'elevenses'. If necessary a rest-room visit as well. As he drove to the restaurant car-park next to the forecourt he noticed the assortment of vehicles, all reversed into their parking spaces. He did the same.

"Looks strange," Bob said.

"Sensible. Ready for a quick get-a-way if the fire gets too close and they've gotta make a run for it," replied Trish.

"Bloody fire's still 80 km away," he said sarcastically.

"Typical. Non-Aussies don't know a damn thing," she said with a grin.

"I know enough when not to argue with you." They headed into the large seated area which was deserted. "What're you gonna have?"

"Same as usual," she said as she used her forefinger to pull back the lower lid of her eye. "Darn, I think I've got something in my eye. I'll try and wash it out in the ladies. Get me one of their Thai chicken pies, they're great." She walked off toward the toilets.

Bob looked around for someone to take his order. A cardboard sign with a hand-drawn arrow pointed toward a buzzer on the counter. He pressed it and waited.

"G'day,"

Bob turned round to see the source of the voice.

"Sorry to be delayed. Everyone's a bit busy at the back drenching everything just in case. I've already sent the girls away." The speaker was grey-haired, probably in his late sixties, and wearing full length dark blue overalls and heavy duty work boots.

"Not my usual clothes for the restaurant, but its all hands at fire readiness at the moment. I'll just clean up and be with you in a mo'."

"Hey, if it's awkward we don't want to hold you up."

"No problem. I need a break. I'm the oldest fart here and can't keep up with the 'youngies'. They know what has to be done, they've done it all before. They reckon I'm too bossy. Told me to bugger off and serve the restaurant.

The pumps are switched off already for safety sake. Anyway, for the moment I can't offer any of the dinner menu items; only the take-a-way stuff either from the cabinets or maybe a hamburger.

"Just a couple of cappuccinos and I'll get a couple of your Thai chicken pies."

"Our most popular pie," he answered as he scrubbed up in a hidden hand basin behind the serve up bench in the kitchen service area. He moved out from the kitchen area and behind the counter. "Have a seat. I'll bring the cappuccinos to you."

Bob had selected two pies from the warmer putting each on a separate plate and took knives and forks from the tray.

He sat by the broad windows looking south from where they had come. No sign of this raging fire everyone was preparing for. The sky was still a cloudless perfect blue. He was still daydreaming listening to the gurgle of the cappuccino machine when Trish arrived at the table.

"They smell good," she said as she sat in the chair next to his, and also looked out the south view window. Two fire engines, sirens wailing, raced south down the highway from where they had come.

"Here's your coffees," said the over-all covered man.

"Thanks. Any new reports?" asked Trish.

"About 60 k's away. Don't worry; I'll give you plenty of warning if it jumps the fire-break 40 k's away. That'll give you about 20 minutes start. I'm still hoping for a wind change"

"Can't be right about the 60 kilometres." Bob looked at his watch. "It was 80 k's when we arrived about 10 minutes ago."

"That's about right," said the senior man. It's doing about 120 k's an hour. If it keeps coming this way and jumps the 40 k break, then the 20 k break, we're all in trouble."

Trish, eyes exaggeratedly widened, looked at Bob with an 'I told you so' look.

Looking at Trish the old man said, "Obviously your young man's never seen an Australian bush fire."

"No I haven't," answered Bob.

"It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time."

"I can imagine being trapped by any flaming red fire would be terrifying," nodded Bob.

"That's the error you see. Have a look at your lady's beautiful long hair. People would describe her as a red-head. But it's not red is it? It's closer to orange, but you can't describe it as orange either. The fire has a special colour of its own. Look at your ladies hair; it's the same colour as the flame; alluring, attractive and unforgettable."

The old man looked at Trish and his eyes passed over her hair. A hint of tears seemed to form in the corners of his eyes as he closed them for several seconds. He made as if to clear his throat and nodded his head.

"Yes, the same colour as my wife." He paused for several more seconds then said, "Please don't be offended if I give you the account now. Mightn't be time later."

"Sure," replied Bob briefly checking the account, and paying in notes and silver.

"Just press the buzzer on the counter if you want anything else or if anyone else comes in; though that's unlikely. I'll keep on filling the guttering and wetting the roof. The others are saturating the ground. We've had lots of practice in the 25 years since I rebuilt and took over this place from my parents. You see they died here with my wife protecting it and I'm not abandoning it again. I've been properly prepared since then with my own little fire-proof safe shelter at the back."

Suddenly he looked very weary and dispirited. His shoulders dropped as he turned and walked away.

Trish and Bob ate their pies and sipped their coffees in silence as they gazed out the windows and into the distance. The land was flat and covered in gum trees for as far as the eyes could see. This site was the highest point on the highway plateau but the incline was so slight as to be barely noticeable on approach or departure. The only traffic heading south on the highway were either police or fire department vehicles, warning lights flashing. Many of the cars heading north towed trailers piled high with precious possessions. The service station was many kilometers away from the nearest township.

Bob noticed 100 litre drums spread regularly around the boundary of the property and near the forecourt. Each was propped at an angle with a large block of timber under one side.

"What are they?"

"They're filled with water. Last minute hope," replied Trish. "Just before the fire hits they'll push them over and hope the wet ground will prevent wind blown embers from starting any new fires. With any luck the fire will pass around the wide fire breaks they've got here and leave all the buildings undamaged."

"But there's hardly any wind."

"The fire creates its own."

On the distant horizon the first traces of smoke could be seen. The sudden crackle of a radio transmitter startled them both.

"Calling Crest Service Station. The fire's jumped the firebreak so it's only 40 km away."

Bob walked to the counter and pressed the buzzer. Within seconds the owner appeared.

"Trouble?

"No, just thought I'd better tell you some message came on your transmitter. I didn't know how to operate it.

"Thanks." The owner put on earphones and started conversing quietly to the listener at the other end of the transmitter, nodding as he listened to the message.

The owner took off the ear-phones and walked toward them.

"I think it's about time you played it safe and got on your merry way. The breeze from the south has picked up. Apparently some high flying debris has started small fires both side of the highway north of here. If they get established we'll be cut off, an island in the middle of the fire. You'll be trapped here with us. O.K. for those wanting to back-burn another fire-break, but bad news for us. Hopefully the helicopters will knock those out before they get established, but don't stop to take pictures. Put your foot down and keep going. I'll tell the boys out the back."

They quickly shook hands and rushed their thanks, good lucks and farewells before walking swiftly toward their car. The owner had run around to the back of the building.

As they exited the restaurant Bob noticed the strong southerly wind as it picked up fine dust particles and blew them into his face. The air was noticeably warmer. Metres from their car Bob stopped and looked at the slight angle of the car bonnet.

"Damn," he said.

"What's wrong?"

"We've got a puncture in the right front tyre."

"You're joking."

"I wish. I'm gonna need your help to make the change as quick as possible."

Bob started to worry as he had never had to change a tyre in this car and knew the procedure might be slightly different. He did not even know where the spare or the tools were located in the boot.

He was thankful they carried only a few items as he less than gently tossed the cases out much to the chagrin of Trish who saw her new leather suitcase scratch along the ground.

Quickly lifting the carpet covering the boot floor he felt relieved at seeing the spare tyre under a protective wooden cover. Leaning the cover on the back bumper he noticed the spare was securely bolted into place to prevent it bouncing around. He would need the wheel brace to undo it. That was fine because he had to find the wheel brace and car-jack anyway.

His adrenalin started to surge when he could not quickly see any box or toolkit bag containing the equipment he needed. Each of the wheel-wells was covered by a further wooden cover. He lifted the left one and noticed a black pouch. When he pulled that out he realized that it had to be at least part of the tool kit. It was too small to contain the jack as well as the wheel-brace and other loose tools. It was securely tied in two places by strong rope with double knots. He worked feverishly to undo the knots; then tried sliding the rope off the end of the packet. Both methods failed.

"I hope you're good with knots," he said to Trish and passed the package to her. "The jack must be somewhere else."

A quick check of the right wheel-well revealed a second larger black package. A quick feel of the contents satisfied him that this was the jack. Thankfully, this one was not tied and he pulled out a very efficient looking small car-jack. He turned to Trish almost in triumph to see that she had already unfastened both knots on her package and had extracted the wheel brace and a solid looking screw-driver to remove the hubcaps.

He handed her the jack as he grabbed the wheel-brace and tried to unscrew the spare tyre. It soon became obvious that it had not been undone for quite a while but the rising panic gave him extra strength and the nut began to slowly turn. Thankfully, Trish had remained silent and not started to nag with impatience or panic.

Soon he had the nut off its long securing bolt and he began to lift the spare tyre out of the well. No sooner had he started when he realized something was drastically wrong. The rubber of the tyre was loose around the rim and therefore totally empty of air.

"Shit, shit, shit," he screamed. He moved to the side of the car and quickly scanned the courtyard for the service station air pump. After a few seconds he spotted it on the far side of the courtyard. Thankfully the air-hose was still connected to the pump. He now just hoped the generator was still on. Clutching the offending tyre to his chest, he jogged to the air hose and arrived quite out of breath.

He quickly unravelled the hose that was neatly hooked over the post. It seemed his hands had begun to malfunction as he tried to fit the air-hose to the tyre nozzle. Nothing was coming out of the air-hose. He looked up at the pressure feeding machine and read the sign above it. It told users to set the measuring guage to the correct tyre pressure before starting. He could not remember how many kilopascals of pressure were meant to be inserted. He would have to guess and simply stop when he felt the tyre was hard enough.

His hands were black with the dirt and accumulated road dust from the tyre, and the front of his light blue shirt looked more like a cleaning rag.

He heard a voice calling his name and looked toward Trish. She pointed across the road. A small spot fire had started in the canopy of the trees and some of the undergrowth.

He guessed at a number and wound the pointer up from zero on the control board. This time, when he attached the nozzle, the air started to gush into the tyre. After a couple of minutes the tyre had risen up to meet the wheel rim. He paused and jumped on the tyre to check its hardness. He felt it was still not enough and pushed more air in. Scared to risk bursting it he felt he had to be satisfied. He licked his dirty finger and put the spittle on the valve. After a few brief seconds he was satisfied there was no leak from the valve. Though if there had been he could not have done anything about it.

Not bothering to tidily wrap the air-hose the way he had found it he jogged back to the car and placed the spare tyre on the ground under the right side of the car. Trish had already sensibly laid the tools out by the right front tyre in readiness and had removed the hubcap. She was trying to loosen the wheel nuts.

"O.K my Grand Prix pit crew, you're doing well," Bob remarked.

Trish responded with a weak smile. If she was feeling the same pressure he felt, she was hiding it very well.

He let her continue trying to loosen the wheel nuts as he checked under the car for a cross beam to place the jack. He soon found it and raised the jack level by turning it with his fingers until it touched the car-body. Then he took over from Trish at the flat tyre and noticed she had already loosened two of the five nuts. He quickly had two more nuts loosened. The final nut would not budge. He knew it would not do any good to start jacking up the car until the final nut had been loosened.

He hoped the panic he was starting to feel would give him the adrenalin and extra strength. He consciously looked at the tree canopy on the opposite side of the road as motivation. It had already spread but not yet near enough to the road to be a danger. It did not work. The visual attempt at prompting his inner strength had failed. Against all advice he set the brace on the tyre at what he hoped was a good angle and jumped down on it with both feet. As expected the brace cartwheeled off the tyre, bounced off the bitumen and the sharp end struck heavily into his shin.

He swore loudly at the pain. As he rubbed his shin his hand felt mushy and when he drew it away it was covered in blood. Now was not the time to worry about that. He quickly put the brace back on the nut and to his surprise found the offending nut had loosened.

Just as he was about to start lifting the car with the jack he heard several sets of feet running toward where the cars were parked. These were obviously the owner's helpers who had been working out the back and dousing whatever they could. A couple of them saw Bob and quickly realized his predicament. One whistled at the others and suddenly there were five men standing beside Bob.

One kicked the jack away and two grabbed at each of the right side wheel well and the bumper of the car. Suddenly they had lifted the right side of the car off the ground. One snatched the brace off Bob, and quickly removed the loosened nuts and the flat tyre. With unbelievable swiftness, he put the new tyre on and started to tighten the nuts. A short yell from him, and the car bounced as it was dropped back on to the ground. He quickly tightened the nuts, banged on the hubcap and before Bob could even proffer a proper thanks to any of them they had raced off to start up their vehicles and race off.

Bob noticed that someone had already put the flat tyre and suitcases in the boot. The tyre might not have been secure but it was too late for that.

Bob threw the tools and jack into the boot and shut it. Trish was already in the passengers' seat. Several more men came from behind the building and started to push over the 30 or so 100 litre drums. Mini tidal waves splashed across the forecourt and around the pumps. Bob started the car and hoped the replacement tyre would do its work.

The car slewed sideways a few times until he gained control through the water rush. The barrel-pushers too had jumped into their vehicles, and were now heading out on to the highway.

The fire now had a good control on the far side of the road, with the flames reaching to the lower levels of the trees. Bob looked at them and then looked across at Trish. Yes, the old man was right. The flame was the exact colour of Trish's hair. Then he thought what a strange thing to think of at this time.

He soon had the speedo reading up to 120 km per hour. The others who had departed were already way ahead and pulling further away. There was no other traffic on the road.

"Did you see if the old man got out with the others?" asked Trish.

"No. I didn't see him, but he could've got into one of the last SUV's to leave. There were lots of people in that last lot."

"Just as well we got that extra help otherwise we'd have been cutting it a little fine."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you about the fire danger. I still find it so hard to believe the speed of that fire."

"Apology accepted. Just check the spare a bit more often eh?"

The final 250 kilometre ride home was spent pretty much in silence. They listened to the news updates of the progress of the fire along the highway, and were relieved to hear that the wind had changed just north of where they had been and blew the fire back on itself. Ground teams, and helicopters with monsoon buckets were now damping down the area to prevent the chance of further outbreaks. Early investigations seemed to show that the fire had been deliberately lit by two car-loads of thrill-seeking teens on a back-road of a forest plantation. The police had arrested four occupants of one car. It was believed the four occupants of the second car had been consumed in the blaze.

The radio announcer advised that full TV coverage of the fire, the casualties and details of the many dramatic rescues would be given on the 6:00 p.m. news that night.

Even when they arrived home little was said. They both showered and changed. Bob threw his badly soiled light blue shirt, and blood stained trousers and sox into a bucket containing some liquid stain removing concoction Trish had prepared. She had also cleaned and bandaged the deep and nasty looking hole beside his shin bone where the jack had struck. They sat silently together on the couch when the 6:00 p.m. T.V. news began.

A dull voice overdubbed the aerial film from helicopters and fixed wing aircraft where the devastated areas were being shown. Surprisingly the front was narrow but up to 10 km width in some places. It was nearly 150 km long and avoided all settlements. Very few buildings had been destroyed and only five lives lost including the four youths from the car that had started all the trouble. Their names were with-held pending further police investigation. The fifth victim was named as the well known and popular proprietor of the Crest Service Station on SH1 who had apparently been trapped in an outbuilding where he had apparently tried to take shelter.

The commentator went on to advise that by coincidence, on the same day 25 years ago the proprietor had lost his wife and parents at the same place in an almost identical blaze.

The aerial shot of the undamaged service station/restaurant main buildings played on the screen for several seconds. They also showed the burnt out hulks of several outbuildings at the rear.

### **********

#  SOMETHING LIKE THAT

The two old men, both in their seventies, wandered through the open door into Bill's empty double garage.

Ted looked around and noticed a large ornately carved chest.

"Gee that looks great, where'd you get it?" asked Ted.

"It was an ordinary old plain chest and I thought I'd dicky it up a bit. Just part of my hobby to pass the time," answered Bill.

"What hobby?"

"Just a bit of wood whittling; have a look inside."

Ted opened up the enormous lid and let it rest back held by two ageing leather straps.

"Strewth, look at all the stuff in here, some of it looks really good. You know you could probably pick up a dollar or two selling this at the market. How long you been doing it?"

"Years. I'd have to figure it out."

"Why? When did you start?" asked Ted.

"In my younger days I'd done a bit if a trip through some of the African countries. I saw an old man in one of the villages teaching some of the young ones how to carve figurines. It fascinated me. We were staying nearby for a few days, so instead of taking the organized trips to see the wildlife I went to the village each day to watch. The old man started to teach me."

"When I came home I carried on and whittled around on pieces of softwood and hardwood progressed from there."

"Gee, look at this," said Ted pulling out a 40 cm size figurine. "The details are amazing."

"Just as I found him."

"What? Just like this?"

"Yep. Well nearly. Something like that. I had to rearrange him a little bit."

"So he just sat like this while you carved it?"

"No, not originally. I did the carving from a photograph I took."

"Gee, it looks really native."

"Yeah, it seems part of a tradition just sitting on a tree stump, getting out their version of a pipe and lighting up some of the local naughty grass."

"You've even got that far-away look in his eyes, as though he was thinking about creation or something."

"Something like that, only the reverse."

"Reverse of creation?" asked Ted. "What's that?"

"Death."

"Death?"

"Yep."

"How'd you know he was thinking about death? I mean you didn't speak the local lingo to ask him did you?"

"No."

"Well how'd you know?"

"I found this native's body on the side of the road. Tied it to a stump, stuck a branch under his chin to prevent his head falling forward and opened his eyelids. Then I took a photo."

"You didn't really, did you? asked Ted.

Bill's grin widened in a way Ted remembered from years ago when he was lying.

"Well; something like that."

### **********

#  THE GLASS SURPRISE

Today was the day he was going to show his secret project to his seven month pregnant wife and five sons. Johnny Punzal was pleased about the interruption to his fishing. It had been caused by the masked New Peoples Army (NPA) gunmen holding the resorts' patrons for ransom. They had stopped any locals going near the resorts.

He was not interested in the NPA or their politics. Now they had gone, he did not know where or when, they had just disappeared. The only other excitement for his barrio had been the military helicopters flying over the resort and barrio on previous days looking for the NPA. Helicopters were a rare sight for the villagers. They had all run outside to watch them fly overhead. One of the villagers said the helicopters had sunk one banca when the NPA fired at them.

Not being able to go out fishing he put the time to good use on his secret project. Today could be the possible beginning of a whole new career if the demonstration was enough to convince his wife of the money earning opportunity in his creation.

She supported him in the way good Filipino wives did. Every two years they had been blessed with another pregnancy. The only daughter they had was the third born child and she had died at two months old. There had also been one stillborn son six years later. His oldest son was now a strapping teenager of 14 years already taller than his father. Skinny but taller.

Most of the family income came from the fish he caught daily from his banca, and sold to one of the nearby tourist resorts. They underpaid him and then over-charged tourists who willingly paid a price still less than they would pay in their own countries.

Johnny had been one of the earliest from his barrio to supply fish to the resorts. He had been making good money in those early days. Now things were different. Too many others were doing the same thing. With competition, the resorts were choosy in selection of the catches. They played the fishermen off against each other to pay the least price when catches were plentiful.

With the growth in his family size the income had become too little for their needs. So three years earlier, his wife had joined the many other women peddling T-shirts, and monogrammed towels to sunbathing tourists who ventured outside the protected areas of the resort. Some days she sold nothing but occasionally she had made as much as 100 Pesos in profit. Most days the profit was 20 Pesos. Not enough to buy rice for the day but enough to supplement his earnings.

He had always given her the total proceeds of his sales to the resort. Almost always. Well almost most of the proceeds. He would keep a little back to buy a few cigarettes and beer. Though he would never smoke or drink where she could see him. The only safe place for that was when he was out, or on the banca fishing. As a result he had to swear his two oldest sons to secrecy when they had been taken out on the banca. Unknown to him his breath told her the real story, but she played his little game and never mentioned it.

Sometimes he would have a little money for other little pleasures in life. He spent more at the cock fights than his wife knew of. She was as generous as she was able when she allocated the funds to the various resources that they needed. Though the pocket money he had been receiving of late was insufficient for his needs.

Johnny knew with another mouth to feed things would be worse. He had seen something on the barrio's communal T.V. which he thought he could adapt for himself.

With the little money he had kept back, he bought two jeepney windscreens. They were flat and almost rectangular. With a borrowed but still correct set square to ensure his cutting was accurate, he carefully cut into the glass with his fishing knife. Gently, and day after day in secret at his bachelor friends hut, he would make dozens of passes down the same lines on the glass to reduce the chance of any crooked break. His wife merely thought that the extra time he was spending re-sharpening his knife each night was a sign of his determination to take a better haul of fish the next day.

When the day came to make the ultimate test on the depth and accuracy of his cutting, he was terrified. He had taken advice from any person willing to give advice on glass cutting. He knew the ultimate test of what he had heard would be in the breaking of his two screens.

The first test of his skill on the first of the readied screens required more preparation time than a brain surgeon before an operation. He gently heated the edge of the glass along the lines of the grooves he had painstakingly etched with his knife. Laying the screen on a flat section of the floor, he lined up a narrow timber slat under, but on the inside of the area he wanted to break off. With gentleness akin to covering the body of a loved one, he removed his dirty and ragged T-shirt from his back and placed it carefully over the edge he was to hit gently but firmly with the borrowed hammer. After a brief but genuine appeal for a blessing from God he brought the hammer down. With a feeling of shock and disbelief, the piece he hit broke off from the main screen exactly as he had hoped. He examined the freshly cut section from all angles in wonder at his good fortune. He did not even notice the small cuts to his leathery hands caused by the still rough edges. Only when the streaks of blood appeared on the glass did he look at his hands.

"Looks just like I've cut myself with the fishing lines again," he said to the empty room.

With only slightly more confidence he tackled the second edge. In a little over an hour he had completed both screens and wanted to run outside and shout his achievement to the whole barrio. But he could not. Even his friend in whose hut he was working could not see the joy. He was away at his girlfriends place.

Johnny knew he still had to work on sanding the edges. Apart from that he had two rectangular flat sheets of glass with perfect right angles.

Over the following few days he sandpaper smoothed the edges. As soon as that was done he began working on the eight pieces of three foot wide planks he had bought off one of the visiting banca owners. He carefully measured and cut the planks with a borrowed saw. Then with the careful use of a saw he began carved slots in which he could recess the glass. He had his own hand drill and bits with which he pre-drilled screw holes.

With the glass now fitting snugly into the timber he was ready for the final stage. He spent the last of his salted money on proper glass and timber glue. Gently he glued around the edges of the glass and inserted them into the planks. He had to work rapidly with the help of his friend. As each box structure was complete, they securely tied it up with hemp rope to ensure the glue could take its maximum effect. Then they screwed the timbers together for greater strength.

The following night he undid the supporting rope and looked proudly at his glass-bottomed boxes. His friend looked on just as proudly as if he had done all the work.

So today was the day it was all going to be tested on his wife. And of course the hoped for approval of his plan he felt sure would automatically follow.

She had been objecting to his pleas to come on the boat with him to see the surprise. He placed the boxes in his banca and covered the glass bottom of each box with fishing gear. They merely looked like new tackle boxes with pairs of enormously over-size blunted shark hooks inverted and fixed to one side of each of the boxes. Eventually his very pregnant wife, encouraged by keenly enthusiastic sons, who were also ignorant of the surprise, scrambled her way into the now very cramped banca. Johnny Punzal, aided by the 14 year old, pushed the banca off the sandy bottom of the shallow beach, before nimbly slipping aboard over the stern.

The engine started easily after the second pull on the rope. Johnny sat at the stern, tiller in hand, a smile on his face, pretending to be totally unaware of the six pairs of eyes looking at him at various times with curiosity.

The banca headed toward a shallow reef, two kilometres away from the barrio where Johnny had occasionally caught lobster for the resort. The 14 year old made busy with a fishing spear tied to a good strong and long line. He wanted to be ready in case they spotted any dolphin unlucky enough to be frequenting the waters nearby. After his line was ready he instructed his younger eight year old brother in the preparation of a second spear, and proceeded to demonstrate throwing styles without releasing the spears. The twelve year old boy was standing in the bow holding one of two replica M16's Johnny had made from the left-over timber slat off-cuts and piping. He said he would fight off any pirates that might try and steal their fish. Their father continued steering the banca toward the reef outwardly oblivious to the presence of anyone else on board.

When they were directly over the reef he switched off the outboard engine. The sea was table-top flat. His wife's face frowned in concern as she knew that at low tide there was perhaps only one metre of clear water beneath the banca hull at normal carrying capacity. She watched curiously as her husband made his way to the centre of the banca and emptied two boxes that she had missed seeing before among all the usual fishing gear. She had been looking at her husband for most of the trip. While he was emptying the boxes she looked over the side into the clear water and became even more concerned at the seeming closeness of the reef to the hull of the banca. He lifted one of the boxes over the side and lowered it. She noticed that inverted shark hooks were holding the boxes over the side without letting them sink or float away. He then put the second box on the other side of the banca. Nodding with a smug self satisfaction that only seemed to increase the size of his smile he moved back to the stern, without any comment and sat.

The natural curiosity of the children did not allow them to wait for any invitation to see what their father had done. They pushed eagerly towards the sides of the banca to position themselves in a spot where they could see what had been done. "Oohs and "aahs" issued uncontrollably out of their mouths. It was too much for their mother. She had to see what was causing the children's reactions.

She pushed her large stomach to the side of the banca and looked down again toward the reef through Johnny's "invention". The glass at the bottom of the box gave a clear uninterrupted view of everything below the banca. She had often wondered what it would be like to go underwater with those tanks, fins and masks that she had seen the tourists wearing. This must be like what they could see.

"Oh Johnny," she called out in a childlike voice without even looking up, "it's wonderful. Oh it's absolutely wonderful."

Johnny Punzal sat seemingly unmoved but in reality was feeling even smugger and more self-satisfied than before. The width of his smile revealing every line of his dark sun dried face. He could not restrain himself any longer from having a proper look himself. He had not seen through the boxes onto a reef. He had only tested them out with a quick sneak view at the shallow beach by the barrio. He pushed one of the children aside to be next to his wife. When he looked through the glass even he was surprised at the clarity of the reef beneath them. Fish of all hues, shapes and sizes had returned after the initial disturbance caused by the arrival of the banca. It now drifted silently over the reef, bathing parts of it in the shadow of the hull.

Johnny Punzal slipped his left arm over the broader than usual back of his wife. The other five children were now all sharing the other reef viewer; Johnny felt he was almost alone with his wife, the closeness similar to that on the rare occasions that he had been able to make love with his wife when the children had been out of the hut. He was sure that despite her advanced pregnancy they would make love again tonight. Perhaps after that he would tell her of his proposal to use his boat to take fare-paying tourists from the resort to view the reef, just as they were now doing. That way he was sure he could make more money than selling fish to the resort.

For a few brief seconds he thought he could hear the throbbing beat of his heart then realised that the beats were too deep to be his heart. It was doubly confirmed as the beats got louder. He looked up from the viewing box toward the direction from which the sound was coming. He saw the lone helicopter approaching at what seemed a slow speed. His wife too looked in the same direction. The banca gently rocked and he looked around to see what was causing it. The children too had spotted the helicopter's approach and had stood up to wave. The fourteen year old ran to the bow. This helicopter was much closer than those they had seen over the resort in the past few days.

The helicopter climbed for height about one kilometre distance and continued heading directly toward them. Johnny's twelve and eight year old sons waved their replica M16's at the helicopter. Its path seemed it would fly directly overhead.

Suddenly there seemed to be dozens of little fish breaking water and jumping in a straight line directly towards his banca. Johnny wondered what predator was lurking below to force the small fish to the surface. As the jumping line of fish got level with his boat, a thudding sound began on the hull. Items began to be flung around and out of the boat. Johnny looked around when he heard one of his children scream and saw blood coming from the hand of his oldest son. His immediate thought was that his son had impaled his hand on the spear he had been waving. Next he felt pain in his back and at the same time saw the face of his two year old explode in front of him. A hole appeared right through the chest of his eight year old now standing near the bow with his toy gun. He was suddenly catapulted over the side of the banca.

Whatever was happening seemed to be happening so fast, and so slowly at the same time. He noticed that the bottom of the banca was rapidly filling with water yet he could not understand why it should start sinking so suddenly. Perhaps he had overloaded it or had holed the banca on the reef. He looked back at his wife to see if she was concerned. She did not seem to be as she was leaning further over the side of the banca looking back down, her body almost inside the viewing box.

He felt a sharp pain in the top of his neck, felt nauseous and faint and realised he was falling to the bottom of the banca.

### \----------

The pilot of the Philippines Air Force Iriquois helicopter swerved wide around the banca to give his side gunner a wider arc of fire. He could hear the noise from the exploding 12.5 m.m. machine gun over the sound of the chopping blades. He had watched the sea churn up short of the banca as his gunner adjusted the range. The shells falling short made a neat little line as they approached the banca. Then he nodded in satisfaction as the banca and its occupants were shredded in the hail of fire. The ammunition or weapons boxes that these guerillas were dropping onto the reef might even possibly be recovered by one of the surface craft later if he could make an accurate fix of the position. It looked quite shallow.

He was pleased that the side-gunner had been so quick to react to the threat of the weapons that the banca occupants had been waving at the helicopter. He had forgotten to put on his flak jacket for this flight, instead choosing to sit on it. He knew that this was another bunch of NPA guerillas that would not threaten his helicopter or any other members of the Armed Forces of the Philippines again.

### **********

#  POSSUM NIGHT

There was not much it would seem we had in common. If I was a Libran I might say on the other hand there was a lot we did have in common.

We were all in our mid to late 20's, all married less than five years, all with one or more children and all were old boys of the same high school.

Our occupations varied. Vince, a musical instrument salesman in his father's business; William, or Willy as we called him, an accident insurance salesman; Bob, a prison officer and part time electrician; and myself a late start university student.

In our late teens our common interest was as members of a band playing cover versions of 'pop' music. Spotlights had played down on us many times. The marriage trap and young children meant the intended fame and greater spotlights of the big stage disappeared inside dirty napkins.

In recent years it was rare for all four of us to get together. However one late Autumn I suggested a possum hunt at an abandoned property my parents had once owned many years previously. The other three eagerly agreed.

About an hour after sunset our two vehicle convoy drove past the new subdivision that now occupied what was once grazing area for sheep and cattle on the outskirts of the city. Tonight scattered cloud frequently hid the last half of the old moon's light causing it to fade in and out.

Bob and Vince in Bob's work utility had followed Willy and me in my car.

A kilometre past the last of the new houses I stopped at the ivy overgrown and almost hidden entry of what had been a long wide driveway. Once flanked by a well trimmed hedge, now uncut for years, it was now so narrow the sides would scrape my car's paintwork.

Without much persuasion, and after instructions of where to drive and park, Bob's wider work utility led the way. His wide front bull-bars would break much of the uncut hedge and give me a softer path. The two sturdy roll-bars bristled in spotlights, some of which beamed hundreds of metres.

Leading down the long drive, Bob parked where I had told him. Then, to my annoyance, gave the full rein of his eight fixed and hand-controlled lights power against the solid wall of forest. It gave as much glare as any of the stages on which we had performed. The forest wall appeared as daylight in front of us.

It annoyed me because it would disturb any possums on this near side of the forest perimeter. They would be very aware of our presence.

Willy and I got out of the car. Just as I was locking my door a crackling sound emanated from near the front bumper of Bob's vehicle.

A megaphone burst out, "Come on out with your hands up or we're coming in shootin' to get you."

"Shit Vince. Shove it will you. You've already sent everything into hiding."

"Sorry mein Kapitan. I just thought the possums might give up and save the trouble of looking for them," he replied.

Bob, Willy and Vince all burst out laughing.

We unloaded the boot of my car of three .22 rifles, four long barrelled torches, two long bladed hunting knives in sheaths, water-proof footwear, light rain-wear and loads of imagination and expectation. Thankfully they complied with my no alcohol ban.

"Must've been some place in its heyday," said Willy as he looked around.

"It was. This place," I pointed to the right, "was the house the casual workers lived in." I could see all the visible windows onto the veranda were smashed. Wild ivy covered most of the roof, sides of the house and over the veranda. The forest was close enough to start claiming one side of the house in its grip.

We had parked on a large U-shaped concrete court yard nearly surrounded by 20 now dilapidated horse stalls to our left. Hidden behind them were 12 more with their own courtyard.

"Looks like a hayloft," Willy went on, pointing at the construction above the roof level on one side of the U.

"It was." I noticed the old pulley and the arm was still there, but the steps up were broken. "Always used to be possums up there."

We both looked at the crumbling stairs up the side of the building to the loft entry; then looked at each other.

Willy nodded in the negative. "After you Milord."

I gave him a quick two-finger gesture.

In the brightened show of the forest I could see there was a lot of moisture on the leaves and branches. Forecasted strong wind gusts would create some tree noise as branches repositioned and dropped their load of moisture.

There was no breeze at the moment. Sound would carry a long way under the canopy.

"I'll show you what's left of the main house when we go through the path. Now, that was a house."

I looked at the concrete horse trough at forest end of the U-shaped stables. It was still drawing water from the deep bore. Excess water still overflowed the side making the start of a free running creek into the forest. Water cress almost hid the creek before it entered the forest.

I shone my torch into the trough. The water was still crystal clear to the bottom. The trough had a thick coating of dark green algae growth on its inner side. A lot of moss grew on the outside. I put my hand in. It was much colder than I remembered.

I put my wet fingers to my tongue. The strong iron taste was still present. Years before everyone used to drink litres of it. It somehow quickly quenched the most outrageous thirsts. I felt guilty that I did not trust my instinct and take a good swallow. Suspicious of too many years that had passed that might have affected the algae and made the water toxic.

Bob switched off the power beams and moved off to join Vince was flashing his torch into the long disused horse boxes obviously in the hope he might get an early prize.

Willy was shining his torch through the accessible windows of the house. "A grubby old mattress in here with a couple of blankets and some empty spaghetti tins," he said.

"Probably squatters at some stage," I replied.

Bob was cradling his own bolt-action Remington with an eight-round magazine. I gave Vince my pump-action Browning with the under-barrel 12 round tube-load magazine, and my Gevarm semi-automatic to Willy. The Gevarm had a 15 round magazine and with a rapid pull on the trigger could loose off all 15 rounds in about eight seconds.

I had done lots of shooting in my teens and thought that I would let the city boys have an opportunity.

Safety-first had been drilled into me during my childhood use of firearms, so I repeated my instructions on the safety-catch on each weapon. I insisted they were not to cock the weapon until after they had gone through the safety procedures, even if there was a target in sight. Then, after checking nobody was standing in front of them, they could cock the weapon and apply the safety catch. Holding the torch under the barrel, they should highlight the target with the torch beam and advise they were about to fire, and only then release the safety catch.

"We're comin' in shootin'," yelled Vince.

"Shove it Vince," we all three replied.

As I would be leading them through the forest, the thought of negligent discharges flying past my ears went through my mind. I went through the safety procedures again. All agreed.

"Possums tend to freeze in the glare of torchlight, so there's no need to let fly as soon as you see one. The eyes glow reddish so try and hit between them to avoid damaging the new winter pelt." I knew such hoped for accuracy was a forlorn hope but it might slow the rate of fire down if they were concentrating on their aim.

"If we see a deer, the same procedure applies. If you see a pig, quickly say 'pig, pig', keep one eye on the pig and with the spare eye look for a tree to climb."

The three looked at each other unsure whether I was joking.

"If the pig charges don't worry about your rifle, drop it and take to the tree. The sows' will give you one hell of a bite if they get hold of you, and won't let go. The boars will simply rip you to pieces."

"If we see a deer, especially a stag with full antlers, again up the nearest tree if he charges. Those antlers will kill you." I could not remember if it was rutting season or not but I knew the thought would keep them more alert. They presumed I was not joking, but I was exaggerating simply to build up a sense of adventure and tension. Nobody had ever seen a pig or deer in the area when I was growing up.

"Feral cats behave differently again, even individual differences."

"What?" said Willy, "you want us to kill cats?"

"Too bloody right. They'll kill any of the native life. Probably none left in here already. Maybe a few fantails or a skink or two."

"All right with me then."

"Some cats freeze in the beam and then slink off. You'll see their bright green luminous eyes even without the direct light of the torch, different shape from the possums. You'll see anyway."

I presumed Bob had a bit of shooting experience. I told him to follow me as number two. At least I would have his body between me and the other two. I told him to shine his torch only to my left around to 90 degrees off the trail, running his beam slowly from around the base of the tree up into the major branches.

I got Willy to follow next except he was to cover the right side of the trail.

Vince was shirty about being number four and not getting to 'crack off a shot'.

"Vince, if and when the possums hear us, they'll move around behind the tree away from any light source. That means they avoid getting caught in the beam. You cover both sides of the track that we've passed. Pick up what we've missed on the side or back of the tree. A better chance than anyone else."

"O.K." He did not sound too convinced, but that was how I wanted the line up.

"Jump, Vince."

"What?" he said.

"Jump high, I want to find out if I can hear you."

Vince did a pitiful imitation of ballet jumps around the courtyard. Holding a rifle while doing it was masterly in itself, but images of a dying swan shot by inexperienced hunters sprang into my mind.

"You've done ballet with the Chinese People's Republican Army boot and ballet company haven't you Vince?" said Willy.

"Up your's too," he replied.

"They wouldn't have him, he's not only ugly but he's still got the timing of a full bladder," said Bob.

"You've got rattling keys hanging from your belt. Wrap them in your handkerchief, knot it and stick them in your back pocket," I said.

Willy and Bob followed suit. Willy changed the position of a loose hanging metal drink bottle from a belt hook into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Gawd, you're still a pedantic prick," said Vince.

"Whatever. We're ready for hunting bear," I said. "Keep about four to five yards apart. If you spot something, just freeze and give two soft clicks of the tongue."

I demonstrated the sound I wanted and they all mimicked it satisfactorily.

"How much bush here?" asked Bob.

"Used to be around four or five hectares of native forest and maybe just over a hectare or two of mixed regrowth around that."

"Can we get lost in here?" asked Vince.

"You could wander around a bit at night. Easy to walk in circles. In the daylight you'd find your way out easy. Too small. It's pretty much in a square, only a couple of hundred metres or so across."

"I suppose you reckon you wouldn't get lost at night."

"Not a chance." I realised I was boasting, but it felt good being back here. "I grew up playing in this bush every day from five years old until I was ten. The undergrowth might have changed but the main trees'll still be there. I reckon I'll still be able to find my old tree huts, what's left of them."

"Lead on great white hunter," said Bob.

I headed for what to them seemed like a solid wall of forest. Ivy concealed the entry to the former path between the two houses. Pushing it aside I entered into the wonderful dark world of the mixed forest.

Immediately to my torch-lit front was the still existing but much overgrown gravel path to the remains of the main house.

When the others had stepped inside I ran my beam as far as it would extend along the path.

I spoke quietly. "Try and remember what this path looks like, just in case you get separated. You can just follow it out, one way or the other. This end of the creek from the trough follows the path for a while."

"We'll wait until we hear the frogs start before we move off. Then lift your feet high and put them down slowly."

Memory had served me correct. There was a tangle of supplejack and some thick bamboo by the entry. I cut myself a one and a half metre staff of bamboo to push aside cobwebs or check out areas which looked strange. There was always the possibility of possum trappers having left the old style spring-jaw gin-traps in the area. Even the newer ones would be dangerous.

I switched off my torch. The others followed suit.

"Just listen to the sounds of the forest for a while," I spoke just above a whisper. "Listen to the branches shifting, the leaf fall. Don't add to that noise."

A full five minutes had passed before the first few frogs started up their croaking. A minute later they had all joined in. There did not seem to be as much noise as I remembered from my childhood. Maybe fungal diseases or ozone depleting weather changes had reduced the frog numbers.

A small degree of night vision, whatever was allowed in the already darkened forest, had started to return. As soon as we turned on the torches we would lose it again. I made out the images of the other three waiting patiently and could hear Vince's slightly asthmatic breathing. Shortly after, I switched on my torch, and started off slowly. The other torches came on quickly and all torch-beams began to light up their designated areas.

To me the procession sounded like elephants on parade. Items of clothing were rubbing against each other, too late to fix that now, foot placement was poor. I stopped, shone the torch at my feet and slowly demonstrated how I wanted them to walk.

I followed the path for about thirty metres and felt satisfied when I saw that the tiny creek from the bore still joined the path at the same place I had remembered. Some fresh water plant-life hid the stream in many places except where a small pool had formed. The frogs in the immediate area stopped croaking as we passed, but I was satisfied our progress was quieter.

I raised my hand to signal stop. Like a Marx Brothers comedy act, Bob, then Willy, then Vince each walked into the back of the one in front. I was thankful no weapons were cocked. Safety catches are notoriously easily switched off, which makes for too many negligent discharges and accidents.

I noticed two boot-prints on the softer creek edge. When the others looked at me I immediately pointed to the canopy making an unspoken suggestion that they should check the canopy. While they played the canopy I crouched to examine the boot-prints. Lack of recent experience meant I could not tell how recently they were made, though they looked fresh with water still filling the indentations.

I did not want to tell the others what I had seen as I had not got permission for our little hunt from whoever the current owners were. Beside that it might be yesterday's, or older, prints from an opossum trapper. He would give us a tongue lashing if we were discovered here without permission.

We soon moved on and I spotted three more boot-prints. Same boots, so only one person. I still kept it to myself, but reiterated the need for silence to the other three by pointing to their feet and putting my fingers to my lips.

I received various sarcastic salutes in response. My misgivings were growing.

The creek soon moved left, away from the path. The knee-high low green undergrowth off the path thinned accordingly. We continued a further fifty metres along the path and emerged outside the canopy.

High grey clouds now completely covered the night sky blocking out the light of the half moon. Torchlight was our only visibility.

I played the torch over the foundations of what was the original main house. Only months after we had sold the property an unexplained fire had destroyed everything above the concrete block foundations.

"Bloody big house," someone muttered.

My mind was in the past. I remembered the way it was. Now it seemed so much smaller.

"C'mon," said Willy, who had read my thoughts, "we're hunting, not reminiscing."

"O.K. Let's go," I said. "The old orchards might yield something. It's getting near the wrong time of year. The fruit on the ground used to bloat the possums, but the buggers still climbed the trees to get the best."

"Apples, plums, nectarines. Others I've forgotten."

I realised I was rambling, but the lack of any sight of possums or cats was worrying. The lack of moonlight was usually good for possums. Maybe there was a recent run by trappers, but the absence of feral cats? Maybe being sold as cat furs. 'A damn good thing,' I thought. It would explain the boot-prints too. The others followed me through the orchard without comment. The old fruit trees were now indistinguishable from the bush regrowth.

Even the old chicken run was overgrown. I did not explain what it once was, but I pointed out some small tunnel entry holes in the ground.

"We used to have weasels or stoats. Rats probably use these now." Even they looked deserted and unused.

Interest in the hunt was rapidly waning. Boredom through lack of any sighting had overtaken the others.

"Maybe at the 'cathedral'," I said, pre-empting questions about the lack of sightings.

Making our way back into the deeper forest, the torches played around in obvious frustration, jerking from one place to another.

We entered a wide expanse of floor area without ground growth, only leaf and branch litter on the floor.

"Here we are."

"What's this?" Vince said.

"The cathedral. Look up above you."

Looking up there were no tree branches to be seen, only a roof totally covered over with ivy. The walls were widely spaced native trees with low undergrowth starting at the edge and getting higher as it moved further into the rest of the forest.

"Feels weird. Why no ground growth here?" asked Bob.

"I've never thought about it. Dunno."

The area was about the size of a small house. Its ivy ceiling about four metres high.

"Anyone know which way they think is back to the cars?" I asked.

Bob and Vince pointed 180 degrees wrongly and Willy was about 90 degrees out. I felt smug as I pointed in the direction I well knew.

"Bullshit," said Bob.

"That's the way we're going back, straight through the middle."

The others shrugged in silence.

"Let's just sit for a while and listen for what might be out there." All the torches switched off.

We were too far away from the creek to hear the frogs. There was still no breeze to cause the branches to move. I was surprised by the lack of any noise; the silence was as if the place had died except for the creek frogs. We had only covered the fringe which took in as much regrowth as native bush.

The lack of any slight scratches through the moss at the base of any of the trunks seemed to indicate a lack of possums, even cats. With no signs of chewed fruit in the orchard it all seemed to indicate a huge reduction in animal life.

Maybe there would be sign cutting back through the native forest in the middle. I definitely did not want to accidentally walk into the patches of stinging nettles which I knew grew in two, or three different patches in the middle. My memory was good, but not perfect, and it was night-time without easily recalled memories of the warning signs. Mainly I doubted I would still be immune from the effects as I had been all those years ago.

The nasty thing about stinging nettles is that you would be in the middle of a patch of it before its affects started. Then you had to walk out of the patch inflicting even more pain on yourself. The after-effects meant days of scratching and applications of creams. Sometimes, thankfully rarely, allergic people were hospitalised.

Because of my thoughts drifting I had lost track of time. Our eyes had recovered a bit of night vision. I stood up and the others followed suit. I was about to move off when the sound of a solid branch breaking immediately followed by a thump snapped our minds to alertness.

"No torches," I whispered.

The three rifles were being cocked as silently as they could. No-one applied the safety catches. I did not want to nag and tell them to put the safety catches on even knowing they should. There had been little enough excitement for them this night.

I tried to interpret the reason for the sound and its source. It could be a branch or thick dry twig breaking. It was nearby. But was it branch breaking from a tree and falling to the ground? Or was it something with a misguided footfall.

The sound seemed to be in the direction we would be going back to the vehicles. I could not guess how close to us it was, but it was not far away.

I noticed all three of them look around for a tree to climb if it was a pig. I grinned. In the 'cathedral' there were no tree trunks to climb, only the open ground on which we were standing.

We all waited. Another quieter crack concentrated our attention. The direction of the rifle barrels indicated we were all nervously looking in the same direction.

I grabbed Willy's torch off him for me to be ready to flash two strong beams in the direction. He jumped with fright when I touched him, then settled quickly again looking over the barrel.

Soft, careful, slow regular footfalls started to our front. 'Sheep or cow? Possibly but unlikely,' I thought, starting to doubt myself. I could not pass this thought on, any whisper would carry. Each footfall narrowed the field of fire.

Sadly I was realising that the power and impact of the .22's would only wound a cow, even a sheep. Only a miraculously lucky shot would kill. Hopefully, anything hit might be injured seriously enough so it could not run far. Then we might still find it, even in the night. If not, it would suffer a painful death, or worse, live partly crippled and in pain.

The guilt started to get at me. I should have brought the old Lee-Enfield .303. I hated using it because no matter how hard I pulled it into my shoulder, it still had the kick of a mule. And my shoulder was a long out-of-practise. Admiration for the veterans of both the 'Great Wars' grew every time I used it. I wondered how their shoulders coped using it day in and day out for months at a time.

Another branch cracked to our front. I do not know who fired first but immediately the other two opened up. I switched the beams in the direction of the shooting.

The rapid fire of the Gevarm semi-automatic soon emptied the magazine and the quick pump action of the Browning only took about five seconds longer. Bob stopped about two seconds later when he realised he was the only one still firing.

The other two torches then came on. No result to our front was immediately visible. Some sound of a heavy creature running away came from the bush.

We all looked at each other.

"Shit, it could be a bloody cow or a horse. Re-load," I said.

I handed out the spare boxes of ammunition and then realised I could do it much quicker than Vince or Willy.

Sub-consciously I grabbed the Browning first. It had always been my favourite rifle. I quickly slotted the rounds down the pull-out tube, slid the tube back cocked it and set the safety catch on. The Gevarm magazine slid out easily and that too was soon fully reloaded, reinserted, cocked and safety set in under 30 seconds. Bob too had reloaded, though only having fired six of his eight rounds.

"Let's go."

I did not feel happy about what had happened. It was not hunting the way I used to do it. Perhaps it was only their nervous excitement that caused the emptying of the rifles. Even Bob had got caught up in the frenzy.

"Look for any signs of blood on the low leaves. We probably didn't even hit anything. Keep the safety-catches on."

They followed me in the same order as before, but now much more alert and torches concentrating on the ground for the fallen creature. There was no organised torch sweep pattern as before. They shone the torches where they wanted or sensed that any injured animal or carcass would appear.

We had travelled about halfway through the knee-high undergrowth of the native forest in the direction towards the cars. I recognised one of the taller trees.

"Hey, that's where I had my main tree-house."

I shone the torch up to the middle branches. There were still some planks high up that had been the floor, though the angles were now different as the branches growth had pushed them askew. The iron sheets of the roof were hanging precariously, ready to fall. If I had seen that earlier I would have guessed at that being the original crashing sound we heard. Rotting rope hung down like dead vines.

Moving the torch further down the trunk, I picked out some rotting wooden footholds nailed into the trunk that had survived the elements.

The others had continued to sweep their torches around at ground level, not interested in my thoughts.

"We have to go to the right of the tree to avoid these nettles." Thankfully I had remembered the where-a-bouts of one patch and concentrated my torch-beam on it.

"Looks harmless enough," someone said.

"Try walking through it if you don't believe me."

Just as I was about to move on I noticed a small damp dark stain on one of the nettle leaves. I leaned in closer and bent down with the torch-beam directly on the mark. The light showed it was red and fresh.

"Shit, we definitely hit something."

Certain my immunity from the nettles had gone after all these years I refrained from touching the nettles.

The others were mumbling and flashing their torches in various directions.

"What do ya reckon it was?" asked Vince.

"Gawd knows, at the pace it must've taken off it'll be well gone. Could've been anything; a sheep, a lost cow or a horse. Let's crack on in this direction where it seemed to be going and keep your eyes peeled for more drops."

About 20 minutes later we crossed the creek again, thanks to a last second recognition, we avoided another patch of stinging nettle, and we were almost back to the vehicles without spotting any further blood marking.

I finally spotted a possum on the ground at the base of a big tree trunk about fifteen metres to our front. I switched off my torch.

"Listen," I said. "If you want to shoot a possum, one shot each. Aim for the head. They're bloody hard to kill. Even if it's been hit, it'll still cling to the tree with the last of its strength. Hitting it anywhere but the head or neck will ruin the pelt."

Murmurs of agreement came back.

I switched on my torch. It took a few seconds to spotlight the possum which had started up the tree, but froze at two metres when I shone the beam on it."

"O.K., one shot each."

I'd barely got the last word out when all three .22's opened up again. Pieces of wet bark and tree sprayed up around the possum. The Gevarm and Browning soon emptied their magazines and again Bob stopped with two rounds left in his Remington.

The possum still clung to the tree.

"Shit," I yelled at them. I wondered how many bullets had hit it. Unlike a human, it did not make a sound to reflect its pain. I could see small trails of blood trickling down the tree from under its stomach. There appeared to be no hits to the head.

I grabbed the Browning off Vince, slipped out the tube and began reloading. The possum tried to move higher in the tree, then slipped a few centimetres before recovering and made up for the height lost.

Bob fired his last two shots without affect.

I moved closer, to about five metres, pumped a round into the chamber and fired into its head. It hung briefly before losing its grip and fell to the ground.

The others were all chattering as they moved forward, stopping just as quickly as the possum began to stagger away.

I ran forward, put my thick boot hard into its back and pushed it into the ground to prevent it turning over and clawing or biting me. Then shot it once more in the head from a few centimetres away.

It finally stopped its struggle. The frustration and anger surged inside me as the others were rambling on about "hard to kill," "unbelievable," and so on.

Using the barrel, I rolled it over. Many shots had penetrated its dark grey back and had come out through the light grey front.

"Big game hunters eh? Look at the pelt. Ruined. Full of holes. Not even good enough for a home-made Davey Crocket hat."

Willy had been examining the claws by pushing on the leathery footpads with the barrel of his rifle. "Shit, look at the size of those." I was pleased that I could not spot a pouch; then I noticed the scrotum. It was male. I could not remember if they had a breeding season. If so it would have been spring not autumn.

"Anyone want to take home the trophy?"

I looked at each of them. Negative nods followed.

I inexplicably gently pushed the carcass close in to the base of the tree. Then thought of the possibly wounded sheep or cow or whatever we had hit; hurt and terrified standing frozen as a statue in some other part of the forest.

"Let's get out of here." They followed me silently the last few metres before we broke out into the yard where the vehicles were parked.

I made sure all the rifles were unloaded before I put them in the boot. The others chatted about meeting up again, maybe for a few drinks. Or even a night with the guitars and drums to reminisce.

With everything packed away, Bob led the way out in his utility and I followed.

I hoped Willy had not mistaken my silence for rudeness as I drove him back to his place. As I dropped him off we said our subdued "goodnights," "see you soon," "give me a call," etc.

My wife wondered why I did not say much to her when I got home. It was not late, only a little after 10:30 p.m. She was already in her warm fleecy nightgown.

Thinking about the old homestead," I said. "Nothing's like it used to be."

"Well," she replied, presuming I was referring to the band members. "You're all older now, different interests and responsibilities."

"You're probably right." I left it at that.

I spent a long time in the shower washing everything from my hair to the soles of my feet. When I joined her in bed, I snuggled my back into her, pulled her arm over my waist and surprisingly fell asleep quickly.

It was mid-morning when the phone rang.

"Have you heard the news?" said Bob.

"What news?"

"About last night."

"Us?"

"Maybe. Hell I hope not. The police arrested an escapee at our local public hospital. He'd got away from a top security prison in the far north a few weeks ago."

"What's that got to do with us?"

"They didn't know he'd come south. He broke into a sporting goods shop, stole some serious weapons and robbed a couple of petrol stations all up north, then just disappeared."

"Same question, so?"

"Apparently he'd been hiding in a deserted farmhouse near some horse boxes and some bush. The address they gave sounds like it was where we were."

I stayed quiet, my thoughts racing.

"Wait 'til this arvo," he said. "The details will be in the paper. I think we'd better shut up about where we were and what we were doing."

"Yeah," I replied weakly but was very curious.

"I'll ring the others and tell them," he went on.

The day was lecture free, so I studied at home without much success, my mind drifting easily. Local radio repeated the recapture story but gave no details. It was early afternoon when I walked to the local suburb and skimmed through the morning editions of the newspapers. No mention of an escapee.

The stationer noticed what I was doing. "About 45 minutes before the next delivery," he said.

I spent a few minutes window-gazing the local shops to pass the time. The butcher thought I was strange spending so much time looking at various cuts of meat on a laminated carcass size cut-out of a crosscut sheep and another of a crosscut cattle beast. Each showed where the various cuts of meat were from.

I was back in the stationers when the paper delivery truck arrived. Both afternoon papers reported the recapture of the dangerous escapee, both with the headlines on page one and a fuller report on page two. I bought both papers and walked home as quickly as I could.

Simon Keating had escaped from the maximum security prison after serving two years of a twelve year sentence for armed robbery of three banks, six service stations, eight counts of demanding money with menaces twelve counts of assault with grievous bodily harm, eight counts of car theft, five of home invasion, and seven of breaking and entry.

Police were surprised he was in the local area. He had reported to the out-patients wing of the hospital suffering from respiratory and joint swelling complications from a bad case of stinging nettles.

The treating doctor, a recent returnee from the Iraqi war, contacted police when he became suspicious of what appeared to him as a very recent bullet graze high on the cheekbone and following on through the ear. He felt more sure when examining the nettle stings on the legs and noticed a new and untreated small calibre entry and exit wound through the calf of the patient.

After his arrest, though initially denying he was the escapee, eventually he confessed, but wanted to know how police and the armed offenders' squad had found out about his bush hide-a-way, a place where he had worked as a stable hand over 15 years previously.

He had been fired from his employment and so a couple of years later he returned and set fire to the main house. That explained a few things.

I tried to recall the name, Simon Keating, but could not. Though my father was dead I would ask my mother about it next time I spoke to her.

Keating said he heard the warning broadcast over the megaphone and retreated deeper into the bush to consider his situation. He had decided to surrender and was coming out of the bush when the armed offenders' squad opened up with a fusillade of shooting.

I doubted that explanation, we had been at the furthest possible point from our entry when we opened up. He could not have known we had swept around the edge to the other side where the 'cathedral' was located.

He then decided not to surrender and ran back into the forest. It was only then that he had run through the stinging nettles and soon after began to suffer dizzy spells, and breathing problems as well as the excruciating pains of the itching.

After outpatient treatment for wounds and nettle rash he was returned to custody for further sentencing on his recent crimes and break-out. He had summonsed a lawyer who announced he would be seeking compensation against the armed offenders' squad for unnecessary violence in trying to apprehend him when he was trying to surrender.

The police were mystified by his claim as there was no activity that night by any of the squads. The police psychologist, from his earlier sentencing, said Keating was a clinical case of a pathological liar, but still could not give an explanation of the recent wounds.

Although I would occasionally see the others by accident, and individually in the street, and interspersed with the occasional phone call, we never ever got together again as a foursome; and we never discuss that night.

### **********

#  THE SUMO WRESTLER

Pre-trip examination of publicity photos and pre-reading of the history of the palace did not do it justice. The panorama to his front of the distant view of Osaka castle, in a backdrop of clear blue sky, and surrounded by trees gushing with Springs May blossoms of hanami was better than any tourist brochures. Tony Penn was pleased his itinerary included a few days here.

Camera lens zooming in, then out, he took several photos using different trees, even garden flowers, as frames. It had taken him less than ten minutes to walk from the Osakajokoen suburban train station, but in the heat he had already started to work up a sweat. His proudly worn All Black open neck sport shirt with silver fern emblazoned on the pocket was scratching his armpits where the damp had begun. So much for the "no sweat" deodorant he had paid a fortune for.

He had brought a lunch of sandwiches and drinks with him rather than pay huge tourist prices at the castle. Those were in his camera bag. Maybe he would sneak a small late morning snack before moving onto the castle. That would delay hunger pangs in the middle of its exploration

Noticing a wooden bench seat with a view toward the castle he sat and stared to have the sight imprinted on his memory. A loud cheer from a group of people across the path to his left and through a narrow band of scattered trees interrupted his thoughts. It seemed they were watching some sporting function.

Keen on seeing some peculiarly Japanese sport being played, he picked up his bag and made his way through the few trees. Within seconds of taking in the new scene he started laughing, which attracted the attention of the numerous male spectators. Most were in their late teens and early 20's. The sport they were watching was rugby union, his favourite participating sport in his youth many years ago.

One observant youth spotted the shirt and gave him the thumbs up.

"Or Bracks nuba wan," he said and repeated his thumbs up again. Several others copied his thumb sign but thought better than attempting communication in English.

Tony just smiled and felt it better to keep his mouth shut too and not show his severe limitation in the Japanese language.

After quickly surveying the playing field he had to consciously prevent his jaw from dropping in surprise. The surface was a combination of mostly sand with some gravel mixed in. Apart from most of the players wearing knee-pads and head-gear, no other protective gear against the dangers of this surface appeared to be worn. Tony wondered how many deep gravel cuts and scratches had to be treated after every game. Nobody would ever have played under these conditions at home.

A quick glance around showed a few older spectators. Then he noticed there were no women or girls present nearby, or at least on this side of the field.

A strong sense that he was being watched came over him. Being an obvious European foreigner in an Asian country did not make that surprising; but more so in his case because had a full and lusty black beard. Among a race where facial hair was rare he knew he was frequently looked at as a strange sight wherever he traveled in Japan.

This sensation though felt different and threatening. He cast a quick glance to his left and caught the suddenly averted eyes of a very solid looking Japanese character. The surreptitious watcher stood out from the other spectators both because of his height and his very solid build. He was an imposing figure among those surrounding him.

Tony watched the game for a few minutes then turned and continued his walk on the car width gravel path. The neatly trimmed edges gave way to bowling green smooth grass. Nobody walked on that area. Signs were embedded in the lawn. He noticed the writing did not have any Japanese characters and was only in English. "Keep off the grass," it warned. Obviously the local population needed no such instructions.

Though the castle was still some 800-1,000 metres away he had only walked about 200 metres along the path when he sensed he was being followed. He put down his camera bag and quickly looked up while crouching and feigning adjustment to the Velcro straps on his walkers. Yes, he was right. The solidly built man was about 100 metres behind him and riding a bicycle in a very wobbly fashion. The cyclist then stopped, climbed off and made as if to adjust his seat.

Tony's eyes quickly scanned the wider area for the presence of any police uniforms, just in case there was going to be trouble. There were none that he could see. That was not too critical, there were hundreds of other visitors around within a close area, and probably more the closer he got to the castle. He was sure that Japanese pride and "face" would result in bystanders helping him and not allow a local to attack a foreigner visiting their country. That would be seen as a disgraceful act.

He walked on to the castle; still with the uneasy feeling keeping his senses alert. Soon he was in the shadows of the castle wall and standing next to the broad moat which surrounded it. To his surprise there were at least two dozen people with fishing rods and lines dangling into the moat. He lowered his bag to between his legs and paused and watched the inactivity of the unsuccessful anglers patiently waiting.

From the corner of his eye he saw the cyclist pull up, dismount, lean his bicycle against a solid tree, remove safety clips from around his long trousers and then proceed to use a massive chain and padlock to secure his bicycle to a tree. That seemed to create an anomaly in Tony's thought pattern. Such a big guy was worried about his bicycle?

He carried on watching the unsuccessful fishermen, some occasionally winding in a line and re-baiting a hook before casting once again into the moat. By this time the solid Japanese had moved to within three metres of his right hand side. He knew it would be no good in continuing avoiding any issues. It was therefore better that he did something now with the several dozen people nearby. He had to confront this mystery man without appearing to be rude or aggressive.

Turning to face the man, who was now looking directly at him, he bowed slightly. The man responded likewise. Tony made an action with his arms as if to appear to be holding a rod and throwing a line into the moat.

"Fishing?" asked Tony.

After a couple of seconds the man responded.

"Hai. Fushung."

Tony nodded as he looked at the man his mind had now mentally nicknamed as 'Sumo'. He was a similar age and height to himself, almost 6 foot, and with broad powerful shoulders. Tony thought he might have been a retired sumo wrestler who had rid himself of all the superfluous fat which accompanied that profession. He was certainly not carrying any surplus fat now.

'So far so good,' he thought.

Tony turned to the Japanese again, this time miming the actions of someone winding in a line, removing a fish from the hook and eating it.

"Ooh," said Sumo, screwing up his face. Then he crossed his arms in front of his body.

"Iie." He motioned as if removing the fish from the hook and throwing it back. "Mazuinode kekkoudesu."

Tony nodded in acknowledgement again. He was starting to feel more at ease. Sumo did not look like he had any evil intent.

Sumo nodded in response. His facial features were square and open with a healthy mop of typically well groomed, clean and straight black hair. He then rubbed his clean-shaven chin in obvious reference to Tony's beard.

Tony smiled and rubbed his beard. "Hai," he said. "Beard."

Sumo looked at him with narrowed questioning eyes. "Bird?"

Tony smiled. "Beard."

"Aah. Bird."

'Near enough' thought Tony. "Hai," he said.

Sumo nodded happily, satisfied that he had got it right.

Tony felt he needed to move on and get into the castle proper. He waited until the Japanese was looking at him, then he pointed at himself and made walking movements with his fingers. Sumo nodded as if he understood. Tony picked up his bag and followed the moat around toward the main castle entrance.

To his surprise the Japanese left his bicycle chained where it was and followed on foot a few metres behind.

Tony did not know if either he was being rude not walking with the Japanese, or whether the Japanese was being rude following him. At least now it was a different quandary. The sinister feeling had diminished. But why was this Japanese picking him out from all of the castle visitors?

Outside the entry door, wooden tables with long wooden seats provided an eating area. Nearby stalls provided refreshments. Tony went to the nearest and purchased two plastic cups of chilled coca-cola, handed over the required exorbitant yen price, and offered one to Sumo.

"Arigato," he nodded.

"Do itashimashti," replied Tony pleased that he could at last use one of the few phrases he had learned.

"Aah," responded Sumo and rattled off in Japanese presuming that Tony did understand after all.

Tony laughed, crossed his arms over his chest and said "No, no, no."

The Japanese looked quite disappointed.

They sat in silence while they slowly finished their drinks.

Tony stood, bowed and said "Sayonara," then slowly made his way up the steepish incline to a leveled entry area where he used his credit card to purchase the ticket at yet another exorbitant price. He was surprised; the Japanese followed him and also bought a ticket. To Tony, somehow it did not feel presumptuous any longer that the Japanese should follow him.

After a short period on the ground floor Sumo pointed to an elevator. Tony grinned to himself. This would have been very handy when the first main tower of the castle was added and finished in 1585. Nevertheless, he was pleased to have an easier method of transport to the top of the 5 outside levels. A further three levels were below the elevated ground level.

As he entered the packed elevator he noticed three young men in tracksuits had also entered. They looked lean and mean. Tony was sure they had also been at the site of the rugby, then again at the moat. Was he being stupidly paranoid? Surely not. Generally his senses were accurate. With the elevator slowly rising he tried to be unobtrusive in his closer observation of these characters. They did not look the type of people an honest man would associate with. Was this the reason for his earlier feeling of discomfort? Perhaps the fear had been misdirected at Sumo. It was certainly back again and feeling stronger.

When the elevator reached the top he was one of those closest to the exit. One of the young men attempted to push out in front of him. The booming voice of his new Japanese friend halted the youth in mid-step. The youth bowed deeply and stood back allowing Tony to precede him. Tony's friend had obviously fired some abuse at the youth about courtesy. When Sumo exited the youth bowed to a seemingly impossibly low height. He noticed the other remaining lift patrons did likewise.

Tony felt he must have struck gold. Sumo's sheer size obviously demanded respect, or at least fear from the smaller Japanese, and he felt much safer than before.

The view of the area from the top floor was spectacular. The city in one area, the elaborate gardens and lawns through which he walked in another, with the broad approach to the western gate covered in elaborately coloured market stalls. The huge sports fields in the distance seemed occupied with ants running around in some organized mayhem and surrounded by neat squares of other spectator ants.

Tony put his bag down on one of the many seats and moved to the window with his camera. Before he could take his first photo Sumo tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to his camera bag.

Tony wondered what he was getting at.

Sumo repeated the action but this time pointing to his eyes and then pointing to the bag. Tony now understood. Sumo wanted him to keep his eyes on the bag to presumably prevent it being stolen. Tony complied and placed the bag between his legs. Sumo nodded with approval.

Before resuming his look at the panorama he looked around and noticed the three Marx brothers only metres away and was pleased he had made his bag more secure. Their close proximity made him feel uncomfortable.

Sumo noticed Tony's frown and guessed at the cause. Sumo turned quickly in the direction of the Marx Brothers and under his glare they bowed quickly and moved away to the far side of the viewing area.

Tony raised his eyebrows, partly in surprise and partly in relief. He took numerous photos from different areas of the top floor. The Marx brothers always making sure they were as far away as possible from both him and Sumo.

When Tony had finished his photography he moved back to where Sumo had remained standing and watching him.

Two attractive young Japanese women in their early twenties walked past.

"Bepin des," said Tony.

Sumo burst out laughing and slapped him on the shoulder. "Hai, bepin des."

The final tension appeared to be broken.

Tony showed the empty ring finger on his left hand and rubbed it where a wedding ring would normally be worn. Then clutching his arms together pretended to be kissing someone.

Again Sumo laughed and crossed his arms. "Iya desu," he responded; then made as if he was in a boxing match before parting his arms and going further away. Tony interpreted all that as meaning Sumo was divorced. His body and arm movements had been balanced, fluid and smooth.

Tony then held his arms closely as if cradling a baby and made a poor imitation of a baby's cry.

Sumo ruffled his fingers around his legs as if he was fingering the edge of a dress and then did a delicate little twirl and held up one finger. Then holding his finger in front of his trousers as a mock penis, he held up one finger again; apparently one daughter and one son.

Tony was feeling quite comfortable in this sign language conversation despite the strange looks they were getting from the many Japanese tourists looking at them, many in tourist-guide led groups.

Sumo pointed at him, obviously questioning his status. Tony repeated the punching action for divorced, then twirled and penis indicated for two daughters and one son. They both laughed.

Soon Sumo was leading the way as they made their way down the levels. Tony noticed how coordinated, smoothly balanced and light on his feet Sumo was. Through sign language Tony learned that Sumo's main passion was watching baseball and that he suffered a bad slice when playing golf. During his youth Sumo had played basketball which he demonstrated with a standing leap for a shot at goal. The height of the spring was greater than Tony knew he could have achieved in his youth. Sumo then pointed out the difference in style between the castle wall slots for firing muskets and for archers.

Much to the disgust of a tourist guide, Sumo demonstrated a mock seppuku where the prince and his mother had gutted themselves rather than be captured. He rolled on the ground simulating pain and death, and with Tony they burst out laughing. It was all far beyond what Tony had been told about the supposed reserved and undemonstrative Japanese psyche.

It was already late in the afternoon as they exited the castle. Sumo looked toward the lowering sun and looked around at the hundreds of tourists shopping at the many stalls on the plaza outside the western gate. He then looked at his watch and quickly looked around at all the shoppers again. He pointed at Tony, made walking movements with his fingers and pointed to all the stalls and highly coloured umbrella stands; then pointing to himself he crossed his arms across his chest and walked his fingers in the opposite direction.

Tony felt a reluctance to leave his new found 'amigo.' Both realized the day had to end.

Tony bowed deeply and uttered a heartfelt 'arigato gasaimas'.

Sumo nodded in the negative and tapped him on the chest.

"Noh. Dank you." It was Sumo's first and only attempt at English. When they shook hands Tony felt the vice-like grip of this man of granite. Sumo moved away in the direction they had come from, and toward where he had left his bicycle. Tony pondered for a few seconds whether to follow him then decided to examine the contents of the dozens of market stalls on the wide plaza as suggested by Sumo.

On the rail trip back to his hotel Tony played the days events over in his mind. Even the Marx brothers had seemingly disappeared after their appearance and confrontation with Sumo on the top viewing level.

He was still smiling to himself when he entered the hotel lobby and approached the desk for his pass key. This had been one of the most enjoyable and amusing days of his life.

After accepting the security card for his room he turned and found his way blocked by two very formally dressed Japanese men in tailored suits.

"Mr. Tony Penn?"

Tony looked them up and down.

"Yes."

Both held up official looking photo identification cards.

"Inspectors Yano and Yamoto of Tokyo C.I.D."

Tony looked past them and saw four other policemen in uniform.

He felt his face redden with embarrassment; then began to feel fear at what he had done to deserve this amount of attention.

"May we speak with you in your room please," said the one who he remembered as Yano. His English was impeccable

"One moment please."

Tony turned to the receptionist. He was being ultra-cautious.

"Are these guys for real?" he asked.

"Hai," she nodded. "They arrived about 20 minutes before you and asked if you had returned yet. They have been waiting."

Tony turned back to the Inspectors. "Yes. Follow me."

The Inspectors and the four policemen entered the elevator with him and followed him closely to his room. His mind was racing with the possible reasons for their interest in him. There had been nothing unusual over the past few days; he had not even walked on any grass as far as he could remember.

He put his camera bag down and offered them a seat. They remained standing.

"May I go to the toilet first?" asked Tony. "It's been a long day."

"Certainry," answered Yamoto in less perfect English. "But may we jess check your pockets and body first. Please empty the comtents of your pockets onto the table."

Tony frowned with annoyance. "I suppose so, if you must."

He emptied the pockets of his shorts of his thin wallet, hankie, pass-key and a few Japanese coins. A uniformed officer then moved forwarded and patted him down soon discovering his under shirt waist money-pouch. He pointed at the bulge and Tony lifted his shirt, undid the clip and put it on the table with the other items. Tony was reluctant to part with it as it contained his passport, credit cards and quite a large sum of large denomination yen notes.

Now the Inspectors frowned at this hidden item.

"Please check it out and give it back to me before I go to the toilet," said Tony.

Another uniformed officer quickly checked the few items, showing each to his inspector. Both inspectors nodded, and on completion of the search it was returned to him.

"May I pee now?" Tony asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The inspectors nodded. Tony picked up the money belt, clipped the bands together, and put it over his shoulder.

"Can we check your camera bag while you are in the toilet?" asked Yano.

"No," said Tony. "I don't want you planting anything in there while I'm gone."

"You've been watching too much TV," replied Yano.

"No, I'm just being sensible. Hurry up and check it out while I'm here, I'll hold off for another couple of minutes."

Two other uniforms gently emptied the contents on the table, checked the side pockets and felt along the lining on the bag. Satisfied there was nothing else hidden, or of interest, they put the bag on the table with the rest of the submitted items.

"May I pee now?"

Both inspectors nodded.

While Tony was relieving himself he realized that this visit was not a simple social call. He guessed he would find out soon enough.

He washed his hands and dawdled over cold-washing his quite sun-burnt face. He was quite annoyed when he emerged from the bathroom to discover a uniformed policeman immediately outside the door. His feelings had gone from being surprised and defensive to being annoyed and imposed upon. He walked past the two still standing inspectors and plonked himself into the comfortable single-seater lounge. He would not ask them a second time to sit; they could remain standing as far as he was concerned. He noticed the policeman that had been waiting outside the toilet now emerging from inside it. He was disappointed he did not take the opportunity to have a smelly bowel movement while he was there, for the policeman to suffer.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked to search my room."

"We did before you returned Mr. Penn."

Tony was gob-smacked, he felt physically violated and felt his anger rising.

"Alright, what the Hell is all this about? asked Tony.

"What were you doing today Mr. Penn?" asked Yano.

Tony knew he had to keep his cool. He took a couple of deep breaths and briefly related the day's activities but omitting his meeting with Sumo. He picked up the stub showing his entry to the castle and showed that to Yano.

"Check out the photo's on the camera if you wish."

Tony then remembered he had taken a couple of photos of Sumo and wondered if they would ask about him.

"We will in due course. Did you meet or talk with anyone while you were there?"

"No. Only other tourists. They were all Japanese as far as I can remember." 'Where was all this going?' Tony wondered.

Yamoto reached inside of his impeccably pressed suit and pulled out some photo's. He placed one on the table.

"Do you know dis man Mr. Penn?"

Tony realized he did not hide his surprise. It was of Sumo and him at the coca-cola seat. They had caught him out but why were they interested?

"Well, no. I mean not really. I don't know who he is."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"But you spent most of your day in this man's company."

How did they know that? If these guys were from Tokyo why were they interested in someone in Osaka?

"Yes, but I don't know who he is, that is I don't know his name."

"Did he ask you to do anything for him or give you anything?"

"No. Nothing at all. He doesn't even speak English and I don't know any Japanese except a few guide-book phrases."

"That's surprising Mr. Penn. Your friend speaks flawless English. Many years ago he spent four years at Cambridge University in England where he played rugby in the front row against Oxford, and taught martial arts in his spare time. He graduated in European history. He is a very clever, very dangerous and tricky man."

Tony felt he was digging himself into a grave without knowing where or why. He knew he had a puzzled look on his face.

"Is there anything else you haven't told us Mr. Penn," asked Yamoto. A quick swap from Yano's questioning.

Tony quickly told them about the three threatening looking men in track-suits.

"You only saw three. There are five. The two you did not see normally stay further away and are sometimes armed with guns."

Both Tony's hands went to his head and he ran his fingers through his hair and scratched his scalp.

"Were they your men? asked Tony.

"No. They were his body-guards from his dojo which he inherited from his father. He now runs the martial arts school as cover for his real activities."

"What?"

"He is one of Japan's leading yakuza figures, gang leader or criminals in your language."

"What did he want with me then?"

"Maybe nothing. That is what we are trying to find out. He sometimes plays little games with us to waste our time. But it is stranger that he should choose you while the yakuza are in the middle of a power struggle with gang warfare."

"But how did you know I was with him."

"Ah. You could not see our surveillance but he and his minders could. Our people were following him when you turned up. Are you sure you did not see anyone else following you?"

"Quite sure, only those three I mentioned."

Yamoto placed some more photo's on the table. These had been taken that day and showed him with Sumo drinking coca-cola, some on the top viewing level and Sumo rolling on the ground mimicking seppuku.

"How did you know it was me or where to find me?"

"Immediately you used your credit card we traced through right to where you were staying. Your police from your homeland say you have no criminal record, no known criminal associates and no known military or other training with firearms. Your passport shows no previous visits to Japan."

"Boy, you are efficient. How'd you get those photos so fast?"

"Modern times Mr. Penn."

Yano then spread several more coloured photos on the table in front of him. Tony leaned forward and saw a bicycle leaning against a tree and the body of a man lying face down next to it. There were pools of blood by the body and head.

"Hell, a bit gruesome."

Tony looked at the next photo. The body had been turned over.

"Oh my God, it's him."

He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. The inspectors stood silently watching his reaction.

"What the Hell happened?"

"He was shot five times with a silenced pistol," replied one of the inspectors. Tony was not aware which one spoke.

"Why?"

"We told you there was a power struggle."

Tony looked at the photo again and shook his head. The next photo showed three more bodies wearing tracksuits and inside what looked like a small room or large cupboard, but no blood.

"These look like the three who followed us."

"Yes, his three bodyguards, they were garroted inside the castle and left in the storeroom. They were the second victims."

The final photo showed three more bodies, again in a small shed type structure. All three were lying in pools of blood.

"Who are they?"

"His other two armed bodyguards and the innocent stall-holder. They were the first victims; also shot and then dumped in the stall which was then closed up."

"But I nearly followed him back to his bicycle on the way to the station."

"A fortunate choice perhaps? One of my men did follow you through the market stalls and advised you had no other contacts."

Tony slumped back into his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. He was conscious he was taking deep breaths. Then it dawned on him.

"Am I in any danger?"

"We hope not, but we cannot guarantee your safety. If you wish to check out now, we will fly you back to Tokyo with us in our helicopter."

"But why did he pick me?"

"We can only guess that he was playing one of his many games with us, just as he played with you by feigning his lack of English."

Tony only pondered his dilemma for a few moments.

"I'm no hero. I think I'd rather pack up and go home. What now then?"

"Please pack up and come with us. We will advise the desk. We don't want to cause you any further distress or problems."

Tony felt a little sheepish as he looked at both the inspectors. They had been exceptionally polite and his behaviour had bordered on rudeness.

"So, you are leaving now?" said Yano.

"Yes answered Tony

"For your own safety do not mention our talk or these events with anyone," said Yamoto.

Tony stood and shook the inspectors' hands, then deliberately went round the four uniformed policemen and did the same.

Yano had picked up the phone and was speaking in Japanese. Tony presumed it was to reception.

Within seconds Tony began packing his few possessions and a few minutes later they left the room.

He stayed quiet in the unmarked police car; and the helicopter ride to Tokyo was too noisy to talk. Flights out were already over-booked and so he would have to fly out the next day.

Other inspectors accompanied him to the police sponsored hotel and escorted him to his sumptuous room. Dropping his bags on the floor, he again slumped into the comfortable easy chair. For some reason the words and song of the old classic that began "What a day this has been, what a rare mood I'm in, it's almost like being in love," came flooding into his mind.

He soaked in a deep bath using the hotel supplied bubble bath essence, then phoned for the expensive in-house massage service. He followed that with the most expensive choice on the room-service menu and made a good effort at emptying the refreshments of the bar fridge. Tomorrow's early check-in and nine-hour flight would make it a long day.

In the two weeks that passed after his return home, the events of his last days in Japan kept replaying in his mind. He needed explanations and closure. Through the local Japanese consulate he was given the telephone number for the Tokyo C.I.D.

After several fruitless and frustrating calls caused by combinations of misunderstandings, wrong extensions and language difficulty he was finally connected to the Senior Inspector of Japan's C.I.D., Chief Inspector Matsui, who spoke clearer and better English than many of his friends. Tony outlined his adventures in Osaka and the ensuing encounter with Inspectors Yana and Yamamoto.

Matsui listened with seeming deep interest and after getting Tony's phone number advised he would phone back.

Tony waited impatiently for four hours before Matsui called. He listened intently to Matsui's voice.

"I have made extensive enquiries both in Tokyo and our Osaka offices. We have no Inspectors with the names you gave me. The hotel bills where you stayed and your return flights were all paid by cash. We have no record of any of the events you have mentioned."

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#  ANNIVERSARY LIGHTING

Many families have secrets kept from the rest of the world. Skeletons in the closet, an insane relative kept in a dungeon, a mass murderer no longer acknowledged as part of the family. But in this case it was a whole community keeping a secret of ongoing events, longer than most of them had been alive.

When I first became aware of 'the happenings' there were still surviving old timers who remembered the first year it all started. Nobody spoke with outsiders about it. Outwardly, nobody seemed to know much about it. They certainly never said anything within earshot of 'foreign' visitors. And when nosey outsiders asked, the locals closed rank and seemed to know even less; expressing shocked disbelief at the questions, even belittling the questioner as if they were asked by the lunatic fringe.

Originally the old community was established to support gold mining and panning in the many streams flowing from the high rugged ranges and through its large flat and fertile plain. Ranges surrounded the plains on three sides; its western and fourth side bounded by the rocky seashore where some long suffering locals eked out a living from fishing. Once the limited amounts of gold were seemingly panned out many stayed to farm the plain and lower hills, plowing and burning off the prolific native bush where they thought it could be converted to economic farming. The ranges were now a mix of native forest, regenerated bush and untended pine plantations.

Of the scores of farming families around the county, most had been there for several generations. A few others survived from seasonal hunting of deer, pig, or trapping for possum skins. Some panned hopefully for last traces of gold. Occasional big returns were sometimes rumoured. But the most secret return from the inhospitable ranges excellent water was for the illicit production of a whisky to die for. The whereabouts of the stills a secret kept closer than the whereabouts of King Solomon's mine.

The remaining population was shop-keepers like my parents, or support industries like schools, hotels and socially essential administration.

With only one road into the area, from the south, through traffic was non-existent. It was as though the bubble shaped area drew people in and held them trapped and economically or physically unable to move out.

My parents shifted to the area in their late twenties, soon after they were married. They took up the once in a lifetime opportunity to purchase cheaply a small grocery shop which became available after its owner disappeared on a hunting trip one autumn.

When the short period of 'the happenings' occurred, the community virtually closed down all forms of communication with the 'outside'. Any news or information about that event was deniable. News did circulate but only among its long time established community members.

My knowledge of those secrets seemingly evolved like any normal development in a child's life. We are born, learn to walk and talk, go through puberty, notice that there are two sexes in the world, fumble through sexual learning, and the lucky ones get to marry someone who is not pregnant.

Somewhere between learning to walk and talk, and going through puberty, the first of my noticing of some memorable incidents occurred. I was immediately sworn to secrecy. 'The happenings' occurred regularly; every four years in autumn, except for the unexpected occurrences in the twenty-fifth and fiftieth years after the first 'happening'.

My earliest memories were of flashy and spectacular lights. Initially two or three colourful lights zoomed around the sky. The next couple of nights a few more arrived. The larger ones moving slowly in very sober fashion, seemingly finding a position and parking up for the night before switching off all lights. Others seemed busier. By the fourth night up to fifteen mysterious light sources would be spread around the county.

Some instinct among the locals, learned over preceding generations, saw them prepare days before the arrival of the lights, almost with a sense of fatalism. Mid-autumn every fourth year, and without fanfare, locals would stock up on food, prepare early evening meals and wrap up against the oncoming cold of the evening. The adults, boosted by a few shots of the local whisky, sat on comfortable chairs on large terraced decks which every family home seemed to have, and with seeming disinterest watch the evening sky. Only the younger children displayed amazement at the arrival of the lights.

Early on the fifth night the lights would suddenly brighten and accelerate out of sight into the universe with the speed of comets in reverse. This signaled the families to begin their self imposed curfews. For the next two weeks nobody ventured outdoors at night. The performing lights were watched through gaps in curtained windows as they re-gathered in the early evening sky every night before streaking off, not to be seen again until early the next evening. The same procedure repeated for nearly two weeks.

Over the decades following my first sightings I slowly heard of some of the prior mysterious events that occurred during these visits. Never anything directly attributed, only inferred. The stories included the mysterious deaths of sheep and cattle, bodies left unmarked at the side of roads, often drained of all their blood. People believed aliens were drinking it. Some farmers claimed the complete disappearance of stock or mysterious circles appearing in their fields were the work of the aliens. Others had water storage dams half drained of their contents. Stories so common-place they hardly drew a mention.

But not everything was a down side. The spring following the lights always resulted in bumper crops and high calving and lambing percentages. Even more gold was found and the fishing industry temporarily boomed for a couple of months.

This may have been one of the reasons the stories were kept hush just in case revelation caused the bounty to be lost. Rarer events, whispered in complete confidence, were also those that circulated quickest and discussed most. It was about those abductees who had undergone alien experiments. The purported victims being so ashamed the incidents went unreported and never spoken about; except by those in the know who always refused to identify the sufferers. Most of the un-named victims of abduction were those who lived alone like the school mistress Miss Beaumont-Peabody. She was supposed to have suffered a horrible series of sexual experiments with animals. It was believed the aliens also drank her blood. This must have been true as when she was found after her abduction she had permanently lost her former ruddy complexion. After that she bought a large Great Dane dog for protection, and over the years after each dog died of old age she would purchase another. She never married and lived alone, with the dog.

Then there was the lay-preacher Reverend Ritchie who prior to his abduction had been a heavy drinking, "cussing" ladies man whose unusually timed midday church service and sermons packed the church with adults, and were superbly inspirational, even if loaded with words outside the school curriculum. Non attendance for two consecutive Sundays tended to invite the absentees darker family history being paraded before the other attendees by the Reverend's acerbic tongue. Subsequent to his abduction, his life became one of piety and chastity dedicated to the will of the Lord and spreading His word instead of using it as a swear word, and privacy had become a watchword. Though attendances had fallen considerably in the number of adults; children now attended to hear much milder language sermons. In private he was still known to partake of the local drop more than the pastoral wine.

Over the years I learned of dozens of similar tales about the extra-terrestrials. But there were other mysteries in the forested ranges of the county. Some described the huge man-like creatures roaming the bush as a local offshoot of the Himalayan yeti or North American sasquatch. Others passed it off as wild bears that had escaped from a zoo. Most locals felt it was just the wild looking appearance of some of the forest dwelling distillers. The certainty of the Yeti existence was real to locals who had seen them.

The lack of any real crime meant there was no local police establishment. Tourists were almost as rare as the aliens or the yeti. Visits by service industries of milk trucks, telephone and electricity personnel were fleeting, having come and gone during daylight hours.

Somehow, on one occasion, news of our four-yearly event must have made it to the outside world. A reporter and a cameraman stayed in the rarely used accommodation section of the local hotel to investigate 'the happenings'. Having taken various photos they could not get any locals to agree to interviews about the mystery sightings. They soon discovered the pleasures of the local elixir and began sleeping most of the daytime. By the seventh day the object of their mission had changed. They sought the source of the pleasurable drink by searching some of the many spider-web narrow back-roads in the ranges for clues.

The proprietor noticed they had not returned to their rooms for a couple of days, but took no action. That soon stretched into twelve days and the season of the lights was over. The reporters' big city editor phoned the hotelier to find out where his employees were. The hotelier advised that he presumed they had returned to the city and complained they had left without paying.

Police arrived the next day to investigate the disappearance. Soon after a police helicopter brought into the area located the deserted car on a rarely used back-road, but no trace of the passengers or their equipment was found. The police realized the nature of the terrain and the cold weather meant little chance of survival for any lost souls and soon gave up the search. The newspaper editor never paid the hotelier, but the hotelier was not too upset. Quietly and unmentioned, he confiscated the camera gear they had left in their room. It more than paid the bill. The undeveloped negatives went into the hotel garbage.

Knowledgeable locals merely presumed that the strangers had been abducted and, as in a few preceding cases, not returned. That abduction possibility was never disclosed to the police.

Over the years little changed in the four year cycle. Between the visits of the lights people farmed, fished, won a few grains of gold from the streams; supplied wild deer and pork to the local butcher and some nearby surrounding towns, and possum skins were traded to the local dealer. All trading seemed primed by the best unadvertised but highly prized local whisky. Production far exceeded local demand, but it was a mystery where the excess went. Nobody followed the irregular late night departure of the ancient camouflaged canvas covered Bedford truck which left heavily loaded with numerous wooden casks. Its return several days later, much lighter on it axles, barely raised a mention. After each absence the truck received a full and thorough service at the local garage to keep it in grade one condition, before disappearing into the back roads again.

There was always a scramble for the few available used small wooden casks. Locals filled these with fresh water and hid them away for a year or two. The result was that original raw whisky soaked into the casks during ageing was drawn out by fresh water and the next best only slightly diluted whisky would be consumed by the new cask owner.

I escaped for a few years and worked in various occupations throughout the nation; then off-shore for an overseas experience adventure. I knew I would eventually have to return to take over the shop from my ageing parents.

Guilt feelings arose when I realized I had not phoned home for a long time. Before I could even say 'I was well', my parents excitedly chattered about the mysterious happenings in the county over the previous days. Neither would elaborate by phone on what happened, but they wanted me home. Large groups of people in dark suits were making enquiries about the lights.

Having been away for years and wanting to know about the mysterious secrets that could not be spoken of over the phone, I was quickly on the long flight home. Distance and travel delays meant two weeks elapsed before I returned.

The tsunami of information flooded over me immediately I was inside the bubble. The oldest residents mumbled that they had warned everybody that it was the 75th year since the first 'happening'. I quickly suffered sensory overload from my parents and the dozens of chatty locals. The events of the previous three weeks were delivered with personal interpretations so fast and furious from the innumerable sources it came in a totally disjointed manner. Nobody had talked to any of the dozens of outsiders that had invaded the area for twelve days. But when I arrived it was as though the families were desperate to get things off their chests to some confidant after knowingly withholding information from official enquiries.

By the second day of my return I finally managed to get a little privacy at my parents' home with my Father while my Mother opened the shop. Dad was always the rock, seemingly unflappable.

"Okay," I asked Dad, "What the Hell happened here?"

"I'll try," he offered. He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a few moments.

"A few months ago some of the really old men started muttering about this year was the 75th anniversary of the lights and we should be careful."

"Well the lights came."

I nodded.

"The early nights were normal, everyone watching from their terraces then through windows. The usual bloodless cattle and sheep bodies, and farmers' storage dams half drained. Then, different things started to happen."

"Firstly hunters and gold-panners arrived from the ranges and took up accommodation in the local hotel. They were scared of the sudden interest of the lights in their forest huts and bivouacs, so they fled for the safety of the township worried about abduction."

"Then rarely seen but long suspected providers of the local whisky emerged. Mostly riding netting-draped, camouflage painted cross country motor bikes. That explained how they got around the back roads unseen. They too and their camouflaged hooches and stills had become the focus of interest for the lights. The distillers gathered the matured whisky from the producing families and loaded it into the old Bedford."

"However things didn't go to plan. They had to abandon the truck and flee to save their lives from the close attention of the lights. When they went back next day, the matured casks were gone from the truck and their accumulated still ageing whisky casks had vanished. When the lights came back again they rushed to the safety of the township. Many farmers gathered in the larger homesteads or moved into town to stay with friends or relations."

"The next two nights events caused real terror and fear."

"Instead of lights rocketing away as they had previously, they remained within the area. Flight patterns became erratic and jerky. Lights began to chase each other like playing tag just as you children played. Then they would temporarily hide in the forest before roaring out from cover squealing as they chased each other until nearly touching, then off on another course to be chased by another one."

"Suddenly two lights merged into one over a forested area and an enormous explosion happened. Several other lights rushed into the area as though searching where the colliding lights had disappeared. Many seemed to be pretty unstable. Then two more lights merged and another explosion followed. As they were falling to earth flying debris hit another nearby light and that too fell into the forest and exploded on impact."

"A larger light moved to an incredible height before it rapidly flashed a series of colours. The remaining nine lights quickly rose to a similar height and kept wide distances apart, some still wobbling a bit on their axis."

"After a few minutes, the lights flew off in the same direction like meteors in reverse and disappeared."

"The next day the area was flooded with armed military personnel, police, and men in black suits and sunglasses. Huge numbers stayed for days. Helicopters directed search parties. Small scraps of wreckage were recovered and accumulated in the barn of a farmer nearest the crash sites. A couple of distilling sites were also found and destroyed and they asked lotsa questions about those. Of course no locals had any knowledge of their existence. The local hotelier suddenly only had conventional whisky on his shelves."

"Just before you got back, the last police and military forces left and took the accumulated contents of the farmer's barn. The men in suits visited every household and explained the strange floating weather balloons' movements were caused by natural pockets of wind created by the basin effect of plains surrounded by ranges. Locals agreed with the suits that their explanation had to be the only logical one. The "suits" warned if any further pieces of the balloons were found they had to be immediately taken to the nearest police station. The balloons were Government property."

That was the last time my father spoke about it. Now, twenty-five years later, both my parents have died. The lights have not returned since. Some farmers complain about the lack of boomer crops or higher stock birthrate every fourth year. The fishing has totally gone but that whisky was back, and as good as ever. The bush-men had become spoilt with baths, shaving and haircuts during that last visit by the lights and they became frequent town visitors. Yeti or sasquatch have not been seen since.

The decks and terraces are now the venue for neighbourhood barbecues. Any discussion about the lights is out of the hearing of youngsters and ends up with a toast using the local vintage as fluid of choice. Some of the fabric from the downed craft would be dragged out of hiding and compared with the collections of others as they discussed the seeming indestructibility of the material. Knives, bullets and scissors all failing to make any marks. Smaller scraps thrown onto flaming barbecues would be extricated undamaged from the charcoal ashes after the night finished. We still have our secrets to keep, especially the location of our King Solomon stills and the best streams for panning.

To the amusement of many of us, some of the older settlers have become fearful and paranoid as they keep warning that later this year it will be 100 years since the lights first arrived and they are sure they will come back.

Recently a group of hard whisky drinking migrant workers arrived from Ireland to clear some wild pine plantations. They had no knowledge of the pre-history lights. But they quickly discovered the delights of the local brew and purchased huge amounts to take back to camp. The astounded hotelier asked how they could consume such amounts without suffering serious job accidents. The Irish claimed they leave out several bottles each night for the strange looking 'little people' watching them from the bush and hiding around their camps. The bottles they leave out always disappear while the loggers are asleep.

The bush-hidden whisky distillers though have pre-booked all the available rooms at the local hotel.

As owner of one of the two grocery shops in the town I have also noticed as autumn approaches those same locals that have been pooh-poohing the 100 year anniversary have been buying four times their normal amount of non-perishable goods and stocking deep freezers to their maximum capacities.

There are even some people who wonder whether the Irish tree-loggers should be warned.

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#  About The Author

John Muir was born in Hamilton, New Zealand. Attended Palmerston North Boys High School and graduated in accounting from Massey University. Spent 25 years in Sydney, Australia and time in Asia.

Discover other titles by John Muir on his author profile at  http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/johnmuirstoryteller

-My Other Shorts & Formal Tales. paperback (2012) by Imp Publications. Smashwords eBook edition 2013. Collection of 17 short stories. (approx. 54,770 words)

-The Siege Of Apuao Grande. Smashwords eBooks edition 2013, novel, (approx. 145,720 words)

-Just Cause Wrong Target. Smashwords eBook edition, 2013, novel, (approx. 101,960 words)

-An Artist's Freedom (a story from Short Shorts & Longer Tales) Smashwords eBook edition 2013, short story, (approx. 2380 words).

-A Sunday Market Seller (a story from My Other Shorts & Formal Tales) Smashwords eBook edition 2013, short story, (approx. 3,200 words).

-Patch (A short story for 8-12 year olds) Smashwords eBook edition 2013, (approx. 1,560 words).

-A Soap Slippery Bath Imp (A short story for ages 9-90) Smashwords eBook edition 2013, (approx. 2,570 words).

-Snow White & The Seven Miners, (A short story for teens and the young at heart) – soon to be released (approx 6,500 words).

-Singapore Straits Diamond Pirates, the 3rd novel in the TA series – to be released in the latter half of 2014.

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