 
A season for everything.

A letter sent to her mother, dated January 12.

Dear Mum

I hope this letter finds you well. We have been doing a little island hopping and have finally arrived safely back in Bangkok. The weather? Well the weather is nothing like back home which is good enough for me. Up in the eighties most of the time and as humid as hell. The boys are having a blast. I didn't know they would take to travelling so easily. They are not so adventurous with their choices in food however. I have never seen them eat so many omelettes in all my life. We have two weeks left and plan to make the most of this tropical paradise. It has been great to spend so much time with the boys. I know that I had been neglecting them with work and everything.

Being away has given me a lot of time to think. Something I tend to do after the fact. I was thinking today about dad. I was really missing him. I remember I had this argument with him one time. I don't know exactly what the cause of it was but it must have been over something dumb I had done. You know the kind of stupid stuff we used to argue about. Well anyway, he had called me out on it and I took the bait. I told him that if he didn't like the way I acted then 'tough'. He had help raised me up and half of me was him and so it stood to reason that he was part to blame. Dad said that the way I went about my business was my choice and had nothing at all to do with him or you. Whether I was just being dog headed and trying to rial him or if that was what I truly believed, i'm not quite sure now. I carried that idea around for a hell of a long time, especially after he died. I felt guilty for saying that. He was right enough though. People are their own people. I know that now. I guess I always did. Seeing the boys grow up, seeing how different each is from the other and both not a bit like me. I can't say that I see much of their father in them either, thank God. Seems with some people, it doesn't matter what you do, you could try and help them in a million different ways and they would still end out the same. It's like we somehow latch onto our destiny, nothing can shake us off from fulfilling it. You can dam up a river for so long but it will always run its course eventually. It's like a planet spinning round and round, but even though it doesn't look like it, it's heading straight for that red hot sun thats going to burn it up. I see it all the time at work with the junkies and domestics.

I still get bad dreams, more often than not. Last night I woke Leo and Greg up with my screaming. Thats why I thought maybe if I wrote this down it might help some. Stop it playing on my mind so much. I can't get the image of his eyes from out of my head. Such a cold stare, I knew what he was meaning to do, just from his eyes. He said it had to be done, that there was no way round it. Like he didn't have a choice or anything about it. He talked in court about his 'ugly spirit'. Seems that theres a lot of that spirit floating around these days. I never really thought too much about God before, but I just can't see rationalise what happened to that poor family. How could any God just let that slip by on his watch.

Right now I'm just going to enjoying being with the boys. I'll start to worry about what I'm gonna do next when we get back. We all miss you and it won't be long before we're home again. I can't thank you enough for lending me the money, you were right as usual. A holiday is just what we needed.

All our love,

Hollie, Greg and Leo.

Chapter I,

Monday 19th of December

If asked by those who knew him, Beaton Earnest was what many people would describe as a happy and contented man but on a closer inspection it would appear that he went about his daily life as would an automaton. Performing his daily tasks over and over again without a thought as to whether or not it was really what he wanted from this life. It was his willingness to accept his situation that meant he must surely be happy. Why wouldn't he be, he lived comfortably and had good health, a steady and reliable job. All the trappings of a modern life. Every morning Beaton caught the six twenty four train into the city and every night he would return by the six fifteen. At weekends he studied all the newspapers at the local library and did his weekly shop and paid his bills. The truth was, he felt so removed from the world he had created and his surroundings that he never quite knew for how long he could maintain the pretence of his contentment. Still the days rolled in and out like the waves on a shore and the weeks, like the tides, rose and fell away from the calendar without anything truly interesting ever happening.

Then, like a house of cards, the precarious structure that he had erected for himself, came crashing to the floor. A weak lintel amongst the many strong, unable to support his burdens any longer. A fault line, a corrosion from within. The busted valve that brought everything to a grinding stop. Four weeks to the day, before his court sentence, the train that Beaton Arnold Earnest was travelling on became stuck in a tunnel. Beaton sat in the dark and listened to the hushed whispers and panicked breath of his fellow passengers and felt the slight alien tingle of excitement from somewhere deep inside. He imagined all the reasons why the train could be stuck, a multitude of scenarios and terrors clamouring for space inside of his screaming mind.

'What if another train should collide with us?' he marvelled. 'All that twisted metal and smoke, a blinding white flash and nothing more or Better still, what if a bomb goes off?'

He sat and fantasised of all the things that could happen in such Darkness A dark twitch, the uncoiling of a sour black worm inside Beaton's brain. He reached out as if to to rest his palm on the person next to him. Somebody had stepped on his foot and the corner of a suitcase had found the temple of his head. A crush of bodies and muttered curses and apologies. Further down the train a child started to cry and very soon the darkness ceased to be a source of excitement. He was glad at last when the lights returned to the carriage and the driver announced that the journey would shortly be commencing. It was a minor incident but it was the tiny spark that touched the tinder, the wind that fanned the flame.

When Beaton went to bed that evening, the ghost of his feelings that day returned to him in the night time of his room. He couldn't sleep and he lay awake and imagined that he was still in the tunnel, with all the other passengers, waiting. He began a train of thought in which he likened the Town to the broken down carriage. Everyone in the night time of the Town waiting in the shadows for the lights to come back on and for the world to wake up and start moving again. In his fantasy he roamed the night like a phantom, hovering over the townsfolk, drinking in their fear like a bat with a humming birds beak. Noiselessly beating his wings as he fluttered from house to house. He was the shadow caught in the corner of the eye, the devil waiting at the foot of the bed. He wished he was death. Beaton felt something snap inside of him and sunk beneath the weight of his loneliness. He was gripped by a terrible fear that he had hitherto never felt before. It was the fear of obscurity, of never being realised. A fear that tomorrow will be just the same as yesterday was and that nothing would ever change for. On and on it would go, like the waves on the shore. Turning him over like a stone, rolling and wearing him down into nothing. He heard once again the terrible scream of a frightened child but it was merely the cry of the foxes in the garden. Beaton wished that somebody would step on his foot to shake him from this waking dream. He knocked his head with his fists and the hot fat tears rolled down his face but the lights stayed out and he sobbed like he was a child, there was no driver here to start this train again.

Tuesday 20th

His alarm had not woken him, he was sure he had set it. He felt for his watch on the side cabinet. He ran his thumb over its shattered face. Rough slices marred its smooth glass surface.

'It must have happened in the crush of people on the train.' He stretched the gold metal wrist band over his hand. His arm would always felt naked without his watch. He looked out the window at the dead leaves and the sodden lawn. The bare trees, like biology textbook drawings of capillary systems, were stamped onto a skyline of cheap red brick houses. The cold steel frames of the gas works rising on the horizon above the empty sports field and the humped ramparts made by the railway tracks. Clouds of white steam from next doors boiler drifted past his window and melted into the grey sky. The scene outside gave him no clues as to what time of day it was. He realised that this place did not know him at this time of day at this point in the week. He should have been at work.

'I could still call in, they would understand', he picked up the receiver but placed it back down immediately. 'I seem to spend most of my times financing these empty rooms and I'm hardly ever even here at all.' Standing stock still he listened carefully, straining his ears. The rattle of the boiler, the ticking of a clock on the mantle, a cooing of a pigeon perched on the chimney above, the sound of hammering off in the distance. This house didn't need him, it didn't even want him here, it ran perfectly well all by itself. He fixed himself some breakfast of coffee, two slices of toast, butter and marmalade. He munched on his breakfast whilst listening to the radio. The weatherman warned of record breaking snowfall in the coming days.

Beaton walked past the dismal rows of terraced houses that were common to that part of his town. Their pebble dashed facades streaked with years of black grime from burst gutters and hoppers clogged with moss and leaves. There was little sign of life on the weekday street. A man working on a roof was doing something to a chimney stack. The postman with his bicycle receded from view then reappeared as he played out his daily dance down the road from door to door. A cat blinked from a sitting room window. The few shops and businesses on the estate had long since closed down or moved away. Beaton tried to recall how they had changed over time.

'That used to be the old fire station.' he thought to himself 'and after that it was a video shop. The one on the corner was the butchers and that became a nail bar. In the end all we had were nail bars and beauty salon. Nothing of any use to anyone any more.' He kicked at a flattened can as he walked along, it bounced and rattled up the street. 'All people want is shit. Shit, shit and more shit. They don't really know they're actually alive.'

A narrow lane cut through to some garages and led around to the back of an abandoned factory and their derelict workshops. He crossed an open car lot that was used by some of the townsfolk as a popular dumping ground. Weeds had begun to reclaim the concrete surface that was crumbling and pock marked in places. An upturned sofa, it's lining torn and the springs exposed. Car tyres, a shopping trolley, a stack of half burnt pallets on a sodden mattress. A rusting yellow generator forgotten, filthy and flyblown. Itself a victim of the numerous types of failed contracts, lost opportunities and half hearted regeneration projects that came and went and never came back again. The money finally running out. At the end of the lot was a muddy path through some tall nettles. It was well used by dog walkers and teenagers alike. The high banks of the railway tracks were covered with buddleia and blackberry bushes. Their purple blossom a distant memory, the hard black fruits on the thorny brambles a left over reminder of a summer past. A low tunnel beneath the train tracks opened out onto a disused towpath. The path ran alongside the railway line for some distance before making its own way south away from the town and up to a disused quarry. The canal was mostly dry from water except in a few boggy places. If you looked carefully enough you could still make out the trees that had been planted at even spaces along its route. Beaton always felt like he was walking through the onion layers of time when he walked along here. From the Car park to the Railway tracks and out onto the old canal.

Beaton and not been out here for years. This was the very place he had last spent time with Marie.

'How can you just up and leave somebody, no word, nothing. It was cold, inhuman, heartless.' Maybe they had been too young, maybe he hadn't always been very loving. 'I did try, I did try. I got help but she was the one that gave up on me. I never gave up on her.' After Marie was gone he had scarcely time to grieve for his loss before he had thrown himself back into his work and started reassembling his life. Memories of a young nervous girl with long chestnut curls.

'You know that I love you Beaton and what we share can never be taken away.' He paused to watch a Heron fishing in some shallow water some distance off, 'They're quite rare now', he thought to himself but the memories of Marie still forced themselves back into his head. 'We met at the wrong time' she had said to him once, what did that even mean. 'People meet when they meet, that couldn't be controlled.

The heron made a quick stab at something in the water with its long smooth beak. An excited dog bounded up behind Beaton and with a flapping of it's great wings the Bird launched itself up into the air. The concentric ripples on the black oily surface calmed and faded and all traces of the magnificent creature were finally gone. The Springer Spaniel stared up at Beaton, with it's tongue lolling and a keen idiotic expression.'

'You scared her off you stupid fool.' he muttered to himself. He patted the dogs flanks and ruffled the hair under its chin but on hearing a shrill whistle the dog up and went in a burst of excitement back in the direction it had come from. The happy, contented, dutiful dog.

The dark brown limbs of the trees were touched with fine filaments of gold. The winter sun was weak and low and the pale sky faded into a hazy brown where it fell behind the woods up ahead. He had been walking the tow path for a good while it seemed. The temperature dropped as he entered the woods. The canopy let little light through its tangled thatch to create a gloomy, heavy atmosphere. The path through the woods was high banked on either side and climbed up and away from the tow path. There was little trace of the Town here. The ground was muddy and bare and in places the path became so boggy that Beaton had to pick his way carefully along its banks to get around the wide puddles.

'I wonder what she looks like now, its been so long since I've seen her. I always imagined that we would grow old together. I guess I'm jaded, I just gave up after she left. Its not like I haven't had my chances. The desire has just disappeared.' He had tried to find her several times, aggressively pursuing her for the first three years after her departure. He then hit a dead wall and was forced to give up. Deep down he was glad that he still, in name at least, had a wife but it was the final thing that kept her in his life. It kept him waiting, hoping and even if he knew that she was never coming back, he still at least had a wife. He believed he was in love with her and he nurtured and mourned this unrequited love until it became a source of comfort to him. After all it was the only thing he had left. So Beaton continued to work as if nothing had changed and carried on as he had always done, his home a shrine to the past. Not more than a week ago Marie had rung Beaton. She had demanded a divorce. It was as abrupt as her flight from his life and just as final. He refused. He called her a whore and swore that he would kill her if he ever got his hands on her. She had ruined his life.

The woods began to thin out and the light breaking through was a welcome change from the heavy atmosphere of the dense canopy.

'I always feel I'm being watched in here, the path sits so low, it would be the perfect place for an ambush'.

The path broke free of the trees and ran between two rude wooden fences that cut across a wild meadow for roughly half a kilometre or so. A stile gave way to a wide trackway that ran crosswise to the muddy path he was on. Heading southwards, the trackway climbed upwards as it hugged the steep brow of the valley side. The ground rolling away to his left revealed the Town below. Its rows of houses laid out before him, his whole world so small, so tiny. Maybe this was where Marie had been when she had made up her mind to leave him and never come back.

'What have I waited here for. Preserving a dead memory while she's been carrying on like I never existed.'

The clumps of trees in the distance gave a deceptive impression of how large the wooded quarry actually was. At one time the whole of the landscape was dominated by the great forests that ran the length and breadth of the country. Now the towns and cities with their surrounding agricultural and industrial landscapes had divided and scarred the land. Forcing the trees to retreat, to cluster in the nooks of valleys and crowd along the edges of rivers and lakes. The trackway approached the old stone quarry from above and from this angle the woods appeared to be little more than a small grove. The trees covering the descending slopes of the hillside formed what was a surprisingly large forest littered with the disused mining pits that had once been the main source of the towns wealth. Huge white dolomites of oolitic limestone had been heaved from the bowels of this earth and transported on the canals all over the countryside. An enterprise which was in its own way as every bit as breathtaking as the construction of stonehenge or some such ancient monument.

The entrance to the woods ran around the tops of the largest of the pits. Beaton had always been surprised at how easy it was to become lost in here as it all looked so familiar. It was if a giant hand had taken an ice cream scoop to the land and removed great concave chunks from the hillside. From these open cast mines, engineers had dug out a warren of tunnels into the valley side as it had become harder to extract more and more of the stone. Cracks in the earth and sumps were not unknown, rifts in the rich brown earth revealing the clean chalky white glow of the limestone just beneath its surface. A series of small winding paths linked the pits, they were steep and knotted with the roots of trees. Large coiled ferns grew between the boulders that were strewn all around. The ground, alive with rotting leaves, gave off a heady verdant black smell. The air here was always damp, the temperature low.

'This place always feels prehistoric.' Beaton thought to himself. 'It is like stepping into another world. The air feels cooler and the light, there's something different about it. It's like the quarry wants you to be here. I never could really explain it.'

Someone had made a circular hearth of large stones in one of the pits. The stones were burnt ashen white along their inner wall. An empty vodka bottle in a blue plastic bag. Further along he found the severed rope swing dangling, ominous, a hangman's noose. The blue nylon rope was tied to a thick tree limb jutting out over a sheer drop, its ends frayed and worn like the tail of a horse. It had been there ever since he was a boy. The walls of the cliff formed the shape of a horse shoe. He peered over the edge, it made him feel a little queazy. There were too many childhood ghosts in these woods for him to ever feel like he was alone. Another life buried beneath the one which he had created for himself. The mild mannered man that his colleagues at work knew and his neighbours saw, a million miles away from the person he saw inside. The real Beaton that Maria had finally discovered for herself. The man who she had discovered that made her leave hand never come back.

At the bottom of the pit was the wreck of a burnt out old motorbike. Somebody had thrown down some tins of paint, there were large purple splatter marks on some of the rocks below. He made his way down along the top of the cliff edge until he reached the bottom of the pit. He looked up to where he had been standing. The rope swing didn't seem so high from down here. The old bike lay on its side.

'I wonder if they drove it off the top or set it alight from down here?'

He turned over one of the paint tins with his foot. Black water slopped out onto his shoe. At the bottom of the tin was a thick hard crust of dried purple paint. Beaton made his way through the boulder field towards the base of the cliff. The cave entrance was like the gaping maw of some hungry beast. Its grimacing mouth turned down at each corner. Although at first you had to crouch to enter inside, the floor quickly fell away into a large domed entrance chamber.

'Marie was always so scared of this place. She hated it, wouldn't come in with me. Said that it gave her the creeps to think about all the miners who were trapped and killed.

There were two tunnels leading directly off of the entrance chamber. Two black sockets quarried from the skull white rock. The walls were sprayed with graffiti. Some of it the work of kids but most of it was the work of caving enthusiasts who had explored and surveyed the mines. Arrows and letters in varying colours gave directions to various routes through and around the hillside. Beaton took the tunnel to the right. Great hulking pieces of limestone had fallen from the roof of the cave and he had to scramble over them to continue. As the tunnel began to bend the light faded and his legs refused to take him any further. He was about to turn and make his way back but something made him hesitate.

'What was she so afraid of in here'. There was nothing down here save for the darkness and the rock. He sat down on a low flat slab, the cold seeped through his trousers into the backs of his thighs. 'Why should anyone be afraid of the dark'. It was no accident that he found himself here, he knew it existed and he had chosen to come here. But why?

In the midst of the deafening silence he heard the clatter of a stone falling. A sound that echoed through the tunnel and was made louder by a complete lack of sound and sight. Most likely the click clack of loose stones falling from a crack in the crumbling ceiling. A logical, innocent, explainable noise that turned Beaton's blood into glue and sent his whole body into a spasm, his whole being rigid with fear.

'What was it, what could it be, but nothing, did I hear it at all. I should leave, this is

ridiculous, I should be at work not scaring myself down here, what was I thinking'. The noise replayed in his head, again and again. Each time it was amplified and distorted, over and over. He gave it a face, a body, a translucent shell. A thousand rangy insect limbs crept towards him. Moving through the dark, an eyeless white insect that crept towards him, aware of his every move. It reached out a feeler to touch him. Suddenly his legs were free again and moving with great speed, he ran towards the entrance chamber and clambered up the steep slope. The scree beneath his feet gave way underfoot and the world came crashing up to hit him in the chest. Rolling over and lying on his back, he looked up into the canopy above him and laughed at what his own childish fear had made him do.'You fool, you stupid fool.'

The first flakes of snow that winter drifted down. They briefly clung to his skin before melting away. He lay like that for a while with his eyes closed. His hands resting on his stomach, he ran his hands up over his rib cage.

'I'm so hungry, It must be lunch time. I must of just forgot'.

The light was beginning to fade but it must have been only just a little past three in the afternoon. Raising himself onto his elbow, Beaton looked out across the approach to the mine entrance. There on a rock, no less than a few metres stood a large Alsatian dog. It was staring at him like a ghost from the past, he didn't know how long it had been there. The wiry brown and black fur of its coat was well camouflaged against the dim shades of the trees and the rocks. Behind him and further off in the distance stood a woman. She wore a green waxed jacket and was holding a leash. From such a distance, he could not tell if she was young or old. Her mousey blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail. Her face was lean, her stare was blank and gave nothing away.

'Maybe she doesn't see me, she maybe looking at the dog'.

As he went to raise his hand to say hello the woman turned and continued on her way and passed from view. The Alsatian, turned to watch the woman disappear, took one more look at Beaton and then hurried off in the same direction. The silver loops of its collar jingling as he went.

Beaton got up dusted himself down and walked to a bikeway that ran in front of the face of the quarry. There was no sign of anyone. A thin footpath led down the hillside through undergrowth that was tangled thick with dark green ivy. The path left the woods and met a steep road at the back of some allotments near to a small housing estate and some wooden sheds. The street lamps had come on and from where he stood, Beaton could see the lights of the city laid out before him in the distance. A dense cluster of orange and yellow stars. He Stumbled forward down the hill as fast as he could go with an aching hunger deep in his gut and his fingers numb with the cold. The road soon levelled out at the bottom of the hill where a low stone bridge forded a weir. The buildings here were much older than those further up the hill and although at one point this small medieval hamlet had boasted six public houses, today only one remained. The two storey building was low and long made of the limestone pulled down from the quarry above. The pains of the leaded windows winked as he walked by. Inside looked warm and welcoming. Fitting then that it should have been aptly named The Quarrymen's Arms.
Chapter II

Pushing open the door and stepping over the threshold it took just three more paces to reach the bar. The ceiling was low and bridged by ancient oak beams. From the wood panelled walls hung the types of fittings and fixtures typical to public houses up and down the country. A fruit machine blinked in the corner. To the left, a good fire blazed in a good sized hearth. Hanging above the chimney breast was a huge rusted double handled bucksaw, its steel serrated edge with teeth as big as any found in the skull of a shark. A relic from the quarries themselves. A middle aged couple were sitting before the fire on a worn red leather sofa drinking and chatting amongst themselves. They didn't look up. To Beaton's right was a series of small wooden seating booths divided by screens of dark mahogany and frosted glass. In one of them, all alone, was an old man reading a newspaper. At the far end of the room two men held counsel over a round wooden table like two monks. One was in his early twenties and the other looked to be in his fifties. They could have been father and son but it was clear by their body language that they were not. Beaton chose an empty bar stool and rested his foot on the brass rail. The counter was tarnished with cloudy white water stains. The beer matts were grubby, there corners fibrous and blown from being used long after they should have been thrown away. He read the names of the beers on the pump handles. He didn't recognise any of them. He wasn't much of a beer drinker and he couldn't remember the last time he had been in a public house. Probably some work do he had been obliged to attend. Behind the bar was a mirror with shelves running across it. The shelves contained different coloured bottles of various shape and size. Bar snacks, in their metallic plastic wrappings hung from their cardboard backings. A chalk board that may once have had a menu or wine list on it had been hastily scrubbed out. A door behind the bar was slightly ajar but not nearly enough as to allow anyone to see inside. Beaton looked around to catch an eye but nobody seemed responsible for running the place. He thought about ringing the shiny brass bell that hung from the glass racks above the counter but he was not that brave. He turned on his bar stall and rested his elbows behind him on the counter top. He was studying the flames in the fireplace. They danced and licked and nipped out at the heavy log which looked as if it was squashing the life out of the glowing embers it rested upon.

'What'll it be' came a voice behind Beaton. He turned around. Standing behind the bar was a man in his late sixties. He had a full auburn beard. His hair was chestnut brown and streaked with grey at the sides. He was tall, thick set with a ruddy red complexion. He rested his two hands on the top of a beer pump like a lumberjack might lean on the haft of an axe.

'Do you have a menu please?' replied Beaton.

'No menu i'm afraid, all we have here you can see in front of you' Beaton looked around as though he was searching for something, he looked at the scrubbed out black board hopefully.

'You don't serve food.'

'No sir, as I said everything is right here. We got pork scratchings, peanuts and crisps,

plenty of crisps, if its a restaurant your wanting then you'll have to go into town.'The barman straightened himself up as if defending the honour of the pub.

'No, no its fine. I'll have a packet of crisps and a packet of pork scratchings, please.'

'You won't be wanting a drink?'.

'A drink, yes a drink too of course.' He looked around the bar again, searching.

'Do you have wine?' The barman released a short sigh from his nostrils.

'We don't have wine, If it's a wine bar your wanting then you'll...'

'No, no thats fine, beer is fine. I'll take that one there.' Beaton tapped the pump that the barman was leaning on.

'Right O then.' Bringing down a glass from above the bar and placing it below the brass tap, the barman pulled on the pump. He leaned his body into his work as though it took a great deal of strength to draw the liquid up from the casks in the basement below. The glass filled with the amber brown liquid, a weak foam settling on its surface. The barman set the glass down unceremoniously on the bar, causing the contents of the glass to slosh onto his hand. He wiped it on a grimy looking towel that was thrown across his shoulder.

'There ye are, anything else for yer?'

'No, thank you, thats fine.'

'Then that'll be four seventy please sir.'

Beaton paid the barman with a five pound note, received his change and carried his beer and his bar snacks to the back of the pub, as far from the publican as was possible. He sat in one of the empty booths near to the two men who were huddled over their table locked in conversation. He tentatively took a sip from his pint. The beer was warm and flat and tasted sour. He opened the pork scratchings, and bit into one. As his upper teeth worked to bite through the thick crust of the pig skin his lower teeth sunk into its soft moist underside.

'Ugh, Christ, thats awful' It was salty and unpleasant. He pulled another scratching from the bag and held it up for inspection. He could see the hairs on the surface of the brown fried skin. 'What was I thinking?' He decided in stead to eat the peanuts. 'You know where you stand with peanuts.' he thought to himself.

He dumped the bag of scratchings into a large ashtray, a couple of them fell into his lap. He started to work on opening the packet of roasted peanuts. Something powerful and heavy shoved against his legs beneath the table making them jerk upwards in surprise, bashing his knees hard against the table top. Everything on the table jumped. The glass tumbled sideways sending a flood of spilt beer fanning across the table and cascading over the edges.

'Shit, shit, shit'. Beaton stood up and and wiped at his beer soaked trousers with his bare hands. The dog continued to root around under the table between his legs. A large wagging tale visible standing up at the end of the table.

'Kaiser, get. Get out a there, get. Go on, off with you!'

The barman rushed at the table and heaved the great beast out by its collar. He gave the animal a swift kick and set about mopping up the mess. The dog ran behind the bar and through the adjoining door. The two men on the next table who had been watching this all taking place, began to laugh loudly.

'He's got a nose on him thats for sure' said the younger man.'A right nose for trouble, hey mike you should have got a smaller dog or a bigger pub.' They continued to laugh whilst the barman's face blackened with suppressed rage beneath his knitted brows. He continued to soak up the beer with sodden balls of blue paper towel. Beaton standing in the corner silently like a scolded child, still holding the almost empty pint glass.

'Why don't the two of you's get the fuck home, that'll make plenty more room in here, or maybe you fancy a kick up the arse too'. The two men laughed again and went back to talking amongst themselves. 'I'll get you another drink, I'm sorry about your trousers. That Kaiser's got a keen sense of smell and is stubborn as an ox to boot. If you go into the gents you'll find a hand dryer to dry off with, here take some of these.' The barman handed Beaton a wad of paper towel.

'Thanks, It's fine. Honest, could I think I just have a glass of water instead.'

'Right O, suit yerself, water it is.' Beaton could sense that the barman had already had quite enough of his new customer.

The toilets were cold and rank, the white tiles cracked and yellowing. The blue cakes that littered the metal urinal trough could not hide the overwhelming smell of piss. There was a single cubicle at the far end of the room with a single tiny sash window. Next to the sink was a hand dryer. He placed his hands beneath the chrome funnel and waited for the warm air to start. He lifted one leg up to get closer to the warmth, lifting the wet canvas away from his skin with one hand. The machine wasn't very powerful.

'This might take some time.'

Beaton noticed a condom machine next to the hand dryer. As he was reading the options available, one of the men from the table next to him walked in and started to piss loudly into the urinal.

'Feeling lucky, eh fella.' Beaton had always hated idle chit chat and Idle chit chat was even worse when people tried to conduct it in public toilets.

'No, not lucky at all actually.'

'Never mind, never mind, your not the first person to have lost there drink to that stupid old dog, damn things a pest. If it wasn't for her fawning over the damn thing like a child, I'm sure Mike would have got rid of it years ago. That old heap of bones is bad for business. The dog I mean.' The man winked and grinned. Beaton switched legs beneath the dryer and gave the other one a go.

'So that dog belongs to Mikes wife then?'

'Well it belonged to the boy, Jonathan was his name. He loved that dog. They were best of buddies. Ahh, sad, real sad it was.' The man had stopped pissing and after buttoning himself away, stood swaying in front of the sink. 'Just a little boy when he died, no parent should lose a child. It's unnatural is what it is.'The man staggered out of the toilets leaving Beaton stood on one leg holding his knee in the air. The sound of the hand dryer humming loudly.

Beaton went back to his chair. There was a glass of water with lemon waiting for him. The barman had gone. The men talked amongst themselves as before. The old man still read his newspaper, the couple remained coupled. Still standing he sipped at his water and pocketed the unopened bag of peanuts. He made his way to the door quickly and out into the street. The air felt cold on the damp patches around his crotch, the snow was still falling.

'So it is Jonathan's dog. The family hasn't moved after all these years. All these years and still here, why were they still here, strange to meet again after all this time.' It was a long walk home but he had his memories to keep him company.

Wednesday 21st

Beaton awoke in the cold grey dawn with an aching in his belly. He had not set his alarm clock again but he knew that it was still early. He fixed himself a plate of eggs and washed it down with several cups of coffee. He went to the phone by the kitchen door, picked it up and dialled. The last phone call had been yesterday. It was his office number. He returned the receiver to the cradle and walked over to the kitchen sink. Outside it was snowing still, it had settled about and inch or so. He took a pencil from a cup on the window sill and sat back down at the kitchen table. On a scrap of paper he began to write out a list. Out in the hallway, by the coat stand, was a low wooden coal scuttle with brass fittings that was now used for storing shoes. Opening up the wooden door at the front, Beaton reached in a pulled out an old blue canvas rucksack with leather straps. He untied the string around its neck and emptied its contents back into the metal drawer inside the wooden box. The bag had been filled with old tins of shoe polish, shammy leathers and brushes. Back in the kitchen he found some cans of soup and a tin of sardines and put them in the bag. In a draw by the cooker he found a box of safety matches and a flashlight. He switched it on. Nothing happened. Unscrewing the cap at the base of the handle, he removed the large cylindrical batteries, a green and white crust had oozed from the contact points and dried there. He threw the batteries to the back of the drawer and added torch to the contents of the bag. He opened the cutlery draw and removed a sharp knife and a tin opener.

From the window sill he took a small pad of paper and a pen. He went upstairs to his bedroom and started to rummage around at the back of the cupboard. He pulled out an old brown woollen blanket, the sort of thing that looked as if it was only good now for lining the boot of a car. He spread it out onto the bed and dumped the contents of the bag on top of it. Taking the four corners of the blanket he gathered together the miscellany of objects in a tight bundle and forced it back into the canvas bag. He put on thick woollen socks and squeezed his feet into a pair of stout leather hiking boots. He dusted of an old pair of his fathers pigskin driving gloves and put them into the pocket of his duffle coat. In the other pocket he found his navy blue knitted hat. He pulled it down over his ears, checked that he had his wallet on him and swung the bag over his shoulder. He stood like this for a few minutes in the centre of the room, thinking. Back downstairs in the kitchen he made a thermos of coffee and put it in the bag with the rest of his things. After checking over in his mind that there was nothing that he might had forgotten he closed the front door behind him. The latch clicked into place with the assured spring loaded sound of mechanical finality. It was this sound that reminded him that he had forgotten to take his keys from the nightstand table. He patted himself down hopefully but he knew already that they were still sitting in the dish upstairs where he had left them last night.

'Oh well' He thought. 'I will have to work that one out later.'

He was glad to be away from the house again, he couldn't help feeling unwelcome there during the daytime. He took the bus into town and rode it all the way to the main station. He had forgotten that it would be Christmas day in only a weeks time and he was surprised how busy the high street was for a weekday morning.

It was the second time that she had seem him in as many days and both times purely by chance and in two very different locations. She had first encountered him on the previous afternoon whilst walking Kaiser in the quarry. The man was lying on his back looking up at the falling rain and he appeared to be laughing. It was the very same spot where they had found Jonathan lying. On his back on the cold cold ground, his face wet with the rain. The second time she saw him, he was walking down the high street carrying a rucksack. He moved through the crowd with purpose, he looked as if he was deep in thought.

'Strange that I should see him twice now when I had never seen him at all before. As well, to see him lying in that exact same spot.' She decided to follow him, she realised it was a strange thing to do but she decided that it couldn't hurt to follow him for a short distance at least. It was the memory of Jonathan lying still on the quarry floor that spurned her on to do it. No one would know, the streets were busy with Christmas shoppers. The man weaved his way through the throng. It was not so easy to keep up with him. It was snowing and the umbrellas made it difficult at times to keep a clear view of where he was. A navy blue wooly hat bobbing in and out from view. She saw the man turn and enter a hardware store so she followed him in. The shop was not very busy at all. She saw him talking to a man behind the counter who pointed to the back of the store. The man moved off in that direction. She started to feel a little uncomfortable now that she was away from the crowds on the high street

'Can I help you madame?' She stumbled over the words in her mouth.

'Err, no, ah... not really. Just browsing, just having a look around.' As soon as she had said it she realised how ridiculous it sounded. She hurried on past the clerk down one of the aisles 'Just browsing, you idiot. Good job your not a detective.'

The shop smelt of freshly cut pine. The aisle was filled with boxes of screws and nails. Great spools of fencing chain. One wall contained a variety of door handles in various styles. She picked up a box of drill bits and pretended to read the packaging. The man was just around the corner at the end of the aisle. He was choosing some batteries from a rack. In his other hand he carried a large roll of blue rope.

The rope, that blue rope.' she thought 'Its the same blue rope, the same rope he used.'

Emma backed away and walked to the front of the store. She went to go out through the door and into the street when an alarm went off. She looked down and saw the drill bits still in her hand. She threw them on the floor and ran back out into the street. It was as if she had seen a ghost. That man, who she had seen lying in the exact same spot as she had found her son, was now, here, in front of her holding a coiled length of blue rope tightly in his hand.'

Beaton bought some batteries to replace those which he had removed from the torch. He also found a long reel of waxed gardening twine, some blue synthetic rope and a box of white candles. When Beaton went up to the counter to pay for his items he was aware that some sort of a commotion had taken place. The security alarm had gone off and a teller had run out into the street after someone.

'Probably just kids trying to steal spray paint' he thought to himself. He paid for the few items in his basket and returned to the high street.

He looked at his list. Further along was a camping store. After some time browsing the shelves he bought a sleeping bag, a small camping stove and some replacement gas canisters. He went to leave the store and he stopped. It was snowing heavily outside now.

'I've never seen it snowing so much this time of year.' announced the young girl behind the counter.

They reckon we're certain to have a white Christmas.''

'Yes, I suppose if it settles then we will.' replied Beaton.

'Do you sell rain jackets? This jacket is already damp'. The young girl directed him to a rail at the back of the shop near a wall of hiking shoes. He found the cheapest one he could find and paid for it.

He asked the girl to remove the tags with some scissors and pulling it on over the duffle coat, he walked out into the snow. He looked a little odd with the skirt of the brown duffle coat poking out from the waist band of the raincoat but he didn't seem to care. Beaton bought a sandwich from the bakers and walked back to the bus station eating it as he went. Instead of returning home he caught a bus that was going in the opposite direction.

The bus dropped him off a mile or so beyond the village. He crossed the road and climbed a stile that led into a steeply sloping pasture. Some cows were grazing in the corner of the field on a patch of stubbly grass that was exposed beneath the shade of some trees. The path through the field was well used by walkers but was now hidden beneath fresh virgin snow. He passed close to an old pill box that was half hidden in a patch of scraggy bushes. The concrete had blown in places to reveal the rusting steel struts inside its skin. The walls were heavily graffitied, it smelt strongly of piss. As a child he had played inside of the structure. The path wound through and open gate and into another field. The ground was boggy where the cow herd had churned the the mud around a water trough. The standing water in the puddles was frozen solid. The trough contained a milky green block of ice. At the top of the field he followed the line of the hedgerow until he found another stile that led out onto the steep road that ran from the village up to the quarry. The woods were directly opposite him but he continued to climb until he reached the old allotments and the sheds where he had last exited the quarry. The white flakes drifted down steadily and the unpressed snow on the ground was a few inches deep. Patches of brown frozen mud and leaves, churned and rutted, could be seen in those places protected by the canopy of the larger deciduous trees. The rocky ledges of the quarry walls and the tree branches all carried layers of fine snow. The trees in the distance in their muted shades of brown where flecked with fine white strokes as if from the brush of a frantic painter. The scene was transformed, the bright white snow blanketing the floor made it feel less oppressive and the silent, gentle falling flakes carried an airy feeling of peace and tranquility that was normally missing.

'Its like a completely different place now.' Footprints marked out the trails through the pits. The hollow approach to the mouth of the cave was silent. The pitch black of the cavity, a stark contrast, against the glare of the snow. He ducked into the mine entrance and slid down the slope.

There was reputed to be a place in the mines known as the Abbey. Beaton had never been there himself but as a young boy growing up it had become a legend amongst himself and his friends. They talked of finding it but were always too afraid to venture very far into the dark. The abbey was rumoured to be at the very heart of the hillside. It was a large cavernous space that had been blasted out of the rock with dynamite. Its walls were sheer and the vaulted ceiling was punctured with a hole where a capstone ought to be. In Beaton's mind the darkness of this megalithic tomb was lanced with a finger of pure white light that flooded in from the world above. Beneath this beam of light was a deep well, chiseled from the rock, it was fed by the spring water that filtered through the valley. The well had once supplied fresh spring water to the miners in the caves and the workers above ground. A bucket was hauled up through the cavern and out through the hole at the top. They had never discovered this breach in the valley side that led to the abbey but it was said to be capped with an iron grill. Tales of the dark magical waters in the deep pool, of wishes made when the moon shone in. Of hermits and creatures that lived and protected the abbey from intruders. Conspiracies of tunnels that led to secret military bunkers built during the cold war. They talked about all of these things with fervour and vivid imagination. Beaton had even remembered talk of a tool that was kept in the village. This tool was used to open a grate inside the mines that would lead to the Abbey. Without the tool it was impossible to reach. As the friends grew older and drifted apart, they lost interest in the mines and its mysteries were past on to a knew generation of children to wonder over. He had found the location when he was in his mid twenties, he was struck how un interesting it was. He figured that was just what growing up was all about. Things just became less exciting.

All of this Beaton had forgotten but as soon as he had stepped into the woods he remembered everything. His plan was simple. There were two main tunnels leading from the entrance chamber where he now stood. He shone the torch around the chamber and looked at the arrows and symbols sprayed onto the rock.

'These routes mean nothing to me and anyway, how can I be sure that they are accurate. They could be misleading. I will have to make up my own routes' His plan was to map out each of the tunnels, making sure to always follow the line of the wall to his left. It was something he had remembered being told about mazes and it seemed logical, to himself at least, that this technique would work in an underground labyrinth. For Beaton, this methodical way of thinking made the task at hand seem somewhat less daunting. He stashed some of the spare gas canisters from his bag behind a rock along with his new raincoat. He took the garden cord and tied the free end to a large tree root that had been dragged into the cave and half burnt.

'This will be my lifeline to the outside world'. With the torch in his left hand and the twine over his right shoulder he unreeled the slack from the great spool he was holding and stepped forward into the deepening warren of darkness.

Emma now knew where to find him next should she want to. Now that she was sure in her mind that it was not by coincidence that she had found the man in the quarry. She had seen him lying in the same position on the very same spot she had discovered her dead child. Then the very next day, she had seen this stranger again. She had followed him into a shop only to see him holding in his hands a blue rope. That blue rope, the same rope that had broken, that had snapped and sent Jonathan falling to his death. No that could not simply have been a coincidence. These things spoke directly to Emma. They formed logical patterns in her grief stricken mind.

'There is meaning behind these symbols.' she told herself. 'I cannot ignore them, to ignore them is to ignore my Jonathan.'

This was the way she rationalised a world without her son. She had done so for years. It was the reason she still lived and walked in the shadow of the quarry. Her cheeks hollowed thin from over a decade of worrying, reliving that day, every day. Over and over, and her living here, with her husband still healthy, alive whilst Jonathan lay buried in the ground. Her living was an abomination against her sons memory. No parent should ever experience the death of a child, it is opposed to all natural laws.

She grabbed her umbrella and scarf from behind the door and told her husband that she was going out to post some Christmas cards. It was an excuse that was designed for herself. It was barely even acknowledged by her Husband. Mike was busy helping the delivery man move the steel beer barrels from off of the lorry and down into the basement. She left Kaiser at home in the warm. She could have done with the company but he was an old man now and his back legs had started to cause him pain. It would have been selfish to drag him out into the snow and the cold. Besides, Kaiser didn't seem to like the Quarry either. Jonathan had help raise Kaiser from when he was just a puppy and they had gone everywhere with each other. He had been with Jonathan on the day of the accident and was probably the only witness to what actually took place that day. He was certainly the last living creature to see Jonathan alive. It was therefore not so strange then that the dog did not always seem to enjoy his walks through those woods up on the hill.

There was an open bed lorry parked a little way up the road. Two men where shovelling brown grit from the back of it and raking it across the ground. She walked past the post office and the primary school.

'I used to meet Jonathan at those gates', She thought to herself, 'He hated it when I did. He wanted to walk home alone but I wouldn't let him. Funny how you imagine all these terrible things that could happen and yet when things really do go bad it's always something else. It's as if fate or God or something is outguessing you at every turn.'

She went on this way in her head as she walked up the hill. Oft times she was distracted by these long moments of thought. A place, a word, or a feeling could carry her away from the present and into meandering avenues of thought. She passed the allotments which she had once tended when they first moved to the village. Memories of small grubby hands pulling out clumps of radishes from the loose black soil.

'He said it was like finding treasure, couldn't pronounce his r's, little dear. Wadishes, he would call them. Wed wadishes. They looked so unnatural coming out the ground, so bright and red.'

And so on she went reminiscing like this as she walked into the woods, a running Eulogy to the memory of her son. She knew every path through the wooded Quarry and even under it's blanket of snow she found her way easily.

'Those must be his tracks.'

She followed them into the rock amphitheater and approached the mouth of the cave. She daren't look up. She knew what was hanging there and she daren't look up. She knew that under the snow was the exact spot where her child had fallen when she had cut him down. She had sat there many times and cried. It was easier to pass over with the snow to hide it. The footsteps disappeared with the snow. A slope of loose rock stones and grit led down into the entrance chamber of the mine. She ducked under and slid into the cave. She stood stark still and listened. There was nothing.

'I know your in here, I know.' As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she looked about. There was no obvious sign that anyone had been there recently. Someone had gathered together a fire in the middle of the floor but the large gnarled stump was damp and partially charred. She walked the perimeter of the chamber around the central hearth to see if there was something she had missed. Her head was raised, scanning the walls and the ceiling of the cave for clues. Unable to raise her foot to take a step, ensnared in something caught around her legs, Emma came crashing to the floor, stopping herself on her hands and her knees, letting out a short sharp scream.

It was his view that he had been making good progress with his plan but the twine had been a bad idea. He did not have nearly enough of it and it was fast running out. He was fast reaching the point where he would have to make a decision. To tie the twine up and come back with more or to abandon the lifeline and continue without it. It had so far been a source of comfort to him and had helped him to keep going. Knowing that behind him there was a line that led straight out into the light. The air in the tunnel was stale. There was a coldness that seemed to creep right into your clothes and stay there. He regretted not having his raincoat on him. The tunnels were mainly wide, big enough to fit a car down but the floor was strewn with large boulders and rocks that had come crashing down from above. Some of the walls look slick with wet. Small pink stalactites hung from the limestone like frozen earth worms. Several of the side tunnels had collapsed completely. It was frightening to think of the sheer weight that was pressing down from above. At certain strategic places the roof had been jacked up by the engineers with wooden props. It was a testament to their skill and hard work that they still helped to keep the mine shafts open. Still, the thick black timber jambs looked as if they might crumble if prodded too hard.

'This mine is like me in more ways than one. I feel like all my props are slowly crumbling away. At some point my world is going to come crashing down around me.' Beaton pulled the blanket from his bag and spread it across a large rock in a niche cut from a wall. He tied the end of the twine onto a rusted chisel head he had found and rammed it into the ground. He cut the twine and stuffed the ball into his duffle coat pocket. Wedging the handle of the torch between two rocks so that the beam was cast up towards the ceiling he set about assembling the camping stove on the floor at his feet. He twisted the dial on its side and heard the sound of the gas hissing from the valve. He took out the box of matches and after striking it several times a flame sputtered into life. Touching it to the crown of the camping stove a steady ring of blue flame sprang up. He took the can opener and started to work the mechanism around the rim of a tin of ravioli.

'Maybe I am having a nervous breakdown. I've read about thinks like this. Retreats where middle aged men go off into the wild and sit in dark steaming tents around hot stones. I'm too young for that surely. Maybe I am losing my mind."

He levered up the corner of the tin and balanced it on the cooking stove. He adjusted the gas, turning the heat down low. 'No wonder your still single Beaton.' He was actually talking aloud to himself. He was surprised at first to hear his voice fill the open empty space of the tunnel. It wasn't something that he was aware of even doing at first but for some reason it was easier to do here, alone in the dark. His voice bounced and echoed around the cave walls like the thoughts bouncing inside his skull. He felt quite comfortable sitting in his stone niche. The cold was eased somewhat by the heat of form the stove. He stirred the contents of the can with a fork, he licked the fork clean, it was till cold, the taste was metallic. 'Maybe if I had tried to change, maybe Marie might have found reason to stay. No, no she was always going to go. I was too cruel to her, no woman would have put up with that. That house is like a shrine to Marie. You just went straight back to work and carried on like that. Like everything was the same. You didn't really expect to keep going about like that. I mean something had to give didn't it and now your sitting here, in a fucking hole in the ground pondering it all. Well Beaton are you really surprised at how things have turned out. Are you?'

The ravioli was boiling fiercely around the edge of the tin, spluttering hot tomato sauce onto his trousers legs. He hadn't considered how he was going to lift the tin from the stove so he switched it off and waited for it to cool.

'So what are you going to do, you're going to have to face going back to work at some point. There's the bills to pay and the mortgage' He started to feel depressed just thinking about it. 'My life is sham' he shouted. 'My life is a fucking sham.'

The words hung in the dark and dissipated back into the silence that preceded them. These tunnels had been cut out years before Beaton was alive and they would exist years after he was gone. There was something frightening but also reassuring about that. He poured out a cup off coffee from the thermos, it wasn't as hot as he would have liked but the warmth felt good inside of him. Picking the things up from the blanket he put them all back into the rucksack and pulled the blanket around him. Using one of the blankets corners for protection, he picked up the hot tin and forked hot lumps of ravioli into his mouth. When all of them were gone he drank down the tomato sauce. When he was finished he wedged the empty tin can into a crack in the wall. He wiped his mouth on the blanket covering his shoulder and huddled into his corner with another cup of coffee cupped in his hands beneath the blanket. He sat like that for some time staring up at the ceiling where the torchlight was framing a portion of the rock. He was already tired from the past two days he had not slept much and the cold damp air made him feel weary. After a while he ceased to watch and with his eyelids flickering shut his head fell forward and he was asleep. He felt snug inside the small space made between the space of his pulled in knees and his hunched over shoulders. His hot shallow breath and the steam from the coffee warm against his face.

It was a bleak and desolate scrubland. The scorched black earth was peppered with the charred black straws of the burnt meadow. The baked ground stretched as far as the eye could see. His legs moved beneath him picking a route between the burnt clumps of grass that stuck up like roasted pin cushions, his feet were shoeless bleeding and sore. His skin was streaked with the greasy black sweat marks from the falling dust and cinders that drifted in a vast cloud above the valley. He had no plan, no direction, his only thought was to flee the burning red glow, that even now so far behind, still warmed his neck and shoulders. He rested against the blackened stump of a tree. Its charcoaled flesh, pared open, cracked and cubed by the intense heat. He knew that everyone must be gone, nothing could have survived and yet he was still alive. There was a low flat building up ahead, he hadn't seen it at first because it was half set into the side of a low depression in the landscape. As the ground sloped downwards he was able to walk out onto it's rooftop. The building was round, there was a square hatch cut into the centre of the thick concrete with metal rungs leading down. Leaning over the edge he peered inside the bunker. Small eyelets in the wall let a little light filter through into the chamber. The floor glistened with a thin layer of slurry, a mixture of blast dust and drowned out embers. He didn't go in, he had found enough scattered teeth and pieces of charred bone to know what he would find no one inside. He rounded the side of the building, the hard packed earth dropped away like steps that led to a stretch of pebbles and a winding sandbank. The dry dirt crumbled and sheared away beneath his feet as he slid into the river bed. The water had boiled away leaving a white crusted tide mark. A ghost of a river now gone. He followed the path of the river bed, keeping to the shadows cast down from the valley side, coveting the left bank. He meandered this way for quite a time. He was thirsty, his lips parched and blistered, his tongue dry and swollen. Soon he was not even aware of his surroundings he was moving over the landscape like a wind blown spec. He knew that the end must be near at hand but it was the deep rooted instinct for survival that kept his soul and his body attached by that thin golden thread.

It was a small pale hand that rested in his palm. It tugged and pulled at his arm, encouraged him to stand. He followed the child where he was led, it did not concern him or feel strange that this Golden haired boy, dressed in white robes, should have rescue him from near death. He walked, eyes closed and head bent, the child's hand like a cool pebble resting in his hand. The gentle tug on his arm reassuring him that he was safe. They walked in this manner for some time. When he opened his eyes again they were approaching a cliff of black volcanic rock. Rough steps had been cut away and led up to a wide plateau. Once upon the mesa, the silent barefooted child ran on ahead. The young boy motioned at him to follow as he disappeared from view. Confused at first by the vanishing apparition, he walked to where the boy had beckoned him and saw steep steps leading down into the bowels of the black clastic rock. He passed through the deep cut in the escarpment and came to a large bright room. The child was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him. They were standing in an immense room as large as a hangar or a warehouse. It was lined from floor to ceiling with white rectangular tiles and it was so bright inside as to be painful on the eyes. There was no obvious source to this white light which reached every corner of the expanse. Small partitions at even spaces ran along two opposite walls. In the middle of the floor was a dividing barrier about six feet in height, like something you might find in the centre of a shower room. It appeared to act as a screen to obscure the view of the opposing cubicles. In each separate station stood a man. Each man pulled on a heavy manacle, the links as large but thicker than a horseshoe. One end of the chain was shackled around a wrist whilst the other end disappeared into a round hole in the facing wall. These tethers appeared to run over and above their heads to be met by the hands of another man standing fettered to the opposing wall. As they pulled on their irons as if in a tug of war, a tension was created in the air above them. The chains running in parallel lines across the length of the ceiling were like the beams of a roof. Suspended, as if on a colossal hammock, was an immense wooden purlin. He couldn't see for sure but he knew somehow that its surface was carved, like a totem pole, with hideous monsters. The ancient chiseled wood the colour of burnt umber. Its skin tattooed with the faces of ghastly medieval gargoyles, intense, winding and frightening in its unnatural intricacy. It hovered above, an idol to be feared and worshipped. The child led the man to an empty station. The slack coiled links of the chain on the floor looked too heavy to lift. 'Where am I ?' he asked. 'What is this place to which you have brought me?' The child, with a serene smile stretched across his white teeth, closed his eyes and stood like that for a few seconds. He had not said a word to the man since he had met him at the river bed.

'This is hell' laughed the cherubim ' and hell will be your new home.'

It was the scream that woke him. A high pitched screaming noise. Opening his eyes seemed to have little effect it was as dark with them open as it was with them shut. Maybe he had dreamt the scream altogether. He felt disorientated and frightened. His crotch was wet, he stood up banged his head. The cup in his lap clattered on the floor and was lost. He was in a cold sweat and he felt feverish. The nightmare had been vivid. It took him a while to remember where he was. He waited for his eyes to adjust but the only light came from the orange pin prick of the dying torch bulb. The anaemic glow of the metal filament waning. He must have slept for some time for the batteries to have died. He reached down and felt for the torch handle. He pulled it out from between the rocks . Unscrewing the back he felt the two large cylinders slide from the tube into his hand. Gripping the torch between his legs he felt for the canvas bag, his hand sifting through piles of dust and rubble.

'Where are you, where are you damn it?' His other hand spilt the batteries and the screw cap they were holding. 'Fuck.' He hissed the word then froze, still, like a statue. Something was moving towards him.

Emma had got up and dusted herself down, the fall had taken her by surprise but she had found what she was looking for. The garden twine was wrapped around the stump of the charred root. She put away her umbrella and stashed in between the twisting root limbs She picked up one end and following it with her eyes, saw that it disappear into the darkness.

'So that is where you have gone.' She let the twine run through her fingers.

It was all silence and darkness. It was slow going. Her sense of touch, the only way to understand her surroundings.

'What are you doing down here, what do you know about my Jonathan?'

Crouching down as if negotiating a low doorway, she hesitantly moved forward, edging along, a few small footsteps at a time. With one hand she lightly lifted the thread whilst with her other arm she made wide sweeping scanning motions backwards and forwards in front of her body. The twine began to tighten somewhat, it was pulled high against a sharp turn in the tunnel wall. She kept close to the rock face as the mine rounded to the left. She stopped, ducked low.

'What was that, I saw a pin prick of light, he must be close.'

Emma heard shifting, cracking noises like sand being ground into a hard surface and then the light died. There was some muffled cursing close to her left ear, not more than a few metres up ahead. Her heart was racing.

'I'll get a little closer to hear what he is saying then I'll wait till he leaves and follow him.' Reaching out both hands she touch the cool curving facade of a vast boulder. Leaning her weight onto it she crept along its perimeter making sure every step landed and settled softly and surely. The corner turned sharply and she was forced to step up onto a flat rock in order to keep to the edge of the wall. She bowed her head to fit into the recess in the rock.

'This is a good place as any to wait.'

She reached out her left hand to steady her self as she crouched into a more comfortable position. Her hand came to rest on something soft, not expected. she pulled it back quickly and loosing balance tried again. Her fingers pressed against the soft flesh. She felt the hard angular bone resisting underneath the skin. Her mouth sucked in air but she failed to scream. She was sprung from the ledge and she was falling, falling, down towards the ground. A flash of white light exploded behind her eyes as her head was Jacknifed sideways, wrenched away from her right shoulder as her head hit the floor. The neck folding cockeyed underneath her body with a load cracking sound.

Maybe it had been the confusion of waking from the dream combined with the feeling of a separation from his senses cause by his isolation in that darkness. Whatever the reason, it appeared to Beaton that his fantasy was being fulfilled.

'It was just as I had imagined it would happen, like in the darkness of the train carriage with the people at my mercy, not knowing I was there.'

It was as if this body, this life was given to him in the darkness, a gift from God. He shoved at the body in front of him. He heard it fall to the ground, there was a bright snapping noise like the sound of a dry branch being broken under foot. Frantically patting at the floor blindly with his hands till he found a large piece of stone. He felt along the body till he reached the face, bringing the rock down, once, twice, three times. He slipped his hands around the neck but he could feel from the jutting bone, that the neck was already broken. There was no point in throttling what was already dead. He sat panting on all ours above the body, he felt spent. It was not a sexual feeling he did not feel aroused by the thought or the act of killing. It was the feel of a life beneath his hands that excited him, not death. That he had the choice to give or to take but it was always more satisfying to take. When the adrenalin had left him cold he searched the ground for the twine that led the way out of the cave. He pulled it taught in his left hand and holding out his right arm, began to feel for the wall to steady his way. At times he scrambled like an animal on all fours when at points the surface of the cave became to rocky to run across. Even when he had seen the dull light of the entrance chamber ahead he did not slow down. Only after he had climbed the loose dirt bank and was out into the open did he collapse onto the ground to pause for breath. His mind was reeling, he was in a state of utter confusion. From dreaming to waking, to fleeing, it had all seemed to have taken barely a few seconds and none of it made any sense in his mind. He thought about his raincoat stashed behind the rock but he was to freaked to return. 'Who was inside there, what did I do?' He picked himself up again 'I have to keep moving, move, move.'

He was unsure as to where he was going exactly. The sunlight was fading and the snow stood out a pale blue against the black trees. His only concern was to head towards the road.

'Get out of the woods, get out of the woods.' he repeated it over and over to himself. His clothes became snagged on old bramble bushes as he pulled himself through shrubs and vaulted over the fallen trunks of trees. He carved his own pathway through the dense undergrowth until he burst free of the tree line and over a steep embankment that hugged the road. He sat there on the tarmac a little stunned at having not seriously hurt himself. There was a car coming down the hill towards him. He quickly stood and turning his back on the beam of the headlights he walked as casually as he could downhill. The car slowed to pass him and then picked up speed. The red tail lights dimming from view. He set out into a jog his skin burning hot beneath his coat. He felt the sweat slick on his chest sticking to his shirt. In a few minutes he was at the base of the hill. He knew that he was a mess and he could feel the long red welts on his hands and his face start to sting as they rose.

'I can't get a bus, I would look to much of a sight.'

He walked the main A road back into town. It took him well over an hour but he didn't seem to notice. There was plenty for him to think about. The cold crept into his body and soon he was numb.

'What have I done, I don't know what just happened up their.' It was only when he had reached the front doorstep that he remembered. 'My fucking door keys'

Hollis Bergan had just started the evening shift. She was happy to get out of the house. Leo and Greg had been driving her crazy all afternoon until her mother had arrived to take the reigns. She had been late in again and she could tell by Steve's expression that he was pissed off with her. She dumped her bag in the locker room. Steve was waiting when she came out.

'Don't you look at me that way Steve, I had some...'

'Child care issues, every week it's child care issues'

'Wait till Carys has got her own, then you'll understand.'

'I'll understand when you turn up on time for a change. You know that you're gonna get in a whole lot of shit with Coxy if you keep this up.'

'Yeah, Yeah, I know. What are you in a hurry for anyway, to be told to fuck off by a gang of ten year olds. I get enough of that at home'

They walked their beat, the streets were quiet. The drop in temperature meant that most people were staying in doors for the night. The houses, strung with fairy lights, the windows dressed with trees, doorways decorated with festive wreaths. It created a disarming atmosphere, there was something childishly nostalgic behind it.

'God, I can't wait for this one to be over. Every year I want less and less to do with Christmas.'

'Did you hear yesterday. There was a fight over at that new Tesco's in town. Two grown adults fighting over a turkey. Guy punched the girl in the belly, she was six months pregnant and what the hell for. A dead bird.'

'Good will to all mankind eh!'

It had been snowing hard for full day now and it was really beginning to pile up. It was a good four inches deep.

'The schools will probably be closed tomorrow.'

'Everything will be closed tomorrow, this country can't handle a bit of snow.'

There was a call over the radio.

'We have a disturbance over at 23 Glovers Lane, possible break in reported by a neighbour at number 21. Suspect is still believed to be at the scene.'

'Roger that, we're on our way'.

'Well, that'll be us then I guess. So much for a quite one.'

'Hollis lifted her cuff and checked her watch. I reckon it'll take us five minutes to get there if we trudge. We'll probably even arrive before the panda can plough through all this white stuff.'

They passed through a small housing estate and crossed a sports field. There was some kids on mopeds grouped near the swings. One of them through a snowball. It smashed into a tree trunk, leaving a white powdery blister on the bark.

'Oi you, get those bikes out of here.' Hollis picked up her pace.

'C'mon Steve we got slightly bigger fish to fry, lets not get distracted'

'Little bastards' Steve dragged his hand along the seat of a bench and formed a loosely packed snowball. He threw it but it crumbled in the air and scattered.

'Ha ha, fuck you pig'. The kids curses faded in the air behind them.

They exited the park near the local library and took a small path that was hemmed in by flats on one side and the railway lines on the other. A footbridge crossed the tracks and passed by some garages that backed on to Glovers Lane. It was a quite suburban street. Small red bricked terraced houses, to up two downs, mainly owned by young middle class families. They rang the doorbell to number 21. An old lady answered the door at a crack. 'Good evening, we had a report of a burglary next door, I wondered if we could come in.' The woman undid the chain and opened the door walking away down the hall leaving them standing on the doorstep. Steve looked at Hollis and smiled. The old lady beckoned them to follow from over her shoulder. She was squat and round. Her hair, which was grey and straight trimmed short and severe like a schoolboys haircut.

'Come in, come in won't you. I'll show you. He's still in there. I've been watching ever since I rang.'

My name's PC Bergan and this is PC Lusie. Did you actually see the suspect Miss ...' 'It's Mrs Gream and yes. I saw him. Come through to the kitchen.' They followed her down a short flight of stairs and into a small dark galley kitchen that backed on to the garden.

'Look there see.' She pointed past the net curtains out the window to next doors back garden.

'Thats where I saw him, I was scared half to death. I had the lights turned off and I watched him. Just caught his back legs disappearing in through the back window.'

'Is your neighbour home Mrs Gream?' asked Steve, jotting notes into a tiny book.

'I wouldn't knows, I don't never see him. Keeps to himself mostly, a quiet little man. I think he's one of those depressed types. Never smiles. You don't think his still in their now do you? Can you imagine, and he could of come in here and me all alone. It don't bare any thinking about.'

Hollis walked to the back door and tried the handle, it was locked and there was no key. She peered out the window into the garden.

'Well you did the right thing Mrs Gream. You sit tight. We'll have a little look around. That gate at the end of your garden, is it locked?'

'Oh yes, I always keep it locked. I'll get you the keys.' Mrs Gream pulled a small set of folding steps from beside the fridge and set them down in front of the back door. Climbing up on tip toes she reached on top of a cabinet and brought down a small bunch of keys. Stepping down and with her foot she folded up the steps and tucked them back beside the fridge. It was all very painfully slow to watch.

'Here you are. These two are for the back door and this little one does the padlock. I don't ever open the gate.'

Steve undid the shot bolts and unlocked the back door. There was a clean white line of snow dividing the threshold. It was a small square garden, more like an exercise yard than a garden. Steve cleared the snow from a low wall and climbed onto the flower bed. He peered over into next door. He climbed back down.

'Theres a gate next door too. it looks like it just has a latch and no locks. We could give it a try.' Hollis squeezed through the doorway past Mrs Gream and took the keys from be upturned palm.

'You get inside out of the cold now, we'll call back in a minute and let you know whats what.'

She shut the door and heard the shot bolts slide back into place. The padlock was stiff but after a bit of pulling and jiggling of the key the hook sprang open. The hinges of the gate had collapsed and Hollis had to lift it up to open it.

'I guess there's no Mr Gream around anymore.' said Steve.

There was an overgrown passage that backed onto the garages that now seemed to serve as a graveyard for the remains of DIY projects long since forgotten. Steve pointed at some deep footprints that ran along the alley towards them and ended just in front of next doors back gate.

'I guess this is the way our friend came too.'

Steve gingerly lifted the latch and opened the gate with ease. The foot prints continued across a small patch of lawn up to the back wall of the house. Here they danced and crisscrossed about in a confused pattern.

'Looks like he was trying to work out the best way in.'

There was a small potting shed, its door was ajar. Hollis poked her head inside. It smelt of creosote and contained nothing particularly unusual.

'Here, Hollis,' whispered Steve. 'Looks like we found our friends way in'

Neatly stacked in a depression in the snow was a stack of rectangular panes of glass. They had been removed from a louvre window next to the back door.

'He's very tidy for a burglar isn't he'.

In front of the window was a large green water butt, There were drag marks around its base and the snow had been wiped clean from the lid.

'Here take my hand.' Hollis held out her hand and with Steve supporting her she climbed up and knelt on the barrel. With her other hand she gripped the drain pipe to steady herself.

'Well theres no sign that he cut himself trying to get in, there goes your DNA.'

She poked her head inside. There was light coming from the hallway but it was still quite dark in the kitchen. Hollis waved her hand in the air in front of Steve's face.

'Pass me your torch' she whispered.

Below the window was the sink. Inside the sink were some ice cubes and and ice cube tray. On the counter top was a quarter bottle of old grouse, the lid had been removed and was standing next to it. Puddles of brown water led across the kitchen floor to a pair of muddy hiking boots. There was the sound of a studio audience laughing and clapping on a TV set from somewhere inside the house. Hollis pulled her head back out from the window and slid down off the butt laughing.

'Well' said Steve

'Well, I guess that either this burglar likes breaking into his own house for practice or he's decided to stop for dinner. I say we go back round and have a knock on the door and introduce ourselves properly.'

Beaton kicked his boots off onto the kitchen floor and stuffed his gloves into the open tops. He took out a tray of ice from the freezer. He dumped it in the sink upside down and let the tap run over it. The cubes cracked and popped as they fell from the tray into the metal sink. He put some ice in a glass with a triple shot of whisky. He knocked it back and poured himself another. He went into the living room and switched on the TV, turning up the volume to drown out his thoughts. The whisky was making him light headed. He was warm he unbuttoned his coat and put his hat in his pocket. He sat low in the chair with his legs stretched out, staring at the TV screen. The glass of whisky was resting on the arm, every now and then he would swirl it round and take a few small sips. There was a ring at the doorbell. He switched off the TV and put the empty glass on the floor. Stepping in to the hallway he closed the living room door to cut out the light. The front door had three small frosted panes of glass, like slices of a pie, that formed a semi circular shape. Below the window was a peep hole. In the distorted lens, like the reflection in a Christmas bauble, he saw two police officers standing on his front door step.

'What have you done, Oh Beaton what have you gone and done now?'

He crouched low against the wall. The doorbell rang again and was shortly followed by the knocker. He heard the letterbox open.

'Hello, it's the police. Could you open up?'

It was a young woman's voice. He heard the letter box fall and then the door bell began to ring again.

Beaton edged along the hall and backed away into the kitchen. He replaced the cap to whisky bottle and put it his pocket along with his gloves. He stepped into his boots but didn't bother to tie them. He opened the back door and ran across the garden and out into the alleyway. He retraced his steps exactly. Making sure not to make any knew tracks in he snow. His footsteps took him along the front of the garages. Some of them were abandoned, some kids had forced open several of the doors to light fires inside. He lay down and squeezed himself under one of the opened doors. Once inside he reached outside and tried his best to wipe away his tracks in the snow. He crept over to the back wall and sat down on a pallet behind a pile of empty tea chests. He wasn't tired so he decided to drink the whiskey instead, it was going to be a long cold night.

From out in the street you could see the light from the living room shining through the curtains of the bay window. 'Lights are on but no ones home.' Hollis pressed the doorbell again. She heard it ringing behind the door. Crouching down she rapped on the knocker and called through the letter box 'Hello, it's the police. Could you open up.' Steve rang the bell again

'Look Hollis, he ain't going to answer so whats the point.'

There was the sound of a door chain and locks turning. Mrs Gream had opened her door and was leaning over her fence and waving her hand in the direction of her hallway. 'He's gone, he's gone. He came running out the back door and down the alleyway.'

'Now calm down Mrs Gream, he's not going to get very far. Steve, see if you can follow him and call in a car to try and head him off. He's not going to get very far tonight in this weather. I'll check inside and make sure everything's OK.'

The kitchen door was wide open. The first thing that Hollis noticed was that both the whiskey bottle and the boots were now gone. She walked into the living room holding her sidearm. The light was on and the TV was on standby. Nothing looked out of place. On the mantle piece was a cheap gold carriage clock. Next to it was a photo of a young man and a young woman. They were standing next to one another. Each of them stood astride a bicycle. Their clothing was dated, maybe by eight or ten years. It was an unexceptional looking living room. She went upstairs and checked the other rooms. She looked in the wardrobe. Then she checked the bathroom, the cupboard above the sink.

'Well he definitely lives alone, thats for sure.' She called in on the radio the house address. She got back the details of a Mr and Mrs Earnest. Nothing previous or unusual in either of their histories.'So where are Mr and Mrs Earnest?'

When she came downstairs Steve was standing in the living room looking at the photograph on the mantle piece.

'You didn't find him then?'

'Disappeared like a ghost, I got a patrol vehicle checking the area. If they can't find him then I wouldn't get your hopes up. It will be up to the forensic team to dust over the place.'

'I don't think that that's going to be necessary some how.'

'What do you mean?'

'I think you were just chasing a Mr Beaton Arnold Earnest. That's Mrs Earnest on the mantlepiece.'

'You mean that he lives here?'

'Yep, I don't know why he's running away but I think we should come back and ask him why. Somethings got him all spooked up.'

'I better go and speak to our friend Mrs Gream and try to soothe her fears, wait for the patrol car to come back here. They might still want to look over the place. I'm not sure there's much more we can do here tonight. It's unlikely that the will be back. There's me thinking that we were going to have a quiet night of it and now we've got all that lovely paperwork to look forward to.'

Beaton sat in the dark corner of the garage and tried to think through what his next move should be. He had no idea what exactly had happened at the quarry, and he could do little to explain how the police could have become involved so quickly. The more he drank the less sense it made and the less sense it made the more he felt inclined to drink until at last, overcome, he finally slept.

Thursday 22nd

His back was stiff and he was frozen through from the cold. He still felt a little drunk from the whiskey, he took the bottle in his lap and threw it towards the far wall. He hugged himself and tried to rub some warmth into his cold flesh. It seemed that waking up in the freezing cold dark was becoming something of a regular habit. The translucent powdering of snow at the base of the door created a pale blue bar of light. Lying on his side, he scooped a hole into the snow with his right hand. It made his fingers numb so stuffed his hand into the crook of his arm pit until the feeling returned. Leaning on his left shoulder he peered through the hole. He could see the fences and the upper stories of the neighbouring houses. Above their rooftops he could make out a scrap of blue sky. He decided that he wouldn't move until he had at least formulated some kind of plan. He knew that he wasn't going to go back into the house. The police were sure to come back to speak with him and he was keen to avoid them until he at least had some idea about what they wanted. He was hungry too, he couldn't remember his last square meal. 'I'll go back to to the Quarry.' The idea seemed like sheer madness at first but the more he mulled it over the more it made sense to him. 'I got food and heat there and at least I can see if the police have found the body.' The body, he half hoped that it was not going to be there at all but he knew that of all things he might be called, delusional was not one of them. He remembered vividly, the feel of the broken neck beneath the soft skin of the throat. He continued to lie on his side staring at the sky and seeing as though no better ideas were coming to mind he decided to go with only half decent one that he had. Like a fox leaving its den, he pulled himself free from the gap beneath the door and dusted himself down. It was a bright morning and there were a quite a few people up and about on the street. Beaton reckoned that it must have been a Thursday. Time had become a little jumbled lately.

The old canal was filled to its brim with fine a powdery snow. A sunken depression in the surface was the only indication as to where the tow path ended and the dried up watercourse began. Nobody had been here since yesterday the path was unspoilt beneath a good few inches of snow. The thick white clumps stuck to his trousers and piled up around his ankles as he waded through. A robin chirruped from a tree top and bounced weightlessly from one fine limb to the next. It settled on a pale brown stalk of dried cow parsley that was perforating the surface of the snow. Jerking its tiny head around like a clockwork toy its tiny black eyes drank in the starving landscape. It flew towards the woods, bobbing and weaving and was gone. Hungry cold, and confused by its first winter. 'Do birds ever think that their world is coming to an end?' Beaton wondered to himself.

Under the tangled canopy of the copse the snow was less dense and Beaton climbed the rutted track that led up towards the meadow. From the high valley ridge he looked down on the town that was steeped in a blessed white. It was a beautiful sight to behold. He sat beneath a yew tree on a collapsed dry stone wall and listened to the church bell of St Steven's. They chimed eight times and he looked at his watch. He set the dial to the hour and wound the spring. The tiny needle jerked into life and slowly did its rounds beneath the shattered dome. 'I suppose that its not such a strange thing to think but the town looks better when you can't see it anymore.' He gulped in deep mouthfuls of fresh cold air that made his eyes water. It was a peaceful spot, but his thoughts became drawn to the body beneath the meadow and he started back on his way. From the meadow he returned to the the Quarry and the shadow of its surrounding trees. He had to be careful not to get too close to the edge of the bluff. Great protuberances of fresh snow clung to the overhangs ready to fall. It was difficult to see what was solid ground and what wasn't. The boulder field below the cliff face was as silent as the grave. The tops of the white rocks that poked free from the snow were painted by the lichen with splashes of yellow and pale green. They lay scattered and strewn about, half sunken higgledy piggledy rows like bleached mussel shells on a beach.

He found his raincoat and the spare gas canisters where he had last left them, behind the rock. The twine was still tied onto the root system of the old dead tree stump. It was just the way he had left it. He picked up the twine. This simple piece of string that was connecting his past to his future. He certainly didn't want to face up to the reality of his situation but Beaton reasoned that not knowing would ultimately be worse far. At least he could make informed decisions about what had done. He followed the line until he reached the end that was tethered to the ground by the old chisel. It's rusted head was still firmly rammed into the hard earth. Feeling his way, he climbed into the niche on the large flat rock which was covered by the old blanket. Kneeling forward, his body craning over the edge towards the floor, he gently patted the ground from left to right to try and find his missing things. He found the screw cap to the torch handle and put it in his pocket. All the while he kept his eyes screwed tight, as if pretending that it wasn't really dark at all. His hand fell on something rubbery, it was rounded on one side and flat on the other. He squeezed it, it felt like squeezing a tennis ball except it wasn't a tennis ball because there was something hard inside of it. He leaned a little forward and tried to gauge the size of the object. It kept getting bigger and bigger. Once he had made out the heel and put his hands around the ankle he knew for sure what he had found. He fell backwards, pushing himself into the wall away from the body. He was breathing hard, his initial thought was to start running again but he knew that he could not. Beaton sat and thought, he thought and thought and thought until his head was hurting. 'The police, they must not know yet. They wouldn't leave a body here, but what did they want then? Maybe work had rung them, told them I was missing. Yes that must be it. Nobody must know about this yet. But soon, but soon someone will be missing and then they will start looking.' Beaton started to think about who could be lying on the floor in front of him. If he looked then he could know for sure but he couldn't face the thought of seeing the face. In his fantasies the body had always been faceless. He did not feel the need to know. 'Maybe its just an old vagrant who lives down here, someone that no one will miss.'

After some time he eased himself from the ledge and stood. He lightly used his foot to kick along the edge of the body to see where exactly it was lying. He Picked up the blanket and laid it over the body and sat back down. Covering the body had not made him feel any better. 'Your going to have to do more than that Beaton'. He searched for the canvas bag and once he had found it he replaced the batteries in the torch. The legs of the body from the knee down protruded from under then end of the blanket. It looked comical in a weird way like the whole thing was a bad joke and the person might suddenly sit up. A weird wave of excitement washed over Beaton at the sight of the corpse. He started to clear the rocks around the body until he had cleared a wide flat space. Switching the torch off again he pulled away the blanket so it was lying on the clear floor alongside the body. He tried to lift the dead weight with his foot and roll it onto the blanket but it wouldn't budge. He crouched down and grabbed two handfuls of material, he was trying his damnedest not to feel the person underneath the clothing. He heaved the thing over and felt what must have been an arm, flop onto his foot. He kicked it off, it felt as dead and stiff as length of driftwood. The cadaver was now lying part way on the blanket. Beaton was now able to roll the body over, wrapping it round several times. He took from the canvas bag the length of nylon blue rope and unrolled it. He measure out two arm spans of rope and with the matches melted the chord. He did this several times until he had four shorter lengths to work with. He lifted the legs and placed a slip knot over them and pulled it tight. He wound the remaining chord around the slipknot and tied two half hitches into the loop. He did this three more times along the length of the body, trussing it like a butchers ham. When he pulled tight the last slip knot he felt the rope slip from the corpses head and tighten quickly around its neck. He put his hand out to feel where the end of the blanket was. His hand touched the face, it was cool and waxy. The blanket was now pulled down away from the face leaving the whole of the head exposed. Beaton tried to pull the blanket up some more but it was bound so tight that it wasn't budging. His hand became entangled in a mass of loose curls. The hair entangling his fingers. He pulled his hand away quickly, there was some ripping as the follicles tore free from the scalp. He shook his hands wildly and pulled at his fingers to remove the hair. 'It's definitely a woman. I've killed a woman. What the hell was she doing down here anyway?' He sat back on to the floor. 'There's still time to sort this out.' He emptied out the canvas rucksack onto the floor and pulled it over the dead woman's head. He pulled the drawstrings and tied it around her neck. It took all his remaining strength to pull the body onto the ledge and push it against the wall. He slowly began to cover it with stones, he worked without torch light, methodically stacking the rocks. In an hour he had completely covered the body. Outside in the entrance chamber to the mine he cooked a meal and tried his best to think about what his next move should be. He had killed a woman and now he had hidden her body.

Hollis Bergan returned to twenty three Glovers Lane the following morning. She rang the door bell but as she had predicted, there was nobody in. She knocked on Mrs Gream's door but there was no answer there either. She walked around the back to the garages. She noticed that one of them was partially opened. The snow around the door had been kicked up and there were footprints leading to and from the entrance way. 'So that's where you stayed last night is it' She pulled the door as high as it would go. The door had come off of its runners and only lifted on the springs half way up. Hollis ducked inside, there was a pallet on the floor and an empty wooden shelf against the back wall. It smelt like foxes had been living inside there at one time. Against one wall was the broken stem of a bottle. She lifted it up, the label holding the small shards together, it still smelt strongly of whiskey. She went through the back gate and in to the house through the kitchen door. Nothing had changed noticeably since the night before. There was a freestanding cupboard by the door with a telephone on top. Inside were a stack of telephone books, Thompson directories and yellow pages, nothing unusual. She opened the top drawer. There was a small red book with the words 'Addresses' stamped across its cover in faded gilt lettering. She sat down at the kitchen side table and leafed through a few of the pages before putting it into her breast pocket. She stood up and went to the living room. Picking up the photo on the mantle piece, she turned it over and twisted the two small brass plates on the black velveteen backing and removed the cover. She took out the photograph', there was something written on it. 'Amsterdam August 1991' She put the photograph inside the cover of the little red Address Book and tucked it away again. She headed back to the station to make some further line of enquiry and to organise sealing of the house.

'Good morning, PCI Limited.' The voice was bright and perky.

'Oh hello, I wonder if you could help me. I'm calling about one of your employees.'

'Do you have an extension number for them?'

'No, I'm calling in regards to a Mr Beaton Earnest, I believe he hasn't attended work these last few days.'

'Oh, um, yes thats right, who am I speaking to please?''

'I'm Police Officer Bergan. We're a little concerned as to the whereabouts of Mr Beaton. He hasn't been into work at all has he?'

'No he hasn't but let me put you through to his supervisor, hold the line a minute.' There was a long pause over the line and then a mans voice spoke.

'Hello, can I help'

'Oh hello, my names Police officer Bergan, I was just explaining to you receptionist, we are a little concerned over the whereabouts of one of your employees, a Mr Beaton Earnest, I understand that he has been absent from work.'

'Yes, he has. I hope nothing bad has happened to him.'

'Hopefully not but we'll need to find him first to make sure of that. He hasn't done anything like this before? '

'No! It's very out of character. He's a model employee, never late, hardly ever sick.

'You've tried to contact him yourself then I presume.' Yes, well we've rung him everyday. We were all very worried about him of course.'

'What is his position, my apologies, I'm not familiar with PC...'

'It's PCI limited, were fundamentally a petro chemical company. Were focused on the research and development of... well thats besides the point. Beaton was part of our payroll team. He's been with us .... God, well it has to be nearly eight years now. It's been a nightmare without him the last week, you can imagine with Christmas coming up.'

'Yes of course, Mr...' 'Oh, my apologies, John Pirrut, I'm head of payroll, Beaton's supervisor.'

'Has Mr Beaton been acting strange lately, any concerns he may have at the moment, personal or financial.'

'No', not to my knowledge, I mean Beaton's' a very private man. He's friendly and helpful to everyone, but he's very reticent. Keeps himself to himself. Sometimes thats a smart thing to do around here.'

'Sorry, I don't understand?'

'You know, office politics and what not.'

'Yes, I see. Do you know of anyone we could get in touch with, an emergency contact maybe?'

'I'm afraid not, I checked through his file already when he failed to show up last week.' 'I know that he has an ex wife, don't know if they're on speaking terms or not and I think he told me once that he has a mother in Bristol, apart from them I wouldn't know. I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you.'

'Thanks, you've already been a great help. I would appreciate if you could contact me if he does show up.'

'Of course, I'll put you back through to Isabel, she'll take your contact details. We're all really worried. This really isn't like him to do this' Hollis waited to be transferred again and gave her name and number to the receptionist and hung up again.

'So where are you hiding Mr Beaton, and why?' Hollis leafed through the address book. It was mainly filled with business contacts and useful numbers, nothing that stood out as being of much help. Hollis checked the database the house was still registered in the names of Hollis and Marie Ernest. She found several entries for Marie under the E's. She counted five in all and each one had been crossed out. She tried all of them. Some of the numbers were not in service and the rest had never heard of a Marie Earnest. 'Well she certainly likes to move around a lot.' Under Marie's name was written 'Mrs Earnest' and in brackets next to it was 'Mum'. Hollis dialled the number. It rang for a long time but finally someone answered. The weak thin voice of a woman spoke over the earpiece.

'Yes, hello' 'Hello, My names Hollis Bergan, I'm a police officer. I wanted to speak to Mrs Earnest'

'Yes', The voice was hesitant, wary.

'Hello Mrs Earnest, i'm calling about your son, you see..'

There was a click followed by a monotone hum, then the phone line went dead. Hollis rang twice more but nobody answered. 'Well Beaton, for a quiet little man, you just get more and more interesting.' The rest of the morning was taken up by paperwork, the result of several speeding violations. Then at 2:15, just after lunch, Steve told her that somebody had just come into the station to file a missing persons report.

'I'm so cold' he thought. The warmth from the fire was eaten up immediately by the freezing air around him. The only good thing about being frozen was that it had taken his mind off of things. He squatted by the smoking embers, the wood was damp and hissed. Great plumes of thick grey smoke wafted about and stung his eyes. The water boiled and bubbled in white froth, steaming from the surface of the sodden fibres. He watched the woodlice scurry to escape, like doomed passengers on a sinking ship, they converged at the ends of the burning branches before falling into the sea of hot fire. 'How long can I stay hidden up here. I have to get warm.' Long icicles had started to form over the entrance of the mine. They shone and glinted in the sunlight. He had eaten all the food and used up half of his supply of gas. He wound his watch and checked the time, it was approaching two o'clock. He stood up and picked up the raincoat he had been using as a cushion. He pulled it on over his duffle coat and stepped out into the forest. His body stumbled in jerky erratic movements, the cold stretched itself into every corner of his body. His jaw shuddered and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He had lost the feeling in his feet, if he had removed his boots and walked bare foot through the snow he would not have noticed the difference. Before going into the pub, Beaton cupped his hand over the glass of the window pain and peered in. There was no fire burning in the pub. The embers in the hearth had been raked clean and swept away leaving just the cold black cast iron grate and the scorched red fire bricks at the back. Beaton was disappointed but it was still warm inside. Beaton hovered in the doorway beating his hands together and stamping his feet. The pub looked empty of customers. The pins and needles began to creep back into his fingers.

'Cold enough for you is it.'

Beaton looked up, there was a young man standing at the bar, Beaton had not seen in him before. He was tall and gangly, his long curly hair was parted at the side and tucked behind one ear. He was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, pale with a wispy moustache. 'Haven't seen snow like this, ever! No point going to the bookies and placing a bet on a white Christmas this year I reckon.'

Beaton was still try to stop his mouth from stuttering.

'It's damn cold' was the best he could manage.

'What'll it be?'

'Brandy please, make it a double please.'

He had trouble pulling the money from his wallet his fingers moved stiffly like uncoordinated chopsticks. He took a newspaper from a rack by the door and sat down in a booth by a radiator. He drank some of the bandy, it tasted good, the fire growing in his belly. He stuffed his left hand between the radiator and the old the peeling stiff folds of the anaglypta wallpaper. It began to burn but it felt good, he swapped hands. He pretended to read the paper, taking tiny sips from his glass to make it last. It was not long until he had fallen asleep. When he woke. it was getting dark outside, he checked his watch and wound it. It was a quarter past four. He had not been asleep for long. There were a few people in the pub. He recognised the man who had spoken to him in the toilets. He was sitting alone at the bar drinking. The young barmen was preparing the fire in the grate for the evening, twisting and knotting sheets of newspaper and stacking them in the grate like a wigwam. Two old ladies occupied the booth in front, they gossiped greedily over their tall glasses of ruby port, engrossed. Beaton got up and went to the gents. He sat in the cubicle but he was constipated and couldn't go. He spooled off about half the roll of toilet paper and put it in his pocket for later. He ran his hands under the hot tap and stared at himself in the mirror. He hardly recognised himself. He looked like a castaway. His face was gaunt and rawboned, his eyes were ringed and bruised looking. The long bristles on his face made him look slightly crazed. He took off his hat and threw water on his face. He tried his best to straighten himself out before leaving. He took his empty glass to the bar, the barman stopped what he was doing and served him another, returning afterwards to finish the fire. The man drinking at the bar said

'Hello'.

'Hello.' 'We met the other night, right? Your drink went al over your lap.'

'Yeah that's right' The man stuck his hand out, Beaton shook it.

'I'm Finn, everyone knows Finn.'

'Im, Be, Ben, umm, Benjamin.' He didn't really mean to lie it just happened that way and once it was done that was it.

'I hope I didn't run you off that night, you just kind of left in such a hurry. I can be a right gob shite when I've had a few too many.'

'No, no you were fine, I remembered I had to be somewhere.'

Beaton got up and went to his booth but the man just followed him as if invited, talking all the while.

'Sometimes you just got to say Finn, shut the fuck up.' Beaton said the words in his head as Finn set his beer down on the table.

'Not that that will do you much good.' He laughed.

Beaton stared at him, hadn't heard the last comment he didn't understand at what point the conversation had become funny. Finn checked his laughter coughed a little nervously. 'Yeah, uhum, well thats just the way I am I guess.'

There was a pause that Finn attempted to fill the air with conversation. He was clearly used to talking for two people.

'So, you just moved up this way then, I've lived in the village most my life. Not born here mind you.' Finn wittered away like this at length about nothing and everything facing the same way as Beaton, looking out across the pub floor. Finn noticed that Beaton was staring at the great Alsatian dog who was standing beneath the hatch that led behind the bar. Desperate to seize on any subject that might hold the interest of his newly found confidant Finn whistled loudly in the air . He thrust his arm in the direction of the dog and rubbed his thumb and fingers together making a sort of tutting' noise with his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

'Kaiser, here boy, c'mere Kaiser Boy'.

The dog sniffed the ground at its feet sheepishly and skulked over to the two men sitting at the table. Finn then started talking to the dog.

'Aww whose a soppy old boy eh. You miss your mummy don't ya. Don't worry, she'll be back. Daddy's gone to find her.'

Finn rubbed the dog beneath the chin, the dog sat there looking indifferent.

'He's been moping around these last two days.'

Finn brought his voice down to an audible whisper. He seemed to be in his element a master of gossip and intrigue about to serve up a nice juicy bit gossip fresh off the press. Finn would have been in better company if he had been sitting with the two old ladies in the next booth.

'The thing is you see, she's run off.'

'What' replied Beaton.'

'She's run off, the landlords wife. Missing two days now. Said she was going out to the shops. Never came back. I'm not surprised neither, Mike hardly even passes the time of day with her. Now there's a strange relationship.'

Beaton stared at the dog. He was thinking of the body of the woman in the cave. 'Mike's gone into Town to file a missing persons report, no note, nothing, the only thing she took was her purse.'

'You mean his gone to the police, now?'

'Well yeah, he's worried sick. Thinks she's gone and done something stupid , well you know what I mean. With her being depressed and all. Losing her son that way.'

Beaton drained his glass. His head was pounding. He cradled it in his hands, tried to squeeze it to force himself to think clearly. Finn was saying something to him but he wasn't listening. He sat with his chin resting on the table top, both his hands folded atop of his head. He stared at the finger of flame flicker around the paper as the fire took. What was he going to do. The police wold come, they would come with dogs. They would search the quarry. They would find the body. Beaton lifted his gaze from fireplace and rested it on the large rusting bucksaw that hung from the chimney piece. It was then he realised what he had to do.

'Are you OK, you look kind of funny'

'Yeah, i'm fine now, i'm fine, i'm fine. It's just this cold, it get's right into you.'

At 2:00pm, on a Thursday afternoon, Michael Powell drove into town to report his wife missing. He took with him to the police station a recent photograph of his wife, Emma. He had not seen these last two days. A young male police officer took him to an interview room and offered him a cup of tea which he refused asking for water instead. The officer asked him questions and took notes.

'So when exactly did you last see you wife Mr Powell?'

It was the day before yesterday, in the morning. Around about nine ish. She went to post some Christmas cards.'

'Why did you wait so long before you reported her missing?' Mike leaned on the table and rubbed his eyes and sighed.

'I thought she might have been at her sisters.'

'But she said she was going to post some Christmas cards.', the police officer had stopped writing and was tapping the end of the biro on the pad, looking at Mike with a dead pan expression on his face.

'Is there anything we should know about your relationship with your wife, any problems. A reason for her to want to leave.'

'Look I came here to report my wife missing, not to be interrogated.'

'Calm down Mr Powell, the more we know the easier it will be to locate your wife. Things between yourself and your wife are good then?.

Mike rubbed at his temples with his thumbs in a slow circular motion.

'We have our ups and downs, you know how it is, we fight sometimes'

'Is your wife taking any medication at the moment, anything that might effect her moods?'

'No, no, nothing like that.' Mike paused.

It was the hesitation of a man who is considering to disclose something. It was a pause that PC Lusie had witnessed many times before.

'Mr Powell, if there is something you know that might help us find your wife then you need to let us know.' The big man gave out a big sigh. The sound of pent up tension exiting through the nostrils.

'She gets depressed, she sometimes goes off on these walks when she gets depressed.'

'Has she ever harmed herself, any indication that she might..,'

'No, no, nothing like that. It's because of our son. He died. He killed himself. She never got over it.'

Michael Powell sat with his palms cupped in his lap, head hung.

'Im sorry to hear that Mr Powell, It must be a huge strain on both of you. As far as you are aware there is no one that would want to do any harm to either you or your wife.

'No, no, theres nobody like that. We run the Quarryman's arms up on the hill. We get the regular crowd. Everyone knows everyone, you now how it is.

'We'll get a police officer to come up and have a look around. They'll want to take some DNA sample'

'DNA?'

'Don't worry, it's purely procedure, it doesn't mean a thing. In the meantime just try and keep positive and go about your day as best you can. I know it's hard. Let us know if anything comes up and I mean anything, big or small. I'll be contacting all the appropriate outside agencies and charities that deal with missing peoples. We have contact and access to national and international databases so be rest assured that we will be doing everything that can be done to find your wife. I know it's small comfort but it's still early days.'

Later the same day, Hollis Bergan looked through the interview notes over a cup of coffee.

'Did you check out what happened to the son.'

'Yeah, really sad case. Boy was fifteen years old. Hung himself in a tree up at the quarry. No witnesses, just the dog.' Hollis rested her chin on her chest her neck felt tight. She was thinking about the boy hanging there.

'The mum found him, cut him down herself'. Hollis was talking but not to Steve she was staring at the table thinking of her own two boys.

'How sad, and imagine living up there by the quarry all this time after.' She snapped out of it and looked at Steve. Her voice switched from being meditative to purposeful

'I'm going to up there tomorrow, have a nose around.'

'I thought it was your day off.'

'Yeah, So. I like a nice stroll in the woods and a pint in a real local pub.'

'I know it won't do me any good to say it but that sounds like the dumbest idea you've had to date. I wish you wouldn't tell me when your going to do something stupid. I don't want to be involved.'

'You going to squeal on me.'

'I never heard anything about this. We didn't have this conversation and I don't want to be reminded of it when the Sarge hauls your arse into his office.'

'I won't, I won't. Don't you worry.' Steve shook his head in disbelief.

'You are unbelievable Hollis, you really are.'

'Thank you Steve.'

'I mean, you really don't learn do you.'

'I have a hunch about this, Steve. I reckon that Beaton guy is the reason why she's run away.'

'Why, why does everything have to be linked. People go missing all over the country every single day. It doesn't mean they are related. You can't go running off every time you have one of your hunches. Your not a D.I your a constable.'

'Jeez, calm down, forget I ever mentioned it. I'm just going up there for a stroll about in the woods. Nothing more.' Steve hovered at by her table for a while, the silence indicating their mutual agreement that the topic was now well and truly closed.

It was dark outside when Beaton made his way back home. It was a long walk up to the quarry and along the meadows that skirted the valley side. The journey from his old home to the quarry had become a regular pilgrimage for him. And it did feel like it was his old home. He knew that things had changed forever, that he would not be allowed to go back to his old job. He was desperate to break free from what his life had become and for better or for worse he had done that. The woman's body in the quarry would always be there, no matter what he did. Even if he had buried her in the deepest darkest hole, she would always be present in his mind from one waking day to the next. he seemed to be stepping back from a normal way of life. Creeping backwards into the shadow of the mines. Rubbing away the layers of himself until all that would be left was a phantom, a spectre that lived in the quarry on the hill. Down through the woods and past the old canal back out on to the streets of the town.

Beaton skirted around to the row of garages behind the terrace. He unlatched the gate and snuck into his own back garden. The moon reflected from the rooftops, a cold slate blue halation projected onto the tiles. The snow glowed bright amongst the shadows with an unnatural luminescence. His house looked strange, foreign. The water butt had been pushed back into place but the glass louvre panels were still on the ground covered by a thin layer of snowfall. The hole in the window had been boarded up with a sheet of chipboard. He looked at the window. It didn't seem like his home at all. He couldn't get into the house, his keys were still upstairs. He crept into the potting shed and sat down on a bag of compost. Inside smelt of cut pine and creosote, spiders webs clustered around the shelves and spun confused webs around the stacks of terracotta plant pots. The window panes were clouded with grime, they let in the light but it was impossible to actually look in or out. He leaned his back against the wall and stretched out his legs and he felt the cold air creeping through the gaps in the loose boards. He sat like that through the night barely managing to catch a few hours of sleep.

Friday 23rd

He watched the dark blue sky fade into a pale brown haze. The sun climbed as far as it could manage and settled itself low in the sky. In a black bucket besides the door was a roll of heavy duty rubble sacks and some gardening gloves. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. From a small hook on the wall, he took down a compass saw. There was a small crack in the orange plastic and the blade was flecked with spots of rust but other than that it seemed to be in good shape. He opened the door and threw it onto the lawn. From the shelf he picked up a pair of secateurs. He unlocked the catch and tested the spring mechanism. He put them in his pocket with the rubble sacks. 'I've go to hide the saw', He thought, 'It wouldn't look right to be carrying it around in the open' He found an old nylon duffle bag stuffed under the shelf. He pulled it out, it was heavy. Inside were some old bicycle tools. He brought the bag out into the garden and emptied the contents onto the ground. He put away the saw with the rubble sack and pruning scissors leaving a scattered pile of odds and ends.

He had his hand on the latch ready to leave the garden when he heard the sound of a metal bolt sliding from a socket and a key turning in its lock. In the doorway at the top of the steps stood Mrs Gream. In her hands she held a basket of clean washing ready for hanging on the clothes line. They stood there, stock still. As if one were waiting for the other to make the first move. It was Mrs Gream that took the initiative. Whether she had meant to or not was another matter. The washing basket fell from her arms and rattled down the steps spilling the fresh white sheets on to the patio. Beaton hurled the duffle bag over the fence and vaulted after it. He stumbled from the flower beds and fell to the ground, next to him was a small stone tortoise, the kind of thing you find in a garden centre. He grabbed it by its shell and picked it up. Mrs Gream let out a scream and ran back into her house slamming and locking the kitchen door. Beaton thrust the heavy base of the concrete statue through the glass. He heard the old lady hollering from inside the kitchen and saw Mrs Gream dash into the hallway. Beaton batted the loose shards of glass from around edge of the window and reached inside he unlocked the door. He ran through the kitchen and grabbing the newel post he swung around in an arc pulling himself onwards and up the staircase. He stood panting on the landing leaning hard on the hand rail. On the floor above the skirting board was the telephone socket. The cable followed the edge of the carpet and disappeared under the nearest door. He reached down and delicately unclipped the lead from the wall socket and heard a suppressed whimper from inside the room.

'Mrs Gream, Mrs Gream, I just want to talk'

His hand resting on the handle he slowly opened the door. It opened easily, it wasn't locked. He could hear a low sobbing. Mrs Gream was kneeling behind the bed with her head hung down, she held the telephone in her hands.

'It's me Mrs Gream, It's your neighbour Beaton.'

'What do you want, Go away, leave me alone' She began sobbing again.

Beaton sat down on the bed the concrete stone tortoise resting in his lap. She stopped looking like a little old lady and looked more like a little girl kneeling for her bedtime prayers. 'Who were you phoning Mrs Gream? Was it the police?' Did you call them before?' She didn't answer, she just gave out the same low suppressed sobs.

Beaton stood and pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over Mrs Gream. It covered her completely like a shroud over a statue. Muffled sobs continued to come from beneath the cover. He sat back down the stone tortoise resting in his lap as if he might be contemplating what his next move might be. He stood up all of a sudden and held the concrete garden ornament by its pointy hat above Mrs Gream's head. He turned his head away and looked out of the window, down into the garden, there was a squirrel eating from a bird feeder. It swung wildly upside down, its tail bobbing and ticking maniacally. He screwed his eyes tight shut and felt the heavy weight slip through his grip, it was followed by a thud and the sobbing suddenly ceased. The squirrel was still swinging upside down from the little mesh cage, a magpie screamed from a tree top. When he looked down, Mrs Gream was slumped sideways, the red was soaking through the bed cover, seeping into the fabric like blotting paper. He lifted the cover and threw it aside. Her face was slack, the loose skin around her jaw hung about in loose flaps like a turkeys wattle. Her short her was matted with the wet blood that still pooled into the bed cover beneath her head. Her left eyelid was partly open but he could only see a slice of white inside the socket. Beaton crouched down and rolled over the old lady's body so she was face downwards on the carpet. Mrs Gream's breathing was soft and shallow almost imperceptible. Beaton stood up unbuckled his belt and slid it from the belt loops. He thread one end of the belt through the frame of the bedstead and feeding it through the buckle he pulled it tight. He looked about the room. He found a knitting bag on the floor by the bedside table. He pulled two needles form the bag and pushed one of the needles through the leather as close to the buckle as possible. He tugged at the buckle to make sure that it was securely attached the bed frame. Picking up the loose end of the belt, Beaton looped it through the telephone chord binding Mrs Gream's arms and folded it back on itself. He then staked the two strips of leather together with the second knitting needle.

The old lady lay on her side tied to the bed frame with her hands behind her back. Beaton went to the dresser and rooted through the drawers. In the bottom drawer he found a balled up pair of brown sheer tights. He unravelled the tights and wrapping it around Mrs Gream's head he gagged her mouth. He took a pillow from the bed and stripped the cover from it and pulled it over the old lady's head. From downstairs his pocket he took the ball of garden twine and bound the old lady's hands tightly behind her back. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands and face. He looked for a razor but there was none, instead finding a pair of scissors. He trimmed the hair on his face as close to the skin as he could manage. He went downstairs and looked through the kitchen cupboards. He found a tin of spaghetti hoops and heated them in a bowl in the microwave and made himself some toast. He sat chewing the meal methodically staring into the happy face of the stone tortoise. From the kitchen he could see down the hallway to the front door with its stained glass. The walls and carpet were illuminated with burning patches of blue and red. He watched the silhouette of the postman come and go, some letters fell through the letterbox and onto the door matt. The house was quiet, peaceful. It was interesting to see his house from another persons perspective. From a room in another persons house. In the garden the squirrel was gone, a magpie sat on a branch above the bird feeder. 'One for sorrow', it was a rhyme that his wife used to say. 'One for sorrow, two for joy.' He put the dirty dishes in the sink and swept up the broken glass from the back door step. From a cupboard he stole a packet of crackers. He shut the door and locked it from the outside, placing the key in his pocket. He picked up his duffle bag and went to the back gate. It was locked. He clambered back over the fence into his own back garden and out into the alleyway past the garages. He looked like any other man who was going to work on a Friday morning.

Hollis dropped the boys of at school and drove out of town until she reached the village. She followed the steep road up the hill past the Quarryman's arms and parked near the old village green at the uppermost corner of the wooded quarry. She leant against the car and looked down across the valley, it had been so long time since she had stood up here. 'It must have been when the boys were smaller, much smaller.' It was impossible to get them out of the house these days. They preferred to stay in and play video games than go out. 'When I was young you couldn't get me to stay inside.' She thought to herself. She left the car and walked to the gate that marked the top entrance to the Quarry. She followed the tracks that had been made by an early dog walker. The tracks rounded the tops of the quarry pits and left the woods on a pathway through a meadow. She doubled back into the woods, striking out a new path that followed a steep incline down into a quarry pit. The way down was easy to see and the snow was well trodden and compacted making it slippery and dangerous. Hollis held onto the tree roots to keep herself from sliding. The pit formed an amphitheatre around and above her head. It was hard not to feel like she were being watched from somewhere, someone behind a tree or a rock. It was an unnerving feeling, the place had a strange atmosphere all of its own that was lost when you stepped outside of the woods.

There was a cave up ahead, it was cut deep into the base of the cliff face, a black horizontal gash that sucked in all of the surrounding light. There was a slope down through a low entrance way where the cave opened out inside to a large entrance chamber. Hollis kept one hand on the roof of the entranceway, stooping down to look inside. She could make out two tunnels leading from the chamber. In the middle of the space sat a half burnt tree timber surrounded by the usual rubbish you would expect in such a place. She heard some shouts behind her, she turned around to see two boys pass the face of the quarry pit on bicycles. She thought about following them to see why they weren't at school but as she was not on duty she decided to let it go. She found herself thinking that maybe it was better that the boys didn't go out so much. 'I wouldn't want them playing around here that's for sure.' The cries of the boys and the sound of cracking tree branches ricocheted around the quarry and between the web of trees. She left the quarry on a lower path that led back to the village green where her car was still parked. Hollis got inside and sat with her hands resting on the wheel. She was thinking about the boys she had seen in the wood and she was thinking about the Powell's kid who had died there. Most of all she was thinking also about her own two children. There was so much in the world you couldn't protect against. So much that was unforeseen. Maybe it was her fault, maybe she made had made them scared of the world. She had seen enough of it to know the kind of bad things that could go on. She was certainly no stranger to its dangers. She slowly put the key in the ignition and held it there still thinking, then she started the car. The thrum of the engine beneath the bonnet kickstarted her mind again. She put the car in gear and drove down the hill back towards the village.

Beaton crouched in the snow behind a holly tree, the duffle bag held tightly in his lap. He was watching woman standing in the quarry pit below. He had first seen her along the path from the canal to the woods. He had been in the shadow of the copse about to climb a wooden stile. She had walked out of the quarry along the path across the meadow, had stopped as if lost and then turned back retracing her steps. It seemed at first that she might have seen him but she was not in a hurry and didn't look concerned. He followed her at a distance and watched her as she made her way down the steep path that wound into into the large pit. He lost sight of her as she approached the base of the quarry face beneath where he was hiding. 'What are you looking for?' He was getting nervous the longer that she was gone from view. He was about to start heading around and down along the edge of the bluff but he stopped. He heard the sounds of shouting, two boys on mountain bikes were weaving through the woods. As they passed in front of the quarry face he saw the woman return. She didn't look in any way familiar. She wasn't dressed like a police officer. 'Maybe just a random walker. your getting paranoid about things.' He waited until he was sure she had gone before coming down and around to the mouth of the cave. He quickly looked around the entrance chamber but it appeared nothing had changed much. The green garden twine that led to the gravesite was still wrapped around the root stump.

He followed the string trail by torchlight until he reached the niche where the stack of stones concealed the dead body. He took his time lifting away the rocks and piling them against the opposite wall. Twenty minutes later he had recovered the body wrapped in its blanket. He rolled the corpse away from the wall so it was in the centre of the slab and dumped the duffle bag next to it. He took out the compass saw, secateurs and the rubble sacks and the gloves. He rolled off one of the sacks, he made a hole in the bottom of the sack and cut two slits at either side. He pulled the make shift apron over his head and put on the gardening gloves and turned off the torch. Feeling along the body with his hands he found the neck and with his left had resting there he reached out and picked up the compass saw. He felt the tug and the snag of the fabric in the teeth of the blade. The blanket made a ripping sound like a cat clawing at the arm of a settee. Then the saw blade took hold of the flesh beneath and he felt the spray of tiny cold droplets hitting his face each time pulled the tool towards him. He leant into the blade, sawing at the dead meat methodically. He remembered how his father had taught him to hold a saw, to let the blade do all the work. To follow through each time, the body a machine driving the tool. The tendons snagged and ripped and it wasn't long before he had reached the bone. He worked the blade between the cervical vertebrae, it sounded and felt like a hacksaw going through a piece of plastic pipe. 'It's just an old piece of pipe, just a pipe. Nothing but an old piece of plumbing pipe' The vibration made his hand vibrate and the fingers feel numb. He was hot beneath the plastic sack, it was hard sweaty work. All the time he repeated to himself the same words. 'Keep on Beaton, don't stop Beaton, keep on going, don't give up'. Over and over, each word spoken to the push and pull, see saw rhythm, the buzz and the zip of the tiny little teeth biting through this thing that he was desperate to hide. Once he had disengaged the head from the body he tied it up inside the canvas bag and dumped it into a rubble sack, knotting it twice at the top. He hadn't anticipated the work taking him so long. 'This is going to take at least several days.' he thought to himself.

Beaton contemplated how he was going to divide the body into small enough pieces to carry. 'I will just take the head and the arms today, the legs tomorrow and the trunk last.' He rolled the headless corpse onto its side and propped it with stones. He remove the arm from just below the shoulder, dividing it again at the elbow, just above the joint. He repeated the process on the other side and put both pieces in separate sacks. He put all three sacks into the duffle bag. He left the tools next to the slab with the make shift apron and his gloves. He rolled the body up against the wall, it already felt noticeably lighter, and he covered it again with the rocks. Outside he scrubbed the blood from his face with handfuls of fresh snow. He sat and ate the crackers staring at the reddish brown stains on his knees. He was surprised at how hungry he was, shocked at his capacity to eat after the task he had just performed. When he had eaten all of the crackers he took his duffle bag and left. He still had work to do today.

Michael Powell had spent the last few days in a waking dream. He could not focus on any task for more that a few moments without his mind slipping. He couldn't believe that Emma would have simply up and left him. He knew that whatever the reasons were for her disappearance, running away was not one of them. After all, it was Emma that had insisted on staying in the village after Jonathan had died. It was Mike that had wanted to leave, to get away and make a fresh start. Not Emma. They had not spoken much lately, the pub was a full time job and it kept them both tired enough. They had slipped into their daily routines, both accepting the fact that nothing was going to change now that everything had changed. The police had told him to try and get on with his normal life but his life had, for a long time, seemed far from being normal. There had been times, not long after their son had died, that Emma had gone away. It had never been more than a few days at a time and she always returned. He never asked her where she had gone although he had always suspected that she had gone to her sisters. They had both coped and grieved in their own way. He had never been one for showing or sharing his emotions. He had accepted his sons death and knew that they would not have another. He had been close to Jonathan, they were best buddies and he had always been proud of him. Jonathan was a sweet natured boy, sensitive and popular with the other children at school. Mike had always thought of him as being a little more immature than some of his piers but it was nothing that he wasn't going to grow out of in time. It was probably just having been an only child, he was imaginative and would play in the woods for hours on end. Emma and Michael could not explain his death. The coroner ruled that the death may have been suicide or accidental death, a game gone badly wrong. Emma would not accept the ruling. She 'knew', that was how she put it. She knew that there was more to the story. She believed that Jonathan had been murdered, she could not face the idea that her boys death could have been an accident or something far worse. She had been the one to find the young boy, hanging by his neck from a tree above the quarry pit. Hanging in the cold dying light of an autumn evening. It had appeared that Jonathan had taken the rope swing and made a noose which he had tied around his neck before stepping from the brink. Kaiser, just a puppy then, was yelping looking up at the weird fruit dangling from the crooked bough above. It was because his wife had 'known' that they had never left the pub, had stayed in the village. He had screamed, begged and pleaded with her to leave but she refused. She had told him she would stay regardless, it was up to him if he would stay with her. He had stayed but ever since the ultimatum the love between them had grown into understanding an acceptance of how things would be.

Michael had asked Ryan to do double shifts for a while to staff the bar, he didn't feel up to fraternising yet. Ryan was a good guy, he was understanding to the situation that Mike now found himself in. Besides there was plenty of paperwork that Mike needed to catch up on. That was how Hollis found Mike when she entered the pub. He was sitting at the bar, scratching his head over the accounts, chewing on a pencil nub. Kaiser was dutifully curled around up at the foot of Mikes barstool, he appeared asleep but at a closer glance his squinting eye was keeping watch.

'What'll it be' asked Ryan

'I'll have a half of six X please' Mike looked up, he hadn't recognised the woman's voice, he nodded at Hollis when she caught his eye, then he went back to studying the papers. She watched the brown liquid foam into the glass and settle.

'That'll be one sixty please.' Hollis placed her shoulder bag on the counter and took the money from her purse and placed it on the counter. She stole a look around the pub and took a sip from the glass.

'Do you mind if I park myself here?' Hollis indicated to the bar stool next to her.

'Suit yourself' replied Mike.

'As long as I'm not disturbing you'

'No,no I wasn't getting anything done here anyway. I should just bite the bullet and get an accountant to look at all this stuff.' Mike put down the pencil and put the papers inside a ring binder which he stashed beneath the bar. He turned to Ryan

'You want to take a fag break, it's fine.'

'Yeah sure.' Ryan grabbed a coat from a closet behind the counter and went outside to smoke a cigarette.

'This is your pub then?, I always wanted to run a little country pub.'

'Well don't, ever. Whatever you've heard, it's not true.'

'There must be something good about it.'

'Well I'll let you know when I find out.'

'OK, OK I promise not to ever buy my dream pub' Mike let out a small chuckle.

'Well all I can say is if you like working day and night for almost zero profit then open up a pub.' Hollis smiled and took a mouthful of beer.

'So what do you do thats so bad you're thinking of changing your career?'

Hollis set her glass down. Her face looked suddenly serious.

'I'm a police officer.' Mike straightened himself up, his face turned grey, the muscles in his jaw tightened.

'Look, it's not what you think?' explained Hollis.

'Then what is it I should be thinking?' Ryan had finished is cigarette and came back through the door. 'Could you check the barrels Ryan, I think the Landlord needs changing.' 'Oh I just changed em about...' 'Just go check it.' Ryan looked from Hollis back to Mike, 'Err, Yeah, sure. Of course. No worries.'

Mike pressed his finger into the counter as if pointing to something beneath the bar. 'Look, I spoke to somebody yesterday at the station and I told them everything, everything I know about where Emma might or might not be. You think that its not enough that I have to deal with her disappearing. Your treating me like I'm a suspect. You come up here without introducing yourself, sniffing about.'

'Look, OK I admit. I know about your wife going missing but I'm in no way here to check up on you. I'm not even on duty.'

'Is that supposed to make me feel better.'

'I came up here...' Hollis paused, she looked into her glass and then drained it. 'I'm not sure exactly why I came up here but if I can help find your wife then I don't see how it could be a bad thing. I'm sorry you're right. I shouldn't have come here.' She stood up, taking her bag.

'Wait, wait, sit down, sit down a minute.' Hollis turned and stood by the door facing Mike.

'You know something, don't you?'

'No, but I want to. It was up there at the big quarry pit wasn't it. Your boy Jonathan?' An uncomfortable silence followed. 'Look, you don't have to tell me anything it's really none of my...' It was as if the great man had suddenly imploded. He sank down on his bar stool. He picked up a beer matt and held in both hands between thumb and forefinger, staring at it as though it was of interest to him.

'She found him. She cut him down. I didn't even see him. Not until the funeral but thats not the same. I had a choice. He was a great kid, I don't know why he would have done what they say he did.' Hollis came back to the bar and sat down again.

'You don't think he did.'

'Who knows, Emma was adamant he couldn't have. I don't know. You never know what is really going on in a persons head do you? even in your own family. I would like to think that it was an accident but I can't see how it could have been. I just can't get her to leave it alone she won't put it to rest. She blames herself and she hates me for wanting to get as far away from this place as possible.' Leaning on the bar, Hollis dipped her head so she could speak eye to eye with Mike's hunched figure.

'I can understand that, wanting to leave. I think it's very brave of you to have stayed. I couldn't have.'

'Ahh What the hell, it wasn't bravery, I didn't have a choice. I couldn't leave Emma here. That was the least that I owed her and Jonathan. The least I could do was to stay.' Mike lifted his head up to meet Hollis's eyes.

'Did you go up there, to the quarry?'

'Yes, I did. It's an unnerving place. I can't say that I like the place much.'

'I haven't been up to that Quarry since Jonathan died and I don't plan to. Emma sometimes takes Kaiser up there.'

'Has your wife ever gone away before?' 'She used to go away for a day or two but that was a long time ago, nothing like this, this doesn't feel right. This doesn't feel like Emma to me.' Mike pulled himself upright with what seemed to be a lot of effort.

'Would you like a top up, on the house.'

'No, I really should get going. I've got to drive. I'm sorry to have...'

'Don't worry nothing about it.'

'I would appreciate it if you didn't mention it to my colleagues at the station.'

'As I said, don't worry. I can see you didn't mean any harm in it. You might not want to make a habit of that though.' Hollis smiled. She picked up her bag and went to the door. 'Try not to worry Mr Powell, I know there just words but we'll find Emma. I promise that.' 'I hope so, I feel sick all the time without her. I just don't know what to do with myself.' Hollis drove back to town. 'I never really did like being in the countryside. I'm more of a city girl at heart.'

Beaton returned to Mrs Gream's a little after eight. He had not thought to leave any of the lights on in the house. He let himself in through the back door with the key in his pocket. 'It's just me Mrs Gream. Don't worry, It's Beaton, your neighbour.'

His voice was light and cheerful. He turned on the hall light and went upstairs. Mrs Gream was hunched over in a kneeling position with her head bent forward to her chest. There was a dark stain on the carpet, the room reeked of the sweet smell of urine.

'Oh, shit. I'm sorry I was gone so long. The time just ran away from me.' Beaton sat on the side of the bed a while and then pulled the shaft of the knitting needle from the belt, releasing Mrs Gream's bound hands from the bed post.

'OK, well your free to go then.'

He watched the old lady slowly struggle to her feet, stumbling around the bedroom with her head still covered and her hands bound behind her. She moved her feet tentatively towards the hallway light. She was sobbing all the way. Beaton followed her out onto the landing. He brushed past her in the doorway and headed back downstairs.

'I don't know about you Mrs Gream but I am famished. Simply starving.' He took two eggs from the fridge and boiled some water in a pan. He ran the eggs under a hot tap until they were warmed through and placed them gently into the bubbling water carefully using a ladle. He watched the clock on the oven and after two minutes had passed he put the bread into the toaster. Once it had popped up he buttered the toast and cut them into thin strips. He couldn't find an egg cup so instead he used a small clear drinking glass from the dresser cabinet. With a sharp knife he removed the scalp of the egg. He heavily salted the white flesh before ramming one of the soldier deep into the heart of the egg. A golden yellow rivulet of yolk ran down the side of the glass and pooled on the surface of the saucer.

'You can't beat a good egg. CAN YOU MRS GREAM?' he shouted 'DID YOU HEAR ME MRS GREAM, I SAID YOU CAN'T BEAT A GOOD EGG.' He crammed another spoonful into his mouth and chewed. 'Nope, theres nothing like a nice runny egg.'

When he had finished the eggs, he turned the shells over in the glass and smashed the shells into small little pieces. He had always enjoyed doing that, smashing their skulls in. 'Are you hungry Mrs Gream? I could make you something. Would you like an egg. I do a very good egg.'

Beaton walked out into the hallway. Mrs Gream was standing at the top of the stairs. She was leaning on the corner of the wall on the top landing. She her shoulder shook as she sobbed, she dangled one of her legs over the drop, feeling and testing the air to see where the next step began.

'You should be careful there Mrs Gream that looks incredibly dangerous from where I'm standing. One of the biggest killer is falling in the home. How about an omelette. I could do you a cheese omelette. Would you prefer that? I'm really trying here.' It was then that Beaton remembered that he had gagged the old lady's mouth and she couldn't answer even if she had wanted to. As Mrs Gream's foot touched down on the step below she bent her body slightly forwards to catch the weight of her body. She swayed and being overbalanced with her hands tied tightly behind her she keeled forward like a freshly felled tree. She made no noise as she dropped. Her right shoulder took the initial brunt of the impact but as her upper body absorbed the blow against the steps her head was snapped forward, cracking loudly against a bannister. She rumbled down the staircase turning once over sidewise, then rolling, head of heels, face downwards her chin bumping, bup, bup, bup from step to step. She came to rest at the bottom of the stairs. Her knees on the hall floor with her legs askew. The pillow case had remained in place but it appeared she was staring up towards the place she had only just been standing. She was still, very still.

'Mrs Gream, Mrs Gream?'

Beaton spoke in a hushed voice as if he were waking her from a long nap. He gently shook her by the shoulder. 'Mrs Gream.' He pulled her by the legs, she flopped down the last few steps until she was lying straight along the hallway, her legs towards the front door. He went upstairs and took the soiled sheet from the floor. He came back downstairs and draped it over Mrs Gream. 'Shit, well you've done it again Beaton and you can't say that you didn't know that that as going to happen. Letting her walk around with her eyes covered. Well it's done now, it's all done for now.' He squatted down beside her ear.' 'Mrs Gream, Mrs Gream?' If she was breathing then he couldn't tell. He put his hand against her back, between the shoulder blades. He couldn't feel anything at all, no sign of any life.

The ringing of the doorbell made him jump. He could see an outline of two bodies, standing before the stained glass window. Then came the ra tat a tat tat of the little metal handle against the letterbox. He could hear the two people talking clearly amongst themselves. A young man and a woman.

'I told you it was nothing'

'Well what if she's hurt and she can't hear us, shout through the letterbox.'

'Ok,Ok.'

Beaton grabbed Mrs Gream's legs and hauled her around and across the floor into the living room. The letterbox squeaked as the metal flap was pushed up and open.

'Mrs Gream, it's Paul from next door. We heard a noise. Are you alright?'

The flap went down again.

'Can you see inside?'

'No, there's all that black hairy stuff in the way of the letterbox.'

'Here, move let me have a look.' The letterbox squeaked open again. 'Hello, Gillian, can you hear me. Its Anna from number nineteen. Hello ooo'

Beaton peered around the edge of the architrave tentatively, into the hallway. He could see four fingers poking through the black bristles of the draught excluder in the letterbox.

'I can't see her and I can see right through to the kitchen.'

'Let's go, we'll call in the morning.'

'But what if she's upstairs.'

'You said it sounded like someone falling downstairs, why would she be upstairs.'

'I'll ring just once more.'

There was a long shrill burst from the doorbell and then it went quiet. The voices continued until they were punctuated by the slam of a front door closing on the adjoining building.

'Mrs Gream, Mrs Gream. What am I going to do with you?' He dragged her by the feet back into the hall way and down the three small steps that led into the kitchen. He made sure to pull her slowly from step to step to lessen the noise, wump, wump, wump. He winced with each bang of the head, aware that the neighbours next door might be listening. He left her face down on the greasy linoleum and went upstairs to the bedroom. He tidied up, putting his belt back on and made up the bed as best he could. He returned the needles to the knitting bag. In the back of a closet he found a suitcase, the type with little wheels and an extendable handle. He opened it and proceeded to fill it with a jumble of clothes from the dresser. He also threw in the stone tortoise and brought it downstairs. There was still the problem of what to do about the window that had been smashed. He emptied the dustbin into the kitchen sink. He picked out the larger items and put the, back into the dustbin. He sifted through the rubbish in the sink until all that was left were the shards of glass he had swept away from the day before. He took the old ladies coat, scarf and gloves from the closet and and threw them in the suitcase with the stone tortoise and the rest of the clothes. In a draw in the kitchen he found her purse and keys which he stuffed into his pocket. In the living room he put on the television and went to sleep. He did not dream.

Saturday 24th

Christmas Eve

Beaton awoke around two am in the morning with the TV still talking at him. He went out into the kitchen and stepped over the body of Mrs Gream. Beaton took the little bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the back door. He crept out into the garden. There were no lights on in any of the houses only the small flashing fairy lights strung around a few of the neighbouring windows. He struggled to remove the padlock from the back gate. Disengaging the rusty lock from the hook made so much noise that he had taken a break before dragging open the back gate on it's sagging hinges. As far as he could tell, no one had heard him. Yet. he made sure there was a clear path from the back door out into the alleyway behind the houses. He pulled open the garage, leaving a gap about knee height. It would be too noisy to force the thing any further. Grabbing Mrs Gream by the ankles he pulled her out into the garden and through the gate leaving her just in front of the Garage entrance. He scuttled under the door like a crab and reaching through the gap he heaved the old lady into the darkness. He dumped her onto the pallet and covered her body with the bed sheet. By morning his tracks would be covered up by the drifts of snow but he made sure to scuff at the drag marks and disturb any obvious signs that he had been there. He couldn't leave her in the garage, that was certain but until he had dealt with the first body there was little he could do about the second.

Back inside Mrs Gream house, he filled his duffle bag with food from the cupboards. In the living room he found an unopened bottle of 15 year old Ruby Port. A single relic in an otherwise empty drinks cabinet. He removed the glass form the sink and scattered it about the kitchen floor in front of the back door. He locked the door from the outside with the small bunch of keys Searching the garden he found a large stone about the size of his fist. He through it through the empty hole in the window. It clattered to the floor and rolled underneath the table. He left the traveling case and the duffle bag out in the alleyway and locked the gate from the inside. He climbed back over into his garden and out through his back gate into the alley picking up the two bags he made his way back towards the quarry.

Hollis wanted to make a few more inquiries before she gave up on trying to find Beaton. Her supervisor suggested that in this case it might be easier to wait for him to show up on his own terms.

'Considering no actual crime has been committed Hollis, it would make more sense to focus on actual crimes of which there are no shortage of'. Hollis tried and failed to suggest that there might be a link between the missing man and the woman.

I just can't believe that this man is running for nothing, Sarge.

'Look Hollis, just because two people happen to go missing at the same time it doesn't mean that they have to be related, however unusual it might seem. We've looked into it and there is no evidence to suggest that the two people knew anything about the other. If or when it does look like there is a link, which I seriously doubt, then we will continue to treat themas separate incidents. Now, I've passed your concerns on to the DI and they are more than capable of assessing the likelihood of any link. This is not the first time that I have had to tell you to leave the detective work to the detectives.'

'I understand sir, it's just that....'

'Just nothing Hollis. I mean it thats the end of it. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, sir.'

Hollis couldn't seem to help herself. During her break she mad further enquiries. All she could think about was Mike sitting up there waiting for someone to find his wife. Having already lost his son she couldn't imagine what he was going through. She tried calling Beaton's mother again. Once again she was left listening to the dial tone. Whatever there was to find out about Beaton Earnest she was not going to discover from his mother. She went back to looking through the little red address book that she had taken from the house. Maybe there was something that she had missed the first time. She cam across a Doctor Charles Brant. It was a desperate hunch but she dialled the number anyway. The telephone rang for a few minutes before a recorded messages clicked on over the line.

'Welcome to the Willow Park Wellness Centre. You have reached the department of clinical psychology. Please note that appointments cannot be made in advance over the telephone. If you have a referral from your GP...'

Hollis hung up the phone. It wasn't exactly a useful piece of information but it was certainly interesting. She went back to the book again and trawled through the names. She went back to looking through all the number for his wife Marie. She tried them again but none of them worked. She worked through the little book and had reached the last page when a name caught her eye. It was three letters. They had been almost carved into the inside cover, it appeared that the pen that had been used to write it had been running out of ink. Three capital letters. R E E. 'It could be an abbreviation for a company' though Hollis. 'Ree, ree, ree' she said it over and over until she suddenly had an idea. She took up the phone to her ear and dialled. It was answered promptly by a young girl.

'Hello, is your mum home' Hollis heard the young girls feet padding away across the room and calling out to wherever her mother might be. There was a some clattering or shifting of chairs and footsteps then talking.

'Who is it? I've told you about answering the phone' Then the voice came over loud and clear in the earpiece.

'Hello' Hollis took a deep breath. 'Hello, is that Marie speaking?' There was a short pause then the voice came back, it was hesitant, guarded.

'Yes, who's calling?' 'Is this Marie Earnest speaking?'

There was an even longer pause this time, the woman's voice changed in tone, it became sharper, severe.

'Nobody calls me by that name anymore. Look, you've got three seconds to explain who you are before I call the police'

'This is the police Marie, My name is PC Hollis Bergan, I'm calling from Rilksham County Police department. I'm calling about your husband Beaton, Beaton Earnest, I'm sorry if this is upsetting but I just have a few questions I would like to ask.' There was the silence again then a muffled hand over the receiver.

'Go play in your room Sarah, Mummy's talking business.' There was a short exchange of words but the child had evidently conceded as Marie came back onto the line.

'OK quickly, but I need to let you know now that I have not had a thing to do with Beaton for about six years now so whatever he has done. I know nothing about it and I want nothing to do with it'

'That's fine, that's fine. I promise. I just want to ask a few quick questions and that will be the end of it. Marie, Beaton is missing.'

'Missing?'

'He hasn't been home and I believe he is in hiding. I don't know from who or why but I need to know if there is anything in Beaton's past that might help me to understand where or why he has gone.'

'Like I said, I haven't had any contact with him for...'

'Why did you leave him Marie?'

'I, I was pregnant and I...' Her words trailed off and were lost

'The child wasn't Beaton's?' '

No, no, you misunderstand it was Beaton's, I mean she is Beaton's but that was the reason I left.'

'You left because Beaton was the father?

'I didn't want him to, to influence my daughter.'

'Was Beaton violent, did he hurt you at all?'

'No.., yes. Look, I can't explain fully and you'll probably think I'm crazy but you don't know Beaton. What he can be like. He never so much as raised his voice to me but he could still be cruel. He could say and do things that were so unbelievably cruel. We had this argument. It started over something small, something really trivial. He took our dog, he took the dog and he went. Just stormed out of the house. He came back home without her. I was hysterical, crying. I mean we loved that dog and he just took her away. He never told me where he took her, it frightened me that he would be so cold and then act like everything was just fine. It wasn't just that though. He would tell me these stories. He would have nightmares about his childhood. His best friend had killed himself. 'Did he ever mention his friends name to you or how he died?'

'No. I got him to go and see someone briefly, a psychologist. The doctor prescribed him some tablets to help him sleep and it seemed to help for the most part.'

'But you still left him?'

'Look, I know how it sounds and I did love Beaton, I did, but some of the things he would say. He could be so frightening. I couldn't let him raise my child. I just wanted to get away from him. He tried to contact me several times but I avoided him. I called him last spring to arrange for our divorce but he acted as though nothing had happened as if I had left just a week ago. He doesn't know about Sarah and I don't' want him to. I just want to move on.'

'Of course, I understand. I want you to contact me if you hear from him.' Hollis reassured her that there was little or nothing to worry about. Even so she could sense the crackle of fear in the young woman's voice as she said goodbye and hung up the telephone.

Sometimes he believed that he was possessed by an 'ugly spirit'. the name he gave to a malignant force that lay dormant inside of him. Stirring within him, suppressed and controlled only by his nervous ticks and his obsessive behaviour. He could somewhat control himself by keeping his life to a controlled schedule, by keeping each day the same as the next. These were all manifestations of the ugly spirit. He needed calm, and balance, he believed that his life could only be lived out in either harmony or hell.

He had been a sickly child, prone to being struck down with intense burning fevers that lasted for several days at a time. During these maladies he would sometimes sleep walk, speaking nonsense words, laughing and crying, break down in fits of rage. In the morning, young Beaton would be oblivious to his feverish somnambulisms. The only thing he could remember was the same recurring dream which visited him when he was sick. It was more of a feeling, a waking dream experienced from the slipping in and out of an unconscious state. He felt as if he were composed entirely of resonating waves. He was neither separate nor was he a part of his surroundings, everything vibrated as one. Innumerable microscopic glass filaments quivering through time and space. Every nerve in his fevered body alert, quivering. He felt a sensation, a texture. An alien feeling that he had never known in the waking world and which he could not pinpoint. Like the memory of a phantom taste that comes and goes yet can never be recaptured as it once was, if it ever existed at all. It was a sensation, both hard and soft, like fingernails squealing across a backboard. The shiver down a spine. Excitement and nausea, dread and ecstasy. As the feeling intensified the silver threads bounced and zig zagged increasing in size and frequency until the the blurred into a mass of flickering white spots. Like the interrupted signal on a TV screen. The nausea and anxiety grew in ever increasing waves, until Beaton could sense the danger that lurked behind the fractured lines that convulsed and juddered in their spasmodic zig zag patterns. Something black spreading through his brain quake, eating up his soul. This is what he called 'the ugly spirit.' It moved through everything, it was God itself.

From the crest of the valley Beaton looked down onto the the village, nestled in its hollow. Cupped in the white hands of the landscape, gently starting to stir in the slow Rhythms of the unfolding day. Opening up to life like a Japanese paper flower. The street lamps still burned amongst the odd glow from behind a curtained window. Instead of continuing on the path into the quarry Beaton skipped the fence and cut across the field, down towards the village. Skidding and stumbling towards the bottom of the field under the shade of a tangle of bushes and trees. He made a comical sight, flailing down hillside, a bag in each hand. He forced his way through a thicket only to come up against a tall chain link fence. He had forgotten that the railway tracks ran the course of the valley like a river. It would mean back tracking up the hill and around over the top of the tunnel further up the valley. Beaton left the bags by the base of the fence and climbed chain link fence. He landed heavily on the other side, rolling down the steep embankment through the dead sticks of cow parsley and teasels. He picked himself up and looked up and down the track, the steel roads bending out of sight into the depths of the tunnel. He dashed over the gravel, jumping the lines and rushed into the bushes at the base of the opposing bank. He made his way up the slope, pulling himself along with the help of roots and branches. He scaled another fence and found himself standing on the edge of the rec. He passed some abandoned swings and the manicured hedges that enclosed the bowling green. He took a narrow bath that led down to the river and rose again towards the church. The path was dark, with high stone walls on either side, that held back two rows of cypress trees. They hung in the air above him, menacing. The path came out at the back of the old vicarage. It was beginning to get light. The old church yard was peaceful, the flat pedestals of the tombstones, each covered with thick white tablecloth of snow. Through stained glass in the arched window, Beaton could see a light on, he walked around to the other side of the building. He lifted the heavy ring of the great wooden door and felt it click open in a clunky movement. He pushed, it was open. There was a strange smell, it was the smell of the waxed floors and incense. An old, ancient smell too. He hadn't stepped in a church for so long he couldn't remember when. He stood for a while in the silence, it was a peaceful place. He dare not walk towards the alter down the aisle, he skirted the pews around the edge of the nave, the heels of his shoes squeaking against the floor. He came to an oratory, there were candles burning on rows of tiny cast iron holders. Small white votive offerings. Beaton up a fresh candle and lit it. He didn't prey, just watched the flickering hand of flame that waved on the wick. He took some more and stuffed them into his pockets. There, in a small alcove of dressed stone, was a small statue of Mary, her arms apart small white hands in a gesture of supplication. Her head tilted , a sad expression on her face. Beaton touched the hem of her robe, the plaster was cold and grainy to the touch. He carried on towards the chancel. To his left he noticed a door ajar. It was set into the dark panelling and was of the same design so that when it was closed it was almost hidden from view. He peered between the crack. He could see a bench, the type you might find in a locker room. Above, hanging from a row of pegs hung priestly robes. Black and purple vestments, some with embroidered symbols. 'Backstage of the theatre' Beaton thought to himself. He remembered his communion when he was just a small boy. The wafer sticking to the roof of his mouth. The uncomfortable silence, waiting for his first confession to finish. He never told about the animals he had killed. He made up a lie about stealing money from his mothers purse. Why had he made up that lie? he wondered to himself.

Father David Forde was up early Christmas morning. It had been a stressful couple of weeks. The nativity play and the extra services had all added so much extra time to his schedule. If he was being honest with himself he would have admitted that he was looking forward to getting it all out of the way and returning to the quiet routine of the church. There was a blip in the attendance of his congregation this time of year but he knew he would not see any of them again until next time around, except maybe for the weddings and the funerals. His congregation was dwindling, It was tiresome to give lip service to people who didn't care. He was fed up worth initiatives to boost number, it wasn't why he had become a priest, to pursued people to come to church. He was there to serve God. Then there was Mr Simmons, ever since his wife had passed away he had practically moved into the church. 'I will speak to him after Christmas is out of the way.' The priest told himself. 'Every time I turn around, he seems to be standing their as if waiting my instruction. He means well but he causes more trouble than good'. Mr Simmon's was part of the Parish council, he was full of great ideas to get the empty pews filled and he wasn't afraid to express the failings of Father David Forde, at meetings. He seemed to do it in such an easy underhand way whilst at the same time remaining so polite and amiable. He knew from experience that it was going to be difficult to get rid of him, he did so much around the church that it was going to look bad to shake off such an avid volunteer. 'I must do it, not to would be much worse. I will go mad otherwise.' Father David had started getting to the church two hours early just to beat Mr Simmons and to get some peace with God. There was no part of the church that he could escape from the man so instead he had been sneaking in early and leaving later than normal. He had even found himself wishing that it had been he that had died and not the late Mrs Simmon's. The man seemed to be some sort of a test but he hadn't worked out why he was being tested in such a way. It was too dangerous to cycle so he walked the mile to the church on foot, he would have to salt the paths and shovel the snow away so that that it was safe for the morning worshippers who would wind their way down form their houses after a l ate breakfast. 'Nobody, seems to invite me for lunch anymore, they don't seem to want to be reminded of the church in their houses thee days'. He unlocked the heavy oak door with the oversized iron key and pushed inside. He took the steps down into the crypt and checked the boilers thermostat. It was a huge ancient piece of machinery. Patched up over the years, just waiting to break down once and for all. He could here the dripping water from the snow melt as it trickled through the grates forming puddles on the floor. It was a sad sight to see the church like this. The vaults filled with the tired nativity props, old wheelchairs, broken headstones and workman's tools. 'It's shameful, simply shameful. All those poor benefactors who paid good money to be buried down here, now it looks like a disused store room. There's just isn't enough money to keep this place going, I must organise some more fund raising events in the new year. Oh, but whats the use, bake sales and home made jam isn't going to sort this mess out.' The priest picked up a bag and looked inside, it was filled with old shoes. They were all a size seven. 'Why are these even here? I could write to the Archdeacon again about extra funding but I doubt it would do any good. This is not why I joined the church.' He went back upstairs to get make a cup of tea, in his office he saw an old brown woollen cardigan belonging to Mr Simmon's hanging on the coat stand. It was something he often wore when he was working in the grounds. Father David felt a pang of resentment and fought to push it out of his mind. He had forgotten to get milk again. 'I hate black tea.' He made himself a black coffee instead. He was busying himself about the kettle when he heard a noise from outside in the nave. 'Oh no, he's early'. He thought to himself. His heart sank. When he stepped out into the Nave he saw a stranger hurrying away. He had scared him off. 'Oh, come back, you don't need to run. I thought you were somebody else. Please, if theres anything I can do to help?'

'Is that you Mr Simmons, I'' making a coffee. I wasn't expecting you. You're rather early.' It was the voice of a man, it came from an adjoining room. Beaton hurried out the way he came, the voice called after him, asking him not to run. Beaton stopped near the statue and turned. There was a small old man. He had a pleasant face, he was balding, his greying wisps of hair combed over his scalp. 'I'm afraid our service doesn't start till ten, but if you need to talk to somebody?' Beaton didn't reply at first he just stared down at the floor. 'Did you need someone to talk to? I've just put the kettle on.' He had come here to talk to somebody but the words wouldn't come that stuck at the back of his throat. 'Confess, confess, confess.' The words spun around in his head. It was no use he couldn't make the words come out and the sight of the kind old man only made him feel more and more ridiculous. Beaton grabbed the statue and pulled it to the floor. It was dashed into pieces, great chunks of bright white plaster. 'Why, you vandal, you vandal, you should be ashamed of yourself?' The vicars face contorted with rage as he ran at Beaton with his arms in the air as if he were scaring away a flock of birds on the beach. Beaton ran out the door, the Vicars curses, trapped behind the slam of the heavy oak door. The vicars words replayed themselves in his mind. 'If there is anything I could do to help?' 'Help, It's too late for help.' Beaton thought to himself. 'No one will help me now, no one will forgive me. Not even God will me. Not even a bastard God, who sacrificed his own son, would forgive me now.' He retraced his steps down to the river and back up onto the rec. He was raving aloud, spitting the words out in hot breaths. 'I should not have come here, I should have gone straight to the mines. To think that you would try and confess to a priest, confess to a man who is crazier than you. What would his forgiveness mean to me. Him, alone in his church, day after day, lighting his candles and saying his prayers. Who is he but a crazy man.' He threw the statue over the fence and followed after it. He was laughing now. 'Stupid old fool, scared to be alive. Sitting in his little church afraid of a phantom, a ghost, a ghoul in the sky.' He though about how the vicar had become so angry over a statue, a dumb old statue, he felt as if he had achieved a small victory. As if he had exposed the man for the mans real nature, his real feeling. 'All that old fool care about is preserving himself in that fucking tomb.' Beaton retraced his steps back up to the meadow and continued on the path that led into the quarry.

It took Beaton all morning to divide the rest of the body into portions that he could easily carry. He would have to make two separate trips to completely dispose of the body parts. He had had a great deal of trouble in detaching both of the legs. After he had cut around all the flesh of the buttocks and hips he had twisted and popped the ball joints from the hip sockets. The act of dismemberment was easier to overcome than he had first feared. It became simply a reality, a fact that had to be face up to. He was more concerned by his next biggest problem, what to do wit the old lady in the garage near his home. An even bigger problem that was not going to go away. He decided that it would be best to wait at least until Monday to dispose of the body parts. He covered them back up beneath the rocks. The quarry was surely to be busier at the weekends and he wanted to avoid being seen as much as was possible. Once the deed was over he ate some of the food from the duffle bag and took some heavy slugs form the bottle of port. The sweet syrupy liquid warmed him some, it was a small relief. He opened up the travelling suitcase and dumped the things out. He picked through the clothes to see what he had taken. There was a green woollen cardigan with faux glass buttons. He stripped off his duffel coat and put it on underneath. There was also several pair of tights. He removed his trousers. The tights felt itchy, they snagged against the hairs on his legs. Still, anything to stay warm. He used the rest of the clothes as a kind of mattress. He flattened them out and layered them. He had to think about how to dispose of Mrs Gream. He couldn't leave her in the garage, he certainly couldn't dismember her there either. He knew it was possible to do it in the quarry but how on earth was he going to transport the body. He didn't have a car and she would be too heavy to drag. He sat sipping at the port in the waining glow of the torchlight. Then it struck him. The answer was staring him right in the face.

A pain, a sharp stinging pain and a struggle to take in air. She was cold, very cold. 'I am dead, dear God, at last I am dead. Alf, I just want to see you Alfred. Where are you?' The whole of her body was rigid, constricted. When she realised that she was still alive she wished only to die. It seemed too cruel to have survived. She tried to stand but her hands were bound behind her back. She tried not to gag on the knotted fabric filling her mouth. 'Relax and breath, just relax and breath'. It was all she could tell herself, she had no choice. She waited and prayed for it too be over soon.

The temperatures had dropped so low that particles of moisture had frozen in the air. It felt unnatural for Beaton to be around so many people. He felt vulnerable walking about amongst the busy Christmas shoppers. Nobody paid him much mind but it did little to stave off his paranoia. Every face that gave him more than a glance was judging him. Murderer, killer, fiend, pervert. He thrust his chin beneath the collar of his coat. He was visibly dishevelled. He knew that. A filthy looking wretch. But what he didn't realise was that this was actually his saving grace. Nobody cared about the human train crash, the wreck. The man that people side step to avoid. He was merely an embarrassment a person that made others feel uncomfortable. The shopping mall had been the pride and joy of the town, constructed in the mid eighties, a central part of a grandiose planning and redevelopment scheme. It's design which had been an attempt to embrace the modern and cutting edge was now tired and dated. A throwback to a time when all hope for the future was in retrospect shockingly short sighted. He weaved his way to the department store. The security guard eyed him as he pushed through the heavy glass door. After getting lost for a while he found himself in the shoe department. On the far wall at the back hung rows and racks filled with luggage. He roamed the aisle, he couldn't see what he was looking for.

'May I help you?'

Beaton swung around, a young girl, smarty dressed in a blouse a pencil skirt was standing in front of him.

'Errm Yes, I need one of these but bigger, as big as you have.'

Beaton reached up and touched the travel case.

'We don't really have anything much bigger, theres this one.' The girl pulled out some small steps and handed down another suitcase. It was only marginally bigger than the one that he had taken from Mrs Gream's house.

'No, no, that'll never do. Too small'

'They tend not to sell them much bigger, what with Airport security restrictions'

'Oh, you have nothing bigger with wheels'

'We have sports bags, they're not the same but they are bigger and have wheels. Let me show you.'

The girl walked off around the corner to anther aisle and came back wheeling a large red sports bag.It was good, it was really good. It looked much more sturdy than the travel suitcase. The wheels were larger, more robust. Beaton smiled.

'That looks perfect, you don't have one in black do you?'

'No, nothing in black. We have navy blue though, that's all though I'm afraid.'

'I'll take it.'

It was navy blue with lime green piping and a logo in white. It was made of a shiny faux leather. It had wheels and a handle that could be extended from one end. Beaton wasn't sure what it was intended for. He didn't recognise the brand but he figured it was either cricket or tennis.

Beaton paid for the bag with money from the old ladies purse, he was reluctant to use his own credit card. In the hardware store, Beaton bought some more batteries, rope, gas canisters and a vicious looking carpet cutting knife. It was amazing to him how you could buy such combinations of items without even raising an eyebrow. He also had a little money left over to stop at a greasy spoon and order a full english. He munched on the food and stared out the window at the the passers by all swaddled up, running from shop to shop all of them desperate to spend their money on anything. He didn't look so out of place in the cafe. Just another down and out, hiding from the cold trying to stay alive. He ate slowly, methodically, he was in no hurry at all. He couldn't make his next move until it was dark. He looked at his broken watch at adjusted it to the one on the wall, winding it till he felt the tension of the spring mechanism resist. It was four twenty five pm exactly.

Mike Powell had finished loading the dishwasher behind the bar and was feeling restless. There was nothing that needed doing around pub, he had been keeping himself so busy that there was little else to do. He was sick of leafing through the paperwork and Ryan was happy to work at the bar. Nothing could take his mind away from worrying about Emma. There was only so much pretending that everything was ok that a person could do. 'I need to go look for her, I need to find her. I know it's not good. I just know that whatever has happened to her it's not going to be good.' He put on his flat-cap and coat and took Kaisers leash down from a hook on the back of the door. The dog raised his head and pricked its ears. 'C'mon boy. Let's go look for mummy, eh!'. The dog uncoiled itself and stretched. He clipped the leash to the collar.

'I'm going to get some fresh air Ryan. There's a delivery still not arrived, just check that everything's theres on before you sign it. You know where I keep the order forms?'

'Yeah, don't worry, I'll see you later okay.'

He buttoned his coat. It was a raw wind that whipped up at the valley side. He took a packet of cigarettes form his pocket and shook one up to the top, extracting it from the box with his mouth. Turning his back to the wind he lit the cigarette beneath cupped hands. It was his first cigarette in fifteen years. They hadn't improved the taste in all that time but the thick heavy smoke felt good in his lungs. He remembered a saying he had heard. 'Once a smoker always a smoker, you just had to wait for the chips to be down enough.' Kaiser padded along at his side sniffing at the air. He knew where he was going even before Michael did. Maybe it was the dog who was really leading the way. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke that had reminded him of his walks with Emma. Emma had never given up smoking, it was a vice that she had chosen to keep. He never came to the quarry, why would he, it was torture enough living in the same house where he had lived with and loved his little boy. He knew Emma came here often but he never spoke to her about it, it was a private place. 'Maybe I should have pushed her to go to bereavement counselling but regrets are useless, a waste of time. Where are you Emma? I just want you back.'

The light was dimming under the canopy of the trees, his vision was dulled and fuzzy. He threw his cigarette stub against a tree, it burst into a shower of orange sparks and landed in the snow. It hissed. Kaiser sniffed at it. He let the dog from his leash. Kaiser ran on ahead over a ridge and was lost from view. He needed a piss. He stopped and undid his belt and fly. The hot jet of yellow piss drilled a hole in the snow in a cloud of steam. When he reached the brow of the ridge Kaiser was nowhere to be seen.

'Kaiser, kaiser, c,mon boy. Kaiiiseer. C'mon Kaiser, for fuck sake. That fucking dog never listens to me.'

It would be to dark to see in about an hours time. He followed the main path through the woods until he reach a place where the path was dissected by another. He turned right onto a track that ran towards one of the large pits.

'Kaiser, Kaiser.'

The call came in at around Seven pm. An apologetic young lady who explained that

she was concerned about the well being of her neighbour who she had not seen or heard from in the past couple of days.

'We heard a noise, it was a banging. We were worried she might of fallen.' The operator asked the young woman to be patient, a police officer would call by within the next hour. PC Lusie and PC Bergan received a call to visit the address a short while later over their radios. It happened just at the same time that Hollis was trying to convince Steve to walk by the Beaton's house to check if any of the lights were on. When the call came, Hollie's mood was victorious.

'You see, didn't I tell you that there was more going on over there than met the eye.'

'Look, I will concede that it looks strange but I still think that you're letting your imagination get the better of you again. Have you ever heard of coincidences.'

'Coincidences, my arse. He chooses to go missing and then less than a week later his neighbour goes missing. Not to mention that other missing woman. I knew it. I fucking new it.'

'All right, all right just calm down, let's actually find out whats happened before you get too excited.'

A young woman in her early to mid thirties answered the front door, she had mousey blond hair that cane down to her shoulders. She was a thin, nervous type. Her husband was standing behind her in the hallway.

'Oh, hello. That was quick.'

'We happened to be in the area, I'm PC Lusie and this is Police Officer Bergan. Are you the one that alerted us.'

'Yeess, hi, my name's Teresa, but as I said I didn't want to blow anything out of proportion. We were a little concerned about out neighbour Mrs Gream weren't we Dick?' Dick nodded in agreement.

'Yes a little, it does seem weird not to see her for so long'

'We both heard a noise and we haven't seen her around since thursday.'

The couple invited the police officers inside out of the cold.

'And apart from hearing the noise on Friday you've seen and heard nothing?'

'Yes, thats right, which is unlike her. She lives alone since her husband died last year. She likes to have a chat. You know, she's lonely.'

'Me and PC Bergan will have a look around and see if everything looks as it should be.'

They could see nothing through the net curtains in the bay window. All the lights in the house were off.

'Well, I guess we should take a look around the back but I'm not climbing any fences this time.'

The gate was open which seemed unusual.

'You locked this last time you were here didn't you?' Steve nodded and then frowned 'Pretty certain I did, I think she made me lock it.' Hollis lifted the gate on its sunken hinges and pushed it open. She stood on the rockery wall and looked next door.

'Still boarded up here, doesn't look like anyone's been back and tried to get in.'

'Hey look at this, the window's been smashed' Hollis jumped down.

'Is it locked?'

'Yeah'

'Can you reach up and see if you can get the keys off the top of that cabinet?'

'I think so, hold on, I just need...' Steve on tip toes grasped around for the keys on the top of the cabinet.

'Nah, they aren't there' Steve got out his torch and shone it around the glass littering the floor.'Mrs Gream, can you hear me Mrs Gream? Hey look at that under there. That must be what was thrown through the window.' Hollis followed the torch beam. There was a large round rock by the leg if a chair beneath the kitchen table.

'I don't know Steve, look at the glass around the window. It's clean, right the way around the edge. Thats not simply been thrown through.'

'Fair point. What do you want to do now?

'Well I think we should call it in. I think it's worth trying to get in there tonight don't you?'

They had to wait to get a warrant to search the house. Hollis had wanted to be there when it took place but the Sergeant specifically requested that she return to the station.

'It's probably that promotion I've been waiting for all these years.' Steve frowned at her. 'Take this seriously Hollis, you've been in enough shit lately. The last thing that you need is to piss off Coxy.'

'Oh, what does it matter, I just have to be in the same room to piss him off'

'Well, anyway, best behaviour and at least pretend that your listening to him even if your not. You can't afford not to.'

'Yeah, I know your right. I'll see you back at the station then. I want to know everything they find.'

'Hollis! Just get out of here already.'

'Come in Hollis, take a seat.' Police Sergeant David Cox was seated at his desk. He was a heavy set man with sallow skin, his brown thinning hair was peppered with grey. His rectangular wire rimmed glasses perched low at the end of his thin nose as if he had just been reading over something.

'Yes sarge, thank you.' Hollis took off her cap and sat down.

'I had a phone call this morning.' He paused. 'Do you know who it was from?'

'No Sarge' Hollis was looking at her hat, turning it over in her hands.

'Can you guess?'

'No Sarge'.

'I think we both know what I'm talking about. One our operators received a phone call from a very distressed young lady by the name of Marie Earnest. I gather you know who she is and why she might be distressed.' Hollis tried to answer but was cut short before she could begin explaining. 'It would appear that she was upset because one of our police officers had called her up and told her that her estranged husband was on the loose somewhere. The same police officer, who only the day before, was told by me to leave the case alone, ....... Well what have you bloody well got to say for yourself.'

'I'm sorry sarge. It's just that I had a lead and...'

'If you have and leads you put it into your report or you pass it on to the DI. What you sure as shit do not do is go around like Miss Fucking Marple ringing up whoever you like and putting the fear of God into them. For Christ's sake Hollis, you know better than that the woman's got a young kid.'

'I'm sorry Sarge, I really am. I've got to explain this to the Inspector, your just lucky that she wasn't making a complaint.' Hollis's eyes looked up inquisitively.

'What did she want?'

'What do you think she wanted. She wanted to know if we had found him yet. You've got her scared to death. I'm recommending that you take some time off up until Christmas....' 'Sarge? Your suspending me, but...'

'I said that I am recommending you take time off. You would be wise to take it. We'll look at all this in the new year. This is really serious Hollis, I hope you realise that. This isn't the first time we've had conversations of this nature. I want you to put your time in today and I'll see that it's approved. OK?'

'Yes sarge.' 'This really is your last warning Hollis. Next time it will be suspension. I can't promise that this isn't going to go further but we'll see. Have a good rest Constable.' 'Yes Sarge.' Hollis left the office feeling dejected. She was still filling in her time sheet and tying up some loose paper work when Steve walked in. Hollis looked up.

'That Bad eh?'

'Worse.You spoken to the sarge too?'

'Yeah, what did he say to you?'

'It doesn't matter. I'm taking some leave until the new year. Voluntarily apparently.'

'For fucks sake Hollis, what the hell were you thinking You can't remove evidence from a house without telling anyone?'

'C'mon Steve, please, I don't need to hear it from you all over again.'

'OK,ok.'

'Hey, how did we make out at the house.'

'Look Hollis. Im not supposed to discuss it with you. I'm sorry.'

'Right, of course.' Hollis got up and went to the locker room to get changed. All in all, she thought to herself, it was shaping up to be a pretty shitty end to a pretty shitty year year.

Beaton cranked open the busted garage door open up to his waist and shoved the sports bag through, crawling in afterwards. He walked over the pallet where he had left the body. It was gone. Beaton grabbed the blood stained sheet and knotted it around his hand, shaking and mopping it about the floor. As if somehow Mrs Gream could be shaken out like a small rodent from within. He lifted the pallet and threw it across the floor, kicking at a stack of rotten tea chests. Thats when he heard the muted whimper. She was crouched in the corner. Jammed between the wall and the broke down shelving unit, huddled into herself, her hooded head resting on one shoulder.

He felt at that moment like he was loosing his grasp. Like a boat in a storm. The tethers and ropes that bound and held his life on course were running through his hands and unravelling into finer and finer strands. Fibres too fine to catch. Once they were gone he would have no control, no direction. He enjoyed it, that was the problem. He actually enjoyed to feel that power of life over death but he had always pretended to himself that he was only half responsible. That he had had no choice, like a child who throws stones at passing cars and is surprised when he causes an accident. He had relieved himself of all the consequences that resulted from his actions. To push a person from a cliff, to drop a stone upon a head, it didn't seem to the same as choking out a persons life with your bare hands. He had killed animals before. That was how he had first felt the thrill of life over death. He started small, plucking the legs from the water boatman. Watching them sink. Then it was the frogs. Caught in fishing nets, trapped inside plastic bags. Swung against the trunks of trees or squashed beneath a bicycle wheel.He would spend hours in the garden trapping the fledgling birds in the springtime. It wasn't simply the sort of thing that nasty little boys do, it was also more than that. It thrilled him to his core. He was obsessed by it, he thought about it, planned it. Concocting new ways to kill the creatures that God had given to him to do as he wished. that was how he thought of them, each life a gift to be taken. Springtime was his season for killing. For a while he had stopped but he never forgot, it never went away. He simply learned to hide it. He fantasised, dreamed of something bigger. Something more substantial.

He had cornered a rabbit once. He had spotted at the top of a large sloping meadow. Normally he would have o chance with a rabbit. They saw him coming from a mile away. He chased it, not thinking in any way that he would catch it. The rabbit bounded along the hedgerow looking for a way to escape but it was clearly in difficulty. Trying to force itself through the dense unbroken thicket. He rushed at the animal, it doubled back trying to flee back down the slope of the field. Beaton couldn't understand what it was thinking. Then he saw it's face, it was a seething mass of lumps. Its eyes swollen shut, the creature was blind, infected with the Myxomatosis virus. He grabbed it by the hind legs, it squirmed and bucked. He ran with it held out at arms length, the blind animal squirming in his grip to get free. In the corner of the field by the railway track was an old army pill box. Abandoned after the war, it was a place that he and his friend used as a meeting place and a den. Running, he swung the Rabbit, spinning like a shot putter, dashing its brains out against the wall of the concrete bunker. He threw the carcass inside the pill box. He returned a few days later with his friend. The body had been mauled and gored by a fox. He never mentioned to his friends that it was he who had left it there. He was secretly proud but later he felt ashamed by their disgust at his handiwork.

Then one day, when Beaton was fourteen, everything changed. He had been in the quarry, he shouldn't have been there. He wasn't allowed. Some older kids had recently climbed up onto one of the overhanging trees and hitched up a rope swing. It hung perilously in front of one of the steepest pit, swinging out in an arc above a steep drop. Beaton had seen it and had been thinking about it and nothing else all that week. He stood at the edge holding the rope tight and looking down. His stomach felt butterflies like when he was up on the diving board at the swimming pool. There came the sound of something crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He spun round, in front of him was a god looking young boy roughly his age, maybe a little older. Next to him on a leash was a dog, it was still a puppy, not more than maybe six months old.

'Hi' said the boy

'Err Hi' Said Jonathan, clearly both of them had expected to have the rope swing completely to themselves.'

'Pretty neat, huh!' Beaton didn't reply, he didn't recognise the boy or his dog. He was not from the same school. The boy came to the edge and peered over to inspect the drop.

'You'd die if you fell.' continued the boy, looking down.

'It's not so far.' Said Beaton, he didn't want to look afraid in front of the boy.

'Go on then, I dare you, I dare you, go on bet you wouldn't.'

'You wouldn't do it?' The boy Gave Beaton a shove forward whilst at the same time grabbing his jacket and pulling him back immediately.

'Saved your life!' The boy cried, Beaton felt the hot wet against his leg in an instant. He had pissed himself. He had wet his pants in front of this boy, he felt like he could just drop off the edge and die. The young boy was in fits of laughter. He fell back pointing at Beaton's crotch, sitting on the ground thumping the dirt with his fists. Tears of laughter rolling down his flushed red cheeks.

'Haha, pissed your pants, you should have seen your face Oh my God, you pissed your pants.' Kaiser was yapping and jumping around as if he were involved in some fun game. Beaton didn't even think twice about what he was doing he was so incensed. He shoved the boy onto the floor and grabbed the puppy by its leash dragging it up into his arms.

'Hey, what are you doing, don't be stupid put him down your scaring him.'

'I'll drop him, I swear. I'll fucking drop him.' It was the look in Beaton's eye, the boy could tell that he was not joking.

'Grab the rope.' Beaton shook the dog, waving it in the air above the drop.

'What? No, wait, please stop a minute.'

The boy was almost crying now. Pleading on his knees in the dirt.

'Let him go, let him go. Please, he's just a puppy.'

'I'll let him go, I'll let him go if you grab the rope.'

'OK, OK, I'll grab it, I'll grab it.' The boy leaned out and took hold of the rope that was hanging a mere foot from the edge and stepped backwards with it. There was a loop knotted in the end that was be used as a footing to stand in when swinging. Beaton lowered the dog down over the precipice so that Kaiser was out of sight.

'Don't, don't.' Beaton was smiling, he was enjoying himself now that he had the upper hand.

'Put it over your head.' he brought Kaiser up onto his lap.

'What?'

'Put the rope over your head. Do it!'

'No, I wont. I won't do it.'

Beaton shook the dog and squeezed it hard.

'Do it and I'll give you him back.' Jonathan lifted the foot hold over his head, it was a tight fit. He struggled to pull it past his ears. He was sobbing hard, his whole body shaking violently. A string of spittle hung from his chin.

'Who's the scared one now.'

'It was a joke, I was joking, please, let him go.'

'Say your sorry.'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

'Here' Beaton held the puppy out, the boy took it in his arms. He hated the boy, the sight of him standing with his puppy in his arms. His victory had left him even more bitter. Beaton, standing there in his own cold piss whilst the boy and his dog were happily reunited.

It was the hand of the ugly spirit, the worm that turned inside his brain. One shove, one small shove was all it took to send the boy and his dog spilling over the edge of the cliff.

Beaton knotted a length of the waxed rope between both his fists. It was about as long as a skipping rope. He dragged Mrs Gream away from the wall, she was screaming now, choking on the wadded mass of fabric in her mouth. A high pitched stifled scream rising in intensity. Pushing her forward he swung the rope over her her, quickly wrapping it in a double loop around her neck. He shortened the slack by winding his fists into the cable so that each hand held six inches of cord either side her throat. He pulled his arms apart, crushing the windpipe with all his strength. He thought about the young boys legs kicking out over the edge of the drop. The way his hands had struggled at the rope around his throat and the eyes swollen in their sockets like hard boiled eggs. The little puppy yapping. Yapping, yapping, yapping, yapping, yapping, yapping, yapping. Beaton looked down at the limp body, his hands were bleeding.

It had been a struggle to fit the body of the old lady into the sports bag. It wasn't the size that was the problem it was the shape. With one end of the rope he bound her legs together, winding it around several times before knotting it. He threaded the loose end underneath her armpits around her back, beneath her already trussed arms, and out the other side. He wrapped the rope around her legs again and then several times around the back of her neck. As he pulled the rope tighter her body doubled over. He heard a crack of the vertebrae as Mrs Gream's head was pulled up to and between her knees. With the body now roped fast tightly he was able to roll it into the bag. He zipped her inside. She was heavy to pull but he found that if he leant into the wind with all his bodyweight it wasn't to much of a struggle. It was difficult to plough through the deeper snow, the wheels weren't up to it, so he tried to keep to the salted roads and pavements. It took him more than an hour to climb the incline from the canal through the woods to the brow of the valley. The bowed black silhouette of a ragged man on the ridge line, dragging a burden through the snow. Putting his shoulder to the wheel. In the distance a dog barked.

Michael could hear Kaiser, he was barking somewhere up ahead. It was hard to see the path in the dying light of the quarry floor but he had some idea of where the animal was going. It was a part of the quarry he knew all to well, a place to avoid. He whistled and called but the dog wouldn't come.

'Kaiser stop fucking about.' The ground became rockier, the snow had blanketed the deep pot holes between the boulders. He clambered between the stones, the snow up to his waist. Kaiser stood facing him from the mouth of the cave, his ears were pulled back, his tail up leaning down onto his paws. Each time he let loose a sharp bark he jumped backwards slightly. The dog let loose a few more cries before disappearing into the mine. He struggled after the dog, sliding down through the loose scree on the gradient that descended into the chamber. The frozen rivulets of ice, slumped and waxed around the mouth of the cave, silently creeping down the rock face like tree sap. The dog was in agitated, lifting its muzzle in the air and baying and snapping at the roots of an old trees stump in the centre of the space. Mike came around behind Kaiser and grabbed his collar, attaching the leash he yanked him away from the tree stump. He smacked Kaiser on the rump, the dog whelped and crouched submissively, his belly down flat against the ground.

'What the Hell's got into you. Is Emma here, is that it? Emma,......Emma, can you here me. Emma.' The hollow sound of his voice ricocheted around his head. It was too dark, he couldn't see a thing. Mike rocked on his heels then fell back into a sitting position. He hugged Kaiser around the neck. He began to weep. He felt the warm tracks running down over his cheeks. They gatherer in his beard. Kaiser warm tongue licked his face.

'Where has she gone boy. Where'd she go.' After a few minutes he got up led his out from the cave.

'C'mon boy, let's go, we won't find her here.'

When Hollis got home she found her mother, Jill, was asleep on the sofa. She switched the television off by the remote and turned the Christmas tree lights off at the plug. She left a lamp on for company. She went upstairs and looked in on Leo and Greg. One of Leo's arms was flung around his blue octopus. One leg thrust out over the edge of the bed from beneath the duvet. Greg was on his side facing the wall, some Star Wars figures lying at his back. She stood in the doorway for some time, contemplating her children. He boy's were growing up fast. Soon this room would be too small for them. It was already a struggle to keep them from fighting at times.

'Maybe I should give it up. I'm missing it all. I'm never here for them and when I am I'm tired.' She went in to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Her mother appeared in the doorway yawning.

'Oif, I didn't mean to fall asleep. You just got back?'

'Yeah, not long. How were the boys?'

'Oh they were fine we played some board games and watched some TV.'

'Did they do their homework?'

'Yes. After quite a lot procrastination I managed to get them to finally do it.'

'Do you want a cuppa?'

'Yeah, go on then.' Jill sat down at the kitchen table while Hollis busied herself around the kettle. How was work today, your back late tonight?

'Yeah, sorry I had to finish up some loose ends. You know paperwork and stuff.' Hollis sat down opposite her mother in the light of the low hanging kitchen lamp.

'What's up Hollie. Don't tell me that nothings wrong. You've got a face like a slapped arse.'

'I don't know mum. I've given up so much to do this but maybe I've given up too much.' 'What's happened Hollie?, this doesn't sound like you.'

'I got disciplined again at work. It was stupid. I don't know what I was thinking.'

'Why?'

'I overstepped myself. I put someone else in danger Mum. I screwed up.'

'I'm sure whatever you did you did with the best intentions. You're really good at what you do.You know that.'

'Well try telling that to the sergeant, I'm sure he wouldn't agree right now.' The kettle clicked as it switched off.

'I'll get that you stay there.' Jill got up and fixed two cups of tea and set them down in the middle of the table.

'So you still haven't told me what happened.'

'There's this man, a real average sort of quiet guy and out of the blue he just stops coming to work. No message no warning. Then he runs away from home.'

'Why?'

'Well, who knows I mean it's weird huh but it gets stranger.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah, within a couple of days another woman goes missing, I mean people go missing all the time, right, but two people in a couple of days. Then the guy turns up back at his own house sleeping in the garages at the back of the house,.....' Hollis had stopped talking and was staring into the steaming mug.

'Hollie You OK?'

'The garage, I forgot the garage.'

'What garage?'

'We forgot to search the garages.'

'I don't understand Hollie.' Hollis stood up and grabbed her car keys from off the dresser.

'Where are you going, it's gone midnight.'

'I forgot to do something, could you just maybe stay a little longer, just a while.' 'Yes, I suppose but Hollie are you sure that,....'

'Thanks mum, I won't be long.' Hollis had already put her coat on and was making for the door before Jill could get any more information from her. Jill sat alone at the table and sipped at her tea.

'That girl. she's so flighty. Blows hot and cold all the time.'

Hollis drove slowly, visibility was poor in the swirling white clouds of snow As if that wasn't enough, the black ice on the road made driving condition treacherous. Great humped piles of grey freezing slush lined both sides of the empty streets. She had to keep the windscreen wipers going against the great falling flakes that drifted to earth in unbounded multitudes. On the radio they were urging people to avoid all unnecessary travel. It was the heaviest snowfall since records began and there was little sign that it was going to stop anytime soon. Hollis parked the car at a corner opposite a row of small shops. She didn't want to risk being seen, she was in enough trouble as it was without adding to her mounting problems. Opening the glove compartment, she took out a torch and put it into her coat pocket. She reached behind the back seat where she found, lying beneath a pile of road maps, an extendable wheel brace. She took that too. Getting out the car she slipped the wheel brace into her belt beneath her coat and set off towards the garages. Hollis kept cover below the line of the ram shackled fences, staying within the confines of the shadows cast from the light of the rear terrace windows. She noticed that the snow here had been kicked up and disturbed somewhat by the police earlier that day. 'What are you doing Hollis. This is a sure fire way to get yourself kicked of the force for good.' There was a gap of about two feet or so between the ground and the raised lip of the garage door. She took the wheel brace from her belt loop and extended the arm. She switched on the torch, keeping the beam low against the ground so as to cast less light. She hooked the angled end of the wheel brace beneath the lip of the door and lifted it slowly whilst shining the beam into the darkness. The light hugged the line of the walls and crept across the boxes and bounced shadows over the broke down shelves that lay scattered about. She had to duck low to creep inside and once over the threshold she pulled the door to behind her as far to the floor as the rusting springs would allow. 'I know that you've been here Beaton, I know it.' She shone the beam on the glistening fragments of glass she had seen before. It looked as if some of the crates and the shelf had been moved. Lying across a wooden pallet was a soiled bed sheet, it had a large blood stain roughly in it's centre. On top of it was a short length of blue nylon rope. She had seen something similar recently but she couldn't remember quite where. 'Oh Christ'. Hollis used the end of the tyre brace to lift one corner of the bedding. Underneath was an empty discarded gas canister, the kind use for a camping stove. Hollis crouched and tapped it with the wrench. 'You fucker, you little fucker, you've been up there all this time.' Shouldering open the broken door, Hollis backed out into the alleyway. At the same time she saw a fox jump from a neighbouring fence and land softly in the snow, no more than a few metres away. They had startled each other, they had accidentally stumbled into each others lives. The animal stared into Hollis's eyes, a cold mysterious look that left Hollis rooted to the spot. Sizing her up and not being phased the fox padded on a few more metres and turning to catch another look it disappeared into a bush glazed with heavy snow. If a foxes face could crack a smile then this one had been grinning. The hunt had begun.

Beaton could see the two dark figures moving against the white of the snow. He was waiting at the top of the cliff by the old rope swing. The cave was attracting far too much attention. He knew that he would not be safe there for much longer. All he had to do was get rid of the old lady. Without a body there was no crime. He would go away somewhere. Lay low and then return after back after some time. He would be able to deal with their questions then. He would have thought of something to explain for why he had disappeared. Beaton waited near the rope swing for some time. Sitting hunched forward on the suitcase watching the flakes of snow swirl and tumble into the pit. He was exhausted, he couldn't face lugging the suitcase all the way down the slope and across the approach to the cave. He wheeled the suitcase to the edge of the cliff. The very same spot he had last seen Jonathan. He stood the bag on end with the wheels facing towards himself and shoved down the retractable handle so it was no longer sticking up. With one push he sent the bag sliding from the precipice and down through the air it fell. Turning over once and landing with a muted 'wump' into a patch of snow covered boulders. The bag was a little damaged. There was a large crack in the rigid base of which help to give it is shape. One of the wheels was slightly more than wonky too. He daren't think about the damage it might have done to the little old lady who was parcelled up inside. It was only after Beaton had grappled with the bag for a few minutes that he realised what a mistake he had made. There was little chance that he was going to get the bag into the tunnels. There was no clear path, the floor was littered with huge slabs of icy stone and rock lying beneath the snow. Even when he had managed to get into the cave he was never going to move the body all the way to the camp. There were too many people sniffing around now too, he couldn't abandon the bag where to could be found. He would need a place to keep the body out of sight, just until he was strong enough to move it again.

That night Michael couldn't sleep, he tried to read but it didn't help. His wife was around him everywhere. The reading glasses on the nightstand, the dressing gown on the door. Her shoes by the cupboard. All screaming at him in disgust at his constant state of inertia. He felt helpless, he needed to be doing something, anything. 'I can't just lie here. I can't just go to bed and wait for someone to find Emma. It' me, I should be the one. I should be the one spending every waking hour looking for her. Not waiting for the police to come and for it to all be too late.' He threw back the covers and pulled his jeans and shirt on over his pyjamas. From the back of the wardrobe he took out his fathers shotgun. It was an old BSA 12 bore Boxlock. The smell of gun oil from inside its canvas bag released with it a thousand memories. The high swish of a stick beating at the tangled undergrowth. The beat and flurry of the pheasants wings as they rose into the air. The long misty mornings gathered int the fields the dogs howling and baying. The jolt and kick of the butt against his shoulder. It seemed like another life time. He reached up on top of the wardrobe and took down a box of red shells, he slid two into each of the breech ends. The shotgun rested broken in two halves over the crook of his elbow. It was dark downstairs but he could see Kaisers eyes shining, filled with the light from the upstairs landing. 'C'mon boy. Get your coat on and show me what you were looking at up there in the quarry.' Kaiser snorted through his nose as if he resented being woken, he sniffed at the cold steel barrel. Michael, wrapped in his waxed jacket and scarf took a flashlight and a roll of gaffer tape from a tool box beneath the stairs He stuffed the tape into one of his deep poaching pockets. With leash in hand, man and dog followed the pale yellow beam of light up the hill back towards the quarry.

Beaton awoke in his bed and tried to lift open his eyes The lids remained stuck so he peeled them open with his fingers. They were glued together with a dried crust. He could hear the wind whipping down the chimney and beneath the eaves. He was alone, he knew that he was alone in the old house. The sheets were knotted about his legs as though he had been tossing and turning in his sleep. He could feel the cool sweat on his skin, he was feverish. It was his childhood home, a place he had not stepped foot in for thirty years or more. He knew every inch of it and he could survey every corner with his mind if he pushed himself and his memories to do so. Moving from room to room, opening and closing doors. It was a small old stone cottage with a pitched roof set by the side of a busy road. The house had originally been part of a larger granary but over time it had been converted into two houses. The stones had been robbed from a cathedral after the dissolution of the great monasteries. It was true, some of the stone bore the marks of masons and there was even an elaborate piece of a corbel window set into a section of the upstairs wall. The road had been widened to make way for heavier traffic that fed a new major bypass to a larger town. The loose pains rattled in the windows as the lorries rumbled passed. It was a cold place, it had no radiators or a boiler and in the winter, the inside of the windows would be covered with a sheet of ice. There was a large open fireplace that when unlit, drew all the remaining heat from out of the house. The plaster was yellowed by damp and had crumbled into dusty piles on the stairs and along the skirting boards. The wooden beams were sodden and spongy at the ends. The bathtub was always filled with stranded woodlice. The tiles had slid from the roof and lay smashed about in the undergrowth. He stood up and went to the window, he looked down at the lamplight shining on the street. The sloping road that led form the pub to the churchyard. The tennis courts and the playing fields. The black hills against the deepening cobalt sky. But it wasn't real, he knew that it was just like a photograph, a still. No one would walk by because everyone from that time had gone. If he reached out he could tear it all down with his bare hands. The house felt alive, baring down on him, an intense focus drawn from every fibre of the building surged around Beaton seated on the bed. He felt and heard the beating from within the walls, the house was alive. He went back to his bed. The bed began to writhe beneath him as if something were trapped within it. There came the wailing of a child, the muffled cries of a baby trapped inside. He stripped the bed in a hurry, flinging the sheets into a heap upon the bare floorboards. Raking and clawing at the exposed fabric of the mattress. Unravelling and pulling at the stuffing of the bed removing coiled springs and dry and straw tufts yellowing packed cotton. Lurking in the very heart of the bed was a small wooden box, it was a perfect cube carved from a dark teak wood. It's surface was worn smooth with age. One face of the cube was set with a single hole in the centre and recessed within was an eye, clouded and misty with a grey green glaze. It had no eyelid with which to blink and it rolled and darted from this way to that. The wailing climbed and climbed to an ever greater pitch until the noise had filled his head completely. He threw the box into the corner it bounced and rolled along like a dice, clattering across the floor boards. On the blank upward facing side of the cube there appeared an orifice. It was toothless and from between it's smooth gums there was the flick of a tiny reddish brown tongue inside, glistening, like a thin slice of raw liver. He stuffed his fingers into his hears but he couldn't stop the howling wails. from rattling through his fevered brain. The wailing turned to laughing and before he knew what he was doing he was rolling on the floor pounding the boards with his fists. He gathered up the box into his lap and crouching in the corner of the room he screamed and laughed. There were two small holes either side of the mouth. He pushed his fingers into its ears and stared into its wild eye and laughed in it's face. Giggling and shaking like some mad fiend. Shuddering in wild spasms as if every synapse were suddenly overloaded with great jolts of electricity.

He awoke on the freezing cold slab, the fur coat wrapped across his shoulders. His body quaked with the cold that seemed to have crept into every muscle every fibre of his body. His jaw juddered uncontrollably. The pale blue halo from the camping stove winked in the darkness like a sprite. 'This place is driving me mad, I'll lose my mind if I stay here. What was that. There,.... a noise. I hear it.' There came from somewhere the sound of a dog. It was barking within the surrounding gloom. He gripped the handle of the carpet knife in his pocket.

Hollis took the main A road that left the Town and headed towards London. The road ran right through the village. Small glittering particles of dust floated about twinkling like chips of mica. The picturesque english village slumbering beneath the snow. She turned right at the traffic lights by the old church and took the small road that dipped down towards the river and rose again past the Quarryman's arms. The road had become a river of black ice that wound up along the side of the woods. It was not going to be possible to drive to the top of the Quarry so Hollis parked the car by the side of the pub. She peered through the window, a light fell across the bar through an open doorway. Apart from this there was no other signs of life except the scent of burning coal floating in the cold sterile air. Somewhere, someone was sitting before the glow of a warm hearth. The slow steady crunch and creak of the compacted snow beneath her feet, she trudged along the roadside being careful not to fall into the snow filled ditch. Her legs sinking into the white powder right up to her knees. Clotted lumps of gathering white flakes attached themselves to her clothing. She looked at the signal bar on her phone, it slowly began to creep up as she ascended the hill.

The phone began to ring, it went to voicemail. 'Steve, Steve, It's Hollis. I'm up at the Quarry. I can't explain everything over the phone but I know where he is, I know where he's hiding. If you get this message call me back.' She hung up and set the phone's ring tone to vibrate and returned it to her coat pocket. The snow was shallower under the tree cover. It was easy to see the clear tracks that had been made recently through the snow. She turned out the torch, and guided her way by the deep black impressions stamped along the the white snowy path like a giant length of ticker tape.

As soon as Kaiser was freed from his leash he bolted into the darkness of the chamber. 'Fuck sake Kaiser!' Michael threw the torch down the slope ahead of himself and with one arm holding the shotgun and the other outstretched beneath him he carefully descended into the mine. He snapped shut the breech of the gun and placed it on the floor next to the torch. He reeled off a long strip of gaffer tape and bit it in two and bound the torch onto the end of the shotgun barrel. 'Kaiser!!!, come here now!' The dog appeared from one of the tributary tunnels and circled the large charred root at the centre of the chamber his tail wagging. Coils and puffs of hot steam rolled from the panting mouth of the dog. With the shotgun at his hip, Michael scanned the ground. Kaiser began to bark, he was stamping his front paws in the

dust by the side of the tree stump, the exact same spot he had been getting excited over yesterday. 'What is it Kaiser, Aye?' Michael squatted down leaning on the stock of the gun, the torchlight shining upwards bouncing from the low rock ceiling above. 'Whats got into you, eh?' Michael scratched Kaiser behind his ears and ran his hand along the length of his spine and patted his rump. Kaiser began to whine and paw at the twisted mass of roots of the tree stump. 'Git, you great lummox, what you got there?' Michael, resting on one knee, aimed the barrel of the shotgun at the stump. There was something out of place, something poking out from between the dry woody stems. He took hold of it an pulled it out. 'Emma.' He stood up and pressed the button on the handle, popping the umbrella open. 'Emma, why would you of come down here of all places.' He laid the open umbrella on the top of the tree stump. Kaiser bolted again, running into the far left tunnel, leaping over boulder he melted into the darkness and was lost form sight. 'Ok Kaiser, I'll listen to you this time, you lead the way then.'

The first thing that Beaton heard was the scrabble and scratch of loose rocks and the sound of claws clicking over the hard stones. He was crouching in a corner of the niche above the slab when kaiser found him. In a flash he felt the jaws bite into his coat, just above the right shoulder, the dog snarling and jarring his head from side to side as if to shake Beaton out from his hiding place. The sound of fabric tearing open at the seams. Beaton swung the blade up in his right hand and kicked out with one leg. There was a loud wailing whimper and the dog let go. Beaton tried to stand up but before he had the chance to extend his legs Kaiser was up and on him again. The animals jaws nosing into the soft flesh of his throat, his muzzle burrowing into the gore. Flailing beneath the beast, Beaton slashed and cut indiscriminately with the blade whilst trying to hold the animal back with his free hand. He felt the hot spurt of liquid onto his face and the bloated sag of something soft slide into his lap. His fingers still holding the coarse hair, he felt the animal go limp and the jaws about his throat relax and slacken. He scrambled backwards from underneath the dog pulling himself up the wall. His jeans were soaked through to the skin and the air was rank with the smell of shit and blood. He heard a voice calling in the tunnel, 'Kaiser, kaiser, come ere boy. Come ere boy.'

He could feel the puncture wounds in his neck swelling, puffing around the edges. He tried to stem the flow of the bleeding with his hand and the cuff of his coat. It felt as if red hot coals were burning inside of his throat. He knew that he was bleeding pretty badly, he could feel the warm steady stream escaping between his fingers and soaking into his vest beneath his sweater. He pressed his head towards his chest to try and close the wound. The carpet knife felt sticky with blood in the grip of his hand. Beaton stumbled over the body and moved deeper into the cave concealing him behind a boulder not far from the niche.

It was the smell that hit Michael first. He hadn't even had a chance to cast the torch around the cave before the rank stench pushed him back and made him gag. It was a scene of utter savagery, Kaiser on his side with his intestines lying in a steaming pile about his hind legs. The bowel had been ruptured, spilling the dogs half digested food onto the ground . The dog carved up on the stone slab like a sacrificial alter. Michael vomited into his mouth and spat onto the floor, he covered his face with his arm. Kaiser was lying on an old fur coat. A dark pool of fresh blood dripped down the rock clotting into a deep red stalactite form the lip of the rock. A slight trace of steam clung to the surface of the cold red rock and was dispersed into the ether. The shining black pearl of the unblinking eye staring, dead cold, empty. 'Who the fuck's there? Come out, come out here you piece of shit!!!' The tunnel was strewn with pieces of clothing and a few items of luggage. It looked as if someone had been living down here, living amongst the cold and the rocks. There was a camping stove, surrounded by some discarded blue gas canisters and old food tins, balls of tissue smeared with dried faeces. Michael edged towards Kaisers body and placed his had upon his neck, he was still warm to the touch, the last traces of life fading beneath his hand. He rested the barrel on the edge of the stone slab and crouching down he tried to cover Kaisers ruptured belly beneath an old fur coat. The sight of the dogs was more than he could bear.

The blade entered Michael's leg behind his right knee, slicing his calf in a neat line towards the Achilles heel. A thin jet of blood burst forth from the deep gash, dropping Michaels body to the floor like a sack full of spanners. He clutched at the gaping wound with his left hand. He tried to rise up using his shotgun as a crutch. Beaton moved quickly, he thrust the blade into the mans back just below the shoulder blade and pulled the knife following the line of the ribs, inwards towards the spine. It all happened in a matter of seconds, Beaton lunging, low from behind the rock cutting into the leg. Then seeing the shotgun he had panicked. Slicing the man across his back as he fled. Michael felt as if a red hot whip had gashed him across the back. He was lucky, it was only a surface wound. The thick wax coat had stopped the blade from sinking as deep as it could truly go. The blood, greasy and slick on Beaton's hands, he dropped the knife as he ran. Beaton dashed through the tunnels, tripping several times and landing on his belly in the darkness. Any semblance of a plan was gone, it was merely a case of self preservation. 'Must get away, just get away, far away from here.' He saw the dim light of the chamber as he rounded a corner. There was an umbrella standing open upside down, balanced on the old stump of the tree. 'It must belong to that man.' Beaton thought to himself. He crouched before it and began to gather in the length of garden twine that led to his hiding place. 'I should never have left this here, what an idiot, you fool, you stupid fool. ' He could feel the snag and the tug of the rusted chisel as it dragged like an anchor through the labyrinth of tunnels. That was where Hollis found Beaton when she descended into the low grey chamber. She saw the black silhouette of an umbrella, resting upside down at an angle on top of the gnarled dead stump of a tree. She hadn't seen Beaton yet who was kneeling down behind the tree but she could hear the click and clack of the chisel as it bounced over the surface of the tunnel making its way towards her in the dark. She took out the wheel brace and stepped lightly towards the umbrella. Something small slid across the dirt floor from one of the tunnels towards her like a snake, it was long and flat. It moved quickly. Beaton, who had all this while been equally oblivious to Hollis's presence stood up and hearing a gasp behind him turned to see a woman standing before him. A few feet apart separated only by the upturned umbrella resting on the tree stump.

'Beaton, Beaton Ernest?'

It had been the first time anyone had addressed him in days, the words rolled around in his head. He looked to her hand she was holding some kind of tool, like a crowbar. His throat stung, it was burning, he pressed his clenched fist hard against the wound.

'It's Beaton isn't it. I'm here to help you Mr Earnest. We've all been worried about your whereabouts. Why don't you come outside and talk to me. I'm here to help you. You look hurt real bad.'

Hollis followed Beaton's gaze and looked down at the wheel brace in her hand. And raised both of her arms, taking a short step backwards towards the entrance of the cave. It pained him to talk. Each rise and fall of his Adams apple shot needles of pain across his chest and into his jaw.

'I have to, don't you see. I have no choice anymore. It's just the way that it is. Don't you see?'

He began to edge around the old stump, inching his way clear of the obstacle.

'No, that's not true, you always have a choice. There's always a choice, in everything.' Hollis had moved back to the foot of the incline at the mouth of the cave. Beaton was clear of the stump. There was no more than three metres between them. She stared into the young mans eyes. A stare, more distant and remote than the fox she had met in the alleyway. She could see that he had made his choices. Maybe he was right. Maybe he didn't have a choice in the matter anymore.

It would be difficult to say in the brief moment between standing and running who, had made the first move. By the time Hollis had made it to the top of the slope Beaton was on her tugging at her feet as she struggled to get free. She turned to face him as Beaton buried the blunt rusted handle spike into Hollis's thigh, deep down in to the muscle till he reached the bone. She wailed in pain and set about beating Beaton about the head with the wheel brace. Short sharp blows about his head and shoulders that forced Beaton to ball into submission with his arms above him. Cowering on the floor to escape the barrage of blows. When he looked up she was gone, he followed after her climbing out of the mirk into the rich swathes of white snow. The cold gripped him around the throat and numbed the pain. He watched her disappear across the white boulder field and out onto the trackway, limping like a lame dog.

Hollis grabbed a handful of snow and crushed it against her thigh. The blood soaking into the compacted ice. She dragged the leg like a burden, through the woods and down the hill towards the car. 'Just get to the car, just get to the car and drive. Oh why did you come here.' She was panting hard the clumps of snow filling her eyes and mouth. She struggled forwards, Beaton close behind her, stumbling down the hill like a ragged corpse. The car was open, she climbed inside the passenger seat and one by one, locked each of the doors from the inside. She turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled into life, great clouds of hot exhaust drifted past the headlights in the freezing air. She made a U turn, bringing the car around to face the road down into the village and then stopped. Instead of trying to get in the car Beaton loped on passed, he lumbered on and up over a style into the adjoining field. 'He's the one running away, not me.' She looked up the hill towards the Quarry. She saw why Beaton was running. It was Michael, limping down the hill leaning on the shot gun.

His boot had filled with warm sticky blood, his sock was wet and spongy. He had used his scarf as bandage to staunch the bleeding as best as he could. He could no longer stand up straight for the wound across his back. He felt light headed, drowsy, as if he might suddenly slip into sleep. If it were not for the bitter wind that whipped the snow into icy needles against his face, he might have succumbed to the feeling. The cold was helpful in making him forget the pain that wracked his body. He kept sight of the figure in the road ahead. The man became framed in the yellow beam of a cars headlights near his pub and disappeared again form view. Michael stumbled against the bonnet of the car and looked in the windscreen at the person within. It was a young woman, she looked frightened, he vaguely recognised her from somewhere but his mind was confused. He picked up the shotgun with one hand and levelled it with her head. The halo of light blinded her eyes and she covered her face with her arms and slid down in her chair. Then the bright light was suddenly gone and when Hollis lowered her arm, so too had Michael. A single bloody handprint branded onto the bonnet of her car. She jumped from her car and laboured over the style that led into the adjoining field. Through the grey haze she could see the torchlight limping along, moving in the wake of a grey figure in the distance.

Beaton was scanning the edge of the field for a break in the hedgerow. All he could see was the speckled grey line of the trees and the bushes sandwiched between the white of the ground and the sky. He ploughed through the drifts of deep snow, carving a deep furrow into the pristine landscape. It was difficult to see through the swirling squall that whipped about his head. It piled up on his shoulder and filled his mouth and his eyes. He walked along with the hedgerow to his left following the slop of the meadow past the railway bridge downhill towards the main road that bisected the valley through the middle. He could no longer see anymore and he was so tired. He shuffled barely lifting his legs, the snow piling up around his hips. He no longer saw the point in running. He remembered the diseased rabbit he had caught when he was a boy. Just like him, it had no choice in how things were going to be, thats just how things were. He stopped walking, and fell to his knees. The sound of gun shot reached him a few seconds later. The buckshot peppering his back and tearing a large hole in his shoulder spinning him around. He sank softly into the snow, the frozen ground reaching up and holding him in its arms. He rolled onto his back and looked up into Michaels face. The walls of white around his head like the sides of a coffin. The two round empty eye sockets of the shotgun hovering in front of his face. This was it, he closed his eyes and accepted his fate. There was a sharp mechanical click before he slipped beneath a dark veil.

The dry cracking report of the gunshot drifted across the valley and was eventually drowned out by the dense falling snow. Hollis moved as fast as she could, following the curving tracks that the two men had already carved out. It was Michael who she discovered first. Lying on his left side clutching the gun to his chest, the beam of the torch shining up into his face, illuminating it like a ghastly death mask. She picked it up and threw it away from him, it disappeared, swallowed up into the ground. The back of his trousers on his right leg was ragged and ripped apart, the fabric stained dark brown. She took off her scarf and wrapped it around the wound and packed it with snow. She took out her phone but was unable to get a clear signal. Hollis could tell that Michael was alive, but barely. Weak puffs of steam issuing from his shallow breath. 'Just hold on Mike, your gonna be fine, you here me, you're going to be OK.' Hollis found Beaton less than thirty yards ahead. Lying peacefully on his back with his arms flung out. As if he had been playing at making snow angels. There was a peppering of red spray about the ground, Beaton's right shoulder seemed to have taken the brunt of the shot but she could see that a few of the pellets had caught his neck and chest which was bruised and swollen. She checked his wrist, he was still alive, it was a miracle. The familiar sound of sirens, off in the distance. Hollis saw the blue flashing lights climbing the hillside on the road behind the hedgerow. She made her way back up the meadow towards the Quarryman's arms where the ambulance and the police van were pulling in.

Hollis was waving her arms and hollering as loud as she could, she felt breathless in the cold air. The adrenaline was wearing off and she was starting to feel tired. She saw Steve, she had never been so glad to see him. He climbed over the fence and ran towards her. Hollis grabbed him by the arms and rested her head on his shoulder to catch her breath.

'What happened, are you OK, are you hurt?' Steve held her back at arms length, looking her over to see if she was injured.

'Your leg, it looks bad. We'll get an ambulance on the way.'

'I'm fine, fine, its nothing, down there, it's him, he's alive and Michael Powell's down there too.' By this time two officers had caught up with Steve who directed them down two where the two wounded men lay, dying on the ground.

'Why d'ya do it Hollis, why d'ya go and do it?' Steve helped Hollis limp back up to the car park and radioed in for ambulance assistance.

Michael had lost a lot of blood from the wound in his leg. He had spent a long time in the hospital. When Hollis had visited him he had tried to seem positive but it was clear that his recovery was not going to be so simple. He had lost everything. His biggest regret was that the gun had jammed. How could there be any room for forgiveness for what that man had done? Michael said that he would move away from the town for good, he had family in Bristol who could put him up until arrangements could be made to sell the business. It seemed to Michael that somehow he had been marked in some way, a cursed man. Nothing but misfortune seemed to befall him. Even his Father's gun had given out on him at the very moment he had hoped for revenge.

Beaton was question intensely at his bedside by the police. He would not give up the whereabouts of Emma Powell although he did not deny that he had murdered her. The bloody saw and DNA evidence left little doubt as to what had gone on. A thorough search of the caves and the surrounding area failed to show anything up. Reluctantly the search was called off and it was presumed that in time that Beaton would give up the whereabouts of the body. He never did. He also admitted to the murder of Jonathan Powell, a crime he had committed when he was only a young boy. A Mr Finnegan Cole, who appeared as a witness at the trial, told the court that he had met the defendant twice in one week whilst drinking at the Quarryman's arms. He admitted that he had been drunk when had given the defendant a detailed account of the death of young Jonathan. Beaton's account of the death, despite being vivid, was dismissed as a fantasy designed to cause further pain to Mr Powell. They had found the poor broken body of Mrs Gream in a sports bag,Bag hidden beneath the snow, not far from entrance to the mine. Her sister, who was her only living relative, attended the trial as did the deceased ladies neighbours, a Mr and Mrs Campbell.

The national and local press made the most of the grizzly events that had taken place in a seemingly idyllic country village. The Quarry was eventually closed down, a popular move amongst the villagers who had seen more than enough intrigue to last them a good many years to come. People seemed to show a morbid curiosity in the infamous mines. Rilksham council decided after much pressure from the parish that it was far too dangerous a place to leave open to the public and so it was decided that the entrance be barred. The entrance was sealed off with a large metal gate that spanned the full width of the cave. Every now and then a small bouquet of flowers can still be found wilting between the metal bars.

It would not be until nine years later that the body of Emma Powell was finally discovered. When three young caver's who had been exploring the mines came across a grim discovery. They had found themselves in the vast open chamber that was known to be the Abbey. Deep beneath the hillside, it was bathed in the light that fell through a hole in the vaulted roof above. Below this hole was a well that over time had been filled with the rubble and litter that had washed down. They decided to clear the well and restore and remove the litter. In an old rotten rubble sack were a collection of bones that appeared far too human to ignore. When forensic teams were finally called in they discovered the dismembered body of a woman. The mystery of where Emma Powell's body had ben disposed had finally been solved, adding another sad chapter to Michaels life. Strangely enough, near the body of they woman they discovered the bones of a dog. Maybe a pet that had wandered off and had fallen through the grate above.

The landscape flashed by the train window. The barren trees, like witches broomsticks thrust into the ground, clinging to the horizon. The pale brown grasses, in hazy clusters, between the stubble of the corn fields. A thin band of pale blue sky above the tree tops, weighed down beneath the heavy leaden sky. The snaking pattern of the drifting snows over the brown mottled farm lands. Cottages, outbuildings, jobs and homes and lives all whisking by. The zip and dip of the wires along the pylons, undulating, on and on. It hurt her leg to sit down for any length of time, the pain in her thigh had now receded into a constant dull ache, the painkillers helped somewhat. It was the first family holiday they had had in so long that Hollis couldn't quite remember. Leo was sleeping his forehead resting on the cold glass of the window, his head rocking with the motion of the train. Hollis could see Greg's eyes flitting from left to right as he took in the passing scenery.

'Is there snakes where were going mum?'

'I hope so'

'Are they dangerous'?

'Probably, yes?' Greg turned and looked at her.

'Why do you hope that there's dangerous snakes?'

'I don't know Greg, I guess because it would be less exciting if they weren't so dangerous.'

'But what if I got bitten, we could die.' Hollis motioned Greg towards her.

'Come here you.' Greg jumped from the chair opposite and rest his head on her shoulder, Hollis ruffled his hair.

'What you so scared of young boy o? Not some silly old snake.'

'Well, not just any snake.'

'I hear that they eat snakes, taste just like chicken.'

'Ugh, no way am I eating any snake.'

'You can feel them all wriggling around inside your belly, wurrhhh!' Hollis stuck her fingers into Greg's ribs and tickled him.

'Get of, get off, stop it, stop it.'

She grabbed him and gave him a big squeeze around the shoulders. She felt a twinge of pain shoot up her thigh into her hip. The doctor had warned her against travelling with such a wound. Especially in a country as humid as Thailand. Hollis didn't care, you only lived once so why not make the most of it. The boys had never been abroad, had never stepped on a plane. She could sense their nervousness. The last holiday that they had spent together was three years ago in Devon, it had rained non stop and the tents had leaked. As for work, well, something would turn up. Hollis didn't imagine that she would be getting a choice in the matter, she would not be returning to the force. She certainly wasn't going to be getting any medals for her actions. The press had painted her role in the incident in a favourable light but her have a go hero attitude had lost her the job. Michael had thanked her for saving him but sometimes she got the feeling when he looked at her that he wished she had left him to die. 'Who could blame him?' she thought to herself. Maybe she should have taken the gun and tried again. But Beaton was alive, he had been assessed and diagnosed and closeted away. He was destined to live out his days in a cell or at least until he was too old and frail to be of any harm to anyone but himself. It was not meant to have happened this way. It didn't feel like justice, it was not the type of justice that you hope for.

Beaton Arnold Earnest began keeping a diary of his dreams and every morning when he rose before breakfast he would write down his thoughts before they had a chance to fade in clarity. It was rare that he did not dream at all although often he could only catch a passing image or thought. Sometimes his dreams were difficult to decipher or would not translate themselves into words. Coming to him as feelings rather than images. He once dreamt that he had written a poem, of which he could clearly see each word, burning on the page in front of him as plain as day. When he awoke in the morning he couldn't remember a single word or line.

From the diary of Beaton Arnold Earnest.

From a low barred window I could see down into the courtyard below. A grey, space surrounded on all sides by severe Victorian redbrick buildings. Buildings that carried with them a sombre sense of industry and oppression. The courtyard was steeped in shadow, save for the thin golden slice of the evenings dying light which passed briefly there once every day. I couldn't remember why I had been locked away inside this high tower, nor for how long I had passed in that place. I had given up carving the days into the crumbling lime plaster a long time ago. Every evening a young girl would come and sweep the leaves that blew over the rooftops and settled in piles on the mosaics floor that had been laid by prisoners, long since forgotten. The girl had long chestnut curls, tied back beneath a faded red bandanna, and across her shoulder she wore an old green woollen shall. She was pale and thin, her delicate arms moving the broom across the ground in a slow steady methodical motion. She would collect the leaves into a pile and carry them away in a large wicker basket which she took upon her back with thin leather straps. It was my only pleasure, to watch her working beneath my window. I had long since given up calling out to her, she pretended not to hear him. There came a time when I fell ill with a fever, I was taken into the infirmary, where I stole from the good doctor a scrap of paper and a pencil nub which I concealed within my shoe. I composed a most beautiful note, of which I had spent several days composing. It told of how beautiful she was, how I dreamed of escaping and carrying her away with me to a better place far, far away. The note tumbled down from between my barred window and landed on the floor like so many other leaves. I watched as the girl swept it away into the basket, giving no hint or sign that she had seen it at all. I felt my heart sink. The very next evening I waited as usual at his post. She did not appear. Nor did I see her the next day, or the day after that. I was certain that somebody had discovered the note and had punished the poor girl. My selfish act had hurt the only thing left in my life that had brought me any joy. A great many days must have past by and I had long since given up looking down from my window. The leaves had begun to pile into great drifts across the cold hard ground. Now the coming of the evenings golden light only served to cause me pain where I once found joy, so I would steal away from the window and choose instead to sleep. One evening as I lay half sleeping, I heard the dry twigs of a broom scratching at the ground, far below my cell. I was scared to look, in case I should find instead, another had taken her place. After some time I crept to the window and on seeing the same chestnut curls and the pale delicate skin I wept for joy. Then came a day when I was called to meet with the warden. He was a severe looking man with a wry smile in a stiff grey suit. The warden asked me if I felt sorry for the crimes that I had committed and if I made time to pray for Gods forgiveness. I felt unsure what my crimes have been but I must have assured the warden that I was sorry as he seemed pleased with my answer. I know I must of lied for I care nothing of God's forgiveness. Before returning to my cell I asked the Warden if he might permit me a privilege in light of my good behaviour. 'There is a space in the corner of the yard below my window which unlike the rest of the courtyard has not been filled with a mosaic. It would be my humble wish to create a mosaic as a humble gesture of gratitude for my rehabilitation.' The wardens suspicious eye rested on the me. I could see the wardens thoughts playing across his mind. 'He has proven himself to be a well behaved prisoner and he seems an honest enough fellow.' After some moments thought he assured me as an honourable man that if I was sincere in my intentions then he would do his best to make it so. The warden seemed to me a vain man and fond of my flattery and along came the day when I was escorted in chains to a workshop. I was watched by a guard as I worked at my bench, chipping away at the tiny squares of stone, day after day returning in the evening in time to hear the sound of the girl sweeping in the courtyard below. It took me a long time to complete and I saw the season come and go. My hands were calloused and worn from my tireless work. The dust that I breathed when grinding down the stones had clogged my lungs and laboured my breath. When Autumn came I was struck down with the pleurisy and against the doctors advice I continued to work in the cold damp air of the workshop. I was so near to finishing that I refused to stop. I saw myself die. It was the end of winter, my ashes were scattered in the cemetery grounds at the base of a bare brick wall. Nobody cried, nobody came, no cross to mark the spot. The warden personally oversaw the laying down of the mosaic in the corner of the courtyard. It was a most astonishing and detailed piece of work far greater than anything my hand do could achieve. Winged cherubs, aloft on swirling white clouds above rolling verdant pastures. Deer drinking from crystal clear waters that flowed through tumbling ravines into great wide lakes that reflected the sky. In the centre of this idyllic scene standing on the banks of the lake stood Adam with Eve at his side in Gods great garden. Cascading across her lily-white shoulders, great curls of chestnut hair. The warden was very proud of the work and would show it off on the rare occasions that visitors would come to observe the prison. He would tell the story of the murderer who, with Gods will and the help of the wardens strict rules, had found peace and forgiveness within the prisons walls. On such occasions he would ask the girl to clean and scrub the tiles until they were spotless. The girl, bent over the two figures set in stone, imagining that she was far away with a man she had never met. She would trace the figures with her fingers and wonder who or what could have inspired such a work of beauty. The dream had an almost perfect narrative that I find unusual. Normally my dreams move seamlessly between places and people that appear to have no apparent connection or meaning. Maybe now that I have time to sleep and think for days on end I will have more of these types of dream. Dreams that are linear and clear with a beginning a middle and an end. I have thought long and hard about what it must mean and I have come to the conclusion that It need not have any meaning at all. Only that it is a sad tale. I have omitted a scene where in my cell there appeared a Victorian pram. In the pram was a baby and a plastic bag. The bag was wrapped around the decomposing head of a spotted dalmatian dog. The rest of the animal was missing. I felt that the dream was better, more complete without this minor detail. It is strange, I once was frightened by my dreams and would sooner have slept a night devoid of anything that my mind might concoct. Now I see them as something of a comfort and I feel sad when I wake with barely a single image or a feeling.

When asked to describe Beaton, the guards would say that he was a model inmate. He appeared to go about his daily life as would an automaton. Happily performing the same daily tasks over and over again. It was his willingness to accept his situation that meant he must surely be happy there. Why wouldn't he be, he lived comfortably and had good health, a library full of books to read, time enough to think, He never wanted for anything. So the days rolled in and out like the waves on a shore and the weeks, like the tides, rose and fell away from the calendar without anything truly interesting happening. But at night his world came alive and his dreams, as real as anything that could be touched and held. The images blew away the prison walls and pulled him deep beneath the earth. Lying on his cot he would imagined that he was still in that pitch black tunnel like a corpse in an ossuary lying in its niche. His bones in tidy rows. So again he began to think of all the things he had done and he felt something peaceful growing inside and understood that everything happened for a reason. It was during these moments that he felt like he had at last found God, for why would God abandon such a man as him. It was not he who guided the dagger. He was only the hand that held it. Had not Abraham shown his devotion in equal measures. He felt a sense of peace inside and he heard again the sound of angels weeping but it was only the sound of one of the new inmates crying himself to sleep. He touched the hot tears that coursed down his cheeks and guttered around his nose. With the tips of his finger he tasted the warm salt water.

The snow had at last begun to melt. A golden light pushed through the tree tops and cast long blue shadows across the snowy ground. The azure firmament was perfectly clear save for a few wisps of cloud, which like some ghostly armada, scudded silently across the sky. A strong wind whipped up the tiny frozen crystals of ice that had settled on the treetops and in the cracks and ledges of the quarry face. Whirling and scattering them before the sun like dust falling across the beam of a projector. The light reflecting from them causing bursts of bright fairy dust to dance upon the air and drift all about. Every so often clumps of white would slide from a branch. The birds, hopping from tree to tree, chattered and whistled as they watched the world around them melt. The rivers and ponds where swollen with the gathering meltwater. The drab brown farmlands dressed with the white straws of dead grass and scattered with brown leaf confetti. Humped piles black snow withered by the side of the road into hard black lumps of dirty ice. The silence of the snow was replaced by the steady drip, drip of the melt water. Innumerable crystal orbs capturing the scene as if each itself were a camera. Hung, suspended by their surface tension alone until, unable to cling no more, they let go. And crashing to the floor, once more, return into the rich brown earth. The snows had all but disappeared. There is a season for everything. It was finally spring again, the killing season.

