

HELEN OF ORPINGTON

PN Moore

Copyright  PN Moore

First published 2012 by

Late Sky Press

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of the book to be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including photocopying recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-0-9543064-3-4

All errors are intentional...

## Five things about Emma

1, Had a small brown teddy bear called Paddy, lost when she was ten on a family holiday in Scotland.

2, Made the leaving cake for the Deputy Head at the Notre Dame School - looked/tasted nice.

3, Enjoyed playing table tennis, played quite well.

4, Liked to dance

5, Didn't like brown bread

## Conker

The meeting I had planned for so long with the woman who killed my daughter ended in bloodshed. It's funny, I didn't and don't consider myself a violent person, yet I feel anyone is capable of such destructive action given the right circumstances. Against my nature and perhaps common sense, I decided to trace and confront the drunk-driver a young nurse, to her homeland of America. I stood over her, watching the blood flow out of her body as she slumped on to her kitchen floor. She, looking at me as the life drained from her due to the slashes from the kitchen knife, this, the revenge for my beloved daughter Emma. Although they may not admit to it, I would deify anyone to say they would not at least consider similar measures.

How did this paragon of middle-class stoicism turn into a provincial vigilante? Simple, the light of my life had been killed, not straightaway mind you, that would have been too tidy, but left to suffer and endure incredibly painful surgery. Yet Emma was aware enough to understand that any hopes or plans she had consciously or secretly wished for, would never materialise. After Emma's 'accident' there followed a long period in hospital. This cruel episode would fool us all into thinking that some hope of recovery, however small was possible. But it was not to be; it would all vanish when Emma unexpectedly died. After the death I wanted to meet this woman who had killed my daughter, to confront her, to really hurt her. Lesley Howard had stopped everything on that drunken night and I simply could not continue with my life without challenging her.

A few years back you would have seen a nondescript woman in her early fifties; sensible clothes and untamed hair walking around Waitrose hesitating over all the various items for sale. Or seen me at the weekend pottering about in the garden, as my husband mowed the lawn. The photos of me that my mother kept dusted on her sideboard, showed a smiling but slightly serious looking girl with her shinny hair, clipped over to the side surrounded with other girls of the same ilk, but not a sports team, my wheezy chest prevented that. There is another image of me wearing far too much ghastly makeup at my graduation. The rosy-cheeked girl on Conker, my childhood pony, with a 2nd rosette on the reins hinted to a life to come; traditional, safe and secure-if rather dull, but that was fine by me.

I thought I would endure the conventional old-age; join the WI, be snappy with shop-girls, ponder recipes like the women in my mothers old magazines and 'put up' with my husband when he came home, and if the truth be known, I wouldn't have minded too much. All I can be sure of is that nothing is as it seems, and that you are only as strong as your secrets. Oh, and how did I end up getting a handgun for my birthday while in Texas? The answer is 'God only knows'. But I will tell you this, not only was I pleased with it, but I held it expertly in my hand that day, recognising how beautiful, how wonderfully balanced and ergonomically faultless it was, plus it fitted in my handbag perfectly!

I did not really love Emma until she was twenty years old, far far too late. When she was a child I did sort of love her, like I sort of loved my husband, but there was no bond until six short months before her accident. Those six months were the happiest of my life and it took that gentle quiet girl to give them to me. It would be another young woman who took them away.

I know now that truth and reality are just what you want or accept them to be. During the journey from falling in love with my daughter to meeting the driver Lesley, I would lose so much; my husband; my home and my self-esteem, yet gain so much in the bargain. I found the inner beauty in Emma that took me totally by surprise; I didn't know I could feel like that about anyone, nor allow myself such beautiful love. That love enabled me to accept and give love to a man I met in the middle of all that sadness. During that time I discovered a shadowy world I didn't know existed, it was scary yet useful. But the main thing I would learn was the address of Lesley Howard, even though she was on the prisoner protection programme and had changed her name and address twice.

When I found out the address I was in New York, yes THE New York, the big apple crumble. Me, the middle-aged, middle-class charity-worker, wife and mother of one. Living in a suburban beige-blur of conformity and routine and pretty much resigned to my lot. Our house, waiting in a London suburb, rows and rows of thirties houses standing on tree-line streets. That may sound like I am running it down, not a bit of it. I liked it there. It was convenient for the station, but not so near that you could hear the trains travelling up and down to London every half hour. The house is quiet now, as it should be. All so very peaceful since those loud obnoxious boys next door decided to move. I found out Lesley's address by email that I picked up from a little Internet café I had noticed by chance while walking in Greenwich Village, and there it was, made out to look like 'Spam'. It was a shock to receive the information so soon, as I had only requested a search the day before. I saw Lesley's address was Arizona; I wasn't too sure how far that was, but did know it was a long way away, which suited me fine.

I carry many images of my daughter Emma around in my head; one is of her during a school sports day. I had of course been helping with the teas with the other mothers, as I am never really feel comfortable unless I am doing something useful, but still I took a break to see Emma run. This lovely leggy girl, a hair slide above her right eye running her heart out, as she looked over to me as she came third. That loving look, asking for love and approval that I didn't reciprocate until it was nearly too late. The other image I have of Emma is of her laughing, which was such a rare thing for her, stranger still that she was laughing with me in our garage. This was not long before 'IT' happened; we had become close, closer than I had been with anyone in my life, including my husband and parents. Thinking of that time, both debilitates and stimulates me, depending on the circumstances of the day, it can go either way. It was an endless video loop of Emma that kept me awake night after night following the accident. I would also picture Lesley; the blond, so gentle and angelic, looking so meek and mild in that photo they always printed in the papers. She does look kind in that photo dressed in her nurses uniform, they could have used that image to raise money for cancer nurses or a children's charity, I know, I myself used such semiotics at my work place to raise money for the needy. The beautiful shinny blond hair, pulled back away from the face. Soft pale skin, dark straight eyebrows that had never seen tweezers, but it was the eyes that struck you most. Those innocent blue pools, not the eyes of a killer like those dark poker burned holes of Myra Hindley. No, her face was like those representations of the Virgin Mary; Botticelli would have used her as a model.

That face, did it get her a light sentence? Yes I think so; two months and a period in rehab. Two months, what was that-a joke? It is a travesty, an absolute disgrace. My daughter died when I was not there, died alone, is there anything worse? She gave me so much, we became friends, but for such a short time. Before I talk of other things, I want to tell you this; not long after my daughter had been admitted to the hospital both her hands were amputated. This is something I would not wish on any child or parent to experience. When I get to that part in this story, stay with it and be strong, Emma was.

If all this had not happened, my daughter Emma would have been enjoying her new life, travelling around her beloved America, ready to take up one of the offers of employment that had come from the States. Emma had so much potential; we never knew she had it until it was far too late. My husband Kenneth and I thought she would end up in a dreary office or perhaps even, and ironically, a nurse. We had no idea what lay inside her, and to be fair, nor did she. It was only much later that she found something inside that only she could inherently see. Unlike most people, she was able to translate her beautiful thoughts and ideas into art. When these images were framed, printed in a magazine or projected onto the side of a large building, we could only gasp.

Back then in New York, having found out Lesley's address I was happy to know where she was, out there in the baking heat of Arizona, it pleased me that she didn't know that I knew. I wanted to hurt her some way. I knew she was in hiding, nobody knew where she was, she thought she could disappear. I wanted her neighbours and community to know who she was, drive her out to hide again, after I had dealt with her that is.

6996 Grasshopper Drive, Foothills, North Tucson, Arizona. At least I knew now where I was going, but there in New York I would fulfil a promise to Emma to live her dream, to visit the places she would not go; visit the Art galleries in New York, the wide open spaces and big cities promised to her before her fall. This trip would be very different-I didn't even speak American-who does?

## Vision

Emma photographed a little girl in a small French town and everything would change. Emma would be dead within months, and the little girl never seen again. The death of my daughter would unsettle the people of the little French town that would elevate Emma, by I believe, a process of projection into an angelic cult and the little girl into some sort of angel. They believed the little 'ange' etre-spirituel girl had come to take Emma away, I didn't, I knew who took her away and she was no angel. But back then we knew nothing of any of this.

When Emma landed on the Normandy beaches did she run confidently to her future that would make her famous? A future that would make her a cult photographer across the world? No. She just ambled along at the back of the mob of students disembarking from the ferry; literally keeping her head down under a woolly hat, hoping there wouldn't be any fuss. Losing her camera on the way over didn't help. Yet this tall long-limbed quiet girl with shoulder length hair that always fell in her eyes, would make more money from one image than any of my family would make in a year. Of course she didn't know that then, and even if she did, it wouldn't have made much difference to her.

When she did go to art school she would say things like' There is nothing creative in the art college, anyway, its really only just copying one way or another' These and other such artistic statements Emma would say to us, I didn't know what she was taking about; it was all gobbledygook to me.

She saw through things like art hype and projection, which was unsettling for me, but that statement of hers would come back many times, I remember her saying things about art that she had witnessed, standing beside me gentle and quiet, blowing the fringe from her eyes. She would not be dogmatic or bitter, it was said as pure observation on her part.

When young, Emma showed no interest in art at all; in fact her reports were dreadful. But that did not bother us at all, why would it. I mean what good is art? it doesn't give you anything to speak of, anything you can use. Art I thought, is really just like any of those extra-curricular activities one takes part in at school, such as Music and Movement. I remember that you run around the class-room to jolly music badly played by Mrs Reardon on the piano, then stretch up to the school hall ceiling pretending to be trees, dear oh dear. At school Emma could not draw, in fact she found it hard to trace. I recall her coming home in tears clutching a small portfolio of work. Two drawings stick out in my mind; a bicycle and a vase of flowers. The bicycle looked like a pair of cracked glasses or a couple of wonky wagon wheels. The vase of flowers looked like a fat woman with a ridiculous hat perched on her head, and this was the good stuff. But looking back on her 'art' report I just have to smile, I know Emma would have too. Not being able to draw a bicycle didn't mean she was bad at art, it just meant she couldn't draw a bicycle. Why on earth anybody would want to draw such a thing, or call the practice of doing so artistic, is beyond me. Since the invention of the camera, such strict visual representation has become meaningless. Technically perfect perhaps, but where's the art? Evidently my dear, it's elsewhere.

We did not have any real paintings at home. Kenneth had some golf pictures hung around the house. I had a picture of my old school and a small watercolour of the west of Scotland that was left to me by my Godmother. The pictures, like our house was as it should be; low key without pretension well made, but rather dull. We didn't worry about Emma's school art; we 'recycled' the lot after Emma had gone to bed.

Back then she was a quiet girl, shy, wore glasses for reading and being quite tall hid herself peeping under a her fringe. I suppose some may have seen her as 'snobby' but her confidence was low and really couldn't handle the party scene. It was history that saved her at school as the other subjects were lacking, so she took a place at a local college, but things would change dramatically.

It was during Emma's first year at college a field (literally) trip project was planned to visit the war-graves, battlefields and towns around Normandy France. This trip would combine both World wars and the D Day Landings. It was there that my daughter picked up a camera looked through the viewfinder and changed all our lives. During the trip, most of the students were taking photographs of the memorials and the gigantic war graveyards (after they had used up most of the film on each other, on the roll of film we got back had a boy setting light to his own wind). The students visited acres and acres of carefully tended grass lawns, filled with white crosses. Emma and her cohort were given St Andrew, a smallish historic town that suffered heavy losses not long after the D Day landings. We had given Emma enough money for a disposable camera to back up her research. Having mislaid her camera, and only having a very small allowance, a girl in her year lent Emma her camera. The other girls in Emma's room had met some local boys, but being so shy my daughter declined the offer to sightsee with the others. She took herself off into the small French town with the hope of filling the project pages up with a few photographs. She was not confident; yet, having arrived at the monument for the soldiers and the civilians of the town, she had an idea. The monument itself looked like most of the others in and around that part of Normandy; a ten foot high carved local stone with the names of the dead listed in alphabetical order

This homage to the dead however, must have been given to someone with a little more imagination than the local stonemason. Beside the tall monument, large two-foot square blocks of stone had been placed in a pile, as if a builder's truck had just dumped them there. Upon these blocks an American jeep had been placed, slightly leaning to one side, looking like it could have fallen from a plane passing overhead. Emma walked round the monument; the more she walked the more she smiled. Her photo opportunity had presented itself when a sweet little French girl came over to Emma and said hello. The girl, dressed in a short-sleeved flora dress, short white socks and sandals, climbed the blocks and sat in the jeep. She started pretending to drive, waving to Emma as she drove to her imaginary destination, calling 'Au-revoir'. Taking out the camera Emma looked through the viewfinder and everything changed at that moment. Emma could see the smiling girl in the jeep, completely oblivious of the significance of the monument, then clicked. She moved around taking shots of the little girl from the side with the industrial death list travelling beside her. The girl stood up and pointed way into the distance while Emma clicked, prowling around like a silent predator sensing the next shot. The girl waved to imaginary friends and pretended to beep the horn, then, it was over. The girl jumped down and said goodbye to Emma with a little nod and smile, then walked back down the street to the nearby shops.

Elation, the high of the highs, a strange feeling of euphoria filled Emma she felt dizzy, a feeling I would experience much later but for a different calling. The camera felt right as she held it, 'an extension of her', was how she described that moment, it had all changed for Emma. Whatever happened at that moment, she had found her future-her future happiness, and vocation. She was desperate to take some more shots but seeing that she had only four more shots left, looked round for a suitable subject. Emma followed the little girl's route back towards the shops. Just before the Patisseries and tobacconists, there stood a pretty square surrounded by low rough stone walls embedded with wild flowers. On a bench towards the back of the gardens, sat three old women dressed in widow black. Even from where Emma was standing she could see the their collective age must have been around 240. Coming closer Emma could see the deep lines that cut into their dark leather faces. Self-esteem now fully inflated, she smiled at the women, they could sense her confidence and with it, a new inner warmth and beauty. The now smiling women beckoned her over, saying sweet things to her. The women laughed and nudged each other, revealing tooth stubs and dark gums. They held her pale thin hand while stroking her cheek with the back of their rough hands saying 'beautiful girl'.

Emma sat with them for a while, smiling at them and telling them her name and 'English'. Softly she asked in pantry-mime, if she could take their photograph. They laughed again, touching and patting their grey hair and straightening their worn black clothes, one pulling the black veil off her head, the woman in the middle putting hers on, covering the thin grey wire. Emma waited until they looked away for a moment, click. Closing in now, she filled the viewfinder with the women's faces-click. Seeing her subjects' hands resting on their laps, like fat swollen twigs –framed, and clicked, one shot left. The women sensing her unease, stopped smiling and asked her if she was alright. It was like falling in love, Emma told me later, overwhelming joy and sadness at the same time, as that fleeting magic would soon pass. She sat for a little longer, and then made signs that she had to go. One of the women shuffled about and pulled out a little piece of card and gave it to Emma. The women said goodbye, gently smoothing her hair and holding her hand, reluctant to let go. Each gave Emma a kiss on both cheeks, she could feel the course facial hair of the women, but was touched by the kindness. She walked back to the monument as if in a dream, numb and disconnected to the real world around her. Looking again at the jeep resting on the stone blocks, it all seemed so strange. Yet only half an hour ago she was frightened of using the camera-scared she would make a mess of things as she had with the rest of her artistic endeavours. She remembered the card and fished it from her pocket. Placing the little card on the monument next to some withered flowers; deep red roses with brown curling edges, thick thorns edging the long steams that lay dry and stark against the stone. Emma focused the camera to take in the flowers and her little present; a pale blue picture of the Virgin Mary.

'I think we have the wrong photos'

I can remember Kenneth saying as he came into the kitchen. He had been to Sainsburys and picked up the pack of photos Emma had put in a week before. She had returned from France in a bright cheerful mood, and this of course worried us, what had she been up to?

'The man at the shop said the photos were in special print and would cost more, but I got them anyway, Emma can pay the extra'.

Kenneth was like that, I was like that; mean, emotionally and financially. Kenneth would never get into debt, would save for everything and expected everyone one to do the same,

'You must earn your way' was a phrase he would often use.

To be honest, I felt the same way, respecting him for his monetary stoicism, but this time it seemed just a little hard on Emma. She got so little pocket money from us. We had her repay the money for the disposable camera she mislaid from her wages at her part-time Saturday job at John Lewis's, where she worked in the net-curtain department.

After tea we asked if Emma would show us the prints, she looked at them briefly before putting them back in the packet, then handing them over to me with a vacant expression on her pale face. Seeing on her face what I thought was disappointment, I patted her hand and said something like;

'It doesn't Marker my dear, I'm no photographer either '

She said nothing.

It shocked me that the images were so well laid out, seemed wrong somehow. I looked at each print carefully for a moment slightly stunned. Not that I had not seen such photographs before, we took the Sunday Times Magazine, and browsed the National Geographic when I have a check-up but this was quality

'Are you sure you took these'?

Enquired Kenneth, unable to cope with the dawning reality that our Emma had something else to offer the world, other than being tall and quiet.

The little French girl perfectly framed, smiling broadly, the monument to the dead standing dark and foreboding in the background. The long thin white arm, pointing far into the distance, looking fragile in the cotton dress. The image had just the right amount of light to give an exquisite texture, of soft cotton dress against the coarse discoloured stone.

See, I have learnt all this artistic speak, but it was the images of the old women that shocked us most. The scar-like creases in their faces, smiling mouths revealing 80 years of dental neglect. The hands, so knotted and knarled like fallen wood. The women's imbedded wedding rings, born from a forgotten time, almost hidden under arthritic joints. I sat bewildered as I worked through the images. I wanted, and had too, see the one image of the Virgin Mary again and again, yet was unsure why, but then again, I wasn't sure of anything anymore. It as so beautiful, the relationship with the flowers resting beside it, a sort of revealed secret.

I will never ever forget or forgive myself, for saying dismissively;

'Very nice dear, now put them away safely, you will need to take those into college on Monday.'

And that as it, not 'wonderful dear, these are magnificent, truly stunning'-nothing. Too late now to tell her, far far too late.

Before the accident I wouldn't have even thought why I didn't say such things to her. Now I think of little else, I have the time to ponder why I could not open up and let my girl in, and my love out. Looking back now, I believe that I felt that if I should open the heavy wooden door protecting my emotions, I would be venerable, weak and defenceless.

I got up, carried the plates to the dishwasher, Kenneth said he as going to polish his shoes so he didn't have to do it in the morning. But the worst part was that Emma accepted all this, knew we would not be demonstrative, could not let go of that grip that binds us. All the same I was unsettled, so much so that I could not concentrate on my gardening programme. Emma packed away the photographs, helped me clear the table and went to her room. I lay in bed that night inherently knowing nothing would ever be the same again, how could Emma take such photographs by pure instinct? It was also that night that the loud music started next door at Brenda Lovall 's house. I didn't know then that there was help for those irritations in life, sometimes just a phone call to the right person could make it all disappear. It is really very easy because most people feel the same way about such things, and can keep a secret, but there can be a price. My pay-back would require me to be the 'Lone Ranger' for a day which I would find both scary and surprisingly stimulating.

## Dennis Lee

Emma had been in London to meet Bezz and Pippa, a young Latino couple who were representing her Texan art agent De-Hem for a night out. In part it was a stop over for the young couple and partly to meet Emma at De-Hems request. They had met Emma in Cork Street and toured the galleries. Emma hired a cab and asked the driver to show them the main sites. The driver took them to Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, the Kings Road, and Leadenhall market where the driver told them part of Harry Potter was filmed. They ended up at the Hampstead theatre where a college friend of Emma had a small part in the production.

Bezz told me later that De-Helm was looking forward to meeting Emma and the plans for her internship post in his company later that year. There was a happy excited atmosphere in the air that night as a photo Emma had taken was being used in advertisement campaign for a massive Jeans company in the states. The campaign was focused all along the West-Coast and would later be featured in New York in the Autumn. It was not until much later did I find out that the black and white billboard image at the LAX airport and riding the buses in New York was of Warren, our sometimes print helper.

There he was, looking off to the distance with a book on his head. It must have been a fun joke at the time, just messing around outside the studio/garage. There was not any text added by Emma so I believed it to be just a straight photo taken from the camera. One word had been printed onto the image by De-Hems studio: 'WHATEVER'. I was told later that it was a 'nerd' look, and that it had performed well for the jeans company, and for De-Hems. He said it had a young fresh feel about, innocent yet knowing, 'Like Emma' he told me later.

After the play Bezz and Pippa said goodbye to Emma from the Taxi, agreeing to meet up in Texas in a few months time, with Pippa promising Emma a girls shopping day. We believe that Emma had got sick of waiting for a cab, so cut through the quiet Avenue to the main road to hail one down. She must have heard the car and turned to see it coming towards her, and she must have tried to back away, hands out stretched as if to protect her as the vehicle crashed into her. A man called Dennis Lee who lived not far away walked round the corner on his way home and ran to the car, he didn't know at that time Emma was stuck behind it. He saw Lesley inside the car slumped over the steering wheel bleeding from a head wound from the crash. The passenger seat was empty but the door was open, the emergency services were called.

Emma was still conscious until the Paramedic arrived. In court Mr Lee said that Emma spoke to him briefly. He said that he came round the corner shortly after the crash and ran over to the car to help. Emma was wedged between the car and a wall, lying across the bonnet with her hands tucked somewhere underneath.

I could hear the young lady saying something. I lent over as close as I could get. She was bleeding from her nose, mouth and ears, which scared me. She was slumped like a rag doll with her eyes closed. I said to her that the ambulance was coming and that she would be all right. She was trying to talk, which I saw more than heard, because as she tried to speak, blood sprayed out of her mouth across the bonnet. I bent down beside her and could hear her whisper something but her voice was so low, so I put my ear next to her mouth. She said something like 'move her, move her'. I didn't know if she meant for me to move the woman in the car for some reason, or me move the car from her, but I couldn't move her as she was so wedged in. I took off my jacket and put it over her as she was shivering.

'I tried to move the car again, but she was somehow attached to the front of it, I didn't realise it was her hands. All I could do was stay with her until the Police and ambulance arrived, then the fire brigade came, who cut her free. She must have passed-out because she went very quiet and no more spray came out of her mouth'

The car's radiator grill was cut out with Emma's hands still attached and was taken to Guys hospital not the local due to the head injury. After the accident, Dennis Lee was kind enough to visit Emma, sometimes, bringing her flowers.

For us at home we knew nothing of this, as it was a usual Friday evening. I had a light supper with Kenneth before he drove over to the gulf-club. I would bath and settle down to watch the gardening programmes on the BBC. I went to bed early nodding off every so often, only waking up when another car pulled up next door with the stereo blaring. There would be shouts of welcome from the other people in the house and the music escaped from their front door as the people went in. As Emma had laid in that morning, I had not seen her before she left for the city mid afternoon. She had bought Bezz and Pippa little kitsch London souvenirs: Beef-Eaters standing in front of a flat plastic Tower of London, encased in a globe of to be shaken snow. Pippa told me Emma had also bought them a red toy double-Decker bus and a black cab for each of them as a welcome to the city. Other than that I don't know where she went that afternoon but she had left a note:

'Mum and Dad, not sure what time I will be in tonight, but please don't wait up. If Warren comes round about the book tell him it is in the second draw down. Love Emma x'

She had been looking forward to going out, yet the night before she had that child-like hesitant apprehensive look across her face. She still could not comprehend the attention accorded to her from De-Hems, Bezz and Pippa. Sometimes she would say she felt it wasn't right getting money for taking photos of things she liked. It never went to her head when her photographs and images were featured in American art magazines that De-Hems people would send to her. I kept the magazines though, even Kenneth showed people at the 'club'. He knew that the people at the golf club would probably not care for the pictures, neither did he half the time, yet there she was. His Emma, pictured looking unsure next to an article of the 'Young Brit Star'. Like Emma we could not believe it was our quiet daughter gaining so much ground and becoming something of a cult. It helped that it wasn't in this country, everything seemed so far away in America. Emma would still come shopping with me and lay the table for tea, things did move up a notch when we had French and Japanese journalists ring us up, in which Emma would ask them very kindly to 'call her agent.'

De-Hems spoke to Emma every couple of weeks with Bezz calling every few days. They would be on the phone for ages, with Emma just saying things like

'Yes, that sounds very nice'.

Somewhere along the line it was agreed that Emma would work for De-Hems company as an intern for a year. De-Hems had agreed that Emma should fly to New York and travel across the country coast to coast, following the route Andy Warhol took back in 1963 ending up at the media company in Texas.

Emma asked me to go with her, which I laughed at. I told her that I couldn't drive that far, and on the wrong side of the road-it was ridiculous, Kenneth thought so too. Yet over the weeks with Emma asking me again and again, until I realised that I should be flattered that she had asked me to go with her. She could have called Bezz and Pippa and do the trip with them, that didn't worry me, Emma was sensible. The plan was to 'do' New York the Andy Warhol way (galleries-shopping etc), then pick up a car and drive across country taking about three weeks. We would stop off each night in a prearranged hotel and end up in the last known stop for Warhol at the end of the trip, The Surfrider In Santa Monica CA. We would stay there a few days and fly to Houston. Emma was to stay for a year's contract, flying home at De-Hems expense every few months.

I told Emma the car chosen for us was too big. Dale, De-Hems PA had arranged all the flights, car, and all the hotels along the route that Emma's painstaking research had pieced together. The hotels looked wonderful if a little ostentatious. Emma just laughed.

'We are not going to Eastbourne mum, lets have some fun!'

Of course she was right, but the car was like a large black monster; a cross between a Range-Rover and truck, Jet-black; fitted out with black tinted windows, I couldn't drive that. What worried me were places like The New Jersey Turn-Pike, how the hell was I going to drive that truck around there not really knowing where I was going? We compromised to a four-wheel drive Honda with GPS, that still looked too big but Dale had said there 'wasn't anything smaller.'

We didn't hear the doorbell so the policewoman had to bang the doorknocker hard. At first I thought it was the boys from next-door having a joke.

'Mrs Kirby?' She stood there in her hat and smart uniform, no more that twenty-five yet she had a maturity about her, a marked contrast to the idiots next door, who must have been around the same age. A policeman sat in the patrol car across the street. I saw him speak into his radio on his shoulder as he got out of the car and walk towards the noise next door.

'Yes' I said pulling my dressing gown tighter across my chest, craning my neck to see what was happening next door. 'It's about time, listen to that racket' I said huffily.

'Can I come in for a moment please madam?' We went into the kitchen where the music from across the fence could be heard.

'Will you sit down please Mrs Kirby', said the WPC 'I am afraid I have some bad news'.

I went to sit on the dinning chair, then with a cold feeling creeping up my neck muttered; 'what's wrong?'

'Please sit down' said the WPC, a little firmer, fear gathering on her face.

'It's your daughter Emma, she has had an accident...'

'Oh God' oh God, is she alright, where is she? Tell me.'

She came and put her firm but gentle arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the chair.

'Your daughter is in hospital, she was hit by a car in London.'

I realised why she had insisted in my sitting down as I could feel my legs collapsing beneath me. There was a numbness holding my body and mind together-just. The shock blanked my mind, leaving a single thought of how to get to her.

'I must tell my husband' I said, getting up and fluttering around, wringing my hands.

'Yes you must' replied the young woman growing more concerned at the demented woman hovering here and there around the kitchen.

Somehow I made it up the stairs and shook Kenneth

'It's Emma, get up its Emma, she's hurt, in hospital somewhere, get dressed'.

I started to dress still in a strange fog, pulling anything out of the wardrobe.

'Get up, your daughter has been hit by a car-in London'.

A little reluctantly, Kenneth got up and looked at the clock saying 'God I knew this would end in trouble'.

I ran down the stairs to the waiting WPC saying that my husband would follow. The policeman had returned from the now quiet house next door. All the lights were still on in our house as we drove away, no doubt Kenneth would get up to turn them off. The policewoman sat in the back with me in silence, I, conjuring up images of Emma in the hospital that were contained in a frame of chaos and fear.

I had pretty much got the images right; drips, blinking machines and hospital staff milling around her looking worried. I struggled to get close to her, but there seemed so many people setting up monitor machines and pipes that it was difficult to see her lying in the middle of the horde. A young doctor eased me into a private room. He told me Emma had been stabilised, and that she was very lucky. He said that she would need to have a 'CAT-scan' as she had presented with a head injury, but all her major organs seemed in good condition, but it was 'one step at a time.'

Sitting with my head in my hands in this nightmare, I was overwhelmed by a fear of losing her, totally selfish, what would I do without her? She had given me life, and that life meaning. The doctor sat down with me and put his hand on mine. 'Mrs Kirby, there is something else I must tell you, I am very sorry but it was your daughter's hands that took the brunt of the crash'.

Are they broken?' I mumbled.

I am very sorry but we have had to remove her hands, we had no choice, they were so very badly damaged.'

I started shouting, 'you had no right, you have mutilated her'. I stood up and ran to the door fixated on seeing Emma. Some nurses and the young doctor stopped me, holding me tight as I struggled, throwing screaming punches until I collapsed on the floor. A nurse sat down with me, holding me while I sobbed. Just the thought of my girl without her hands; my beautiful girl butchered, it was more than I could bear, it was unspeakable. The worst of it was, she didn't even know about it. I was taken back to the private room sitting staring at the wall in shock. Much later I read the medical report, that said during the accident Emma's hands had been pushed back at such a force that they has snapped at the wrist with the Ulna and Radius bones (the fore-arm) having been wedged into the front grill of the car.

Anger, self-hate, grief, fight and flight raged through me that night, but I wanted to be there, there for Emma. It was over two hours before Kenneth arrived with my sister in tow to shield him.

Why? That's the question that hit me, why someone like Emma, what harm had she done? If there is a God why the hell would he do this to someone like my daughter. There was enough bad in the world, so why my daughter, what the hell had she done to anyone?, if this was meant to have some meaning it was lost on me. Some people say 'Some things are just meant to happen, all things a have a purpose, there is a reason for everything'

Who made that up? How can there possibly by any justifiable significance to this contemptible disfigurement? The next question was, who did it?

I was given a side room to recover, I had been given something to calm me down which knocked me out cold. I was woken by Kenneth with a cup of machine tea, tough I was fully aware of the accident, my hands were feeling strange.

'She's going to be alright' Kenneth told me. I sat up too quickly, then flopped back down feeling sick and giddy.

'I have called work and they said I can have the day off'.

'Shut up about work, who did this? Who did this to Emma?' My sister tried to comfort me.

'I am so sorry Helen, but Emma is doing fine'

'Don't fine me' I snapped pulling away from her, 'who did it?'

Jane kept her hand on my arm, and looked at Kenneth

'It was a young nurse, American girl we think'

Kenneth butted in 'She is going to be alright Helen'.

How did Kenneth know she was going to be alright? Emma had sustained a head injury, had her hands removed, so what the hell did he mean 'going to be alright'. I sat up, outside was London grey and cloudy. Kenneth went to see Emma, Jane stayed with me, she knew better than to whitter on about Emma being fine, so we sat in silence. The young head nurse came in to see me, everyone seemed so young to be handling such important roles. I was told politely a counsellor was ready to see me, which I un-politely told them what they could do with her, but she introduced herself anyway as Wendy Smith.

She was practical rather than comforting, and explained the procedure and plans for Emma over the next week or so. She described in detail how Emma would be kept in elected coma for a period of time until she stabilised. The CAT-scan had been done and the results were good with only the slightest pressure showing in the brain. A small pressure such as that would be normal after such an accident, yet it would not affect Emma's recovery or cause any retardation. Wendy very gently asked me if I would like to see Emma. I longed to see her but had become frightened.

'She may well be able to hear and understand you, even in coma' said Wendy, supporting me on one side, Jane on the other.

'She may be waiting for you Helen, I think it will help you both'.

I felt like I was walking to the gas chamber, that walk down the long corridor to the waiting swing doors with small round covered windows, hiding the horror within.

Emma's bed was now at the far end of the room by the window. It was good to see that the sun had come out and that most of the staff and machines had gone. I felt I was going break, so I held my fist to my mouth to gain control. She lay peaceful and pale, hair combed over neat and tidy. Her eyes where taped down as were the pipe in her mouth and nose. The arms were covered by the bedclothes, but I knew I had to see them, needed to see for myself to witness them and not block it out anymore. She looked so beautiful and so very young and childlike. How on earth would I be able to tell her about her hands?

'I want to see...' I mumbled to Wendy, but she put her finger up to her lips and pointed to Emma. I moved Wendy back a little to the door where Jane was waiting.

'I must see her hands, her arms...I have to' I whispered to Wendy.

'Yes, but it doesn't have to be now, but please remember Emma may be aware of this happening.'

She held my hand and I took her over to the bed. Still holding my hand she lifted the sheet revealing Emma's thin pale left arm. I gasped at the sight, the long gawky arms now foreshortened by at least 10 inches the stump, just reaching Emma's waist, instead of her thigh. I turned away, sobbing hard into Wendy's shoulder. She held me tight, as I cried quietly until I was done. Releasing myself I turned back to Emma, covering her arm. I put my hand on her forehead and touched her soft face with the back of my hand.

'Where did you come from? How did we get such a beautiful girl, someone so kind and sensitive, where did you come from my beautiful girl?'

It was true, we never knew how we could create such beauty, we should have had a rather plain dull spiteful child, of whom we would have been glad to see the back of, and her us when she went on to university and self-hate. I believe we must have been frightened of Emma's loveliness and believed we had to control it somehow. We disliked her a little, as we disliked all pretty and confident people, perhaps they made us look grey and drab in comparison. But she didn't hate us, she could be very affectionate and loving, something else we were uncomfortable with. We were not used to such open displays of affection and did not encourage it. Therefore around the age of six or seven she stopped reaching out for us, stopped trying to sit on Kenneth's lap, as he told her she was 'too old for all that'. Gave up reaching up for a goodnight hug and kiss from me in bed because I told her 'not to be so silly'.

I was proscribed tablets to calm me down, which I willing took knowing I would be like a zombie. I knew inside that I needed them and would remain like this until I could cope. My mother came to visit, sitting by me not knowing what to say, then saying things like; 'she was very lucky'.

I stayed in one of the hospitals' small parents rooms at the very end of the corridor that had a small window that overlooked the Thames and the City. I would make this room my own over the coming months that I would fill with my own clothes, books and a small radio. Most of the time I would just go and sit by Emma and talk as Wendy had told me, as this was good for us both. We did not have to play any of Emma's favourite records as we were not trying to wake her up, just to let her rest and recover in peace, without the stress of the amputation or the shock of the accident. In the morning I would go and see Emma, then shower and have breakfast in a café. I could go to my window and watch people going to work in the morning bustle of the city. I would talk with doctors and Wendy and sit with Emma. Again in the evening I would be ready at the window watching the workers walk back over London Bridge to the station, home to their normal safe life. The police came to visit me, explaining that the young nurse had been arrested and was on bail. She had tested positive and would be sent for trial.

I began increasingly to spend more and more weekends at home, as Emma was stabilising well and the room was needed for other parents to stay. I walked myself to London Bridge station but I was not going home to a normal home. Things were very different now. I found it hard with Kenneth, had lost interest in work, the house and garden. I would sit staring into space. Kenneth would tell me to 'pull myself together' but I couldn't.

One Monday morning I was invited to a hospital team meeting about Emma. It was time to think about waking her up and her future. The three months had gone very fast, partly because I was on happy pills, also the care of Emma had been so intense. Wendy, and a friendly social worker began to look for somewhere for Emma's rehabilitation and a place was found in Sussex, it was time for Emma to wake up. That moment when Emma opened her eyes both appalled and simulated me. It was the first time she had looked at me in three months, so much had changed for us all in that time. I wanted nothing else than to care for her now, help her in any way to recover as best she could under the circumstances. Those rolling glassy eyes, now unable to focus looked more blue and beautiful than ever. Plans were being drawn up as Emma was beginning to stabilise. Even though she slept most of the day being heavily medicated, she made signs of recognition which gave me hope. We thought she understood what we were saying to her, that she knew she had been in an accident and that she was recovering in hospital in London and would soon be moving to the countryside. She had been having physiotherapy even while she was in coma ready for when she would begin her recovery properly.

The horror of this story did not take place until we had to tell Emma about her hands. Because of the extreme pains across her chest, shoulders and arms, movement have been very limited. She was dozy, and being fed with a tube, but she was becoming aware. Her limbs hand been bandaged heavily, with phantom pains sending messages to her brain that the hands were still there and a morbid curiosity was taking place, I would have to tell her, preparations were made. At this time she was without speech but could understand everything. One morning shortly after feeding her breakfast and having a last check at the morning meeting with the care team, I went and sat with Emma. I sat close to her and stroked the straight dark hair off her forehead, looking at the beautiful face in the morning light.

'Emma my love, I have to tell you something'

I knew then she knew already as her face frowned and turned away from me, tensing her body taunt.

'Do you know what I am going to say?'

She struggled, trying to turn away from me.

'Please Emma, it had to happen, you can carry on with your work, everything is going to be the same, we will go to America, do the things you want to do...'

She was struggling violently, desperately trying to turn over, away from my words. Neither of us wanted to have her worst fears confirmed. The noise she made was like a dying wild animal, an inhuman primal wail. Rocking uncontrollably she nearly fell off the bed; I had to pull her back as she continued shaking herself off with wild fits. Her neck stretched and contorted, eyes staring and streaming with tears, legs flaying making her urine line fall out. With one last mad surge she lay exhausted, her head hanging over the side of bed. The withered pale arms hanging down towards the floor, now just two heavily bandaged stumps. She sobbed great convolutions, body heaving as I pulled her up onto the bed, then I lay down with her, holding her as tight as I could in my arms. My beautiful girl, long and thin, full of promise, both crying so heavily and with every tear, I became more revengeful and angry.

## Extradition

'TOP DOC'S WIFE IN BOOZE SMASH'

'BLOND YANK SLAYS STUDENT'

Large bold headlines, if only inside on page 6 of the papers ran;

'DRINK-DRIVE CRASH FRENZY'

'SURGEONS WIFE HELD OVER DRINK DRIVE CRASH'

'BLOND NURSE

TOO SMASHED TO REMEMBER CRASH

I must confess I became obsessed with the trial. The local newspaper was sympathetic, leaving us alone to care for Emma and deal with reliving the horror of the accident at the trial. I really don't think the tabloids would have been interested in any of this if it hadn't been for two things; first, Lesley Howard was a very striking pretty blond American, and of all things a nurse. Secondly, Julian her husband, was very photogenic with Hollywood looks. He was a surgeon, married to a nurse who got smashed one night and knocked down a young student. As Margaret was now Julian's PR and not allowing him to say anything in public, he became all the more interesting, fuelling the tabloids already growing interest in this real-life hospital soap-opera.

Lesley Howard had followed Reeves Clinton, her English boyfriend back to the UK having met him at the hospital where she worked as a nurse. Reeves had worked as a representative for a feeding pump company that's used for patients who are unable to consume solid food following an accident or due to ill health. How ironic that would turn out to be, but it's the truth. Her father had worked in Washington, then moved Kansas, where he met and married Anna who had two children, Michael and later Lesley.

When Lesley had completed her nursing training and taken her finals, it was time for a change. Now that Reeves had returned home to the UK, Lesley secured a post at a Hospital in North London. This was an attempt to patch things up with Reeves.

Things did not go well, according to the paper the couple broke up (no reason given) and Lesley left her job in London and took a job in a hospital Oxford. The hospital had a renowned eye unit of which Lesley had specialized back in America. By all accounts she was happy there and enjoyed Oxford. Most importantly Lesley met her husband Julian, an Orthopaedic surgeon working at the hospital. The pictures of Julian at the trial show a central-casting young doctor. Tall slim, dark brown hair cut short around the ears, yet long on top giving that medical /academic look. A well-made suit, white shirt and subtle tie completed the polished groomed image.

During and after the trial each photograph taken by the national and later only the locals, showed Julian looking distressed. He was always flanked by his mother Margaret. She was a strong forceful woman, always speaking for Julian, never letting the press get to him in his grief. When asked by the papers if he would stand by Lesley, Margaret answered;

'She has done an awful and dreadful thing, justice must be done-no further comment'.

On another day she said;

'Julian is distraught, Lesley Howard must take the justice given out to her...yes Julian is back at home with me'.

It was like some perverse low-cost daytime TV show. It went that way for some time before gradually fading, but Emma, the central character in all this was forgotten.

She was deep in coma, unaware of the show going on as she lay in a Hospital near London Bridge. I came to know the staff there and they me. They came to know the sharp, angry fussing woman who complained about everything and everybody. At night I would look out at the lights of London a million pound view that made me feel so enraged, ill tempered and incensed. Emma would not see any of this, being far away in a sea of drugs keeping her oblivious to pain. She had so much promise, and just when she had found herself, this happened. She was so quiet and meek, worried about the world and all it offered, then finding a way through the fear this accident, accident? -How can this be fair?

While staying at the hospital everything became related to the catastrophe; seeing the lights of London, I saw young girls of her age out shopping, having fun and getting on with life. Adverts on TV for BA flights to America, knowing that I would have to cancel her trip there. I longed to overdose; it would be so easy and nice to drift away, but what about Emma? It was the only thing that stopped me doing it. Regarding the sentence, I was with Margaret on her daughter-in-law Lesley; I wanted her to go down, for a very very long time. The images of Lesley in the papers seemed incongruous to the horrific episode that had taken place. Tall, naturally blond and beautiful, the innocent face like Mary in Botticelli's painting the Madonna of the Magnificat. That was what I was up against; the Virgin Mary. How could I...I was going to say win, but it was not about winning, it was about justice for my little girl.

But us plain people, we knew the truth. Just because you are pretty and innocent looking does not mean you are innocent. I remember my school days; beautiful girls, verbally and physically bullying the young girls. Luckily my sister and I escaped this thanks to dad working at the school, though they did call him names to upset us, it was all they had. Yet when they went before the headmaster they would turn on the little girl smile and be let off.

I wanted Lesley to suffer, at least to go down for a large number of years. I became engrossed by what the papers were saying. This I suppose, was the beginning of the end for Kenneth and me. My mother came to stay as I was away so much, even when I was home Kenneth and I slept in separate rooms, I couldn't bear to be near anyone, it seemed such a sham. This separation was a natural extension really, I had spent so much time at the hospital and when I did meet Kenneth all I could talk about was Emma, and the lack of all hope for her, it couldn't have helped.

It was Kenneth not accepting the reality of it all that finalised it for me. Looking back, I suppose it was how he coped, but at the time he seemed to me a callous pig, intent on forgetting his daughter. How could he go to work? He would say things to me like 'everything will be all right we will see this through'. How the hell can you see this through? We fought over everything which was most unlike us undemonstrative people. Usually during disagreements I either gave in to Kenneth, or I would sulk and fume. We did not raise our voices, but I did then. When he told me to take some time off from seeing Emma I would say he was trying to stop me from seeing her, He went to work as normal, as if nothing had happened. At the time I could not understand this. However, although I had never taken a day off work since I had maternity leave with Emma. I was given six months sick leave from the charity where I worked; I guess work felt the strain too.

At home I could hear the noise next door, I had reduced it to a petty irritant, although the noise and offensive behaviour began to escalate it wasn't in my field of focus. That sort of negative mind-set from next door would just wash over me. I was in a white foam fuzzy tunnel, thanks to sleeping pills and anti-depressants. I lost so much weight that my mother would call the doctor. I would cry in the middle of the day or night, sometimes unaware I was doing so. My mother cleaned the house and tried to comfort me, but her mantra was the same as Kenneth.

'Move on, move on, your not helping Emma being like this you know.'

The two of them would play bridge together for Gods sake, while I sat out in the garden staring into space, oblivious of the rave music blaring out from the idiots next door.

I was so far out of it, that I had difficulty making sense of the photograph in the tabloid. The day before sentencing, the rag published pictures of a young girl reading in the garden in her bikini. These is pictures were used continually in the paper, and could have only come from one source. It broke me to think, that the image of Emma, relaxed and happy in the garden was being used as titillation for the rag's readers.

Emma was being used in this sad dreadful way, while she was just inches from death in intensive care. I was so numb at this stage that I could not take it in. What else could happen, what else could go wrong? Two months for Lesley, two little months for the person who killed my child. That is what could wrong, where was the justice in all this? All I could see was Lesley with that 'little-girl' face turning on the crocodile tears for the judge. I was told she did not move, as sentence was past. Staring blankly, only saying 'thank you' to the judge before being led down to the cells. I broke down, my mother and sister helping me out of the court as I screamed 'my baby'.

Lesley was taken to a woman's prison and that was all I heard of her until I was informed by the police 'link-worker', that she was going to be extradited back to America, I was ambivalent about this. I wanted her to stay in prison here for some reason, yet, I also wanted her to go far far away, as the thought of her in London was frightening. In fact, she had been moved not long after sentencing to the north of England, but I was not told this. One day, not long after returning to work, not wishing to go home, I took the tube to Tuffnel Park, and walked to the prison. Apart from the big gates, it looked very new, not the Victorian prison one would imagine. Red brick walls holding a strange silence I could only imagine what it contained. After, I walked back to the tube, listening to the young people of Emma's age, chatting and laughing on their way to an evening out. I knew then that I would have to confront this woman, and that she would have to pay for the suffering she had caused.

## OZ calls The Tin Woman

I still feel guilty sometimes, would I still have felt this way about Emma if she had not asked me to help her? That simple request that would change my life and make us close. The change started when she had come into the sitting room while I was listening to the Archers. I had nothing more on my mind at that moment, than the promise of a cup of Complan and a sponge finger before bed. She put her head round the door and asked if I had a moment. Being mildly irritated I put down the paper I was holding and followed her into the hall. I remember asking if she was 'all right', as it was so rare for her to ask for anything from us in those days. I think she knew deep down, we were not really interested in the art course. We were interested in her education and progress but not the art itself.

Since we could not longer use our garage, Emma had set up her studio up in the now empty space. This had come to pass as she had got ink on her curtains in her bedroom, so we gave her an ultimatum: 'paint at college or the garage'. Kenneth always kept the garage spotlessly clean. Sheets of paper had been laid on the floor to prevent oil stains. All the tools would be stored up on the appointed hook, with the outline of the tools outlined in marker pen. Not long after Emma moved in the garage, large frames stood around the room. Inkpots and tubes of something or other lay in heaps on the workbench.

'I do wish you would tidy up, it's not right to work in such mess, what would your father say if he saw it like this' I said as I followed she into her space, hoping this wouldn't take long.

On the wall of the garage, posters and pages cut from magazines were blue-tacked up at various heights, in no order or sequence. The only picture I recognised was a coloured poster of Andy Warhol, even I knew who he was. I think even Kenneth would have been able to put a name to the face if prompted. It was the self-portrait of Warhol wearing a silver wig printed on a dark background. I immediately started to tidy up, putting tops on tubes and collecting up brushes.

'Look at this mess Emma, just look at it!' I snapped. I scorned at her, but something in her gaze made me stop, the old Emma was back. She looked venerable and childlike. A look, that always disconcerted us, making us, perhaps because of our backgrounds, feel that we should not molly-coddle her, that we should help her to stand on her own two feet. Of course it didn't though, it just made her quiet, introspective, shy and frightened to make choices in case they were wrong. We thought that we could toughening her up by telling her 'not to be so silly' when meeting new people, or doing new things. But this just gave her a hard but brittle un-penetrating shell.

Looking back at those days when she was so enclosed at school, her self-esteem and confidence was very low. Now she was at Art College and doing very well and she had gained some confidence from the work she had produced, she was changing. Now she would bring her CD player into the garage and play music while she worked, supposed, we never went in there.

'What is it dear'? I asked, cold and irritated.

'I need help, I just needed you to hold something for me', I put down the dirty paintbrushes. She looked sad, a sort of sad that seems to say; 'what's the use?' But she told me what she wanted to do, so I responded the best I could,

'Can I just put the overalls on dear'? I was aware that Kenneth kept a pair of overalls in the garage, and knew they would be spotless. Once I was all covered up, Emma gave instructions.

She told me that she needed to print the screens for her final art degree show. Twenty or so would be used in the show but she would print up the other pictures as a contextual practice. I just went along with all this hoping she would not ask questions later on. She put large sheets of paper on some blankets that she had placed on the ground then covered with a clean square of canvas. My job was to hold down the frame flat on the canvas to prevent slipping. She showed me some discarded images that she had tried to print but had slipped as she could not hold and print at the same time. The frame I was holding down and those dotted around the room had thin silk gauze stretched over them with a faint opaque image printed on them. Once the frame was held down safe and secure, Emma pored a thick ink along the top of the screen. She took a long flat piece of wood with a plastic edge and asked if I was ready, I nodded, so she pulled the ink evenly down the screen from top to bottom. This allowed the ink to seep through the unprinted part of the gauze. Emma did this twice very quickly and I must say expertly. Still holding it down, Emma, with a hint of a smile said 'it's OK mum it's done' She lifted the frame and there was the image of little French girl now greatly enlarged, pointing far into the distance.

When Emma had returned to college to write up the history project to France, one of the lecturers displayed the photos outside the history staff-room. The photos caught the eye of Mr Stephens an art lecturer who loved the images and asked if they could be used in the college brochure and later were shown on the college Internet web site. He e-mailed Emma and asked to see her. He wanted to know what she did, and did she know that there was a art/graphics course at the college? He rang us at home, Kenneth was most rude to him, 'up-setting our daughter with silly ideas' etc, but somehow he ended up coming round to see us. He told us that Emma had an 'eye' and that she had a future. This was more our style, so we listened. He told us that Emma could transfer her first year units from History to Art. He said her art was unique yet commercial and would go far. He had friends in America who had seen the photos and one had wanted to buy them. A the evening wore on ending with Emma and us agreeing she would study art the next term and history would be –well history!

That first night in the garage, I was shocked by the beauty of the screen-print-it was wonderful. It was all so quick and simple. I wanted to do another and another, but all I could say was 'anything else Emma'?

'Well one more would be good Mum'

I smiled and got down to it. The overalls were restricting so they came off. This time I knew what I should do; put one knee on the bottom left corner and then the other knee stretched over to the right corner. I would lean over with all my weight and hold the frame mid way down so Emma could get a harder-and therefore 'cleaner' print. What I must have looked like, legs wide apart bending over the frame in my elasticised waist catalogue trousers, I dare not imagine. We did another six like this and I was smitten, it was such fun and so productive. When we had finished the prints we stood them by the far wall, they did look super. Full of confidence Emma asked me if I would like a cold drink from her mini fridge she kept in the garage. I would buy cartons of orange juice and Coke a Cola for her to keep there. But I just said

'Not tonight dear it's getting late' I walked back into the sitting room where Kenneth say asleep in the armchair. I realise that Emma had never asked me to sit and have a drink with her before, so turned back. By the time I got back to the garage she had gone, no doubt unsurprised by my brush off. It would be a missed opportunity I would bitterly regret. It was four weeks to Emma's degree show and only eight weeks before the accident.

## Boys next door

I did not know Mrs lovall very well at all, didn't want too. She was not like the other people in the Close, she dressed 'loud' and chewed gum that revealed mid-priced capped teeth while she spoke to you. She told me on the first time I met her, that she was getting divorced and that she would live next door with her two sons; Jed and Jake. They were eighteen and twenty respectively, arrogant and pushy. They would have friends over and park their cars across our drive, preventing Kenneth attending the golf-club meetings on alternate Thursday evenings. One such Thursday, Kenneth was pacing about as it was getting late, and there was still no sign of the cars being moved. With a final look at his watch Kenneth marched out of the house. Once next door, asked very politely if someone could possibly move the car blocking the drive. The chap who answered the door laughed in Kenneth's face and either Jake or the other one called from the back room; 'tell him to go fuck himself'.

They had far more money than we did. Ms Lovell spent money, lots of money, but that was not my business. She went on holidays for long periods of time leaving the 'boys' to turn up the stereo to outrageous levels, precluding any idea of sleep on our behalf. They would have parties in the back garden, sometimes climbing over the fence into our garden to retrieve a football. Once in the garden they would laugh, making rude gestures at us as we looked out the window helpless.

We spoke to Mrs Lovell, her reply was to laugh and say 'they are just boys enjoying themselves' adding 'you are only young once' which seemed a contradiction, as she was in her second teen-age. The noise and disruption went on and on. When we politely asked them to turn down the music they would turn it up, even while we stood at the door. Someone in the street must have called the police, as the patrol car pulled up at the house around 3am one Sunday morning. The music went down for the length of time the police stayed but reverted to blaring as they turned the corner of the close. The boys threw rubbish over our garden thinking it must have been us that called the police. Things continued until we could no longer sit in the garden. The music up so loud that prevented any conversation would have us sitting inside the house even on the hottest days. One afternoon, thinking next door was out, Emma lay out in the garden in her swimsuit, hearing a noise turned to look up at the next doors upper windows, only to see one of the boys masturbating. They had taken photographs of her and put one of them through the post box. Once again I told Mrs Lovell of this intrusion and that we would go to the police if things continued. She, tanned orange from head to toe, dressed in white leather, just laughed as always, saying that 'boys will be boys'.

We would sit on summers' days, looking out on our once lovely tended garden, now over grown from lack of use. The name-calling and noise kept us in, Kenneth would park the car around the corner and walk home. Emma would walk on the other side of the road from the arrogant chumps, but they still called out and made fearfully rude signs to her. Never once did we see them going to work or college, we wondered what they did for work or how they got their money, we guessed it was the estranged Mr Lovall. New cars and hi-fi equipment would come and go. Motorbikes would be revved up and ridden around the back garden then forgotten, but it was the music that got to Kenneth more than anything else. One day when the rock music was at stadium level in the garden, Kenneth called the police. They did ask them to turn it down which they did for at least ten minutes. The police explained that day-time noise is difficult to enforce, adding:

'It's after midnight the law kicks in, and really, at the end of the day not much can be done about it'. I went out to get the washing in about 6 that evening and the oldest one looked over the fence just watching me, he leered at me ' don't think you can move, if someone comes to see your house we will scare them away-tough shit lady-you're stuck!'

## Rehab

Travelling down to Sussex from London was one of those times when I was really conscious of change. After four months elected coma and a further month of stabilisation, Emma was discharged from hospital. She had been taken off a life-support machine and was now breathing on her own without the aid of a pump. Her heart and lungs were intact and she could communicate by nodding and shaking her head. As far as I knew she recognised both Kenneth, and me, as she would respond to us both.

It was so wonderful to see her respond now when we asked her something, She still took her food by tube, (perhaps it was one sold by Lesley's old boyfriend Reeves). The electric pump pushed mush into her stomach through the pipe that was fed through her nose.

Emma's prognosis was good, very good. Her spine was intact and unharmed. All internal organs seemed to be in good working order. Her brain was the worry, yet all concerned were optimistic. The knock she had suffered was not the area that would really affect her motor or understanding. Perhaps some short and long-term memory blips, but nothing in any significant way. The doctors said that she would be 'behind' for some time, and that she would have to learn everything again, talking, eating walking etc. They said that it was as if the brain had gone into shock but with help could recover slowly but surly. The only real worry was that there was some brain pressure, but this would subside in time. It was time for her to move on, rehabilitation. This was deemed to be good for her and me. Guy's could do no more for her; they had done their part well, incredibly well, now it was time for Emma to work towards the next stage, the back to 'normal' stage of living. I had been told that there was no reason why Emma could not return to normal life, and I believed them.

Still flat on her back with the ever-present tube in her nose and the monitor on her heart, she was loaded into the ambulance. I sat beside Emma in the ambulance along side a young nurse called Jenny, who sat at the foot of the transporting bed. It felt worryingly like starting school or a new job, yet all the same it felt positive, Emma was going to get better.

We saw the signs for Hailey hospital and my hands began to sweat. Jenny had been here a few times before and told Emma we were nearly there. She tickled her toes and Emma smiled, that crooked smile gave us all hope. Once we had turned of the road we had travelled at lease a mile up the drive to the hospital. A woman met us as we pulled up and into the drive to the 'unit'.

'Hello I'm Alison'. She had what we used to call 'fly away hair' curly and unkempt, it seemed to have a will of it's own that nothing could control. 'I am head duty nurse today, welcome to Hailey'. Jenny and Ralph the driver unloaded Emma from the ambulance, pushing her through to a reception area. There was a peace there, and only later occurred to me that the nurses and staff did not wear uniforms. Alison was dressed in a light floral dress that was rather too short but she was lovely to us both. I sat with Emma in the staff room, which was rather small. It seemed odd to have Emma laying there in the office beside the computer, desks and kettle.

'Well my dear', said Alison smiling genuinely at Emma, 'we are so glad you have come to stay with us here. We have heard so much about you. I will show you round later, I hope you like your room. You will have one of the best here, the one that looks out over the apple trees'

Suddenly the door banged open revealing a boy of around 10, head shaved and dirty teeth. ' Mark's stole my fucking CD player again, tell him Ali, tell him to give it back, or I will kill the cu...bastard'.

'Now Sean where are you manners? And what did I say about bad words?'

The boy's face relaxed and smiled, exposing a full set of yellow stained cigarette-butt teeth.

'Sorry Alison I will put 50p in the box' he said sheepishly

'I will get your CD' said Alison smiling 'and tell Mark I will be into see him. Now be a gentleman and say hello to Emma, remember I told you she was coming today, and this is Emma's Mummy Helen.'

I realised for the first time that Sean was sort of propped up against the door, leaning on to it for support. He limped over to Emma, instinctively I stood up to protect her. Alison raised her hand very gently to me, saying

'It's alright'

Sean wobbled over to the bed and held on to the side rail for balance.

'Don't lead anything to Mark, you wont get it back, he is a thieving bastard'.

'Sean!' snapped Alison. 'Now what do you say'? 'He glanced at Alison then turned to Emma.

'Nice to meet you two, shall I show you round later?' He leaned over Emma

'There's a swimming pool, I can swim now, but you have to wear a rubber-ring to start with-cos you might go under'.

We were shown to what would be Emma's room and therefore her home for ...well we didn't know, but I had been told most who came stayed for at least a year. The room was just a square box really with windows along one side looking towards some overgrown trees. I had the room next door which was just as sparse, containing a firm hospital bed and a low cost wardrobe and chair.

Judy, the senior nurse arrived early for the night shift, wanting to be there for Emma's first night. The tall erect nurse was friendly and evidently well respected by all the staff. She asked me to walk with her while Anna, one of the carers looked after Emma. It was high summer and nice to get out of the rooms and breath the fresh air. We walked to an abandoned church that was at centre of the small community. Judy explained the strange atmosphere of the place.

'This was an isolation hospital back in the early 1900's. It was like a small village really with this church, a small library and a few shops. There were hundreds of people here at one point, TB mostly. After the war the unit was used for other people, such as the thalidomide crisis of the sixties. This place was far far away, as nobody wanted to witness such a tragedy; it was convenient that way, so here they stayed. But that's all gone now, and it's just us left now. Emma's lucky, this is a children's Neuro Rehab unit being almost 21 and still in full time education she is still allowed here. The doctors didn't want her to go to a geriatric stroke ward, I think she will do better here

Judy talked on proudly

'We have only eight to ten young people here at any time, and even then they are out numbered by the staff who work one or two to one with the children'.

Ten children in 40 acres of land, we walked down to the swimming pool and round to the riding stable, all still used, Judy explained, to a strong volunteer staff. It was all so quiet, I mean absolutely nothing. The unit itself was a long single storey building. At the centre was a large sitting room with comfy sofas and a TV and play area., to the left, the kitchens and physio rooms. To the right of the sitting area were the bedrooms, placed either side of a long corridor. Walking back to the unit we saw many rabbits just running free along the cracked tarmac roads, now spouting weeds and wild flowers of this ghost town.

'There is no reason why Emma cannot be up and about in time you know, it does happen. You saw Sean-sorry about the language, if you saw the parents you would understand. But he came here, just like Emma, flat on his back. Now look at him, up and swearing just like before, only he doesn't say the 'c' word anymore. It's a bit like being born again, learning to talk, see, focus and then roll, crawl, then the hard painful first steps. It will be hard, I warn you, but the brain and body will want to start to recover by then, and Emma's will, is the key to recovery'.

Apart from the creepy abandoned building, the empty shops and silent church it was nice there. Listening to Judy talk about recovery gave me an optimism I had long since forgotten about.

'There's Rick', Judy said, waving to a leather glad figure steering a large noisily motorbike up to the entrance. He stood tall, at least 6ft one, and walked towards us taking off his helmet. The long hair now flattened, hung over the slightly pitted face. 'Hi Rick, this is Helen, Emma's mother' enthused Judy. Rick nodded shaking my hand firmly.

'Rick works nights mostly and is one-to-one with Sean' smiled Judy. I guessed he must be around forty, with broad shoulders, slim waist and nice smile...

The television was on in the sitting room. Anna was sitting with the other children. Mark, a good-looking 15-year-old boy with long scars running up his legs and like most of the other children there, scar at the back of the head. He was arguing with Sean about a card game. Lisal, Tina, Peter, and Grace sat watching Eastenders. I am introduced to all, they seemed happy and content, so of course that worried me. I had been content before, and I was frightened to let down my guard. As Judy walked me down to Emma's room, I could hear all the children-even Sean signing along to the Eastenders theme tune as it finished.

'Sorry, it's a bit of a thing here, nobody will go to bed until Eastenders has finished, but it is a bit of continuity- specially for Sean and Mark where there is big trouble at home. Don't worry, it's not a secret, you will get to know all this when the parents come to visit, or don't, which is even worse. Most of these children are from low-income homes. 90% of all RTA's (road traffic accidents) are from poor families, low-income high-risk dysfunctional homes, it's just a fact of life here'

Emma smiles as we come into the room, Anna had put the radio on for her and she looks content. A little later another nurse came on duty and with Rick put the younger children went to bed. Judy brought me some pasta for supper, and there I sat with Emma till the light over the apple trees faded. We both slept well. I woke to someone tapping on the door.

'Hello, Helen? It's Pat, the phsyio, we are ready to start'

I quickly dressed and nearly knocked over Linda riding a tricycle along the corridor outside my room. Pat was already in with Emma. She had wild black fuzzy hair and looked near retirement age. We said our hello's, shook hands then the work began. She had all Emma's notes, and was writing up a programme that she promised would have Emma 'up and about in no time'

Later that day I would see; an OT, the House doctor, Psychiatrist, Speech Therapist, Key-Worker, Social-Worker plus all the care therapists involved in the support of Emma. There was an afternoon meeting with all staff to plan Emma's health programme it was very involved, I was impressed, and this was the NHS! I would stay at the Unit for another month full-time, then come down at weekends, as I was due back at work. I had been in contact with my boss regarding my return. Kenneth and my sister said they would come down in the week to visit Emma whenever they could. I began to relax, even reluctantly feel confident that Emma would improve-even recover.

It is perhaps sad to admit, but along with my final art days with Emma, that month was one of the happiest of my life. Within the first week Emma was sitting up. Even this ostensibly small progress changed so much. Her eyes began to focus better. Her lungs began to drain clear and could begin to take in food orally. Being upright allowed her to see a family of wild cats would come and feed just outside her window every morning. This became a special time for us, as we would wait for the cats to arrive and devour the food. It was these little things that gave both Emma and me promise. I didn't know at the time that Rick had set all this up, quietly leaving scraps of food on a saucer before the sun came.

The speech therapist would come everyday. She said that it was important that the sooner Emma could eat, the sooner she could talk, as the mouth muscles did both jobs. So I would feed Emma yoghurt while watching Eastenders knowing with every mouthful I was going to hear my daughter talk for the first time in almost six months. By the time I returned to work Emma was using a wheel chair and humming the songs the speech therapist would sang to simulate sound. Oh, and one more thing that happened, I had been for a ride on the back of Rick's bike-with a skirt on!

## Back to work

I arrived late for my first day back. Walking through the lobby I could feel people trying not to look at 'her'

The one from HR who's daughter was knocked down'

'Hasn't she split from her husband?'...

'You must have read it in the paper. It was the accident with that gorgeous doctor and the drunk wife oh yes, the poor girls hands....'

The receptionist smiled 'welcome back' a little later Roger my boss came into my office after a little while and said How sorry he was, how I should take things easy and not push myself. Things had changed, moved on.

I felt frightened and lost, I felt I had been left behind. I resisted the urge to run as I was introduced to the new staff. I was to return part-time Tuesday to Friday lunchtime so I could have a long weekend with Emma.

I had blocked out everything during those six months, including my work. The daily work routine seemed long ago. Staying at Guy's and Emma's transfer to rehab made work appear far away and a little pointless. Work knew of my break-up with Kenneth, but I was determined to return, married or not. It was Kenneth's refusal to accept the accident and it's consequences that finally made the break. He was living back with his elderly father, me still living at the house. We would eventually sell it, but at the time I couldn't cope with the stress of a house sale on top of everything else. I felt better now that I was off the anti-depressants, only taking sleeping tablets if things got too much.

I worked in Human Recourses for an overseas charity in the West-End of London. I was taken on mainly due my linguistic skills. I had studied Spanish and French at university and taken up a post as a trainee interpreter. My main claim to fame was being filmed in Paris with a junior MP who I had worked for in what was later called the Common Market. After having Emma I didn't want to travel as much and got the job at the Charity as most of the countries we were involved with were French speaking.

It's funny, I thought working for a care agency, a charity for the worlds poorest people would take me away from the cutthroat business I had seen in Europe. How wrong could I be, the charity was obsessed with money. Every meeting was how we could get more and more of the stuff, it dominated everything. Of course it was all for a good cause, but at what cost. It was difficult to deal with at first. I would have to draw up short contracts for students to come in the office in the evening and badger old people into taking out covenants. I would hear the young students calling the old people just as they would just settle down for the evening after their tea.

'Do you know that by the end of this conversation 3 three children will be dead due to starvation?'

'let me put you down without obligation for X amount. If I don't hear from you in 10 days we will continue with the donation'.

The old people would either forget, or feel guilty to cancel the donation.

Emma asked me to let her do the cold calling, as it would top up the pay from her job John Lewis. I would have liked to say to her that it was immoral, but how could I when I worked there and had even set up most of the calling sessions. At 7pm one night she started the calls. Almost immediately, she found the practice distasteful-this pleased me. She told me later, that she would ring and not ask for money, rather just enquire how the people were and thank them for donating in the past. She found it hard to ask for money. Emma was relieved to finish the shift, and didn't go back. Ironically, Fund-raising said she had collected the most donations ever. They begged me to ask her back. I just said she did not have the time due to her studies. Emma was pleased to go back selling nets at John Lewis's, and so was I.

There had been changes at work; a shift in world policy and a 'review for change' programme had been introduced for charity staff. I had missed out on all this and was now required to attend a training course. It was to be on a Tuesday evening at 6-8. Before I wouldn't have even thought about this as being an infringement on my time. I remember barking at people for not attending staff development. I knew exactly what courses everyone had done and what they should do. I would write to them in the strongest terms if they tried to miss out, now, I didn't see the point in any of it, but I did get to meet Maureen.

Maureen was in her fifties, quiet and pleasant. She had three grown up daughters and had returned to work when the last one got married. She worked part-time and enjoyed the work. We got on, doing our silly group exercises on the course. Over the weeks we would go to coffee break together and just chat. One evening I just happened to mention that it was difficult sleeping with the noise next door. She was interested, I mean very interested. I told her about the noise and the boys blocking the drive, just having a moan really.

'You don't have to put up with this' She said. I remember thinking

'it's ok for you, you don't have to live next door to them'

Still irritated, I drank my coffee and went back to do a 'board-blast'.

On the train home I thought about Maureen, she was very much like me, middle aged middle class, we even liked the same things. But there was something she was not telling me. This was acceptable as there was much I wouldn't tell her, in my book it was bad manners to wash your dirty linen in public. Anyway every detail of my family had been in the paper, so to have some secrets felt comforting. The next week during the course break, she looked round the café to see if anyone was listening

'Would you like this to stop'? I looked at her, she looked serious, 'yes' I answered, she leaned forward and spoke.

Maureen's husband had left her for another woman.

'Hardly a woman at all, more a girl really. This is what upset my girls the most. He met her at a conference, the usual mid-life crisis type: young, blond, bit screwed up. Pretty enough in a airhostess sort of way. I was crushed, kept asking myself 'was it me that made him look elsewhere?

'Well look at me, I'm not pretty, never was really, but I thought we were happy. We had had our ups and downs. He was very ill some time back and that sort of brought us close. Then our first grandson came along and we were happy and settled.

'Then bang, came home and told me he was 'in love', in love at his age. I had no idea what to do; I hated him, more for hurting the girls anyway he went and lived with her. The girl's father got pretty up-set too, seeing his pretty daughter living with an old granddad. Everyone knew at work and even at my church, I had a bit of a breakdown. Now my dear, what I am about to say is very important and it should never ever go any further than this table.

She gave another look round the café, then continued.

'My eldest daughter's husband Gavin spoke to me one night. He asked me very nicely if I would like the girl 'taken care of' Of course I was shocked, but even I knew what he meant. He didn't seem that type, he worked in IT, some sort of communication projects. Contracts with all sorts, the BBC the Police, everyone. To my great surprise, I said that I would prefer it to be my husband'.

I looked round the room to see if anyone was indeed listening. I felt a little frightened, not sure if this was true, or if she was teasing me, either way I didn't think it was funny.

'Don't be shocked dear' she said smiling, 'it happens much more than you would imagine, it can be done, anything can be done, accidents happen'.

'I think I should go now' I said putting my coffee down, wishing to end this stupidity right there and then. We said our goodbyes yet, just as I stood up Maureen whispered 'it's a little help for us who are trodden over, us who can't hit back, when a letter of compliant is not enough, think about it'.

I never wanted to see her again, this was madness. Who would have thought such a thing happened outside of the cinema. She was bloody mad. No more course for me I thought, I ought to call the police. Unwilling to walk home I took a taxi from the station, everything seemed sinister now.

'Someone's enjoying themselves' said the taxi driver as we pulled up at the house. The music blaring out from next door and several cars parked on the pavement around my house, somebody's car was actually parked in my driveway. With fear and anger welling up inside me I opened the front door and immediately saw them in our garden. The fence panel had been knocked in and four or five of them were playing football in our garden. I came out and shouted at them,

'Get out, get out'.

They just laughed bending their hands down to look like Emma's poor arms. I ran into the house to phone the police, one of them followed me inside standing defiantly in front of me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath

'You go to bed now darling and forget all about it-just a bit of fun'

This was said with such menace it frightened me to the bone. I knew I couldn't stay. He laughed as he pushed me back. The others started to call him, saying filthy rude things. With one last leering look, he walked back to the others. I found my car keys, locked up the house and drove to a small hotel near the station, this could not go on.

'All a big misunderstanding' the WPC said,

'Said they kicked their football over the fence, saw you were not in, so jumped over the fence and got it back. The chap said you looked upset so went into check you were ok. They said you have suffered a trauma recently, your daughter, is this right'?

I was standing in my hotel room listening to this police officer explaining that I imagined it all. I had called into the police station the next day before I went to work following the garden incident. I told the police about the break in and the guy coming into the house to challenge me. Now they had made it out that I was some hysterical woman, wasting police time on the helpful people next door.

' Would you like me to drive you home madam'? Asked the slightly patronising WPC.

'Would you like me to contact your doctor? We are so very sorry about your daughter. You know there are people you can talk to about this'?

I saw her out of the hotel room. I felt like I was going mad and not for the first time. Was I dreaming it all, was it my imagination, was I really so traumatised that I was living some sort of illusory life? I had alienated just about everyone I knew: my mother, my husband, people at work, and now the 'helpful' boys next door. I sat on the bed in the little hotel-room overlooking the car park through the haze of net-curtain. I felt safe there, I never wanted to go home, but knew I couldn't stay there. I remembered the photo of Emma next door had sent to the paper, a filthy image, and knew that I had not made all this up.

'I should have a little word with your neighbours before I start to show people round. It's a lovely house in a sought after location, but next door may put some people off with the music and the cars' said the over-smart young man with the clip-board

'When I was looking round the back garden, one the people next door asked if I was an estate agent. I didn't want to say too much but I didn't them to think I was a burglar so I said 'yes'. Well they laughed and threw food at me; an egg ruined my suit jacket. It would be a good idea to get that sorted out before I print up any details'.

That was it, I was stuck. Couldn't stay, couldn't leave. Late in the night with the music thumping through the wall I decided to call Maureen.

## Summer at Hailey

It was now August. All the windows in the rehab unit were wide open. Our friendly nurse Alison told me that this was a welcome change from the last year, when all windows and doors had been locked tight. This had proved very uncomfortable for children and staff alike. The father of one of the children had been let out of prison after serving a short sentence for throwing his daughter down the stairs. The father went missing when he was released from prison, sending the unit into panic fearing he may return to finish the daughter off. Late one night the father returned and broke into the unit despite the security guard and the locked windows. The Father was confronted by a male staff member just as he reached the daughters bedroom. There was a scuffle and the father escaped into the night. Next day they found him hanged in the woods. The staff member had to leave through stress. This did not worry me in the least. After next-door and what had happened to Emma it seemed muted by comparison.

Emma had been at the unit a few months and I was spending more and more time down in Sussex and commuting into London by train, that seemed to take longer and longer. I had started to look for somewhere to live near the hospital but with the problem of selling the house I was a little stuck. If the move did come off It was going to be a big change as I had lived in Orpington all my life, but I really needed to move on.

I would spend most weekends down in Sussex with Emma staying in the room next door. This was satisfactory but you had to share the bathrooms and the kitchen. It may sound like a whinge, but after a while I needed a bit of space. Sometimes if I popped down to see Emma during the week I would use a bed and breakfast but this was expensive and without privacy. Otherwise Emma's recovery continued, two steps forward and one step back. The head nurse Judy, and the doctors said this was normal and I went with it. I got to know the staff; their lives, husbands, boyfriends, girl-friends (Judy) and the parents of the other children.

Linda's family were from the North of England. Her mother had knocked her down while reversing the car into the garage. Evidently Linda ran behind the car to meet the mother but she didn't see her. Her mother put a brave face on it but the guilt was apparent. Mark had been knocked off his bike while out with friends. He had been out far too late at night for someone of his age and was messing around in the road as the car hit him. It was a school night, and his mother had no idea, or care where he was. She had broken up with her husband and had taken up with a volatile boyfriend who did not want Mark around, so the accident was very convenient.

Mark would scream down the phone to his mother;

'Please take me home', but she would say that 'Mick was there now and they were trying for their own baby'. Social services felt that it was better to hold on the Mark for the remaining four months until he was sixteen than send him home to abuse. Paul had put himself in care at 16, as his mother was so domineering, so he walked. He got in with the wrong crowd, drinking and taking drugs, one night they stole a car. He was in the back without a seat belt and went through the front screen when the car crashed. All the other kids got away, Paul took the rap, charged, and is now in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. The sick ironic fact is that his mother has full control on him now.

Sean, another Child from a dysfunctional home with 13 to 14 siblings (depending on jail time) living in a three bed council house. Dad divorced his wife but she still lived there with her new man. Dad's new woman had an affair with wife's man, had a baby and so it goes on and on. It was so messy the relations being far too close for comfort. Dad would come up to take Sean home for the weekend, and at the beginning Sean was happy with that arrangement. Yet, the longer he stayed at the unit the more he resisted going home. He responded well to the Units' structure, the regular meals, having a bath every day, and a set bedtime. He thrived on the ordered educational sessions ran by Mr Morris the visiting tutor. What Sean enjoyed most was the space and freedom of just playing football with Mark and going out and about with Rick, and not have to steel cigarettes for his mother. He was bright and funny and found many interests such as swimming, using the computer. He liked to help in the kitchen cooking breakfast and pizzas for everyone in the evenings.

After one dreadful weekend visit, home he returned with a bruised face and a shaved head. He said that his father did the haircut and step mother the bruise. It was decided by Judy that he should go home less and less. She told the Father that he should not have his head shaved because of the head injury and she would bring charges if there was anymore bruising. One evening after tea Sean shocked us all. After making the pasta he announced

'I anit gonna swear no more'.He was tired and stressed from all the 'attitude' pose, it took so much out of him keeping up the act. But he knew when he went home like a wild animal, released from captivity he would be released to the jungle and would a thick skin to cope.

Sometimes in the afternoons when all the morning 'Physios' had been completed I would push Emma along the long forgotten tracks that led out to the country side, Some times Rick would come along with Sean. I was happy with this, he was interesting and didn't ask too many questions and Emma got along well with Sean. It was hot during those happy weeks with Emma improving every day. It was during one of those hoped for walks that Rick told me a story about when Sean first arrived. Not owning a tooth brush, Rick made Sean brush his teeth and bath before bed every night. Sean had never had a routine, sometimes going to bed, if there was a bed for him to sleep in, (mostly it was an arm-chair) at midnight, many other nights it was much later.

The first time Rick got Sean to brush his teeth and be in bed by 8. This was a struggle but was still recovering from being knocked over. Once in bed Rick came and sat on the side. Sean fearing there was something 'dodgy' going on asked;

'What the fuck are you doing'? Rick taken aback replied;

'Read you a story'. Now it was Sean's time to be shocked

'What for?' said Rick incredulous 'what do you mean what for? Don't you have a bedtime story at home; you must have books and things?'

Rick said Sean had no idea about a bedtime routine, the concept being totally alien to him.

'Look Sean, just try it, see how things go, this is what people do: have tea, bath, brush their teeth and go to bed. Once there you can a bedtime book and sleep, long before midnight which is about right for a boy of 10.'

Sean was reluctantly receptive to this, for the first time in his life there was a structure and normality. This safe secure routine, that would eventually make him relax and less defensive. His pinched face filled out a little. He grew his hair and enjoyed his lessons with Mr Morris. On his eleventh birthday we made him a huge cake with candles and little footballers on top, it was the first one he ever had.

Emma progressed during those early months; head control, eye-tracking but best of all she had begun to talk. Simple words such as 'Mumma', would trill us all, it was so good that she could now make choices, which in turn made her less frustrated, first thing she asked for was 'dodo' (drink) boy, did I have a dodo after that. She started eating yogurt and worked up to solids, just like a baby. It really was like she had been born again. She could sing along to ten green bottles quite well. She could make relaxation choices and enjoyed going out in the extensive grounds. She was very anxious of cars and traffic so we kept inside the quiet estate as we wanted to introduce her to this slowly but surly. She could swim with support, thus helping with limb movement. 'Friends' her old favourite TV programme would upset her. I suppose seeing the young healthy happy young people progressing with their lives would upset her.

As the days were hot and we didn't have a killer on the run, we had all the doors and windows of the unit open. I loved the quiet and peace. While Emma was swimming, I lay on the bed reading another Brookner novel. I could hear Rick and Sean coming back from one of their many adventures. They stopped across from my room settling themselves down under the apples trees and listened to them talking.

'How is school going?' asked Rick, 'Do you like Mr Morris'? Sean laughed 'He smells of old clothes and talks posh'

'But is he ok to you isn't he? You like the lessons don't you? Asked Rick.

'The lessons are easy' said Sean 'Old mossey' thinks I could go to grammar school'

'You could' replied Rick enthusiastically.

'But I don't want to, they are all posh, they will call me wonky'.

'Not all of them, anyway you would be just as good as them' 'Do you think so'? Said a surprised Sean.

'Oh yeah' said Rick seriously 'just as good as any of them'

'Did you go to grammar school Rick? Rick laughs

'Do I look like I have been to grammar school, do you think I would be here if I had?'

'I don't know' said Sean a little puzzled.

'I couldn't go to grammar school if you paid me'.

'Why not?' quizzed the boy

'Haven't got it 'up here' said Rick tapping his head.

'Dad wont let me go' said Sean despondently

'Well we will get round that when it comes –you wait and see. My Dad would have liked me to go to grammar school but it didn't happen, he was nice though'.

'Did your Dad cut your hair?

Rick laughed 'Oh no, not even in the old days of long hair, did he ever go on about stuff like that. He was working class through and through, short back and sides that's him, he liked to watch the TV and he didn't mind what we did really, though he cared about us. He had been through the war and put up with the posh officers and thought all the rules and regulations were petty and silly'.

'My dad doesn't care about me' said Sean, voice quieter now.'

I found it hard to hear so I edged forward nearer the window desperate to keep out of sight.

'Yes he does' snapped Rick, adding; 'in his own way, and your step mum, but they have got lots of other kids to look after'.

'Do you have a big family?' asked Sean.

I cocked my ear a bit higher to hear Rick answer

'No, just me and my sister Joan, mums dead, cancer, so we were brought up by Dad really. He liked horses my old man, he bought one once on a Sunday afternoon after the pubs chucked out. The gypsies used to sell them outside the pub, all tied to the lampposts along the street.

'Anyway, he got this horse home, lovely black mare called Sabrina. She lived in the back garden; other families had them so there was not trouble about keeping it. But once Dad was joking with her and said asked how old she was for fun, but she tapped her hoof. He was so shocked he said 'can you dance as well?' And up she goes on her hind legs, turns out she had been chucked out of the circus.

'Have you still got her'? Asked Sean slightly agog.

'No, she's dead now, we buried her in the back garden; you should have seen the size of the bloody hole we dug'. Rick chuckled then continued;

'Another time, me, my sister and dad, were watching 'Top of the Pops' years ago when I was about 16. Pot was around you know, joints, weed, blow... and I was puffing away, dad didn't care but he hated the smell'.

I could hear giggles from Sean.

'Dad would say 'can't they make that stuff smell better than that? Smells like old trousers on fire. So bit later he says to me,

'I cant see what all the fuss is about, let me have a go on that', so me and my sister look at him taking these long deep drags, he finished the lot, a really strong smoke as well. After he says to us 'nothing to it, waste of bloody money'. But I knew he was stoned though'

'How? Questioned Sean

'He was tapping his slipper when Hendrix came on the telly!'

'Who's Hendrix'? Asked Sean. Rick paused and answered laughing 'Oh, doesn't Marker'.

There was a silence, which Sean broke

'Can I call you dad'? 'No you can't, you've got a dad' laughed Rick.

I could hear them getting up so I pulled back from the window, but wheezing chest nearly giving me away.

'Just checking' laughed Sean. And off they went into the kitchen to start cooking, chatting and laughing as they went. I watched them go, the man tall and erect, moving forward with that lazy shuffle. The boy hobbling behind, steadying himself by holding on to the back of Rick's shirt.

I was aware that I was avoiding going back home and to work. Even though I had been off 'sick' I was still entitled to my annual leave, so I took a week to get Emma sorted out and look for a house down in Sussex. It was impossible to sell the house with the disturbance from next door, yet I still scanned the local paper at property prices. A move could happen, if I sold the house and split the money with Kenneth, I would still come out with enough for a little flat in one of the towns near the hospital. It was on the last weekend before going back to work that Judy held a summer Bar-bar-que for the unit. It was really meant for the children and parents but Judy's partner Louise came with Sean and Alison's husband doing the cooking.

I enjoyed it so much. I felt guilty; just sitting out in the sunshine by the swimming pool. Paul's mother left early so everyone could relax. While talking to Jenny, the on duty doctor that evening, she mentioned that she was selling her father's flat who had just been moved into a residential home.

'It's one of the flats in the old asylum near Pole Hill. They converted it about ten years ago, like they will do here when we all move out, forty executive homes on this land they say.'

I knew there was talk of moving the unit nearer to the general hospital in town. Yet I remember thinking it would be such a same to lose such a quiet healing environment.

'Pounds shillings and pence, is what it's all about now Helen, this land is worth a fortune' smiled Jenny.

Seeing Rick walking towards us, Jenny called him

'Rick, come over and tell Helen about Pole Hill' she said smiling.

'Rick knows that area well don't you? I was telling Helen about the flats in the old hospital'.

He had an easy going way about him, slow and easy with a warm smile. He told me about flats with the large shared garden, together with the view of the working farm that was owned by the National Trust at the back of the property. It sounded Ideal.

'Take her up there' snorted Jenny, winking at me,

'You've got your bike here haven't you Rick? Take her for a spin up there, she can use Judy's helmet'.

Slightly shocked, but to be honest I was a little excited at the thought of a ride on a motor-bike, I found myself saying;

'Oh no, really, I couldn't possibly, I should stay here-you know Emma and...'

'Oh nonsense' laughed Jenny. Judy, hearing the laughing came over. Within a minute it was decided I should go up to the flat on the back of Rick's bike and look at the flat. I surprised myself my saying I would. Judy appeared from nowhere with a white helmet with pink furry bunny ears. I looked over at Emma who just nodded with a little smile. I didn't have any trousers with me, so I had to sort of tuck my dress between my knees and stretch my leg over the bike. It did not feel safe at all. Everyone was calling out at what, I didn't know, as the helmet blocked out most sound, and away we went. It was fantastic, that lean-back power as the bike took off. I tried to hold on to the little handle behind me on the back of the seat but this felt precarious, so...I held on to Rick-tight feeling the bunny ears bobbling about in the wind. Through the country lanes we weaved, leaning over this way and that. He slowed down behind a car then, seeing the clear road ahead, accelerated, leaving the car far behind as I held on tighter. I thought 'what would my mother think if she saw me like that?' shock and surprise probably. I could then see the attraction in bikes; perhaps it was something to do with the speed, danger and freedom.

God only knows what I looked like when we arrived and took the helmet off, but I was smiling with a fast beating heart. A tall white wall with rote-iron gates surrounded the house. We walked around the massive Victorian institution, now painted a pale friendly yellow, saying hello to a few residents sitting out in the quiet garden. The outlook at the back was stunning overlooking fields and working farmland. Jenny had given the key to Rick and we let ourselves in. The flat was on the ground floor and Jenny was right, it did smell of 'old man' but was a nice size with a lovely view of the land and garden at the back. The sun was now beginning to go down and I felt strange being along here with Rick. Standing tall by the window, he spoke about the hospital and the farm he had gotten to know from working at the unit, but I didn't hear anything I just wanted to hold and kiss him.

'Are you all right Helen? Did the bike shake you up?' he asked aware of a deepening silent.

'No I'm fine' I answered. I wanted the flat and him.

'I think we had better get back' I said, tearing myself away from this wonderful but increasingly uncomfortable situation. On the way back I held on tight to him, worried that this would be the last time I would be able to do so.

There was much laughter when we arrived back. Some of the children were saying 'goodnight' on their way to bed. Emma gave me what looked to me as a knowing smile, or was I guilty. Jenny was sweet, saying she would give me first refusal on the flat. I knew I had to sell the house now, had to move, so I could move forward along with Emma.

'Rick's a nice guy' said Jenny, nodding over to him as he walked in with Sean. 'We shall miss him, he's single now so he's off the Spain'.

'For a holiday?' I asked rather to quickly,

'No dear, to live he has a bought little place out there'.

I tried to calm down, trying my best to sound nonchalant

'When does he go'? 'About a month, sounds nice out there, anyway I must get going'. It felt like someone had just popped my birthday balloon.

Feeling (and probably looking) like a silly schoolgirl: dry mouthed, with jittery excitement and seating palms, I watched Rick's bike follow the long private road from the main street up to the unit. A few days after the trip to the flat, Rick had surprised me by asking if I wanted to take a trip out there again sometime, and I said 'yes.' He had to clear it with Judy, as staff fraternizing with patient's parents was not on, but pretence of seeing the flat allowed such a meeting. Rick had brought me a helmet to wear that looked suspiciously new. Again we flew off into the Sussex countryside, noting we were going a slightly longer way but it felt great just the same. I had worn trousers this time, so I could concentrate on holding on tight rather than reveal cellulite thighs, covered by support-tights as last time. We smiled as we took our helmets off and walked into the flat. The musty old man smell had begun to dissolve thanks to Jenny allowing the caretaker to leave a window open.

'Thank you for coming' said Rick, looking shy underneath his long hair.

'Very kind of you, dear Sir' I joked, heart beating so hard I thought he might hear it. We went through the motions of looking around the gardens again and came into the flat.

'You know I am off to Spain?' he asked.

'I have a little place down there and perhaps starting a small business'. 'Very wise investment' I heard myself saying, while thinking 'Why don't you just kiss him' then fear holding be back of making a fool of myself.

But by this time he had placed his hand on my arm and I moved nearer. The closeness was unbearable, heart pounding, I kissed him. A wonderful kiss, soft gentle and loving. I pulled him nearer holding and caressing each other; I pulled his lovely soft white shirt out from his trousers and started to undo the buttons,

'No' he whispered, 'oh don't be so silly', I hissed in his ear.

He pulled away a little but I had the better of him as I pulled the shirt down over his shoulders. I felt a jolt in my head as if I had been punched; my mouth was dry, panic rising through me.

'Now Helen let me explain, it's not what you think...

'I ran out of the flat followed by Rick.

'I don't want to know, don't say anything, I really don't want to know, please go'

'But Helen...' I turned away from him, just go, please go'.

I sat down in the smelly flat hearing the bike roar down the drive, funny how all the smells that had been blocked out by the last 15 minutes were now back in full force. What on earth came over me, what the hell was I thinking? More importantly what had I got myself into? I sat down on one of the 'iffy' chairs, numbed by my stupidity. I had let my guard down for five minutes and this is what happens, I felt a fool. I sat looking out to the countryside, it seemed dull now, gone the twittering birds and far off tractors. It was all going a little to well: Emma recovering, the new flat then I go and spoil it all by seeing Rick's tattoo on his back. Jesus, what was going on there? Of course I had seen tattoos before, but this was different, frightening. His back was almost covered from neck to waist, shoulder to shoulder with a large crucified Christ wearing a crown of thorns, but the worst of it was he was upside down. In my fleeting glimpse I had see some words, 'Death' was one of them, I didn't give myself time to see the others. It frightened and unnerved me, it felt like I had been loured into this, who would have such a thing put on his back, Kenneth wouldn't I can tell you. Did the others now about this back at the unit, was it a joke? I had been made a fool of, but it was the tattoo that repulsed me. Perhaps it was Emma's accident, the pain and suffering she had been through, the boys next door, and all the negative things that had happened this last year, then embrace someone with such nihilism cut into his back. What mind-set would accept such an aberration? -Not me.

I did not want any part of it. What I fool I had been, should never had even thought about it-no wonder he was single, what on earth did he get up to. Most of all I felt stupid letting my guard down and allowing someone like that in. You see it had not been like that for Kenneth and me. I had only one lover before I married, and then sex it was a routine ritual.

Once a month or so after Kenneth had been to the Golf club on a Saturday night, it would happen. I could always tell when sex would take place as Kenneth would go into the bathroom and put on 'Christmas' aftershave. He would come into the bedroom, the light would be off and I would lift my nightdress. To say it was repulsive would be unfair, a chore, would be a better description. But he was my husband and I felt I had a duty. We had tried for a child in the early days of our marriage as it was the thing to do-marry and have children, but they never came. We married because we were lonely, wanting someone so we would be 'normal' in the eyes of society, someone who would not rock the boat. It was not love for either of us but the nearest thing to it, and we got on, very well in fact. After a few years we had given up all hope of a child, and got on with our separate lives, then I got pregnant.

Both of us were settled into our perfunctory little worlds of work and home life. We were in our early forties, we did not want a baby at our time of life, yet the thought of the alternatives, made us go along with it. We felt we were middle aged, and looked it furthermore we didn't mind. Emma upset all that, and I suppose we resented her for taking away our routine. Sitting on that chair in the flat, I felt different about love, it did exist, as I had found with Emma. With Rick I had put my hand in the fire and had gotten burnt, no wonder people resist the temptation. I called a taxi to take me back to the unit; I did not see Rick before he left for Spain.

## Mrs Forsyth

# 'Two held in house drug seize '

Ran the small headline in the local paper.

It was so clever, so simple and much more than I had ever expected. The 'boys' would get bail and a light sentence, everyone does, but they would move.

Returning to work was hard after the holiday. I had felt foolish and annoyed with myself for even thinking about Rick. I felt like a silly schoolgirl concocting daydreams about the football team captain. Most of all I was aggravated that I had let my guard down and yet believed that there was, if not love, at least some affection between us. It was ludicrous that I should think such things. My determination to move house, away from the bad situation was undiminished. Forget the vanilla in the oven and the home baked bread spray, there was only one way I was going to sell the house and that was without the boys next door. I was not the only one in the Close to dislike the neighbours. Although none of us were that friendly, we all knew that my neighbours were the cancer in the community.

Others had complained in all sorts of ways; knocking on the door and asking for the camper van to be moved as it was blocking their drive, only to have the door shut in their face. Property had been put up for sale only to see the boards taken down after a few weeks, as no new resident really wanted to share their drive with a couple of pseudo-outsiders. We in the Close eventually learned to live with it. We had the determination of the middle class to stick it out. It has been said that the strength if the middle class is in sticking together, a ridged stoicism, unbreakable through sheer determination. It became like an occupied country. We would never give up our ways, or our culture, whoever the aggressor.

Maureen sat with her coffee, she asked politely about my holiday and Emma, as we took a break during the ongoing course. It was nearly finished now, and like most of the other training we did, would never be put into practice. I could see the clock behind Maureen; so, with just a few minutes until the end of break I asked her how her son-in-law was. She smiled sagaciously, saying

'I will wait for you after class'.

On Waterloo Bridge I told her about the planned move and the trouble next door.

'I don't want anybody to get hurt' I heard myself saying, it felt unreal like a film.

'Don't worry dear' soothed Maureen, 'you just want to move on and have your life back again, it's not all hit men and jabbing people with poisoned umbrellas' she laughed.

We walked over to the South Bank, it was still warm, but the evenings were beginning to draw in.

'It, is for people like you and me, we help each other, we are quiet responsible people, who have done no wrong, and just want justice. This is not revenge, just being fair.'

I felt shocked

'What do you mean 'we' I am not going to be involved'.

'No dear' smiled Maureen, but think of it like the WI, we all help each other, then it stays secret and you have some control. You will know nothing about anything, you can pay 'in kind' or far into the future, it can better that way. People you would never ever believe, are all helping each other to have a better life'.

'What about the police'? I asked anxiously. Maureen smiled

'The police have problems too you know'.

We got a drink and sat down by the National theatre.

'There are different ways this can be done; now with the Internet, things are much easier. We can sign an abusing vicar up to a child porn site with his credit card, it may take a while, but sooner or later it will be in the parish magazine.'

I couldn't help smiling at her audacity. It was as if she was describing a play she had seen in the building behind us, so I played it that way, lets pretend.

'What if someone wanted someone to move out of the house next door, how could that be done'? Maureen breathed in, well... the golden rules and the most effective outcomes are well practiced. You must match the job to the person. If the person is into sport, skiing off piste, driving fast cars, riding a motor bike...'

I didn't like where this was heading, but she moved on.

'You do not have incidents stick out like a sore thumb. The best places for accident is in a crowd, say, the M25. Who would blink an eye if there was an accident on the fast lane by Heathrow airport. Or perhaps that suicide ally of a road down near Malaga. Have you ever wondered why your insurance premium goes up every year?'

She continued 'Its as if you almost expect it to happen to someone; a postman falling off his bike, a money-trader insider dealing'

'I'm not sure I like this Maureen, it sounds more than I wanted, I...'

'I know what you want Helen, I am just saying this is what could happen, I don't know that anything like that goes on, I am like you, I just needed help, you will not know anything, it is better that way. But it is about trust, and if you can help others like us in the future in any way, that would be most kind. It will not be expected, and there is not any pressure at all. Most of the help that's around is in computing. Looking into what people spend their money on, seeing what they do in private, is the worst that can happen to a certain type of person. That is the strength of all this, it's about warnings and fear of disclosure'

I felt a little better about this.

'All they like next door is load music, drinking and being obnoxious'. 'Any drugs involved'? Asked Maureen passively.

On the way back to the station I felt uneasy, became a little paranoid, who was Maureen was talking about? Did she really know people who could check your private records? I knew there was hacking and people who went through your rubbish to find bank details, perhaps that's what they do. Weeks went by and Maureen never spoke of it again, at times I thought I had imagined it all. The course finished we said our goodbyes, and that was that, returning to Sussex to stay with Emma.

I had not seen Rick during his last few weeks, ducking round corners when he approached. There had been a small leaving do for him the night before he went. I had consciously avoided by being in London.

'It was a great night last night' called Alison as I unpacked my little bag. I laid out my things and felt lonely for the first time. It was nearly dark outside and the windows were closed against the cool evening air.

'Sean was upset, but somehow Rick made him feel good though, there is some good news too, Mr Morris has swung it for Sean to get a place at Emmanuel school, you know, the private one just outside of town where all the kids wear the long gowns, he past the entrance exam the little bugger'.

I said I was delighted for him, and yet I was just a little flat.

'Oh Rick left a present for you' said Alison calling down the corridor on her way out,

'Its in the office'.

I sat with Emma, who had been going through something of a tough time of late. She had started to get angry, swearing and becoming very frustrated She had begun lashing out with her arms and spitting at helpers.

'All very natural' soothed Judy 'it's a phase, believe me; most, if not all go through it. Sometimes after a head injury or stroke a person can change. Once a mild meek wallflower will be showing everyone her knickers and librarians swearing and punching people. It's the brain playing up that's all, it will pass'.

That night Emma was quiet and not very interested in me, so I sneaked along to the office to get the present. How palms and trying not to run I made my way, convincing myself in could be nothing. Saw the box labelled Helen, grabbed it and ran back. I guiltily shut the door, checking no one was out there, and closed the door closed. I savoured the moment of opening the present, wrapped in tissue paper and about the size of box that contained a mobile phone; in fact I thought it might be a mobile phone. There was a card.

'Sorry I could not see you before I went today, I did check with BR that the trains were running but, I understand. Hope I can explain everything to you one day. I have bought the enclosed in the hope that you will one day come out and visit me in Ole Espanya. You can get good deals from Gatwick and I'm only an hour inland from Malaga, so I could pick you up on the bike. When Emma is sorted (and she will be) I would like you both to come out here, but if you need a break before do let me know. I only have a well and solar panels at the moment but it's home-of sorts.

Keep in touch

Love Rick'

I felt like running to the phone and calling 'don't go anywhere near Malaga, especially on a motor-bike' but knew that I couldn't. I would have preferred not to open the present in fear of spoiling the moment, yet, I was desperate to. Tearing the paper like a naughty eight-year-old boy, I found the brown box. Off with the lid, through the foam-fill bits, beneath sat a snazzy pair of motorbike goggles. Almost like those used by skiers, with a blue tint with arms that hook around the ears. In front of the mirror I put them on, holding by bush of hair back off my face. It was like I was looking at someone else, someone new. Someone free of the 'everyday' life and chores, a free spirit. Not the dreary Helen; corn plasters, diminishing periods, and varicose veins. Even if clothes said my size, they still didn't fit well, the pale face reflecting with rouged cheeks, yet with the goggles on, all that blurred out, it felt like a beginning rather than expiration.

I should have realised there was something different about the house when I arrived home because the drive did not have next-doors van parked across it. The Close was very quiet, 'too quiet' I heard myself thinking, then laughing, as I sounded like a B movie. But it was, like the war was over, empty and silent. I realised that the Close was as it was before the Lovells moved in.

I would not have known what had happened there, had not the local paper reported the case. No one in the Close saw anything, which seems rather strange, as one could not move in that street without a net curtain twitching. I remember Kenneth broke a window in the shed while carrying a ladder. Although it was only just visible from the street we received a letter from the 'Close' saying the temporary brown card in the frame was 'unsightly'.

The paper reported;

_'At 2PM on September 16_ th _a black BMW pulled up at number 71 The Close. Two black men in their early thirties got out leaving the engine running and banged on the front door. Jed Lovells, the younger of the brother's opened the door. One of the men pushed him into the hall shouting 'where's the stuff'? The other man waiting outside smashed a front window. The older brother Jake came to see what was going on and was pushed into the hall of the house by the other assailant. The brothers were punched and kicked to the floor. They were taken into the back garden, where the assailants shouted at them to bring the drugs. When the brothers told them they didn't have any (drugs) they were further assaulted._

'When the police arrived a large quantity of drugs was found on the premises. Judge Lane presiding said that this amount of drugs was obviously meant for dealing and sentenced the brothers to 18 months imprisonment'

After an appeal the brothers sentenced was reduced to three months in an open prison.

The above may seem crystal clear yet most of the evidence came from the brothers themselves; none of the neighbours saw anything. All said they knew nothing about it and were either gardening or doing some other chore that took them far from the front windows. When pushed Mrs Forsyth from number 68 said she may have seen a car outside 71, but thought it was 'red, with two white men inside' but couldn't be sure. The police were not called until ten minutes after the BMW had disappeared, and then it was from a public call box on the end of the Close.

Mr Jameson from number 80 came over to me;

'Looks like it will be a bit quieter now around here, you missed it all, we all did. The police were going through that house for hours, then the two boys were taken away'.

We spoke for a while, I was genuinely shocked. A WPC came to interview me so I told the truth; I wasn't there, missed it all etc etc...' and that was it.

I had to reduce the price of the house twice but it sold in the end, leaving me free to buy the flat in the asylum.

##

## Goodbye my dear

At eight in the evening 10 months after Emma had arrived, I escorted my daughters' body from the unit in Sussex to Orpington Kent. I sat alone beside her coffin on that grey overcast silent day. She had tried so hard to live, overcoming each adversity by pulling through in her own gentle modest way. I had seen her; a hares-breath from death, with machines and pumps keeping her alive. Witness her awaken, thus begin her recovery. Saw her progress, raising all our expectations, apportioning a miss-read hope.

I had been writing to Rick on and off during those months now that he had settled down in Spain, doing up his house and looking for another to rent out. I had decorated the flat and had a ramp made both at the front door and at the back conservatory for Emma, her room would look out over the garden. We had fun discussing the colour she would like her room when she would eventually move back home with me. We were just four weeks from a home visit. She had in fact, started to walk very tentatively and therefore most physiotherapy was concentrated on building up leg muscles. Her legs looked longer than ever, yet pale and worryingly thin.

I had paid my account to Maureen in cash when I sold the house and everything had an optimistic feel to it, I was sucked in. I had been working in London during that Wednesday, having called Alison in the morning for an update on Emma, then promised to call her later that night. Alison said that Emma was very tired after all the physio and that she would have an early night, so I didn't ring.

Just after 4am Judy called, I knew she was gone. I could hardly drive in, blood racing round my head numbing out any thoughts that might try to make themselves known. I could see the lights on in Emma's room as I drove nearer. There were many people there surrounding her bed. Judy must have seen me pull-up as she ran to the door to meet me, I pushed past her running to the room. It fell silent as I walked in, a strange weird bad dream. She lay so still on the bed with the sheets pulled up to her neck. Her lovely pale face so rested, the hair brushed to one side neat and tidy. They told me later I shouted to them to 'get out' as I broke down, pulling the sheet off her and hugging the lifeless body in my arms.

'Don't go away, don't go away from me, don't leave me here alone without you. No please stay, Emma please don't go'.

Someone tried to comfort me, I felt hands on my shoulders, I struggled pushing them away shouting and screaming to leave us alone. My beautiful daughter, so sweet and kind now lifeless like a cold rag doll. I brushed the dark straight hair from her eyes. I lay her down, climbing on the bed to lay with her. Not wanting anyone to touch her or to come in, I was frightened they would take her away.

Around 8am Jenny and Judy came into the room. They sat by me; I could see Judy had been crying. Jenny spoke first;

'We think it was her heart, the suddenness of the passing, it would have been swift and more than likely in her sleep'.

'Is that meant to please me'? I snapped

'No Helen, I just want you to know that she didn't suffer' said Jenny putting her hand out to me.

'Did not to suffer? That is all she has done for the last year and a half, look at her. Look at the scar on her head, her withered legs and her arms'. Judy held me, she cried with me,

'I loved that girl, I shouldn't love them I know, it's wrong and unprofessional, but I couldn't help it. She was so strong and kind; she didn't ask anyone for anything but gave us all so much strength. We all loved her, the other children adored her...'

She sat holding me for most of the morning.

Jenny asked me to come into the office and talk with her. She explained what happened. Emma had felt tired and went to bed at 8.30. At midnight and 2am she was checked and seemed fine. Kate, one of the night staff, seeing Emma was not breathing called Judy and me.

I asked if there would be a post mortem.

'There will have to be for such a sudden death, I'm sorry Helen'.

'Why will they have to mutilate her' I remember asking, 'can't they just leave her alone now, just to rest'.

It was around that time Kenneth came in. He said he came a fast as he could and wanted to know where Emma was. He was pale, drawn and unshaven, he seemed to have aged, dazed and shaky, I held his arm.

I walked back down the long corridor to Emma's room, could hear the other children being 'shushed' by someone as I walked past. I felt frightened to enter; yet I had to go in and see her. It was very still in the room, with the curtains closed, I remember pulling them open to let the sun in, I didn't want Emma to be in the dark. Judy had laid-out Emma, making her appear calm and rested. The stress of the last year and a half had now vanished, yet the joyful happiness that radiated from her during those last few months before the accident she so enjoyed, had long gone. It was as if those worldly thoughts and occupations did not Marker anymore, there was a grace about her. I knew she had gone now, never would I speak to her, or her to me, a finality had set in. Kenneth was more upset than I expected, crying silently.

We sat either side of Emma, she growing paler and waxy by the minute. In what felt like the contractions of childbirth, I would suddenly well up with emotion, sobbing as I lay on Emma's chest. My main fear now that someone would say she would have to be taken away. It wasn't until 4pm that afternoon that I could let go of her. My mother was there now, it was noble of her to keep quiet. The undertakers came about ten that night so as the other children would not have to see Emma taken away. My mother stayed over night at the flat returning home at my request the next day. A week later I sit beside Emma in the back of a hearse escorting her back to Orpington. Someone drives, someone sits beside them, they say nothing, as we drift along the road.

We arrived at Orpington crematorium, other funeral staff were waiting to carry Emma into the room where she would lay overnight. The reality hit me hard the next day, I would never see her again, see that lovely face. The floppy black hair clipped over to one side. The straight eyebrows that had never seen a pair of tweezers. The bright blue eyes so innocent, edged with black eyelashes. Her funny face when she pinched her mouth and smudged up her nose when she didn't like something. But the long slim limbs that presented gawky in early life would later become so beautiful and graceful. None more graceful, than when she worked on her art, and I was so proud to have been with her. All gone, all because someone drank too much and couldn't give a dam about anyone else. I knew then that I would have to find the killer wherever she was, it didn't Marker where, Maureen's people would find her.

The coffin seemed so far away at the front of the crematorium chapel. I had placed two of her silk-screen pictures by her, the ones of the little girl pointing in the jeep. Kenneth sat by Mother and me. There were a number of hymns I could have chosen for the service yet reflecting on those few months we had together they seemed meaningless. The Vicar said some equally meaningless words, then Emma sank below the floor, I broke down as 'Wedding Bells Blues' played out.

I had not wanted anyone to come back to my mothers' house and talk about Emma, I just wanted to run away or die myself, as everything felt over. Yet, outside in the fresh air by the flowers on display, it was comforting to speak to people who had really known her. Not as the shy gawky, nervy girl of her school days, but of the confident, amusing warm art star of her last few months. Her teacher and mentor Mr Stephens was very kind, I had to tell him that if it had not been for him, she would never have got where she did. Bezz and Pippa from her gallery in Texas, still tearful and visibly shaken, said very kind words about her, adding what a great loss it is. And of course Warren was there, standing at the back keeping out the way. He, looking lost as he always did, as if waiting for Emma to ask him to go off and buy some more materials, or for him to hold down a frame, ready for Emma to print. I looked at the tags on the flowers; Notre Dame School, John Lewis, the College, the Unit, even Kenneth's golf club, and Rick. All people Emma had touched one way or another. She did the best she could, kept out of trouble and offended no-one. She was a good daughter and friend, and now she was gone, my light had gone out. It was time to call Maureen and confront the killer.

## 'glue onto silk'

'With silkscreening, you pick a photograph, blow it up, transfer it in glue onto silk, and then roll ink across it so the ink goes through the silk but not through the glue. That way you get the same image, slightly different each time. It was all so simple-quick and chancy'. (From Popism. A Warhol)

Kenneth would never go to America, said it was a 'ghastly place-full of Americans'. Yet I rather liked it. I sat in my Mid-town hotel room surveying the landscape of the jutting buildings around me. I had been to New York once before as part of a business trip when I was an interpreter. It was just a weekend conference at the United Nations, didn't see much, yet pleasant enough. This time however, I plan to see the town in a different way; visiting the Andy Warhol landmarks I promised Emma we would do on the way out to Texas. She had been invited out to the Mid-West after her images had been picked up by the Media company owned 'Van-Helms'. Emma wanted to follow the route taken by Andy back in 1963, across the States to California then back down to Texas by car. This was the trip the West-Coast Warhol and his friends made, eventually meeting up with the actor Dennis Hopper in Hollywood.

Emma had first fallen in love with Andy while working on her own silkscreen prints. Warhol had taken up the medium back in the early sixties as his preferred method of painting. I couldn't see the attraction to his work or lifestyle-Kenneth certainly couldn't. Yet when we had printed those first screens something clicked and it felt good. Emma showed me some of his work, work I hadn't seen before. I knew the Marilyn Monroe and the Campbell's soup cans, yet it was the other work that impressed me- in particular, the Jackie Kennedy prints.

Emma's degree show was moving ever nearer, 30 new screens had been selected and 20 works from her second year to give a context to her progression. We needed to get going. She could not work at college although she did do her print-processing there. She said college life and work seemed so false and contrived. My respect for her grew when I went to help her pick up her processed images from the college. I noticed that she did not have to conform to the ridged dress-down image of the art students. She did not have to wear the props of the conforming non-conformist; the multi piercing, the dyed hair, worn out jeans or base-ball boots. The art students all looked the same, far more of a uniform than the other students at the college, I recall thinking how much it must cost to look so poor. No Emma would wear what she liked.

Her first year in Art College was hard, which was really her second year as she had been fast-tracked by Mr Stephens and her strong portfolio. It was difficult for her attaining the ostensibly laid-back pace of the course. Emma also found that there was a certain way the college expected you to be creative. 'Think of it this way, try and do things the way you wouldn't normally do things, think of how so and so artist would approach this' the tutors would say. We felt that this was really for students (or tutors) who had 'dried up'. Further frustrations resulted when using the light boxes to process the prints, as many an image would be discarded during that problematic first year.

Emma would use any medium she found useful to enhance her work, yet the tutors found difficult to take. They wanted a look, a type, a 'student' painting and I believe that is what set Emma above the rest. Her work looked completed and of a very professional standard. Her end of 2nd year marks were given as somewhere between a 3rd and a 2.2. This was the lowest marks she had ever had, yet her stoic nature kept her going. Kenneth and I would often tell her 'we told you so, try and get back into history'. She started to work at home more and more. She read and read about Warhol, his Dairies and Popism, the later she said changed her approach to the work; more positive and optimistic, yet more importantly, kept her going. She said that Warhol did his own thing and didn't care what others thought. That he enjoyed his work and believed in his own talent, as the right way for him to proceed.

The beginning of the third year was just as bad as the end of the second, only now a 3rd was predicted. Things changed when Emma applied to attend a Graphic design workshop by the graphic designer David Carson in Milan. The college tutors were not happy that she had been accepted on the course. They said they were unhappy that she was taking time off, yet it was only three days. Furthermore they somehow felt betrayed, that Emma should look elsewhere for her ideas and inspiration. It irked the college that she did not wish to go on the Barcelona trip with the rest of the year 3 students. Emma felt it was too set-up, ridged, and too confined to the narrow vain mined by the art college. They gave her a hard time saying that she was 'straying' outside the fine art discipline by taking on graphic art as part of her technique. Emma countered that it was 'mixed media', but they didn't like anyone to think outside the invisible box. One tutor snapped 'looks like you are a wanabee Graphic designer' as she did not paint on canvas or board.

This circumscribed constraint was at odds with the way Emma thought about art. She thought it would be freeing, liberation from the history course's enclosed discipline of dates and policy. It presented a paradox to Emma that history was open to interpretation, as it seemed that any history 'truth' was really just agreed opinion, and now art seemed claustrophobic in its parochial attenuation. We scraped together the airfare on a low cost airline with Emma staying in a dormitory. The three-day course by Carson; one of the leading graphic artists from the states showed new techniques of presentation and composition. So, instead of having the subject right in the middle of the picture, he would place them far to the left of the frame to leave a large amount of space to inform context. I thought it sounded like a load of pretentious rubbish, yet when Emma showed me how she had interrupted the idea, the image looked accomplished. At the course she would work all day and have a team 'crit' in the evening, looking at each other's work and learning from them. It was after one of these sessions that Emma was approached by one of the De-Helms people who knew she would be attending.

De-Helms Company attended all Carson's courses looking for young outstanding talented people with a different 'eye' .De-Helms were big in America having started out producing student surf magazines with what was called 'funky' design. Now almost every magazine, TV and advertising agency in the States used artwork from the company.

'I like your work, De-Hems asked me to contact you' said Bezz a young good-looking American/Latino.

'That's very nice, said Emma a little too innocently.

'Can we have coffee'? Smiled Bezz. He asked Emma if he could email her work back to his office. He explained why he was there, a little about De-Hem and what they did. Emma said it was 'OK to email the work as long as she held on to any rights', which I thought was dam bloody sensible of the girl, although I didn't say so at the time-just couldn't. Bezz emailed the two pieces she had done for the workshop, both receiving high praise from the other students and course leaders alike.

While drinking from a carton of apple juice on the steps outside the studio, Bezz told her that 'we need to talk to you'. De-Helms himself had been passed the work for him to look at.

'Give the girl two thousand for the work and option anything else she does, oh, and ask who she is with and how long the contract is'

Barked De-Hems holding the images tightly.

'She wants to keep the rights' said Bezz a little hesitantly.

'Jesus Christ' shouted De-hems, 'did she say that?'

'Yes, she did' laughed Bezz.

'Well, good for her, OK give her a thousand each and she keeps the rights. But this is on the condition that anything she produces while she is there with Mr Carson, I have first pick, OK? Don't let her go'

'We like your work, can we talk'? They talked money, art and going out for dinner that evening. Other people had been approached by Bezz at the course but Emma was the only one that De-Hem liked. Bezz was slightly annoyed that his girlfriend was in town with him so she had to as well, this also irked Emma, if the truth be known.

'I loved them both mum, we went everywhere. Bezz hailed down a cab and we had it for the night. We saw Milan by night, everything, and Pippa was so sweet but I held my ground when they spoke contacts. I said Mr Perkins at home would sort all that out, but I did take the two thousand pounds-I told them it had to be pounds!'

Emma told me all this over the telephone the night before she was to come home, she was so elated yet feet firmly on the ground when it came to the serious stuff. Kenneth and I would despair at her sometimes, never thought she would be able to look-after herself. She would lose her purse at school and college or have it stolen; she would always mislay things, driving us mad. I can remember Kenneth saying

'What on earth is going to become of that girl? She will be eaten up when she leaves school'.

'She is now I would reply'

During the last day in Milan Emma took digital photos of a Italian wedding that she Bezz and Pippa came across by chance. She fed the images into a computer changing the photos to negative, thus making the white wedding dress, black. Using red ink Emma wrote the poem 'The Eve of St Agnes' by Keats along the bottom. Bezz scanned and emailed the work to De-Hems, he loved it. He shouted to Bezz that he would buy it but would not offer a contract at this stage; he wanted to meet her first. By the end of the day however, he had offered her the moon. What swayed the deal was an Spanish agent approached Emma to work in Spain. Fearing that he would lose her, De-Hems wanted her even more, waning Bezz that if he didn't have confirmation of Emma coming over to the States he was 'out'.

Emma returned home happy but we were naturally were suspicious of all this, how could someone offer so much without meeting her. It seemed silly for a few photographs.

All Kenneth could was 'Their American' adding 'more bloody money than sense!'

Our solicitor Mr Perkins agreed to look at the contract. He said it needed a 'jig' but otherwise it was very stable and extremely generous.

'Is it really young Emma? She always seemed so quiet when she came into the office' said a surprised Perkins.

It was hard for us to take in as well; Emma would be earning more than both of us together. Admittedly, it was only a two-year contract but still, they said they would renew it if things went well.

I put my foot down, 'you must finish your studies, get that degree, and then we will see about all this', thinking that all this would go away like a dream.

It didn't change things for Emma though; she never spoke about again and got down to work on the paintings for her show. She never told college about the offer, just working hard as usual. It was around this time she came in and asked for help. We had almost 20 prints done and we had set up a routine. After getting Kenneth's tea, I would go to the garage and set things up for the evenings work. We would tune the radio to Capital Gold, the station that plays all the old songs from the 60,s and 70,s. It was not the sort of music I liked, not even when it first came out. I liked Andrew Lloyd Webber's music and play it on my own, as Kenneth didn't care for it. But after a while Capital proved good background music, it helped take the stress out of a difficult print. Things did go wrong. The ink would 'pull' or flood for no reason, the frame could slip, which was my fault, as it was my job to keep the thing still while Emma pulled the ink through. After a while Emma would let me do the 'ink pull', which I absolutely loved, she had the grace to say I did it well, but I knew she was better.

It was a fun time, we would work until 9pm, then I would make tea and bring in a Penguin bar for us. We would sit and look at the work. When we had finished, we would continue working until 10.30 Then we would wash up and try and get some sleep, I would feel so high that it was difficult to wind down thinking how we could make things better or, remember how the print came. I would lie awake thinking how Emma had used a different colour giving a new life to the work. Then Warren started to come round and I felt jealous and angry. He was like the male equivalent of Emma. Tall slim, not quite sure what to do with himself or his long limbs he always called me 'Mrs Kirby'.

'This is Warren, smiled Emma, 'he said he would wash the screens for us'.

It was the worst job of all and felt good that I was still on the 'print team'. He was like Emma: quiet and helpful, kept out of the way, yet was extremely productive within his invisible inertia. He didn't want to take my place; he was content to wash the screens as he liked Emma and would do anything for her. He would only come over on Monday's and Tuesday's to help with the much-needed mess we made. In the end I began to look forward to seeing him, cycling up the drive with his lamp on his bike. He would park the bike and take the screens to the side of the house, then turn on the hose. It was not until he had finished the work would he come into the garage.

We had favourite songs, all different, no real style Things like 'My Girl' and 'Wedding Bell Blues' by the 5th Dimension. I can remember singing along to the song without a hint of embarrassment as we worked into the night as the show drew nearer. All too soon the work was done, so on the last night we lined up all the work, our own private view. I had made a chocolate cake and invited Warren over, as I hoped to make this last evening special for Emma, I was so proud of her. Warren and I waited for her to come into the Garage then I surprised her with the cake.

'Oh mum, that is so kind of you to do this' said Emma with such benevolence it upset me.

'And we have got you something Mrs Kirby'. Said Warren walking out the garage, returning with a bright striped bottle-bag, within it, a magnum of champagne

'Thank you Mum' said Emma.

'Yes well done Mrs Kirby said Warren' turning a little pink at the intimacy.

' Would you two join me?' I asked, wanting to share everything with them. I knew they were still children in my eyes but I wanted to say 'I respect you and love you, and I'm frightened this is all going to end', but of course I didn't. We brought some chairs, turned the radio up, and drank the champagne. Emma went out for a while then returned with a rosy smile on her face.

Now mum, you have to take this the right way, and don't say no, and that goes for you to' she said pointing to Warren'.

She handed us each an envelope .

'No Emma' I said 'it's not right, no, I can't take it'

I began to stand up, but I realised I being the old Helen, being 'huffy'.

I could see her face getting ready to see me react this way, I stopped. 'Thank you my dear but...thank you but you shouldn't have'

'I wouldn't have been able to do it with out you, and anyway, it's tiny really'.

Warren made similar thank you noises but Emma shushed him.

We had the garage door open and heard the noise from next door, but that night we couldn't care less. We had to order a taxi for Warren, as he was a little unsteady on his bike. It was a lovely evening, probably one of the happiest time I have ever had. I called Warren the next day to see if he got home safe. He told me Emma had given him £400 and that he should return it. I told him not to, explaining that she wanted him to have it. I had been resistant opening the envelope myself but knew I had to. £1000 in cash, it felt absolutely delicious, yet I felt guilty taking it. But I remembered her face, so happy and proud of us helping her to get the work ready, to return it would hurt her.

After the show Emma did not tell the tutors that the work had been sold outright to a Texas media Company. She was granted a 2.2-degree that stung a little but was not unexpected, due to the negative response to the work from the tutors. Only Mr Stephens seemed pleased with the work. We told him about Emma going out to America and meet De-Hems. She asked me to go with her and said we could go the Andy Warhol way, starting in New York and drive most of the way to the West coast. Once that would have filled me with horror now, it filled me with joy. De-Hems would pay for flights and car-hire, we would pay for accommodation, I didn't know I would have to go alone.

## The old Fire House

Emma wanted to see Warhol's 'Factory' where he produced some of his best work and played host to the rich, famous and downright bizarre. The Factory as it was does not exist today. But you can still go down to 47th Street and imagine the 'goings ons' there. Every famous person from the 60's went there, Pop groups like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Presidents and captains of industry all wanted to get hip! The factory really had been a factory, about 100 feet long that was completely covered in silver paint and silver foil by Warhol's friend Billy Name. See, I now know these things. Andy had moved there from the Old Fire House on East 87th Street as he had grown out of it. Next I travel over to 33 Union Square West. The new premises are designed as a place of business, rather than a meeting-place for hangers-on. It was the place that Valerie Solanas shot Andy on 3rd of June 1968. He survived the shooting dying in 1987 following a gall-bladder operation. I lay the flowers at the Factory entrance in accordance with Emma's wishes.

The next day I take a cab downtown to Greenwich Village to a small internet café. I pay to print off the email containing the whereabouts of Lesley Howard. The address quite clear yet slightly coded. As I said at the beginning, I was very surprised to receive it so quick having only requesting the information a few days before. I knew where she was now and that was all that Markered. I would confront and hurt her somehow. 'They' discovered that Lesley had been moved twice over the last year as people had found out who she was. I had not told anyone where I was, I had taken an extended holiday and living on a little money I had over from the sale of the house. I didn't care anymore, this was all I wanted to do, had to do. I liked New York while I was there, there must be the killing and violence going on somewhere but I didn't see any. The people were nice and friendly, the prices in the shops reasonable, and lots to see and do, but it was now time to move on. I took the 'A' train up to Midtown feeling empowered due to my knowing Lesley's address even her new name; Mary Kelly'. I booked the flight to Phoenix and a hire car. The slow car drive across country would have to wait; I could do that on the way home. I would not inform De-Helms of my intentions I didn't need anyone one to know what I was doing.

Once in the air the fear raced through me, scores of questions buzzed around my head; why was I doing this, what for, for me or Emma, what good would it do? None, but I just had to do it. To calm my nerves I opened the Spanish post-marked letter. I had read and reread it many times when comfort was needed and now was such a time.

Dear Helen

I feel I must write and explain a few things before it is too late-if it's not already. I hope what I tell you will change your mind, if not, at least know that I did not want to hurt you in any way.

You don't need me to tell you, that what you did was right (I would have done the same) you must have thought you had met up with Marilyn Manson's long lost Dad. First I want to tell you that I was married once to a girl called Juliet. We lived together for three years before her manic depression fully evolved and both of us could not cope any longer. She did the Lithium thing but once she felt better she would stop and things would get out of hand. She went to Asia to 'find' herself but found someone else and a baby.

The tattoo...it's a long story, but I will shorten it. When I was fifteen and in my last year at school, l, together with a couple of friends, noticed something chalked on the large library wall 'RICK CUTHBERT FOR JACKIE MARTIN' To most people that would seem a silly juvenile vandalism, to me, it was death. Jackie Martin was the younger sister of Melvin Martin, the head of the local Hells Angels; the rough early motor-cycle gang, not the globalised franchise it is today. Anyway, she had chose me and there was no going back. I started to 'go out' with her and got to know her world. There were her heavy mob friends, who would meet up on a Saturday night and wait for the bike gang to turn up. They were the sort of girls that only a dirty, violent, fight- loving motorcycle gang would find attractive; heavily made up-some under-age, mini-skirted trouble-makers, yet most were nice to me. While waiting for the gang to turn up I remember a girl asking a dolled up jail-bait called Kim Collgate 'who you gonna fuck tonight'? Without hesitation Kim replied 'the one with the most fags'. Who said romance is dead!

I got to know Jackie's brother Melvin, as I would to go round to his 'house' when we bunked off school (I had to). He lived in what could only be described as a garage with a dirty sofa in it. Motorbike bits covered the caravan, as well as drunk blokes laying on the floor asleep, or having sex with some girl (Kim usually).

The gang would go out for a 'run' in which there could be up to around eighty bikers. Every so often, Jackie would jump on the back of one of the other guys and I would ride with one of the prospects (Hells Angel apprentice)

It all happened after a drinking session at Melvin's. Everyone was wired up for the run and ready for action, I didn't practically want to go but there had already been a fight and things looked bad so I couldn't back out. We ended up at a fair ground where the guys were pulling girls and pushing people around. A fight erupted and the police were called, it was Bedlam and I wanted out before it got messy. The bikes began to leave as the Panta-car (remember them) drove into the fair ground.

I was on the back of a guy called Harry Raswell; a fearless nutter. The others got away, but our bike did not start and before we knew it we were alone. The police pulled up. Peter Jumped off the bike and stood in front of the police car, pulled out a chain and started to lash the car doors preventing the policemen getting out. Peter shouted at me to do the same. Seeing a large metal stake used to hold rope as a makeshift fence grabbed it and started to smash the door in. It was more out of fear, I knew the police would be all right if they stayed in the car, and by the look of their faces were not going anywhere. I didn't want to be arrested or to put my dad through any trouble.

I must have looked like a mad man smashing the doors as Peter got the bike going he called over and I jumped on. I was a hero for the night. After much drinking (which was spiked with something) and partying, I was told we ended up at the tattoo parlour down by the docks. Jackie told me later I had to be held down because of the pain. Most of the other guys had work done as well, it was a sort of pagan ritual.

The design was the motive of the gang, not the best or most tasteful work of art in the world, as I am sure you would agree. I couldn't tell Dad but of course he found out later. Years later, I tried to have it changed but the tattoo artist said that all he could do was fill it in, thus ending up with a black back. Anyway my wife thought it was cool when she was 'up'. That's why I never went swimming at the centre, I know Judy wouldn't care but I wouldn't want to embarrass her.

It's an ironic world we live in. Melvin joined the new Hells Angels when Paul McCartney brought them over to this country from California. He left them not long after as he felt them as' too regimented, do this, can't do that' he had had enough. He now works on the rail repair for BR. And Jackie? A week after the tattoo, there was another name on the library wall, and that was me out, and not a day too soon either.

When my marriage broke down, I found it hard to cope on the building sites and someone suggested volunteering at the unit, a short while later Judy offered me a job. The work has kept me sane but it was time to move on and build a life (and house) in Spain, then you came and my world changed.

I would love to hear from you

Love Rick

## Home life

Cleaning Emma's room after the accident left me bitter and upset that I hardly knew the girl. We had moved on in our relationship and had been able to laugh and work together, yet only in the last six months of her life, why the hell was that? Of course there are many reasons some I would convince myself are the answer such as things from childhood and family upbringing. I will most likely smokescreen real issues by blaming other people as I would repress the authentic issues that are too painful to acknowledge. Emma's room was upstairs and at the front of the house. Quite a big room but not as big as ours, which overlooked the garden. When Emma was knocked down and in Guy's she didn't really need anything, and essentials I bought either from the hospital shop or my sister Jane brought them in later. I was staying at the hospital and having a tough time with Kenneth, things were going down hill for us both. I felt so bad about him that I didn't want him to go into Emma's room and start pulling out clothes and things, I wanted him to leave her room alone. I knew I would have to go in there when she was moved to the Sussex rehab unit but it was hard to go in.

It was like opening a door not only to her room but also to her inner life, one I really had no idea about. When I met Kenneth in the mid seventies I had only had one boyfriend before, the only one I had slept with. I had left school and read languages at university. Even though it was the late sixties and all that sexual revolution rubbish, in reality it was just the fifties in colour. The construction of the myth of the swinging sixties was well known by everyone, even at the time, but the 1000 or so people involved in the love revolution; media people, pop groups and artists and photographs made the news and perpetrated myth that survives today. There was/is a saying;

'If you can remember the sixties you weren't there'.

I believe a truer picture would be: you remember the sixties the way the papers portrayed it, you were on drugs'

The nearest I got to being part of the 'swinging set' was standing by the wall of a college dance with two other plain girls, all dressed in Laura Ashley dresses and wishing it would end.

I couldn't wait to leave university all those young people being led along like sheep. I got a job as interpreter for a French bank in Barkley Square in London. There was something nice about working there; the lovely houses around the square now mostly offices. You could walk to Selfridges in the lunch hour, as most of the people working there were older, we all didn't have to pretend to be 'hip'. The seventies brought big changes and I was in the right place at the right time. There had been talk of Britain joining the Common Market for some time. The bank I was working for had been keeping a close eye on things and it was really just a case of not, if but when. I knew it would happen, and that things were decided long before the announcement as there were lots of Interrupter jobs advertised, I had a pick of three or four to choose from.

I had no idea that the job I went for a Conservative MP who was going to be living and working at the common market. For reasons I will explain later I will just call him Sir J. I had got the post weeks before the official announcement and had been putting policies into action as we all knew it was going to happen. Sir J was 45 and considered young for the post within the agricultural office. We worked well together because he needed organising, and I liked to have some order and control. He was married with two children who were away at school. I had bought a flat in Orpington that was quiet and good for the station and was only 20 minutes from London Bridge. I didn't stay there much I was mostly living and working in Europe during those early years of the EEC; things were going well. In 1977 my mother told me she saw me on the 9 o'clock News, standing behind Sir J when the latest farming crisis hit Europe. It was with Sir J that I travelled to New York. He had been before and I wasn't that interested as the other people in the office said it was over rated and not much fun. We did the UN conference working late into the night, winning a tough fought funding contract and celebrated by sleeping together. I knew in my heart he would never leave his wife and I didn't want him too, but things had changed, it was the beginning of the end.

I felt uncomfortable with him and we never spoke about 'New York', he clearly regretted it and I felt shamed and embarrassed. It was just once and my first time even though I was in my mid twenties. I started to look for another job as I was being left back in the London office, therefore missing all the big meetings and conferences. It was during this time that I met Kenneth. I had joined a bell-ring group at my local church, first going along with my mother and then by myself. I had nothing to do and liked to keep myself busy in the evenings so I didn't have to sit and brood. Kenneth was like me, plain and out of step with his age. I often thought we should have been born a decade or two before. He worked in Bromley Council in the transport section, not really mixing with the other young men there, who would go to the pub after work on a Friday night and be sick after a curry.

He played golf at the local club and prided himself at being able to play at the weekend. During a bell-ring outing to Durham cathedral we started to see each other. We knew we were right for each other as we recognised each other's problem; pressure of marriage from work colleagues and family. We wanted more than anything to be 'normal' but not having found anyone to love or take us on we were stuck. It was the nearest thing to love and the best we were going to get so our unspoken pack was to treat the marriage as a job. Not really a marriage of convenience, more just suitable and workable. It would stop the men at Kenneth's work saying unkind things about him, get our parents off our back and present as being able to marry someone.

The wedding was a cold affair, but pleasant enough, yet had it's problems, starting with Kenneth trying to find a best man. He asked his younger brother thinking this would get him off the hook with trying to find a friend, but it was not to be. His brother said he 'didn't think he knew him well enough' so Kenneth roped in Malcolm, another loner at the golf club on the premise that if he got married he would reciprocate the honour. Luckily my sister Jane did agree to be my matron of honour and it was done. I think the idea of sex was better than the act itself, so after a while we didn't bother. But if we thought we were off the hook in the social acceptance scale, we were wrong, now we needed a baby, Kenneth's mother told us as much. We both thought it would be a good thing to do, as it would really be part of the norm, and could drift into middle age and thank God, never have to be young again.

We did try once a week for about six months but nothing happened. We had sex less and less; even Kenneth's mother gave up asking when the baby was due.

'It's not right you being married and living in the same house without a baby it's wrong' she huffed, adding; 'People at my church are asking questions' then it happened. It was from a one off sex session, but by then I/we were settled into a nice routine. Furthermore, I didn't want the baby because it would confirm to people that I really did have sex with Kenneth, I could stand up to Kenneth's mother better as I was becoming as bitter as she was and, I was 38.

These days 38 is no age to have a baby, women in the paper are getting pregnant in their late forties, but I felt so old and we were comfortable. We did not speak much around that time, with me working until late, gardening at the weekend and Kenneth at the golf club. We got along quite well really; we didn't dislike each other and worked well as a team. We paid the mortgage on our comfortable house in Orpington, and knew how to keep out of each other's way. With the arrival of the baby, we would be thrown together, we would have to talk and visit, and be visited by people. I would have to stop work for a while and the thought of being in the house along with the baby and all that mess panicked me. I don't hold it against Kenneth for asking me to 'get rid of it' I can see what he was losing. We had come through the whispers and questions from people on why we had not had a baby. Now we could just go on living in our own safe little world. Something inside would not let me terminate it. I looked at leaflets and even saw the doctor who gave me some telephone numbers to ring. It all seemed so cold and hard as if they were talking about selling a house or dumping a car. I promised Kenneth it would not change anything between us and that I would do the work and he could carry on with is work and golf. This pleased him and me because although I didn't love him we both knew that being together worked well socially and therefore didn't have to answer any questions anymore. It would be there in the pram for all to see, we were respectable and doing the proper thing.

We were told it was a girl us neither of us liked surprises. We called her Emma after my mother's suggestion. There were some worries about blood pressure but otherwise it was a good pregnancy, yet ended in a C-section at my GP's insistence. When we brought Emma home, we were lost, like two teenagers. Not being very tactile people, plus neither of us had changed a nappy or really cuddled much before, made the whole thing feel strange. Emma cried for a week then stopped, perhaps knowing that crying didn't get her anywhere. She became very quiet and that suited us all. She was a long baby, long limbs and above average height. This she must have got from me as I stood a bit too tall, where as Kenneth was just below average height. Like Kenneth, I got 'along' with Emma, only picking her up when necessary and putting her down as soon as I could. Kenneth never really touched her and never changed her nappy, which was unthinkable to him. Of course I read and heard about the 'bond' with baby, that so called, overwhelming feeling of joy at birth some women experience, but all I can say it didn't happen to me, It just didn't come. Luckily, I didn't have postnatal depression but could be tearful and get the 'blues'.

I was glad when it was time to get back to work, so I could be free for a while during the day. I had started working at the Charity after the Sir J fling, and had been getting on well, although not really with my colleagues who, though I was 'off' with them I was not one of the 'girls'. This suited me fine as I was going to go back and leave Emma with a child-minder who looked after my sister Jane' s young girl. I never thought of Emma at work, never put her picture up on my desk as the other mums did in the office. By the time I got home Emma was ready for bed and then Kenneth would come home and it was almost normal again. We found a small prep school close by and drew some joy from Emma's work there.

She was a good child, we didn't know quite how good she was until we saw other children making a mess and being obnoxious, such as my sister's children who could be rude and offensive. They would answer back and be rude to Jane and her husband Alan. I would sometimes say to Jane

'Why do you let them say such things' Jane would just laugh saying 'there children Helen, that's what children are like'.

We were not like that when we were young. We always had to feel lucky that our father was able to get us a place at the Notre-Dame. The school, one of many in that part of the county, catering to the low middle-class. The school was/is expensive enough to put most low-earning parents off, yet affordable to a new generation of parents who for the first time in their family history, were able to send the children to a fee-paying school Jane and I fitted in well by keeping quiet and being plain, therefore no threat to the lonely, troubled and sometimes mad, girls residing there.

The only real embarrassing moments occurred when we had dad for a lesson. Most time we were timetabled away from him, but sometimes he would cover a lesson and there was no choice. The girls obviously knew we were his daughters; there are no secrets in private school. The other girls held back (a little) on the jokes about dad when we were there, helping us through that traumatic time.

By the time Emma had joined the school dad had retired he had been shot in the arm while in the war and the pains in his arms and shoulders had increased in his sixties. He was very proud of his grand children and was chuffed to bits when we had Emma. Jane's had a boy and a girl a few years older than Emma, perhaps, because she was quite and shy they didn't really mix. I once heard (the Brat) Sam, say to his sister that Emma was 'a retard'. This hurt me but I didn't tell Jane. Emma could appear withdrawn, I am not sure that it wasn't us that made her that way. We did not encourage her to express herself, such as reading her stories out to us. I remember saying to her 'not now darling', many times when she would ask if she could show us a little dance she had made up.

After around the age of ten she stopped asking us anything.

She did well enough at school, she was quite good at languages, which pleased me. She didn't seem to make many friends or if she did, she never really spoke about them and we never asked. However, I always tried to help at sports days, as I would have practical things to do, such as making the drinks and organise the children to take the chairs out to the sports field. I didn't really watch Emma when she was in one of the races as I felt I had a job to do. But one race I saw her run, run so well yet, seemed to give the race away as she scanned the watching parents for her mother. She got a Saturday job John Lewis Department store in the net department, of which she enjoyed and did well as far as I know.

## 6996 Grasshopper Drive

It was now the third night of staking out Lesley's house that was located in a quiet Tucson street. Tucson lies in a valley surrounded by the desert mountains as a backdrop. The residential streets criss-cross the endless roads and highways stretching out to the desert. Lesley lived on the outer edges of the city, on a sweeping crescent of houses that backed on to open land. I had driven up and down this street so many times, even parking opposite her house, but not one peep of the woman. The only bit of luck I was having was a food delivery van would pull up at the house around 10pm. The name on the side of the van said 'Fresh-Mart'. It parked outside the house with the driver using the side entrance for delivery; this meant however, that it was impossible to see Lesley from the car. I had a restlessness growing within me; part fear, part anger. I wanted to get in and do this job, then get out as soon as possible. I had passed the next day wandering around the stores and reading until it got dark. I parked the car a little way back from the house on the sleeping street. Constantly looking at my watch, I feared that the food van would come, but just after 10.15 it stopped as usual outside the house. Inside the van, a male driver waited as his assistant; a middle-aged woman struggled with two heavy bags of groceries from the back of the van, then waddled down the side passage.

I slid out the car, and began to walk slowly down towards the house. In all the time I had sat in the hired car outside the house, I had never seen anyone walking along the street, not many cars come to think of it. therefore I knew that if I walked too far down the street I would attract attention. By the time I neared the house I was close enough to hear the woman knock the door calling; 'Fresh-Mart Mam'.

I could not hear a reply so I walked passed straining my ears. A few houses up the street I heard the van pull away so I turned back towards the house. A yellowish low watt lamp above the door, gave the side passage a gloomy glow, I knocked, the large piece of wood held tightly in my hand. I was about to knock again after what seemed an age of a vacuumed silence came the faint reply 'yes?'

I called 'Fresh Mart mam,-sorry' another long silence. The door clicked.

With beating heart I pushed the door as hard as I could, adrenaline supplying me a surprising strength. I felt something give behind the door and I was in. It was so bright inside, I had trouble adjusting my eyes to the brightness following the gloom of the passage. I held my hand over my eyes and scanned the room. The blood now pumping fast in my veins, as I searched the room for her, looking this way and that, then I saw someone, someone else. In my confusion and raising panic I felt had the wrong house, I shouted 'where is she? Lesley-Mary whatever she is called now?' My eyes adjusted now to the light, saw the woman stood behind the serving bar of the kitchen, frightened, mouth open in shock.

She was at least 20 stone, with dark greasy hair hanging over a bloated face, her mouth was surrounded by a chocolate mess The tent-like dress, hung from neck to swollen ankles, was also covered in a yellowish substance, that could have been anything from egg to sick. The smell was dreadful; hundreds of plastic 'Fresh-mart' bags filled with foul-smelling rubbish covered the floor. I was standing in the kitchen and what looked like the dinning area, but couldn't be sure due to the rubbish. The woman's face was so fearful I began to apologise;

'I am so sorry, I thought...' then she spoke;

'How did you find me?' I felt dazed, confusion swirling in my brain, this couldn't be.

'No you can't be-you can't be Lesley'.

She waddled back behind the serving hatch as fast as she could. She pulled open a draw beneath the kitchen top, fearing for a moment she had a gun, I moved back towards the door. I saw the large knife flash in the bright light, with the briefest of glances at me; she pulled the blade across her left wrist. There seemed no reaction in the dull vacant eyes. One hand over my mouth the other reaching out to her, she rested the knife on the kitchen top, lent her elbow on the handle, and ran her right wrist along the glinting blade.

I watched this in stunned silence, mouth wide open, shocked into numb paralysis. Everything I had planned or anticipated about this meeting dissolved in seconds. I was now in the middle of a living nightmare, this could not be happening. Lesley broke the spell, as she stumbled behind the counter, slumping on to one knee. Being too large to fall over, she lay wedged half way to the floor, her glazed eyes staring impassively vacant. The blood was everywhere; her dress, the floor, the kitchen counter was covered. For that moment I was aware what was happening, just calmly watching and waiting for it to be over, her eyes began to close. I panicked, grapping a dirty tea towel I tied it round the left wrist, which was the worst wound, as it gaped open, using blood.

I had to close wound, by pinching the flapping skin together, then wrapping the cloth round and round, finishing with a tight knot. Desperately I searched for something to tie the right arm, but the mess and the blood prevented me finding anything. I knocked the bags out of the way, kicking them aside until found a fifthly rag on the floor that could have been anything; tee shirt, dishcloth, underwear who knows? While tying the wrist, I felt the warm bloody breath on the side of my face, as she whispered 'don't, please don't'.

'Your not going that easy' I snapped. I picked up the wall phone, tapping 911.

'Help, there has been an accident at 6996 Grasshopper Drive... she tried to kill her self-cut her wrists...'

The voice on the end of the line was calm and professional.

'Is she still breathing, have you dressed the wound?'

'Yes, yes please send an ambulance, now'.

'I have Madam' came the calm reply 'it will be with you very soon, who is calling please?'

For the first time in this madness, I realised how this could look; the revenge of the victim. I was not going to give Lesley that satisfaction ' I am her sister in law, I came to visit'.

I could her the siren from the ambulance coming down the street. I ran to the front door but it was heavily fortified with at least five locks.

'Go to the side' I shouted turning to look at Lesley, her breathing barely audible. I saw the look of shock on the men's faces as they entered the house, the bags of sticking rubbish strewn across the floor, then they saw Lesley. As professional as the men were, it was not a graceful sight seeing them trying to ease Lesley from the back of the serving bar. They could not get behind Lesley to lift her as she was wedged in with buckled legs. Inch by inch the men shuffled her out from behind the bar.

One of the men lowered the wheeled trolley bed as far as it would go, and with great deal of effort stained her onto it. A drip was set up and oxygen mask placed over Lesley's face. The men were kind;

'don't worry Lesley, everything gonna be just fine'.

'Are you going to follow on?' one of them asked. It had not occurred to me that I would go with her, I didn't want to get tangled up in all this but I was, very much so. How would it look if the sister-in-law refused to her relative?

'Where to?' I asked

'George Bush Med Centre, just off the interstate. Bring her insurance and something for the stay; you know wash things, change of clothes'

I heard them pull away, leaving a dream-like silence, all this had taken just under twenty minutes.

This was mad, bloody mad, what was I thinking. What was I doing here in this empty street in the middle of Arizona mixed up in all this? I had to force myself to go back into the house. The first thing I did was turn down some of the lights. This seemed to help calm me down, perhaps as I had some control over the environment. The foul smell, the rubbish bags and the blood made it look like a horror film. I found the downstairs bathroom and vomited down the toilet, head pounding. Easing myself up I looked in the mirror, blood covered my clothes, I was pale and shaking. I washed blood from me the best I could.

Upstairs was as bad as down. The dirty unmade bed surrounded by fast food boxes and sweet wrappers, the television was on. I opened jumbled draws looking for a clean nightdress and underwear among the greasy clothes. I found a couple of huge nearly clean tee shirts that I thought would service as night dresses. Despite my efforts, I couldn't find any clean underwear at all, everything item was dirty and stained. In desperation I searched the small draw in the dressing table, looking in made me pull back. The whole draw was gracefully laid out; pure white tops, beautiful sets of underclothes in what must have been her former size; they looked tiny. The soft white feminine briefs, that once must have made her look and feel pretty, would now not get past her swollen lower calf. I left the draw as it was, looking for some medical insurance, not having any luck decided I would come back later. I decided I would drive back to the hotel, change, and go straight to the hospital. On the way my hands trembled, yet my real worry was that she would die before I could confront her; ask why she killed my daughter, and tell her what she had done, not just to Emma but to us all.

## George Bush Med Centre

The streets were quiet as I drove back to the hotel. There seemed to be an excessive amount of red traffic lights that prevented me from reaching the hotel. I had the air conditioning on high in the car, as I felt so hot and flustered together with the numb feeling in my head trying to block out the last hour. Almost two years of waiting for this moment and now it all going so wrong. I knew everything about this woman, or at least I thought I did; the early relationship with Reeves, her work in the US and the move to London and Oxford. Knew of her marriage to Julian and his sister-in-law Charlotte, who in some bizarre twist, I had turned into. There was no other way to get in to meet Lesley if I said who I really was, I might even be accused of hurting Lesley or at least pressurising her to cut herself. I was going to meet her tonight, I didn't care if there was trouble later I couldn't wait any longer. She might be moved again and although I could find her again, this I was sure of, I didn't want to go through all this again. A restriction order may be placed on me or perhaps, visa refusal. If that happened it would tear me apart for the rest of my life.

My hands were shaking as I opened the hotel door. It was all so peaceful and quiet, the soft lighting so comforting, I longed to get into bed and sleep for weeks until all this disappeared. I would wake refreshed and it would all have been a bad dream, but time was running out. I showered, feeling the sticky blood slide off me as I soaped myself in hot steaming shower, allowing myself to relax for a while. It was just before midnight when I left, the hotel bar was still busy, businessmen and a few couples enjoying a few innocent drinks before bed. I wished to be normal again, back in Orpington, before the boys next door arrived and made things so unbearable. I wanted to be busy at home in the garden, watering my hanging baskets on a summer evening when Kenneth would be at the golf club. After I started working with Emma in the garage I remember cutting the string that held the roses bushes back, letting them spring free. I wanted it to be 4.30 on a Friday afternoon when we finished work early for the weekend. I would buy the Evening Standard and check to see if the Gardening programmes were on television. I knew they would be, but it was a comforting ritual, then I could sit back on the train and look forward to the weekend.

'Are you alright mam'?

Asked the receptionist, as I tried to sneak past the desk. I suddenly felt guilty,

'Yes thank you, I just need to pop out and get some things. Is that Wall Mart still open down the Highway?'

'Yes Mam, it's an all night store'. I walked out to the call of

'You take care now'.

The American clothe sizing was different; in England I guessed that Lesley would be something around a size 24. I picked out the biggest nightdresses I could find and two packs of XXXX underwear. I filled a basket with toiletries, then picked up drinks and some biscuits. I was like shopping for my mother, only she did most of the chores herself, Lesley could not do that. After paying for the items I sat in the car with a cup of coffee, looking at the normal night-shoppers come and go, really putting off the time when I would have to leave.

I followed the well marked signs to the hospital, thankful that is was easy to find. The car park seemed miles away, yet the walk to the hospital was lined with tall palm tress and tiny lights along the path. The receptionist was friendly looking at me over her reading glasses as she logging my name into the computer;

'Ms Charlotte Howard sister in law of Lesley'.

I was pleased that I had not used her new name when I spoke to the med team. Once on the tenth floor I gave my details again even though the nurse on the desk had been informed of my visit. 'Welcome Ms Howard, my name is Beth Sharp and I am the on-duty head nurse for this section and will be looking after Lesley until tomorrow. She has been stabilised and is sleeping at the moment. You can go in, but please let do not wake her. Later I will need you to help me fill out a form, otherwise, please make yourself welcome to George Bush Medical Centre'.

I filled in the form, and promised to look for Lesley's Medical insurance papers. Another nurse led me through the roomed ward; low soft lighting gave a calm comforting atmosphere. There were many doors with pulled blinds leading off the main area, the end one held Lesley, I went in.

The hospital bed appeared to be filled with, what looked like the contents of a dug grave, then covered with a hospital sheet. A drip hung high. and attached to the sleeping mound, the bandaged hands lay outside the covers. The large round face looked rested now, God knows what drugs she was on. I stood looking at her; this was not the object of my obsession and nightmares. Where had the pretty blond bitch gone? 'to pot' is what my mother would have said. This new woman looked so different laying there, the large belly silently moving up and down. I knew I could finish her off there and then, pull out the drip, put a pillow over her face and run. But I wanted to hear what she had to say, wanted her to tell me why, and me to tell her what she had done. I unpacked the shopping, putting the nightdresses and underwear away in a draw, reminding myself to get some slippers next time I was in Wal-Mart. I put the drinks on the table and the biscuits in the cupboard by the bed.

The large window had a silver Venetian blind, filtering the colours of the night, the twinkling lights from the far off City danced in front of the mountains, like a bowl of stars, it was beautiful. I stood looking out at the scene and thought of Rick in Spain, what would he think of all this? I would love to call him. But I think he would say the same as Kenneth, my mother, and just about everyone I knew (Maureen excepted) that I should 'let things go'.

I took it that that meant Emma and the burden I carried with me, that manifested in detached low-rev anger. Yet how could I let Emma go, and let Lesley get away with it? The door opened, it was the young nurse.

'Could you come with me a moment'? The numb tiredness was now beginning to take hold; I simply nodded and followed her a policeman stood by the desk. Beth Sharp stood smiling.

'Charlotte, this is Officer Ragan, he would like to have a few words with you'. The heavyset gun wearing man with brushed back short hair, nodded to me.

'Just a few words Mam, won't keep you long'.

Run or faint? I could do neither, so woolly headed, in stricken panic, I followed the man to the side office.

'Just wanted to clear a few things up Mam. You are Lesley Howard's sister-in law-are you not?'

'Yes', I mumbled.

'Can you tell me why you are here?' he said taking a small pad out of his shirt pocket.

'Well I..., I, just wanted to, see Lesley'

I could feel my voice was beginning to falter. My mouth was dry and I was feeling dizzy. I longed to tell him the truth, to stop all this, I felt so tired.

'You see mam, as you may well know, Lesley is on a Prisoner Protection programme and no one knows where she is right now including your brother. Nor does any of her family know where she is, and we would like to know how you found out?'

I looked down as I twisted my hands, then spoke

'She wrote to me, said she wanted to talk with me, I told her I would come and when I met her she did... she cut herself'.

Quiet where I got that answer from I have no idea, but it was the best I could come up with. 'You see mam, all letters and communication go through her link-worker or the police, for her own protection you see. She had trouble with a anti-drink driving group some time back, and she has been moved out of state once before.

'I know she told me' I said, trying desperately to appear confident.

Officer Ragan leaned back on the plastic chair making it creak.

'How long you intend on staying Charlotte?'

'I was only going to stay a couple of weeks, but now, well I may stay a little longer as I would like to help her. We always got on well you know'

I knew this was true, before the accident Lesley had been close to Charlotte, but Julian's mother Margaret had refused her to provide a positive character witness for Lesley at the trail.

'I'm sure you did, but turning up like this without Miss Howard telling her link-worker put stress on the department-you could be anyone'.

'I am very sorry' I said nodding my head reverently,

'I thought she would have told the link-worker, I just wanted to see her, I don't know why she did that to her arms, I really don't, but I think she needs help'.

'Help Mam?' Ragan laughed, creaking the chair a bit more,

'That lady killed a young girl, through her own stupidity, drinking and driving don't mix, she has had help, from this state and Texas. Now, if you want to help her you can, but the state will not look kindly on this, going behind her link-worker and federal procedure and all'.

'I understand' I said as he stood up, filling the little office with his bulk and putting his notebook back. On the way out he asked me where I was staying, so I told him. I did not like this, thinking he might check up on me, but at that moment I had passed the first test and didn't care. He nodded on his way out, stopping to talk with Beth Sharp at the desk.

'Are you going to get some rest'? She asked when she came over to me. The big policeman entered the lift eyeing me suspiciously.

'There is a small room here, or you can rest in the chair in with Lesley'. I told Beth I would like to use the small room that turned out to be quite comfortable with a small single bed and bedside light. Before I went into the room Beth touched my arm.

'I thought you might like to know that Lesley was talking when she came in. It sounded like 'sorry Helen', she kept repeating this, I thought you might to know this'

'Thank you for telling me' I smiled , thank you very much, you have been most kind'.

The little bed felt so beautiful, it felt strangely safe, sleeping until eight the next day, where everything had changed.

The corridor was busy with the swishing hum of a floor cleaner being manoeuvred by a small Asian man. People where busy walking up and down the corridor; staff patients, health workers, and cleaners. The day outside was now hot and sunny, the mountains now blue, held orange in the distance. Angela Wickham the senior Day nurse looked stressed.

'We are pretty busy right now but if you would like to get some breakfast down at the café on the ground floor you are most welcome. Lesley had a good night and I will keep you up dated during the morning, but we have had two other emergencies come in during the night'.

I said I would come back later and walked to the lift. It struck me how easy I felt in hospitals. I had spent almost the last two years within a hospital setting. I knew that all the staff were under pressure, be it from the workload or violent patients, in this country or at home. I knew that pushing to get information would not help; you would just end up waiting longer. If you let the staff be they would come and see you, if only for light relief from the other demanding patients and tasks. Changeover from the night to day-staff was always busy so I took the lift down to get some Breakfast. There was tea, thank God, and toast still warm. I looked round at the people there; some patients in their dressing gowns chatting to each other, ready for another day in the microcosm of human suffering.

## Helen and Lesley

'Ms Howard, said the nurse,

'Lesley is awake now, would you like to come up?' After breakfast I had walked back to the room where I had slept preparing myself for a morning of not thinking. I had somehow made myself believe that I would be able to see Lesley for days. I had ideas of going back to the hotel and sorting myself out and prepare what to say, but now I would have to face it

'Yes' I replied voice slightly faltering. We walked together, I felt rushed and unprepared. The hospital bed shortage appeared to be universal and it was clear they needed Lesley's bed, we stopped at the door.

'Is she well enough for visitors?' I enquired hoping to put off the meeting.

'Miss Howard is doing very well; in fact she wanted to see you. Try not to be too long; she is still very fragile. She probably needs to see a nice friendly face'.

I didn't want to talk to Lesley here, I wasn't ready, but how could I refuse it just would wash, after coming all this way from England . She was in control now; she must have known that she would be safe there in the hospital bed. I would not even be able to raise my voice without being thrown out on to the baking street. I nodded my head and went in.

'Lesley', called the nurse knocking gently on the door before entering.

'Charlotte is here to see you'. The nurse turned to me and smiled.

'I'm sure you have a lot to talk about, I'll leave you to it'.

I waited for the door to close before turning to look at her. She was sat-up in bed; the hair had been washed and brushed away from her rough ruddy complexion. Her eyes puffy and heavily swollen, sagging above the jowls hanging from her face. Her bandaged arms were outside the bedclothes, fat and fleshy bruised from medical staff finding a vain for the drip, I though as I looked at the huge mound lying before me.

'I know it won't help but I am so sorry about your daughter, I have no excuse I was drunk'

Again she caught me off-balance, getting in first with the speech. Like her cutting herself, she pre-empt the situation, taking control, and pulling the carpet out from under me.

'No, you can't get out of it that easily, you have no excuse, none at all'

It was all I could say, anger welling up inside me.

'I really did want to finish it, I have for a long time' she whispered

'Quite right too' I snapped, moving over to the window, beginning to feel increasing uncomfortable.

'I only called the ambulance so you could hear what I have to say. You killed my daughter, my friend, the only one I really loved...'

I started to break down, pulling myself away from the vortex that was sucking me in. I could have kicked myself for opening up that much in front of her. I longed to run out but I could not miss this opportunity yet this was all wrong, how was it that I was standing here, with her laying there, in control with others outside ready to protect her? I stood near the window, the nearest to outside without actually leaving. I pulled myself together.

'You ruined my daughters life, before she died she had great hopes and a life others dream of. You cut her down, she had so much to live for and so much to give. You drank too much and killed her. Took her away from me, She was alive for over a year before she died. She knew that her career and life had been restricted, that her life and all those dreams had vanished.

I had began to shout

'She had to endure a life without hands, can you imagine what it is like to lose your hands? And at such a young age. She was the most beautiful person in the world, and you killed her, and your alive, laying there feeling sorry for yourself. You will have a life, will grow old and see adulthood, take a lover, marry, have children, she won't, do you understand that?'

I could see Lesley glance towards the frosted glass door, as the handle turned.

'Everything OK in here'? Asked a nurse putting her head around the door looking to each of us in turn.

'Yes' said Lesley. That too felt to me like taking control again. I should be in charge here, me running the show, but I was crumbling in front of her. 'Yes, we will be fine, just an misunderstanding' said Lesley who seemed to wobble as she talked, the double/triple chin flabby with the movement. The nurse looked at me and I nodded.

'I will be right out here should you need me' she cautioned, giving one last sagacious look before closing the door.

'I can't imagine what it is like to lose your hands, she looked so young and beautiful, I cannot tell you how much I wish it didn't happen, wish that I never had a drink and never got mixed up in all this. I am so sorry, it doesn't sound much, but I am. Those things you speak of; marriage and family, I have quite rightly lost them all, and have no wish to have anything like that again.

'Who would want me anyway a child killer? I deserve my life, it's not justice for the death of a child I know, but I am not free, nor should I be'.

I looked at her, she seemed to mean what she said, and by the look of her she was probably right. An obese, alcoholic, drug addict and child killer, were not the sort of details that would look attractive on a dating agency database, but I was not finished yet.

'You brought this on yourself, you did it all, don't come on like you are hard done by, the victim, you alone killed her and ruined my life, all my families lives, and it will never go away.

A heavy silence hung over the room, I paced the floor not really knowing what to do or say, Lesley spoke first.

'Thank you for saving me, it has given me a chance to say sorry to you, I know it won't heal the hurt you have inside, I did not mean to do it, it was my fault I know that, but, and I hope this makes you feel better; I will try to finish my life again'.

'Thank you' I said, hatred in my voice adding bitterly 'I'd like that'.

I wanted to say other things, hurtful things, but she had just promised me to kill herself at the first convenient opportunity. So it appeared there was not much else to say. I looked out the window once more, there must be something else to say, this couldn't be 'IT'. Even though Lesley would hopefully be dead in a few months through her own hand, the feeling still wasn't right.

What a waste, nothing seemed to have been achieved I felt empty and cheated. I turned to go, filled with a feeling of anticlimactic dissatisfaction.

'I promise I will do it, I swear I will. But I want to tell you this, I have no recollection of killing your daughter, I know I was drunk, but that was not the real me, I was normal until that night. I was married, working in your country as a nurse and loving every minute of it. It was all I ever wanted to do all my life was to help people, and look what happened.

'I loved life and being a nurse. I really drink or do drugs, not even in high school. I had pets as a child, and loved caring for them and even looked forward to having children of my own. I know all you can see is this carcass, this horrible dead body who killed your daughter, but I was not like that, never was, I was normal, wanted to give and receive love. I had plans, small ones but life plans; have children, have my folks come over from the states for the christening. Support my husband's work and move out to the country when the children got older. That was me, a boring homemaker who worked part-time as a nurse. I don't know what happened that night.

'This is not an excuse for what I did, I know I did it; a bottle of whiskey a day, and every heart stopping food cannot take away the thought of killing someone. I don't eat for comfort, I eat because I hate and repulse myself. I think I have been waiting for you, to show you how sorry I am and how I intended to kill myself because I cannot live with me, or the thought of my actions anymore. It may be better that you watch me die slowly for the lifestyle I have chosen, witness my slow death that way, I will do whatever you say or want me to do'

She began to cry; heavy sobs making the whole bed wobble. I have always been suspicious of crying, or the 'waterworks' as Kenneth would call it. Women can turn them on to order, but this looked real, something deep deep in me wanted to comfort her; just one hand on her fat arm, but the hate would not allow. She continued to cry; this unnerved me, as it seemed to confirm authenticity.

'Shut up, now shut up' I shouted 'I'm asking you a question,

'Why didn't your husband or anyone else tell you why you got drunk'? 'They said I was upset, upset about the marriage but our friends couldn't say why, but I was drinking. Julian said I had been depressed but had not really been with me at the function in London and didn't know I was drinking so much. Then the court case came, and I couldn't remember a thing, of course everyone said it was because I was so drunk. Until now I have blocked it all out, I have no. I have thought of asking friends, but they didn't want to know or be associated with a drink driving killer.'

She lay sobbing, the large form shaking the bed, not wailing, as one might expect due to her size, but silently, the way Emma did, unwilling or unable to share her grief.

'How are you two girls getting along'? Asked the nurse popping her head round the door, taken aback by the sight of the blanket dune shaking.

'Are you OK Lesley/' said the nurse coming over to her and patting her arm.

'Yes I'm fine, just glad Charlottes here, -really I'm fine'

The nurse looked at me accusingly.

'Well Lesley, I have some good news. I have spoken to the doctor and she says that if there is support at home, and you contact your personal counsellor, you can go home this afternoon. Your link-worker Eve, has been contacted as she out of town, but said she will visit you on Friday, so that will give you and Charlotte a few day alone to have some quality time'.

She turned to me with just a hint of hostility

'You will be staying to help your sister-in-law won't you? She does need your help you know, and you are family'.

I didn't think Lesley was anyway ready to go home, but there was obviously a bed crisis and they needed the room, and as Lesley's wounds were self-inflicted there was not much of a case if a child had been brought in from an RTA.

'Charlotte has to get back, she is very busy'

Lesley began dabbing her face. The nurse looked at me, waiting for me to reject the women lying on the bed.

'I can stay a while' I heard myself say, more to spite the nurse than help Lesley in any way.

'Would you like me to call a taxi or do you have a car'? I have a car I said wondering what the hell I was saying. Yet I knew I had to get out of there someway and going with the flow appeared to be the simplest way. So after a light lunch and a final check with the on-duty doctor, I helped Lesley get dressed; the large pants just about squeezing onto her legs then covered with a tent like cotton dress. And there we were, heading back to her house in my rented car wondering how I ever got into this situation.

The smell of the house was dreadful. I pushed the door open, shoving the full carrier bags behind it across the filthy floor. We had driven back along the highway after we had managed to squeeze Lesley into the car. She was not the best size for the economy car choice, perhaps I should have given into the pressure from the salesman at the airport, but in reality I said no as he was so pushy. We drove in silence, yet when she did speak she was well spoken with a mid-Atlantic accent that was mellow and comforting, something that must have won her Brownie points and promotion during her working life.

She had to give me directions to the housed as things seemed very different in the day-light, furthermore the housing estates began to blur. I didn't really want to talk to her but it was strange sitting in the car so close; very close as Lesley was wedged up against me and was glad to get out the car as it was cramped and uncomfortable. The street looked very different in the light; wide and empty, sleeping silently in the baking sun with a dark shadow to the side of the house. All the houses looked the same; A-framed, part timbered painted white. A wide garage stood proud at the front, the front door to set back flush with a front window. Upstairs had a window overlooking the street silent and watching. The house looked pretty painted white, with details such as the door-frame and fascia boards picked out in primrose yellow. Her door number was 6996, so I supposed there must be another 6965 houses somewhere down the street, yet it all felt so quiet, enclosed and empty. The street was wide, very wide, with the houses opposite mirroring those on the other. Lesley's house was on the far edge of the valley backing on to the desert land leading on to mountains while those opposite could see the mountains clearly from their front windows.

Although you would not think so to look at it, Grasshopper Drive is a through-road, snaking the perimeter line of the foothills for miles. All this was revealed now, as the darkness, anger and fear had cloaked all this when I first arrived just a couple of very long days before.

I parked the car in front of the house and helped Lesley out. That meant her doing something of a three-point-turn to manoeuvre herself out, rocking the vehicle as she went. She puffed heavily as we neared the door, her inner thighs rubbing together, and her feet padding with each footstep, suddenly she stopped, gripped by a fear. We waited a little while for her to gain control, she then nodded to me, I unlocked the door. The smell nearly knocked me over as I pushed open the door, my stomach retching with the smell of stale alcohol, rotten food, body odour and neglect. The carrier bags covered the floor giving a fermenting repulsive sickening stench, seeing it in daylight in all its glory didn't help. There seemed to be stains everywhere, on the walls, doors and even the ceiling. It could have been coffee beer or worse, that I didn't dare contemplate.

After clearing the sticky damp mess off the sofa, I sat Lesley down, exhaustion taking over her body. I opened the window to let out some of the heady hum that permeated the house, then moved to the kitchen. I stood, hand over mouth surveying the bloodstains and the chaotic mess, feeling confused and helpless in the disarray. Opening the back door, which is really at the side I threw out the first of the carrier bags, within an hour I had a high pile of around three hundred stinking bags at the side passage. At least now it was outside, I searched for a floor mop and some cleaning fluid. In the small utility room off the kitchen I found a wide range of cleaning products one could imagine, all unopened. I got to work on the kitchen floor, scraping the stubborn stains sometime with a knife. God only knows, what was on the floor, but she must have not made it to the toilet a few times. I forced myself to keep going until the kitchen smelt (almost) TV advert 'lemon clean'.

I scrubbed the kitchen tops, loosening the congealed blood that had now dried hard and turned dark brown. The cooker was the only clean thing in the whole room; evidently Lesley had used every telephone takeaway and convenience food known to man to create her size. The warm air breezed in, as I worked the floor, walls and kitchen tops.

At 1.30 I had to stop, my arms were aching and I was sweating profusely. I went through to see Lesley but she was asleep; lying awkwardly with her neck to one side, looking like an over-weight young girl. I became aware I was hungry and really needed a shower so I looked upstairs. After opening the curtains that must have been wedged closed, for all the time she had been there, as the dust had collected in them to choke level. There were still bags all over the upstairs floor, but the light now flooded in as I opened all the windows to the street below. This could be a lovely house, what a waste, did she ever look out towards those wonderful mountains? In the back bedroom the foothills were a hazy blue, with the mountaintops wonderful reddish ochre. It reminded me of a sort of Trans-Atlantic Miss Haversham's house.

Once in the bathroom I realised why Lesley stank, she would never have been able to take a shower or to take a bath without extreme difficulty, even if she wanted to. She would be wedged like Pooh, only to escape when she had slimmed down. Taking an unopened towel from the bags of things I had bought for Lesley I decided to take a quick shower. Before I turned on the stiff taps, I noticed a long bathroom cupboard. Giving the door a good yank, the bags fell on top me, tumbling down from the tall shelves. The smell was horrendous, a putrid vomit inducing odour, making me gag. I immediately could see very well what was in the bags hundreds of used sanitary towels, now brown, the dried blood perfectly visible through the white plastic shopping bags. What the hell was going on, who on earth would store such things? After the quick shower I found the ever-diminishing roll of refuse bags, and filled them with the bloodstained bags. The shower took my mind off the mess for a moment, and made me want to get out and get some air, even if it was just to the shops. I wanted to see people, normal people doing normal things, no more death, knives and this madness. I seemed to be locked in a world of destruction within a strange circle of negativity.

## The road and the sky

Just getting out of the oppressive house and situation made me feel better. Those last few nights have taken so much out of me, yet I felt I had crossed a mark and could move on. My plan was to buy some food and essentials for Lesley, talk with her some more and get things straight, see she was settled and go home.

It was a dream-like drive to the Mall that afternoon. Once through the quiet residential streets I reached the highway. Other people were going about their business, driving to the shops, travelling to work, going to see people, oh, and of course, going shopping for your daughters' killer. I felt in a haze but just kept driving, anything to keep reality nearby. My old life was behind me now, I could feel it receding. The controlling grip I had on my life had now gone, I was freefalling on the freeway. To be honest it wasn't altogether unpleasant. The During the drive I thought that If I could just do this meeting with Lesley, get it out of my system one way or another I could go forward. I needed to start over with my life, never forget Emma, but move forward in a way I'm sure she would have approved. I started to think about Rick and how he would love it out here. He loved the sun and these long straight highways would be perfect for his motorbike, better than those cold wet bendy suicide roads of Europe, where 'motorcyclist' was short-hand for kidney donor. I missed him and his quiet way, the smile that made everything right, allowing the fears to reside. He had intimated that we had some kind future together, and yet that seemed to be in Spain, could I cope with even more change? Perhaps it would do me good.

I wondered if Emma had still been alive and I became serious with Rick, would they have got on? They seemed to get on well enough in hospital, but that is such a strange enclosed environment, plus it is difficult to tell due to it's unrealistic support system. I must say it would have been nice to take Emma out to Spain, live far away in a new country, perhaps she would carry on her work...This daydream was getting too big and real, I needed to stop it now. Emma had gone, Lesley had killed her, I was now shopping for her. It was all too bizarre.

I parked near the 25-screen cinema complex. The baking heat refreshed me as the shower did earlier, but it still felt wonderful to have the air-conditioning whoosh over my body as I entered the mall. I had noticed that I felt physically better in Arizona; my head was clearer and I was breathing easier. I had always had a small respiratory problem, a form of asthma that would give me a tight chest in summer. This tightness could result in some panicky nights when I would wake gasping for breath. Now I felt lighter and healthier than ever before, my lungs expanding a little more with each day. In my internet search on Arizona, I had discovered that detox units were springing up here due to the quality of atmosphere. This didn't surprise me, I could truly understand it, the kind air and warm environment, gave me a pleasant sense of well-being, pity I was there for such a negative reason.

Two giant floors of retail space waited before me, every type of store was there. Nail-bars, hairdressers, many women's and men's clothing outlets, men's boots and a gun and 'outdoor living' store. Fancy china, a bookstore, Gap, and a Native American Indian shop, all under one massive roof. I looked in the gun-store and wondered who would want such a thing, I had to go in.

Every type of firearm was hung proudly on the walls. Knifes with long glinting jagged blades held my fascination. Combat gear, gas masks, camouflage clothes, even bow and arrows together with deadly cross-bows filled the store. Looking at all this armoury made me I remember my flight into Tucson. I had flown to into Houston from London, taking an internal flight into Tucson a few hours later. The seats were narrower than those of the trans-Atlantic flight and found myself wedged against the window by a huge businessman with sweat-stained armpits. It was a Friday night and Houston had the feeling of 'home for the weekend' as travellers called husbands, wives, and lovers sometimes both, on cell-phones saying, they would be home soon 'and tell Johnny I have the computer game.' Flowers were being bought at the retail stands, along with candy, gift-wrapped for the waiting love at the other end of the homeward bound flight.

Not long after take-off Mr sweat opened wide his broadsheet news paper, a quick flick through the day's news before settling in for the 'Hunting and Gun Supplement'. Weekend long-bow courses, and desert survival training adverts peppered the front page of the supplement, but it was 'This Weeks Special' that caught both our eyes.

'HOW TO KILL, SKIN, AND DISMEMBER A DEER WITH YOUR BARE HANDS'.

I got as far as biting a hole in the animal, and tearing it open from neck to genitals, then easing the fur off the creature, 'as easy as slipping a coat off an child'. This he read with intense concentration, sometimes licking his fat lips. Once he finished the skinning section, he turned the page to read the recipes for cooking the deer. I knew then I was in a different country, I wasn't in Kansas anymore Toto, or maybe I was, it was difficult to tell. I know there is hunting in every country, yet there, high in the sky over America, ripping a young deer's guts open was described as calmly as UK Times would explain how to prune roses. My fellow flier must have been aware of my reading over his shoulder because, once he had finished the article asked very kindly if I would like to read the paper. I said that 'I didn't, thank you' which he replied 'Roast deer's nice huh'? All I could say was 'yes very tasty'.

I found what I was looking for, an out-size women's clothes shop The window was dressed with outsize models displaying sexy underwear, including skimpy lacy red knickers and bras. I bought a nightdress, some tee-shirts and a plain dress for Lesley. I found a store that sold bed linen, as I had noticed that Lesley's bed clothes were as dirty and disgusting as her kitchen floor. I planned to throw these or burn them ASAP. The nylon sheets made my hair stand on end just feeling them, so I bought a bargain pack of white sheets with just a discrete blue line around the edge. On the way back I looked in the hairdressers; just to look really. My own mousy brown hair now dry, thick and greying looked a mess. I never really thought too much about it until I met Rick. The photos in the window showed smiling black and Latino woman with pretty but complex styles dressed with beads, or pulled straight with glossy shine. Other pictures showed 'Suburban housewife hair': shoulder-length bob, high-lighted to white, one or two wearing what used to be called 'Alice-bands'. All the women smiling, that perfect smile, overly made-up yet attractive all the same. I thought It might be nice to have a haircut, something nice, something that Kenneth would call 'a waste of bloody money', I took their card.

I came across the Harley Davison store in the middle of the Mall. Not somewhere I would normally go, but I just thought 'well why not!' I presumed there would be Hells Angel types or Middle aged men with grey pony-tails, gloating over the bikes. Therefore it was pleasant surprise to notice a rich mix of people, and so I didn't feel out of place, in fact it seemed quite natural it be there shopping for a little something for Rick. A young lady assistant, reed thin with long wavy hair and tight jeans spotted me as she came in. I tried to avoid her but she had an agenda.

'Welcome to the Alan Longford Harley Dealership. I would just like to say a special welcome to our visitors and inform you that we do export our products across the world with a very competitive shipping fee'.

'Thank you' I said turning away. 'Are you British madam?'

'Yes' I replied looking at the exit.

'Could I take your name Madam, this is a real pleasure to meet you and welcome to our country'

To get rid of her I told her my name, kicking myself straight after for doing so. The store was as big as a football pitch, with hundreds of bikes covering the floor. They had a display of 'History of Harley' that I knew Rick would have loved, but it was the clothes and gifts I wanted to see.

All the paraphernalia gleamed on the counters; watches, sun-glasses, badges, jackets, anything and everything you could think of related or unrelated to the idea of bikes; freedom, youth, the wild West, but oddly enough not rebellion. I found out later on that Harley had always tried to play down the outlaw/Hells Angel association, but not too much, as the income was good. I bought a sweatshirt and tee shirt for fun, then noticed the gigantic rolling marquee running bright around the store. High up in four-foot high coloured letters ran:

'ALAN LONGFORD HARLEY DEALERSHIP WELCOMES HELEN KIRBY-FROM BRITAIN'

Not until my face changed from bright red to pink in the car park, did I smile at the thought that my name was in lights at last. After being given a chromed metal 'Harley' badge (which I still have) and a 'good biking Madam' from the sales clerk, I left the store making a mental note to go back there one day with Rick, If Kenneth had seen me there he would have thought I was mental. Next and last stop, Wal-Mart for food.

I found all I wanted, paid for the items and packed my shopping bags then struggled to the exit. I had noticed some young girls hanging around the exit when I had went in and they were still there when I come out.

'Afternoon Mam, how are you today, do you like softball?' my fingers were beginning to cut with the loaded plastic bags, and wanted none of this.

'No, not really', 'I said a little harshly'.

'It's a fun' game' said one of the girls, smiling pleasantly.

'I'm not sure I know what it is' I relented 'is it like Rounders?'

One girl was white, around 13 with bleached blond hair tied back off her face into a dancing ponytail. She had large healthy teeth that every so often revealed her chewing gum. She had pimply skin and large blue eyes heavily made up, the other was a tall thin black girl. She was at least 5ft 10, her hair was also scraped back off her face into two puff-balls either side of her head, that gave the impression of Minnie Mouse. She was sweet looking, with long relaxed limbs and laconic smile. Chewing Gum started talking to me again, blocking my way by the crowded exit door, crammed with trolley carts and people waiting, I was stuck. I put the bags down. 'What's Rounders?' said Chewing Gum.

'Well' I sighed, rubbing my hands 'I think it's like your base-ball but with a smaller bat'.

Chewing Gum started to say something, but was totally incomprehensible.

'Will you take that gum out of your mouth, lady can't hear a single thing you saying' scolded Minnie Mouse.

'I chew this stuff so I can lose a few pounds' said Chewing Gum earnestly. She turned to me.

'We are in the semi final of the 3a State Champion Runner Up's, and we are collecting for new kit'.

Without the gum in her mouth, she had a nice face and a warm smile.

'She don't really need to lose weight' said Minnie, in her laid-back drawl, 'she fine as she is'

'Well what about this?' said Miss Gum, un-tucking her red sports tee-shirt, showing me the beginnings of a spare-tyre.

'Feel this!' demanded Gum, pinching the slight swell of flab around her tummy.

'No' I said backing off, realising I was shuck added 'no, thank you'.

'Do you think I need to lose it?' Gum asked, concern on her face, as if whatever I said, would determine the fate of her weight gain and eating habits for life.

'No my dear' I said, 'you look very nice and just about the right weight for your height, you look lovely'

It just fell out of me, I was not used to being spoken to so openly and I suppose I caught the candour. It was true; she was not over-weight by any means, just that teenage puppy-fat.

'See' said Minnie, smiling for the first time at her friend, then turning to me.

'She's obsessed by her weight, I tell her she looks cool, but she having none of it.'

I had to smile, then the girls did, they looked lovely together, and so easy with each other's company.

'Shall I put something in your collecting box?' I asked, opening my purse.

'I'm Becky' said Chewing Gum, 'and this is Joyce' pointing to Minnie Mouse. She's not really my friend, she hasn't any, so I hang out with her due to Christian kindness' laughed Becky

'I will pitch your backside young lady' Laughed Joyce, as they began nudging each other with bony elbows, giggling.

Apart from a few low value coins I had hiding in the deep darkness of my purse; all I had was a $50 note.

'Would one of these be OK'? I said.

They stopped giggling, staring at the note, pupils dilating.

'Are you sure Mam? That's a lot of money' blinked Becky, as if in a dream.

'It's fine really' I said, 'take it, and good luck with the match'

Joyce opened a coffee jar half filled will nickels and dimes, I put the money in, then she sealed it shut, giving a suspicious look at the people around us. I picked up the bags, but Becky had not finished, no wonder they had collected so little money with all this talking.

'If we beat San Manuel Phoenix Garard in the semi final, we will play either North West Community Christian or, God help us, Glendale Cactus Moon Valley. We did beat Snowflake Eloy Santa Cruz, who beat Glendale Cactus. But since they topped the league beating Joseph City Tucson Palo Verde into second place, our only other worry was Kearny Ray Winkeleman Hayden...'

'Put that gum back in your mouth Becky, you're peaking' Laughed Joyce, pointing to her head and revolving her finger as if to say 'mad, totally mad'. Becky gave her friend a friendly slap on the arm.

'I'm just explaining to the lady', then turned to me.

'She's so cruel, but you will come wont you? It's only down the highway about 10 miles, turn left at Yuma Union, across at Deer Valley and you can't miss it 'Desert View High School' home of the ugliest boy's in Tucson'.

They laughed again, then Joyce fished out a pink handout sheet from her little-back-pack.

'Don't listen to her and her crazy directions' smiled Joyce, 'you with probably end up in New Mexico, this will get you there. Friday night 8pm, we start late, it's cooler then. Expect a floodlight game, with seating behind the home team, oh, best to bring a sponge pillow as those seats can be tough on the back-side'.

I pushed the leaflet into one of the bags, picked them up and said 'goodbye and good luck'.

'Thank you Mam' they chorused.

After finding the car in the huge car park, I put the shopping on the back seat and felt a tap on my arm, looking up, there they were; the terrible two.

'You forgot your bag mam' Joyce stood holding the salad bag, Becky standing beside her, it looked like they would fall over unless they were standing together.

'Thank you girls, that's very kind of you' I said with a note of finality. Having put the bag in and fastened my seat belt, they still stood there watching.

'You will come won't you'? Said Becky anxiously, we will look out for you, Mom and Dad are cooking for the team afterwards just Hot-dogs and stuff, you can sit in the 'Friends' stand with them I will tell them your coming' she said nodding her head.

'She will tell them' said Joyce nodding in unison, 'if she says she will do something she will-swear to God'

I wanted to say something, but could only manage to mumble 'I will do my very best'.

I pulled out of the car park dabbing my eyes, I couldn't comprehend why I was so emotional, but pulled myself together when I found I was heading on the wrong direction towards the highway. The sun was beginning to go down behind the mountains, and although I wanted to get back home something in Arizona was tugging at my sleeve.

## Smashed face and forgiveness

I found a way to avoid driving through the mass of housing between the highway and the mountain road that consisted part of Grasshopper Drive. It took a little longer due to the traffic lights that evidently prevent drivers from using it as a rat-run, so that all that remained was a trickle of traffic. The mountain roads curved a soft serpentine rather than the notorious hair-pin bends of mountain roads in Spain and France. The mountains now dark blue/black now, with what looked like a raging forest fire behind them as the sun-light disappeared. It gave me time to look at the sunset and feel the loneliness and melancholy such open spaces induce in me. It seemed to me there was everything you could ever want and more in America, whether it was the wide-open spaces or the supposed lack of class structure, yet something was missing. It was the something that created that great big empty hole inside some people. It could be that in England, we are so accepting of our social positioning that we find a perverse comfort within that structure. Everything in England has been thought of, tried before, so we have two millennium of experience to go on. We take great consolation and cosiness in months of grey overcast skies, then, gladdened by an hour of warm sun once every few months. We somehow expect disappointment, yet in the States the impression is given of endless possibility, 'The American Dream' meaning; anyone can achieve fame and success, you just have to watch a bit more TV. That is true for a very tiny number, but the fall out from failure creates a graving, it must be difficult to be contented. I drove on, lost in the twilight at that terrible time of day, when it's best to keep busy rather than be pulled under by the dusk. Such were the feeling of melancholy, I was glad to see the house as I pulled up in the dark.

A light was on in the house so I unpacked the shopping from the car and walked down the side passage, the smell of the rubbish bags stacked outside making me hurry to the door. The evenings could cool down out here, but the heat of the day began to cook the contents of the black sacks filling the passing nostrils with a dreadful stench. I knocked once and turned the handle lifting the bags as I stepped into the house. With the door open behind me I dropped the shopping on the floor. Lesley who had been cleaning out the kitchen cupboards turned to look at me; wet washcloth in hand, cleaning products stood around her.

'You came back' she smiled the warmest smile; 'I was so frightened you would go and just leave me'.

She looked brighter; the work had given her both a purpose and a glow in her chubby cheeks. The first blow impacted hard on her left temple, I could feel the flabby flesh smack against the side of her skull, as the inside of my clenched fist, knocked her head to one side. She wobbled, the shock still on her face, I took advantage of this by thumping her full on the side of the face, I hit the right cheek and the fist slid along the mouth. She tumbled back; as she did, I pushed her so she fell to the clean floor. Once again I was at her; pounding her face as a range of strange but vivid images raced through my mind; Emma's hands, Lesley's smile at the trial, telling Emma her hands had been removed, breaking up with Kenneth, her death, the funeral, the empty gaping hole inside me. All this pumped through my head, as I hit her again and again until I could hit no more;

'You killed her, you fucking zombie; you killed my gorgeous girl. Not like you, you killing drunk, you killing fucking cunt'.

Knelling on the floor, crouched with head in hands sobbing, deep subterranean pounding that convulsed me. I was rocking myself, or an imaginary baby I couldn't tell which, while I cried. I kept whispering

'Never see her again, never...'

How long I lay like that I have no idea, but my legs and knees where aching badly, I rolled onto my side, sitting with my back against on the kitchen units, feet outstretched in front of me. My breathing began to return to normal and with it, the pains in my hands revealed themselves. Both wrists were extremely painful; I found it hard to unfurl my fists, my fingers covered in blood. Beside me the large bloody mess lying beside me, I didn't care if it never moved again. I tried to flatten my hand on the floor but found it too painful. I kept it on the cool tiled floor and felt a hand rest on mine. I couldn't look for some time but when I did, the shock gave me a start. Her face was a bloody shambles, a heavily swollen confusion of flesh. Her eyes were punched closed, her ears bleeding. She squeezed my hand and I let her.

Standing was difficult, I ached everywhere, my nose was running and eyes stung from the saline weep. I edged up, straightening my back, then looked down at her. Flat out, motionless, face like a large helping of red jelly. The clean nightdress she had put on now covered in blood and rucked up, exposing her underwear and large legs; red sores between her thighs from friction burn. I made it to the downstairs bathroom. Running the water over my hands made them even more painful. The woman in the mirror was a horror etching from an earlier age that washing helped to soften like a worn out plate. There was a towel on the side by the basin that I held under the running warm tap. Having wrung out the towel, I knelt beside her, gently dabbing her face. Washing the blood away disclosed the bruising already taking place. I cleaned the eyes the best I could so she could open them a little; just the narrowest of split was all she could manage, yet even then it had that kind look, the one from the photos the tabloids used, the ones our charity used; the look of a sad angel, it disarmed me.

The blood had stopped running from her ear, after I cleaned it, then wrung out the bloody towel and started again; softening the Marked hair caked in brown blood. One of her wrists had started to bleed again through the bandages so I wrapped a tea towel round it.

'Can you sit up' I asked, seeing a movement from her. Getting behind her with my arms under hers, I tried to sit her up, she put her good hand down and we heaved together until she sat up, starting the blood to gush from her nose. She managed to shuffle so she could sit with her back to the units as I had done, as I mopped up the nose bleed and the blood now seeping from her mouth. Once she had spat out the thick clots she whispered 'thank you, thank you so much'.

Some hours later, after helping her up and shuffling her down the hall, she sat on the sofa in the front-room of the house, a bag of ice-cubes wrapped in a plastic shopping bag held against her face. I had changed her into a clean nightdress. Washed now, I sat on the chair beside her looking out at the sky, turning light blue above the silence of the houses across the street. We sat in silence witnessing a new dawn in Grasshopper Drive, then drifted off to sleep.

## After the fight

We had woken the next morning following the 'fight' to a calm feeling. Neither of us said anything about my beating her up, I did not feel any guilt at all which surprised me, I felt it was justified and over. Early that morning Lesley began to vomit, so I cleaned her up and made her up a bed on the sofa in the front room. We spoke about her medication and what she should and shouldn't be taking. She had been on so many antidepressants that we decided that it was best to carry on taking the proscribed amount and look towards weaning herself off them over time.

Around 11am she became twitchy and edgy. She began to look around for something, something to take I suppose. While she sweated I held her hands.

'Would you want a small drink'? I asked, thinking that we could wean her off the alcohol as with the drugs.

'No' she said resolutely, 'I have had my last drink, no more, I've had enough'.

I made her coffee and some toast, (which both came up later) while in the kitchen I washed and massaged my hands, as they were badly bruised and swollen, and felt painful. I settled her for a while then took a shower hoping wash off the night before then dried myself with a smelly towel.

'This is what mid-morning looks like' croaked Lesley.

I have been in this house for over a year and this is the first time I have been sober, it's very quiet' she added as if seeing the house for the first time.

'I want to wash' she said rather loudly not realising her hearing in her left ear had gone. I got up from the chair

'Come on lets get you sorted out'. She puffed up the stairs and went into the bathroom filling the room. She started to brush her teeth as I turned on the shower in the cubicle. I noticed she was spiting out blood when she rinsed her mouth.

'Don't look at me please' she said, as she took off the bloodstained dress.

'Come on' I said, trying to be brave. As much as we tried she could not fit her into the shower. She did actually manage to squeeze in to the cubicle but it was difficult to move, let alone wash herself, so we had to almost rock her out again, making the whole unit move and tremble until she popped free.

Standing in the bath I hosed her down. We decided it would be best if she knelt down while | washed her hair because we both knew she would get stuck in the tub if sat in it. The large back, and sack-like belly hanging down in front aged her, she must have only been in her early thirties yet she could have passed for sixty. The pretty bobbed, highlighted hair of the court photographs had gone; now grown out into long mousy rat-tails, her scalp impacted with scurf and dandruff. I towel dried her hair and wrapped it round her head into a turban. I held out the tee shirts I had bought;

'Which one'? She pointed to the yellow one saying

'This one looks pretty', then started to cry, crying heavily while holding the tee-shirt to her chest. I felt like holding her yet thought it would be like those abusive husband's promising their beaten wives, they would never do it again. I did not hold her; It's not that I was pleased, more relieved I had hit her. I was not a violent person, but rightly or wrongly, this felt right to me. I would not be a hypocrite and say I was sorry- I wasn't.

'Come on' I said, 'lets get you dressed, have you a bra'? 'No' not for this size, I guess I have let myself go'.

She said this without any hint of sarcasm at the under-statement, almost as if it had only just dawned on her, how big she was and the hole she had dug herself into.

'Well we must get you one or they will be touching the floor' I smiled.

Instinctively she touched my hand for a split second, then took it away, both of us embarrassed at the gesture, making her fuss with the tee-shirt

'It's beautiful, really beautiful' she gushed holding the shirt up to look at it. We both realised pretty quick that she would not be able to wear it as she had nothing else to wear below it, so she put on the new nightshirt and the underwear promising her to buy some clothes as she got dressed.

I made a chicken salad early afternoon, which Lesley managed to keep down and gave her plenty of fluids and coffee and some chocolate as her cravings began to overwhelm her about five in the afternoon. She dozed a little early evening, while I tidied up and dusted the front room. It was already getting dark when Lesley awoke at 7.30. I had found a company to take rubbish away and called them on the phone, having found the name in the book. The bags at the side of the house were beginning to smell dreadful and were becoming a health hazard. The rubbish removal company said they could pick up the 'trash' tomorrow and set a fair price. Her hands were trembling and seemed as if she had a taste in her mouth she couldn't get rid of.

'I didn't mean to kill her' said Lesley looking vacantly out the window to the darkness.

'I know I did but I didn't want to, or mean to do it.

'It was inevitable that you would kill someone if you drank that amount of alcohol and drove round London, I don't think you have any excuses, please don't make yourself out to be the victim'.

All my self-composure had vanished, I felt my blood pressure rising as I spoke.

'I am sorry, that's all I meant,' she said through her podgy lips, then sat silent. I thought of driving back to the hotel, having a nice shower and meal in the little restaurant. Watch some mindless TV and sleep well, but Lesley started to vomit again. I brought a bowl in and she filled it gagging, she began to shake, her body quivering as she clutched onto the sofa arms.

'Why should I be doing the dirty work, where is everyone I thought?' But that was the thing, she had no one. She had almost died, she has heart complications, hypertension and God knows what else, any of these could kill her, if she or me didn't do it first. In fact it looked like the previous two or so years had been one long suicide. Where were her family? The famous link-worker, a doctor, friends, someone just to see how she was, and how the hell was it so easy for me to find her? I cleaned her up once more and realised I would be there all night.

'Where is everyone? Doesn't anyone come to see you, can you ask your family for help'? I was becoming annoyed, It felt that if I hadn't been there, she would have been back on the phone pushing up the share price of the American wine product.

'Your family live in this country where are they?' I asked.

She sat up the best she could, and held onto a towel, rolling it into a ball and holding it close to her for some comfort.

'Mom, well Mom, lets see now...'. It seemed she was trying to remember a long lost friend or relative, as if she was recalling a bit-player in the screenplay of her life.

'Mom, well, she was very kind, came over to see me for the court-case, you may have seen her. She stayed on to visit me in Holloway and paid for an attorney to help repatriate me back to the states. This was not going to happen but...I had to be moved due to the violence. I didn't care, but I was taken out anyway. I served a three months term in a small federal prison near home in Kansas, and hoped to return close to Moms, but Dad got sick.'

She trailed off, her shakes had stopped and she sat quiet and still, lost in Kansas I supposed.

'What was wrong with Dad'? I asked. Pulling herself back, Lesley continued.

'After my wrongdoing, Dad had gone down hill. We lived in a small community and Dad was the local doctor, everyone new him and in the early days he had delivered many babies and they still came to see him, sometimes coming back with their own children. He was well respected and everyone was pleased when I became a nurse, 'just like your pappy' people would say. Anyway, not long after my wrong-doing, he had a stroke, although Mom didn't say it out-right, it was implied and I guess they were right, that the court case and my going to prison hurt him deeply. What nearly killed him was that I knocked down a young girl while I was drunk, being a nurse didn't help Markers, and I was a disgrace to the family and community. Dad had to give up work, the thing he loved and was loved for. He had lost everything his speech, mobility and worst of all he couldn't think straight, and knew it. I left the prison and moved near Mom but things didn't work out. People in the town turned against me, I had tainted the community, a drunk driver, who had almost killed the loved and respected Doctor in the town. Late at night things would be thrown through the windows: bricks, beer-cans anything. Bad words would be painted on the fence and walls, all justified, but it hurt mom, and of course dad even more. My husband Howard had been paying for me to live and I was moved with the courts help, across the state line to Missouri. So what I am trying to say is, that it is not Moms fault that I am alone, it's mine'.

'What about your brother, the one I saw in court' I asked.

I had known little about her, only what was reported in the papers and going by my experience you could only believe half of that. I had always thought there had been full support from the family, one of the many reasons I had hated her so much. She appeared to have everything, even after all she had done.

'Oh Michael, this curse I had brought on the family affected hi as well. He was a pilot in the US army, married to Susan who was one of my best friends. Because of the stress with the court-case and imprisonment of his sister, plus dad being sick, Michael began to lose it. It, being his nerve for flying, and soon after he was grounded. He suffered the jibes from the other men in the troop, Susan started to see someone else and Michael found them in bed together.

Susan became pregnant and that was the end of it. Michael had to leave the Army and now works in security in New York State. Mom stopped contacting me when I moved first time and I changed my name'.

'Is Dad still alive now'? I asked genuinely interested.

'Sure, but not well at all, he is nursed at home by Mom, he has very bad dementia, and is bed-bound really. Mom told me he just seemed to give up'.

'Does your husband still keep in contact'? I asked

'Oh Howard has been very good through all this, and has paid for the moves and the houses. We of course divorced, and he is living just outside Oxford.'

I wanted to know more but she was shaking again. It was pitch black outside and it felt good to see some lights on in the houses across the street. There wasn't anything to do other than just sit and wait to go to bed. I had seen a television in the kitchen but it had been smashed and pushed onto the floor, God knows what she did all day I thought, but I knew what she did, drink eat, and mess herself. I tidied the kitchen things and showered; when I came down I prepared her medicine. We thought it best she should continue to take a sleeping pill as well as all the others. I covered her up on the sofa keeping the ice-cube bag on her face as I thought it might help to reduce the bruising during the night, then started for the stairs

'You won't go will you? don't go please' she said as I stepped up,

'No, not yet, goodnight' then went to bed.

###

## Day two

I changed the sheets starting in the front bedroom, this was by far the sunniest in the house. The room had been over-decorated for my taste; flora wallpaper, gaudy picture and dado rail, a textured ceiling with the windows heavily draped, blocking the sunrise and morning light. I rectified this by pulling the heavy curtains back off the window to let the sun through. It was felt gratifying as I threw the dirty nylon bed sheet onto the floor ready for the wash, then making the bed with the wonderful new cotton sheets I bought in the mall. Lifting the double sheet high above my head and watching it billow slowly down concealing the taint of yesterday. Is there anything more satisfying than having the window open letting in the warm fresh air and the promise of new sheets later that night?

The pictures on the walls were those of rented accommodation. They showed an overly pretty cottage garden, soft pastel colours reducing the garden to a vulgar hazy blur. The bed I had slept in the bed the night before smelt of BO, drink and sick. The sheets were greasy and damp. It was now Wednesday morning, and looking out at the houses across the road gave me the impression of a film set. One of those fake cowboy main-street sets of a picture of houses propped up at the back with a stick. No one appeared to go in or out of the houses. I had been up in the front bedroom from early this morning and no one went to work. The street all so clean and tidy, no dogs nor their mess, no postmen or dustbin men blocking the street with the cart.

I felt I could clean all day as I felt so well. I had not been a 'sickly' child but had to see the doctor every so often due to my asthma. I have had to carry an inhaler since they first came out years ago, yet hardly using it during the summer.

Since I had been in Arizona I hadn't used the inhaler at all, except when I landed as a Marker of routine. I'm not sure what the feeling was, it's like there was less gravity there, therefore I felt less sluggish and didn't have the feeling of wearing neither concrete shoes, nor having asbestos in my chest. My energy levels were up, but not in some manic way in response to my stresses here, but a nice lift in spirit and increased stamina. My light slacks I packed for the trip were beginning to slip down as I constantly yanked them up as I worked.

I looked back at the cleaned bedroom, window open, consenting the warm breeze to flow around the room. The bathroom was next-door; now clean and fresh, well stocked up with toiletries and smelling, as it should with that mixture of shower/bath gel, shampoo and conditioner. Everything was bright, light, and fresh with fluffy tubby lemon coloured towels. I looked in the spare bedroom, where there where boxes of stuff there containing God knows what, but I did see a little children's chairs and some toys.

'The coffee is on' called Lesley as I waddle down the stairs carrying the washing.

'OK won't be long' I call pushing the bedclothes in the machine, then we sit down to coffee. Her face is of course heavily bruised; the nose is at a strange angle but unbroken.

'My goal today is to clean all the back windows and clean out the kitchen draws and reorganise then into a more ergonomic way'

She says this with a smile showing through her fat swollen lips. I pore her some more coffee

'Well, don't over do it, your wrists may open'.

'Oh I enjoy it, no really I do. I used to enjoy cleaning windows when I was small. I used to clean them with my Dad, he would do the outside and I the in. he would make funny faces...' I smiled and thought about lunch;

'Do you think you could stomach chicken salad again?' it's all we have until I go to the shops'.

She gave me that look again; 'when are you going out? You will leave something here, just so I know...'

'Yes' I said watching her grip the coffee mug.

'I will leave the bag, but you know what I said?'

'Sure OK' she sighed relaxing back into her chair'.

The agreement was I would stay until the end of the week, then I would arrange for her Key-worker to call in. I didn't really care what she thought, but Lesley said that she would say she got drunk and was beaten up outside the house. Becky and Joyce had got me thinking; I was in two minds whether to go to the Softball match. It was strange, I could not think of a reason not to go.

Leaving Lesley while I went to the shops would be a risk; food and drink would be the harder to resist. She told me she would order at least two bottles of wine each day from the store and somehow they would empty throughout the day and night. She would take her first drink as soon as she would wake up, wherever she had past out the night before. While cleaning up in the kitchen I found some wine bottles squired away around the house. Hidden behind curtains, under chairs, quite who she was hiding them from I couldn't imagine as no one seemed to come here, perhaps herself. During our coffee break I asked Lesley if she wanted me to dispose of the drink.

'I do' she answered then added; 'it dulled the thoughts away'.

'Well then' I snapped, 'you will have to think about it everyday as I do, won't you?' She seemed slapped.

'After lunch I will change your bed then I will go to the shops, I would like to finish upstairs then I will know it's done. If you can think of anything you will need just let me know so your will be stocked up when I go.'

I had pored all the wine down the sink and created a huge collection of cheap wine bottles that I hoped to dispose of at some form of bottle bank. The Mattress on Lesley's bed really needed burning but I turned it over to hid the larger stains. I could change the Mattrress with the one in the front room or she could move in there, the smell alone could choke you.

Taking the prescriptions that the hospital had given Lesley and promising to buy her a dress of some sort I drove back to Wal-mart. Of course the girls were not collecting for softball that day. I knew that they wouldn't, but felt flat not to see them. The shop was busy, I wanted to get everything so I did not have to go back again, I'd had enough of shopping. I found a couple of dresses for Lesley, one orange and the other black. One extreme to the other I thought as a friendly voice called out to me.

'Can't leave us alone can you?' Laughed a young man who had helped me with the packing last time I came.

'You keeping well mam?' he smiled 'Yes very well thank you'

'Ok, have a nice day'. I did like it out there, I knew that people joked about the Americans saying things like that, but it felt nice when you are far from home, and lets face it he didn't have to say it. He wasn't going to get a rise or anything, but it did make me buy more, as I had a little spring in my step. I felt anew, that something had passed and I could move on. I still held on to a lot of things, things that I was freighted to let go of; Emma's smiling face, her kindness, yet I felt guilty of wanting to let the bad go. The memory of telling her about her hands, her death, I carried these thoughts with me all the time. I felt that I was betraying her by moving on; I believed I would, and should, feel bad forever, yet today, some dark cloud had lifted. Now I had to decide if I could forgive Lesley, and if I did, would that mean I had sold Emma short? I only knew that this felt right, I could kick myself for being stupid when I got home.

I bought some clothes for myself as well, just some cheap things to keep me going, underwear, tops and so forth. The cart was beginning to fill; food clothes newspapers and a small radio. I paid for the goods then hesitated by the door as I walked out hoping inside me that they would be there. It worried me that I was looking for an Emma substitute, but reasoned that if I was aware of this, it was not that serious. Therefore I would not start kidnapping teenage girls at gunpoint, and make them paint in the garage.

Lesley was pleased with the dresses, holding them up in the air like a little girl going to a party;

'I will keep the black one for best' she said to herself as she went upstairs to change, unable to wait any longer.

'Where will you go when you leave, will you go back home, do you still live near London'? She asked all these questions sitting at the kitchen table, the orange dress giving the wall a hazy sunny tint.

'I was going to fly out to Emma's agent out in Texas, did you know her art had taken off, selling most out here you know, adverts and the like, she had a good future, there was a job waiting for her but...'I felt my stomach churning,

'This is what it is all about; the waste of it all, that's why I hit you, she had so much to give, her whole life in front of her, and what a life she would have had'.

The tears came easy now, I sat looking away from her, thankful that Lesley stayed silent. 'Can you understand that'? I asked spluttered.

'I understand and think of nothing else'. She answered simply.

'Anyway, I will go home I need to sort some things out back there'.

I didn't want to go into Rick, but work and everything else that I had been putting off until I met this woman was still there.

Everything had been put on hold until this meeting, now it all looked so different, not as I had expected it to be at all. Not better, not worse, but further on and freer, yet I was tired and wanted to go home. I was not in the right frame of mind to sort out Emma's contract I would contact De-Hems and put off the meeting. Sorting this out was much more important right now.

'And what will you do when I have gone'

I asked pulling myself together and drying my eyes. She looked at me sheepishly, so I added; 'well after you have killed yourself that is?'

She laughed, making me smile.

'With your blessing I would like to do something useful. I will never be able to set foot in any hospital again, well not to work anyway. I would love to nurse again but that will never happen with what I have done. Right now, my goal is to give up the drink, then wean myself off the drugs and the food. I want to help mom, help Michael, tell them I'm sorry, show them I am sorry, but I feel that by staying away is the best thing I can do for them at the moment. I want to help you, I would like to earn your forgiveness for my wrongdoing'.

Around 6.30 in the evening, we sat in the shadow of the front of the house, as it was cooler and comfortable. We sat watching the neighbours not come home from work

'Tell me who you are' I asked her.

'Sure' she said, 'but there's not much to tell' she smiled; the lips still discoloured but less swollen.

'I will Helen, but can I ask you something'? Go on then' I said

'Can I make you dinner first? Please, I would be honoured to make dinner for you, just something simple like pasta, please'.

It was almost a plea. 'Are you well enough'? I asked her.

'It would make me well'

She giggled, taking my hand spontaneously, then dropping it when she realised she had over stepped the mark. I could see then, even through the bruised face, the massive body and addiction, why her husband had loved her. Why the judge had felt sorry for her; that innocence, the child-like enthusiasm caught hold of you.

'Alright just tonight' I answered unable to look at her. As if twelve stone lighter, she sprang from the chair waddling towards the kitchen calling; is 7.30 too early'?

'No, it's fine' I called. 'Ok take it easy'. I could here the pots and pans being organised, bowls and cutlery being set out. 'Do you want some help'? I called.

'No no no, this is my treat, please relax, I want to do this'.

It was drive-time on the radio, competitions and 'phone ins' littered the airways. It was fun to listen to the people phone into the country station and win a CD by some unknown Western singer. There were traffic reports and sports, of which I was pleased to hear them mention the softball results, I decided I would go to see Becky and Joyce there and then.

'So what' I thought, it would be nice to get out and see them again before I went home. At 7.15 the singing stopped and the kitchen went quiet. At 7.30 I was called into the kitchen where the smiling host wearing the black dress, invited me to sit down.

'I couldn't do the zipper right the way up but that's another goal' said Lesley pretending to write an invisible list on her hand. The table laid for two, candles flicked and the food smelted wholesome and comforting.

We spoke about her growing up in Kansas that seemed ostensibly, to be idyllic. The Father, the centre of a small community. Her mother, the paragon of voluntary work, a busy doctors wife who still had the time to bring up two beautiful children. The only blip to spoil the Norman Rockwell painting was Michael joining the Army.

'There were hopes that he would follow his father into medicine, but Michael had loved flying and with a friend they enlisted' enthused Lesley serving the pasta.

'He saw action in the first Gulf war and was decorated' she said proudly.

Apparently it was not seen as an act of rebellion on Michael's behalf, just a disappointment he did not follow his father, so Lesley did the decent thing and became a nurse.

'I trained in Texas but could fly home every month or so. Mom and dad would fly down to see me and we would all go out for wonderful meals. I met my first real boyfriend Reeves while training and that gave me some stability as a student. He lived just outside London like you, but on the other side in Plumstead. Reeves was a Feeding Pump rep, you know, making money and seeing the world at the same time. He would travel everywhere and I would miss him. When I graduated it was time to decide what I wanted to do with my training. There was talk of working with my father, even joining the Army at one point, as Michael made it out to be so wonderful, but I was smitten with Reeves and London was somewhere I always wanted to visit.

'It was so funny, flying back from Texas to Kansas. The pilot, once we wee up in the sky did the talk of flying time and stuff, made an announcement;

'We have been told we have a very cleaver young lady on board, as she has just graduated in her nursing finals. She is flying home to proud parents John and Anna, lets have a big hand for Lesley in seat 23 C'

By the look on Lesley's face telling the story word for word, she was still up in the clouds lost in love and innocence with the promise of happiness, glowing in the pride of her parents.

'London was a shock, cold, hard and difficult. The other nurses resented us from outside the UK, even though there was a staff shortage. I liked the work but the Whittington Hospital you know, is in a tough part of town, there were lots of violence towards the staff, and just about anyone else outside a pub at closing time. I lived in the nursing home for a while before sharing a flat near Archway; you know that high bridge that everyone jumps from? Well, we had people coming in from there, not quite dead, it was a tough job.

'I shared with a couple of other nurses but found them to be trouble; always drinking, God listen to me now, I've probably drank more than them both in the last year, than they did in their whole lives. They liked to party hard, too hard for me; they thought me a bore for not doing it. It just wasn't me. I moved back to the hospital for a while but it was just as bad there, I needed to do something. I had still been seeing Reeves all this time but he seemed to be travelling more and more. This got me down and with everything else that was going on I finished with him and London'.

She talked and talked, refilling my plate with pasta and poring me bottled water, she continued

'As soon as I moved to Oxford I felt at home. I missed Reeves and wrote to him a few times but he didn't write back. I found a flat-share with Christine, a young teacher who, like me, was contented to stay in. At weekends she would go home to her folks in Scotland, or help at the church. I am not a prude, but I liked it that way. We lived in the middle of town in a beautiful flat owned by Christine's father. We could walk everywhere, no need for cars or anything. I helped at the church every so often but I mostly enjoyed the quiet and just being in the City. I made friends there and would go to some lovely dinner parties; at one of these I met Julian, tall, blond and handsome. He was now an junior Orthopaedic surgeon working at the Radcliff. He was charming and swept me off my feet. He pursued me, I couldn't wait to tell mom and dad I was getting married to such a man'.

Lesley stopped there, stopped smiling and stared for a moment into the distance.

I broke the spell by saying I would wash up, telling her

'You have done enough' she looked up at me then smiled;

'No, no you are my guest' we pretended to argue then I said;

'Ok, I will wash, you dry' this appeased her, so we got on with it.

It didn't take long as Lesley had kept everything tidy as she had cooked rather than piling up a mess that had to be cleaned up later. I liked this, I did the same, we were alike in many ways, but I couldn't accept this. She was practical and pragmatic and organised, wonderful qualities in my book. I had always believed she got by on her looks, when she had them, but I now felt that she would have got on well, perhaps better without them. She insisted I sit down and have a coffee. It was dark now, with a lovely clear starry sky, I could see from the open door.

'There's a couple of chairs out back' she said 'we could sit there awhile-the breeze is nice'.

The view was beautiful; sky was dark blue, filled with stars. The hills and mountains black and mysterious toped with a soft hue that edged the night. There were two white plastic chairs and a wobbly matching table. It was dusty from lack of use.

'I've' never really been out here' smiled Lesley carrying the tray of coffee, she was shaking.

'Are you alright'? I asked, thinking it must be withdrawal. She forced a smile.

'I'll be fine' she said 'the coffee will help'.

'Why didn't you come out here it's wonderful' I said sweeping my arm at the distance.

'I'm not so good at open spaces anymore, but if I sit with my back to the wall I will feel safe', then added; 'being with you makes me feel safe, thank you. That's why I called out for food and things, I can't go out to the store; I have lost my confidence about going out.

'Don't be so silly' I barked a little too harshly. The old Helen popping her head through, then added softly;

'You have the rest of your life, how are you going to get along when I go? You have been in hospital, at deaths door, victim of a fight (it was the only way I could put it) and no one, but no one, has come to see you, not even your Key-worker. You can't just sit in here there, look at what you are missing, come on lets walk through the garden, come on lets start today'.

Looking at me quizzically, she smiled.

'Haven't you guys heard of therapy?' She laughed

'In this country we would have had to undergone months of counselling to get over something like this'

I laughed too; 'I've done my therapy bit, and it does help, but at the end of the day you have to decide for yourself if you want to get better, then think a different way. You have made your mind up to believe you can't go out, but look at the progress that's been made already. Did you think this time last week that you would have given up drinking, cleaned your house, chose a better life-style and walked out into the garden? No! I know it's hard but you have to let go of the therapist's hand at some stage, and once you have done it once, you know you can do it again. Look at that meal you made this evening, how nice you look in your new dress...' I decided to stop.

She lightened the moment;

'Did you ever drill soldiers in the army? It made me smile despite myself;

'Well you had better stand to attention then' I laughed.

She stood up; the plastic chair still wedged to her bottom which I pretended not to notice, then into the darkness went Laurel and Hardy.

The garden was around fifty foot wide and about 150 foot long. It was surrounded by a six foot high fence that looked in the darkness either to be wood panel painted white or some form of plastic made out to look like timber. Once off the patio we crunched the shingle that had been laid. It covered the whole of the garden, white stone chips that gave an appearance of snow. Lesley held my arm tight as we ventured out into the night. The light from the house and our eyes becoming adjusted to the night, allowed us to make out shooting green plants with sharp looking pointed leaves. Clumps of cactus surrounded by fountains of dark green fusing desert grass.

'Well someone must have put all this here' I said to Lesley.

'I think the real estate company did all this' she replied 'or perhaps the previous people who rented out the house. Julian paid for all this and got it sorted out with Mom and Michael, the police and my key-worker, had a say as well. To be honest I didn't know what was going on when I moved here. I was so out of it on medication I just went along with it all, and was dam pleased with whatever I got'.

There was a lovely breeze, the stars were out, and looking back at the house it appeared charming and homely. The kitchen lit up, looked inviting, even the little patio with the plastic chairs waited for our return.

'I don't like these plants, what do you think?' She asked as we bumped into another island of cactus in the ocean of shingle.

'No, I'm not keen either, it may look better in the daylight but it doesn't feel right' I said, not really sure why I didn't like it, but it reminded me of something Emma had told me.

'Do you know what my daughter would have to say about vague feelings?' Saying this to Lesley felt natural yet strangely candid, it felt right taking to her this way, as if showing off Emma to a friend at any excuse, but she had killed her, yet it felt too late to go back now.

'I know it sound callous, but I would love to hear what she said, would love to know more about her'.

'Maybe in time' I said, a little coldly.

'Anyway, she would say these things about art. You know when people say 'what is art?' etc. You see I had to ask her because I haven't a clue about any of it. 'First' she would say; 'if you like it, its right, don't worry what others say, go with your gut feelings, and don't confuse art and craft. Just because something has been painted and framed it does not mean it is art. The audience makes the art not the picture. 'Art' she would say; 'is difficult to describe but easy to recognise'. She was so witty that way, but it would drive me mad because I wasn't sure what she meant. I think this place is a back yard rather than a garden'.

Lesley held my arm tighter now.

'She was an art student wasn't she?' Lesley asked quietly.

'A photographer, a very good one...' I answered, this made me feel uncomfortable, so moved on;

'What is it you don't you like about the yard?'

'Oh I don't know, it seems very set and enclosed with this fence. Its like they have enclosed a piece of the desert and locked the rest out, oh I'm being silly aren't I? She laughed, but began to tremble.

I had forgotten about her withdrawal. It annoyed me that it had returned, annoyed me that she had got like this and it was all taking so long, but even I realised it would take months even years to come off all the rubbish she was addicted to. I walked her in to the front sitting room and gave her a drink of water and her night time tablets. She was sweating, her armpits and back were soaked, I wondered perhaps a little callously, if it would stain the dress with a white mark.

After a while she regained her composure. I had sat with her while she shook on the chair holding a towel close to her then wiping her face as the sweat pored down her face. The tablets must have started working or it ended naturally I can't be sure, as she squeezed my hand and said 'thank you' 'you just relax a while' I replied.

'It's your last full day tomorrow, when do you return home?' She said,

I could see she was worried, the anxiety showing on the tension in her hands strangling the wet towel.

'Don't start worrying about things like that, I will contact your key-worker and have her come over on Saturday after I leave. I will sort out some things then fly Monday, if possible, I know there is a flight and I would have thought I could get a seat this time of year, don't worry. Her grip on the towel lessened,

'I will miss you' she said beginning to doze off.

She looked younger now, as she lay with her head back to one side drifting off to medication land. Perhaps some of the stain, fear, and the massive guilt she carried that mirrored her weight had now begun to dissolve. It worried me I had given away too much, been too forgiving, and open but I felt different now, felt lighter and free, like those days with Emma when she asked me for help. I had to let go, let her show me how to stop controlling the situation, as I had for so long. I suppose I didn't want her to be able to show or teach me anything, maybe I thought it was weakness of my behalf. Then, when I let go, that vice-like white-knuckle grip, loosen off millimetre by millimetre. Yet to my surprise, nothing happened, the roof didn't fall in, nor did Emma or anyone else take advantage of me in fact so much good emerged. I was some way off total forgiveness, but not far from lifting the black veil from my face. I felt deep inside me, a change, perhaps recovery, but I was tired, tired of it all, I needed to go home.

Lesley was snoring now, so I walked back to the garden picking up one of the plastic chairs, and walked down the shingle. I stood the chair against the fence at bottom of the garden and looked over the boundary fence. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, the magical hidden view behind the fence was all mine. The desert there is not all sand, but a rich scrubby land filled with spiky, tough vegetation, spreading out for miles and miles into the dark distance. Silhouettes of strange cactus forms black in the darkness peppered the landscape. These mysterious characters cooling off from the heat packed daytime. The mountains far off revealing a few twinkling lights, it was glorious. The fence panel on which I leaned was like a dam holding in a small stagnant lake.

## HIGH HITTERS, HIGH HITTERS YEAH YEAH YEAH

I woke next day feeling I was late for something. Usually I wake at each day at 6am, but to my horror it was 8. I could sleep better as my chest didn't keep my awake as I shifted around so I could breath easier or sit up to relive the tightness. It was Friday and my last full day with Lesley and in this house. I needed to go home, I seemed to have been away so long but it was only three weeks and yet so much had happened. I knew I was due to visit De-Hems about Emma's work but it was really only a polite social visit. I felt I could contact him and discuss any important issues with him on the phone, I was tired and didn't really want to fly to Texas, well I did, but not now. Work and getting back to the flat was what I craved. I didn't really have the answers to the questions I wanted, and in my worst moments of doubt, I still could not be sure of her, or the crash. The nagging worry in my head always was that she was manipulating me. Other times I felt that I should recognise what progress I had made move on. Even being able to sleep later made me feel positive, and ready to pack.

'I've had some toast, would you like some'? She asked looking like an advert for battered wives charity.

I sat at the table in the kitchen, every day the house was slowly but surly returning to what it must have been like before hurricane Lesley blew in and trashed the place. She must have been cleaning this morning, as everything was tidy and smelling Wal-Mart 'lemon-fresh'.

'How are you today'? I asked both of us knowing that this was a euphemism for 'do you feel like drinking'?

She knew what I was talking about.

'Fine, it feels like something is missing when I woke up, and a little nauseous, but I can remember the night before, which is something I am not used to, it's wonderful. I feel like doing so much, I really do...'

She stopped and looked at me.

'It's you; it's all your help, thank you. I don't want you to go, I know you must but I want you to stay'.

'You will be fine' I ventured, putting a cheerful note in my voice,

'Your link-worker will come tomorrow, remind me to call her'.

'Are you coming to that soft-ball match tonight' I asked, 'it would do you good'

'No' she said, pulling back,

'I couldn't go looking like this, no you go please, they seem nice kids, not like this'.

In just these few days I had known her, I had begun to look past the largeness, but obviously she was waking up to the shock of it. How she got from the perfection of natural beauty to this, I had no idea. Perhaps she didn't either, but pounds of chocolate, endless fast food, and cases of wine don't help a girl complexion

'Is it your face?' I asked, realising that it may be the discoloured bruised face that caused her to stay home.

'No, it's this' she said patting her tummy and thighs.

'The bruising, I'm not ashamed of, but look at me, where have I gone?'

'It will go' I said 'you look better already, I will get you a new dress today if you like, tell me what you want food-wise, and if there is any clothes or things I can get for you'. She looked nervous at my going out, so I added;

'We can have a nice lunch and relax this afternoon, I wont be long'.

'Anything that is low in fat, and another dress please, that's all, thank you'.

Everything at the store seemed to have some sort of dietary spin to it; low-carb, low fat, lowers blood pressure, added vitamins I bought another black dress for Lesley, as I didn't want to go to the mall, in spite of the fact that it was only 25 miles away (everything you want in America feels like it is only 25 miles away). The shopping was beginning to feel like a chore and I wanted out. Once back home, (home?) I carried the shopping in and there on the table was a huge bouquet of flowers.

Becky had given me good simple directions and soon found the highway turn off and saw the signs for 'Desert View High'. I was directed to the car park at the side of the tall Yellowstone faceless building. It was four stories high with concrete steps leading up to the front glass doors. A young girl came over to the car

'Good evening mam, are you home or visitors?'

She was wearing a red nylon sports tee-shirt with 'HIGH HITTER HIGH' printed in large white letters.

'Oh, home side' I said then added

'I've come to see Becky and Joyce do you know them?' The girl laughed, 'park your car over there Mam those girls and ready and waitin'

The pitch was flood-lit with wire fencing all around it. Chairs had been placed around three sides of the square (diamond) two deep and were already filled with people shouting and holding teddy bears dressed with either red or yellow clothes. Behind the hitting area there was large covered stand with thirty rows of seats-mostly taken banking up into a covered terrace. It began to dawn on me that I had made a mistake in coming, I didn't know these people, then reasoned that it was good to be out and I could go at half time-if there was one. As I looked for Becky and Joyce amongst the teams sitting on the benches either side of the hitting area, I felt someone pulling my arm.

'Excuse me mam'

I turned and saw I woman in her forties, round metal glasses, brown hair cut into a Bob, dressed in 'High Hitters Mom' white tee-shirt' she let go of my arm and smiled;

'Are you a friend of Rebecca Nelson'? She saw the bewilderment on my face so asked; 'Becky, that young girl over there waving like a church bell'

I looked over, Becky and Joyce waving with both arms, then Becky doing the thumbs up sign to the lady next to me.

'Becky said I could come and watch tonight'

The woman gave a kind loving smile

'You are very welcome; I am Rebecca's mother, Brenda. She has told me all about you'

Quite what Becky or 'Rebecca' had said I wasn't sure, but Brenda seemed kind enough, she led me around the pitch and up the steps in the stand.

'We have saved you a special seat with us up here; you should have a good view. I suppose Rebecca told you it's a semi-final match, we are playing San Manuel Phoenix Garrrd, a good team, bit rough and ready, but the girls have been training hard, oh this is my husband'.

We arrived at the seat after much excuse-me's through a row of people high in the stand. A well-fed man in his mid-forties stood up and smiled a welcome to me holding out his hand

'Very glad you could come, it means a lot to Becky, ignoring his wife's scowl at the abbreviation.

'This is my husband Stephen, and this is Helen' said Brenda showing me to my seat between the couple.

'Rebecca told us you were very encouraging and generous, I hope she didn't annoy you, she is very keen...We are not to happy with the girls collecting from the store but it's sort of a long tradition, been going five years now and coach thinks it gives them character'.

'Not at all it was nothing really' I smiled, 'I was pleased to be asked.'

'Used to raise money the old way' said Stephen smiling 'tumbleweed letters, you familiar with that?'

I had to admit I wasn't

'They don't do it so much round these parts but over Western Tucson, it's quite popular. Each kid or family would buy a tumbleweed and put a letter in and let the wind take it. We got letters back from Northern New Mexico. We kinda stopped it when people started cheating. One guy said that he got his letter back from southern New Mexico, but man, it would have had to cross a couple of rivers' he shock his head laughing

'We gave him a prize anyway for tenacity.'

'You familiar with High-School softball?'

Asked Stephen, slight sweat-patches showing under his neatly pressed short-sleeved yellow checked shirt. He explained the basic rules and the game started, Manuel were batting first, they looked good. Even I could tell they were much more focused, better trained and practiced, as they whacked the ball around the pitch.

When there was a break in play, I looked around at the school, there seemed to be so much space. The school was in fact a large L shape with the football field filling the angle of the L, the softball pitch and car park over to the side of the building. The far off lights showed there was some housing in the distance but otherwise there was nothing else just the remote hills and the blue/black sky. I could see Joyce bowling, she had a determined look on her face, people were calling out; 'pitch high girl, easy goes' The High-Hitters looked a year or two younger than their opposition and soon it was their turn in. After much shouting and running from her team-mates it was time for Becky to bat. Dressed in the red shirt and white leggings of the home team she did quite well. Stephen shouted at her when she hit the ball and started running 'go girl, run'. I could see Brenda's hands clutched tight, white-knuckle bone peaking, though she stayed glued to her seat. The High-Hitters were not doing well; they seemed to be batting well but getting stumped out when running to the posts. The home crowd became noisier, and when the last 'Hitter' was run out even Brenda stood up and shouted; 'Dear Lord'. It was all over, Manuel were through, the Hitters out.

Stephen tried to retain some semblance of calm;

'Just not good enough, just didn't have it' he said shaking his well-groomed head as we filed down the isles. Brenda walked down the steps ashen faced and silent watching her daughter running towards her, Becky was crying. She held on to her mother sobbing on her shoulder, Joyce standing beside her friend hand on her shoulder.

'I told her it wasn't her fault, she played well'. But Becky could not be consoled. Stephen, Joyce and me, stood while Brenda patted her daughter's back while she bawled. As expected, her eyes were that of a panda bear, all dignity and makeup smudged all over her face.

She turned to me; 'I am so sorry', then turned to her mother sobbing harder than ever. A little later we walked back towards the school building.

'You will stay for a bite to eat won't you'? Asked Brenda, you would be most welcome'.

She wore what was a unofficial uniform for most of the Moms there; white sleeveless cotton shirt with a turned up collar. Fitted scrubbed clean slightly faded jeans threaded with a thin leather brown belt. On her feet, glowing white sports socks and snowy white trainers. There was another version to this look; kaki shorts instead of the jeans that most of the larger Moms wore. Several of the women had highlighted hair, either swept into a pony-tail or held back with an decorated Alice- band. They looked smart though, the men well fed and relaxed with themselves.

'Can I help you, I would like to help'.

I was born to help at school sports days, organising the men to take out the chairs, brewing up a large urn of tea. Biscuits on a plate (not too sugary we don't want too many tantrums), orange squash in a large plastic jug. I knew how to do this, it was universal the world over; three cheers for the winning house and a clap for the helpers.

'That would be most kind' smiled Brenda knowing now I understood the way of things.

There was a large patio just outside the open French doors of the school building. The men were setting up some tables and chairs, and us women went into the building to bring out the food. Some moms had been busy cooking during the game, as the hotdogs and hamburgers were ready to eat.

'She takes it all so seriously, it's a shame they lost, it's the first time they have gotten this far' said Brenda unwrapping the cling-film from the bread rolls.

'She's a nice girl' I ventured.

'Yes, she's a good girl' she said giving me bowls of salad to take out.

The 'Dads' had put a large table at the side of the patio where we laid the salad, bread and drinks. After setting out the food we sat down at a table decorated with red ribbon. Stephen came to join us asking me how I came to be in this part of town.

'Not many outsiders come out this far from Tucson'

I told them I was visiting a friend from England who had settled here, and I was due back in England soon. I asked what he did for a living.

'Oh like a lot of people who came to this area I was involved in the Copper business, you know, the mining companies, mostly gone now though. My background was in engineering, oil and gas mostly. Then came here about 1980 as the money was good and seemed the place to be. As I said mostly all gone now, can get copper cheaper elsewhere these days'

He lent back in the chair and continued

'Now though, I'm still in the copper trade but it's conductor boards people want now, computers and the like, don't need the big conducing rods so much as they used to. When the big mining stuff went, county gave some grants to people to start businesses and I was lucky enough to go into the circuit-board business. Sounds old fashioned now don't it? With all the microchips and all, but you still need circuit boards- thank the Lord' he adding laughing.

'Do you mind me asking if you have a family Helen, you seem to get along with the girls just fine'? Asked Brenda in a most serious tone.

I was not sure if I wanted to share Emma with her, but they seemed so nice and friendly, furthermore the candour was catching.

'I lost my daughter about six months ago' then added 'in a road traffic accident' before she asked, as everyone seemed to.

'Did you hear that Stephen'? Brenda called out a shade too loudly.

'Helen lost her daughter'. Stephen turned round from waving to a friend across the patio.

'I'm sorry to hear that Helen, that is a real tragedy' they looked at each other for a moment.

'May God bless you and your loss' Whispered Brenda patting my hand. They looked at each other again, then Stephen nodded to his wife.

'We lost our son Patrick, three years this fall. He had a congenital heart condition since birth. There was talk of a transplant but there were other complications and it was never done, considered too dangerous by the doctors. He was born with the aliment and I think that Rebecca has had a tough time of it, my long trips away at the hospital and all. We try to provide her with as much quality time as we can, not that we spoil her but...'

Brenda's voice trailed off. I could see she was becoming tearful. Stephen stepped in; 'He was a great kid though, tough as nails and loved life'.

Stephen laughed; 'He may have been small for his age but he could rough it like any other ten year old'. Brenda recovered a little,

'The church has helped us as a family and our minister Reverent Seger saw us through a time when we needed him and the Lord most'.

We sat in silence for a while, all of us able to think what to say, deadlocked in death. Stephen to the rescue; 'I have a picture'

From the wallet she showed me a thin fail looking boy wearing a basketball shirt that only served to emphasise his emaciated body. He had dark curly untidy hair, perhaps I thought, like his mothers' before she blow-dried it. Stephen looked like Becky; fair skinned and ready to smile yet sensitive with it.

'How old was you daughter Helen'? asked Brenda in a way that looked patronising in it's sincerity, but she was serious. '20 when she was knocked down and 21 when she died. She was in hospital for a year then she just died, her heart gave out'.

They asked some more about Emma; what she was like, her interests and education her photography, the agency interest in her French photos.

'She sounds like a delightful young lady, Rebecca likes art she very creative, isn't she Steve'?

'Oh very artistic, very cleaver' replied Steve glowing in pride.

The girls came over to the table, it seemed that Becky had gotten over the defeat, as she was laughing with Joyce.

'Can Joyce stay for a sleep-over'? Said Becky, fluttering her eyes at Daddy.

'If your homework has been done young lady' said Brenda in a semi mock warning.

'I can do it Sunday' then turning to Stephen 'can't I Daddy?'

He looked embarrassed, finally saying 'OK, if your mother says so'

Brenda nodded curtly at her daughter, it was settled.

'How's your mother Joyce?' asked Stephen kindly, he had a nice way about him, and Joyce lit up when she spoke to him.

'Working hard, but OK really, we going to see aunt Rita next weekend, you know down in Vine, Rita been poorly'.

She turned to me politely asking 'Did you enjoy the game'?

'Very much so, I think you were good enough to be in the final, and I think you have the potential of a winning team'

'Hear that Becky? Lady said we can do it next time, so it's Ok now, you hear?'

Becky nodded, 'I just get upset when I lose, that's all, nobody likes to lose, do they Dad'?

'Not you honey' laughed the dotting Dad.

The conversation turned to England, with Stephen telling he had worked there for a few weeks when North Sea Oil was running, laughing how cold Scotland was. Becky asked about Harry Potter and some pop groups I had never heard of making me felt very old. The girls thanked me for coming and for the donation and they were gone.

'We let her get away with more than we perhaps should' said Brenda with a slight twitch. 'When Patrick passed away we focused our love on Becky and maybe she's a little precocious.

'Joyce seems a nice girl' I said as the conversation was getting a little maudlin.

'Joyce has been a great friend to Rebecca' said Brenda cheering up.

'She has had a tough time. Her mother raised her by herself when her husband went off with another woman. She has held down a steady job and cared for Joyce and her elder sister Joan very well. She loves the Lord and is a decent Christian woman'.

'She keeps Becky's feet on the ground' laughed Stephen.

'When Patrick passed away, we wanted to do something in his memory, some college trust, and thought that we could help Joyce but her mother would have none of it, she thanked us kindly but said that God would provide and so far he has, she's a wonderful woman'.

'Steve still puts Patrick's college fund away each month as well as money to the heart charity'

'Brenda' scolded Stephen, embarrassed at his wife's indiscretion.

'Well it's true, it's a good thing, he donated some seats to the stand here, we will find someone who needs it when the times right'.

Stephen laughed; 'I'm no angel, it's all tax free, we have got Becky sorted out, Lord only knows what she will do at college'.

Time was getting on so I made some getting ready to go body-language. Some of their friends stopped by to say 'Hi and goodbye' and Brenda introduced us. They all seemed like nice people, holding sports bags while their daughters giggled.

It was cooling down, I had had a lovely time, a little uncomfortable about talking so openly about money, but that's how it was and they seemed fine about it. It was the same when people started talking about God or 'The Lord' as they called him. Spoke so freely as if he was the bank manager or a relative. I always thought when people spoke like that, I would be handed a booklet and asked my views on heaven, but there it was different. They seemed to have a bond, something that didn't make them break up. Perhaps it was Becky or 'The Lord' maybe both, who could tell, but they were working things out, had a balance to the situation and making a jolly good go of it. We exchanged addresses, they were nice people, I promised that I would visit them when I came back. People were tiding up the patio and the lights had been turned off over the stadium, Brenda took in some plates. Stephen stopped me.

'You will come back now? I know Becky would love it, we have a spare room you can have-anytime now, you hear'?

'Can I be open with you'? I heard myself saying.

'Sure' he said then laughed 'I think so'.

'Does your donation have to be to an American child? It's just that, well I may know someone...'

He looked at me, wide smile on his face,

'Well dear God' he said as he looked to the sky, 'you have sent us someone to help, thank you. Now you let me know all about this when you get back safe and sound, so we can discuss it Helen' adding, 'praise be'.

'Will you give my love to the girls, I am very pleased they invited me here, it was wonderful to meet you both' I said walking towards the car.

'Likewise I'm sure' said Brenda, meaning it. 'You helped my daughter to keep going, she was a little down at the store that evening, and you came along and made her day. She worries about her weight and things, but girls do' she said with a sigh, then added ' I'm sorry Helen I am so thoughtless, talking of such things when you have lost your dear daughter'.

'Don't worry' I said, 'don't worry you haven't upset me, believe me, I'm fine with Emma, really'.

It was true, seeing the girls didn't bring me down; in fact I felt closer to Emma and loved her more. Something in the way the couple spoke helped me, perhaps it was the loss of their son, I don't know but I was Ok. They had lost their son and had moved on, yet hadn't forgotten him at all, I was learning. I went to shake Brenda's hand, but she took me off guard by pulling me close and hugging me;

'Don't forget us now, you take very good care and come back and see us' She seemed genuinely upset. Stephen shook my hand, not really saying anything, just nodding. I became a little choked myself, mumbling; I will come back, I will, thank you'.

It was a lovely dark drive back to the house; I actually looked forward to going there. Perhaps it was the quiet tranquillity that soothed my mind, I could think clearer there. Lesley was asleep on the kitchen table; head resting on her arms. It was only 10.45 but she was fast asleep, filled no doubt with tablets. There were flowers on the table with a note 'Thank you Helen'

This was not how things were planned, I was not meant to feel happy, the only sadness was that I was leaving, but I had to, had to get back to normality. I slept well and left early the next day, seen off by the killer of my daughter in floods of tears, waving from her front door in her orange dress. I would not return there for a year.

## Spring

When I returned from America I received a letter from Rick. He said he had now bought the place in Spain he had been after and that things were working out. He had bought an old farmhouse out in the dry desert area of Southern Spain. He said that he had purchased an old building that he hoped to convert into holiday accommodation; two things worried me about this. One, he was going to be living in Spain and I would be living in the UK. Two, I I loved him. We spoke on the phone, he telling me his ideas and how he would love me to come out and stay with him. It rankled me a little that he expected me to go out to him and me, give up my life, but he was so enthusiastic about it, I tried my best to understand. He had planned all this for years before I came on the scene, but I didn't want to move there, well not yet anyway. And there was one more thing; he wanted to rent the accommodation out to bikers.'

What? gangs of bikers turning up each weekend?' I asked him

'Helen' he said in his usual calm way, 'not gangs, motorcycle clubs, people like you and me who want to travel together and have somewhere they can park, and fix their bikes while they stay at the houses. Come out when you can, please, I miss you, you'll see it's OK'

I wasn't sure how I felt about Rick sometimes, I could go a couple of days without thinking of him then the phone would ring and I would be desperately disappointed it wasn't him. The tattoo thing didn't worry me any longer. I missed him, wanted to be with him but not like that; providing bed and breakfast to the Hells Angels. I promised to come out to see him at Christmas but that didn't work out, as there was another woman-sort of.

Two days before I was due to fly out to see Rick he called me. I had enjoyed searching for presents for him the weeks before Christmas. I would leave work at 5 then take the tube to Oxford Street hunting for gifts for him. He was tall and I was unsure of his clothes size. I would have liked to have been able to buy him something personal, but I was unsure and didn't want to buy the rude things that some of the girls at the office were buying for their boyfriends, nor the thick awful patterned pullovers that Kenneth would wear.

After weeks of looking I saw one of the office staff at the Christmas party wearing a watch I thought Rick would like. It was one of those pieces with a chunky stainless-steal band. The face had multiple winders on the side and little clock faces within clock faces on the front. What they were for, God only knows, and would he really be likely to down dive in water to a depth of 500 meters? The price was a shock, so I thought and thought about it for a minute or two, then bought it, I tried it on, it felt wonderful. I planned to give it to him after our Christmas lunch at the Spanish house, perhaps making love in front of the huge open fire he had to light to keep off the worst of the Spanish winter winds, but no, he called me and said his wife would be coming out for Christmas.

'She doesn't have anywhere else to go, she is very down and is not coping with Saffron very well. She doesn't have any real family anymore, and the ones she does have, are all as fed up as she is. She can sleep in the little house I have converted, so it will be just us.

'Think about it Helen, I really want you to stay' It sounded like he meant it, and at one point I said I would consider it, but when I did I said no.

'Look' I said 'I would like to see you, you know that, God I haven't seen you in months, it's nothing against Juliet, I know she is ill, but Christmas, why then?'

Of course I realised why she wanted to be there, I felt mean. I didn't want this to keep happening if we are to stay together, I was angry with him, but he was kind like that. He would let anyone stay with him and I could see Juliet living out in Spain forever. I was sad that I would be without him over Christmas. I would be spending the day with my sister and her family; my mother would be staying with them. I would go over for the day coming back to my flat alone for the first time. I didn't mind this; I had somehow come to terms with being alone, plus I could think about Emma without other well meaning distractions. But I did not want the motorcycle gangs and the soap opera that waited for me in Spain. I wanted the quiet life and yet it seemed not to be, sharing Rick with Spain and Juliet was going to be difficult. After all the fuss, Juliet did not arrive at Rick's place at Christmas, no reason why was forthcoming, I felt a fool.

During that busy few months of the new year I was happy and contented. Rick came back to England and stayed with me for a wonderful happy weekend. We would walk in the deep woods late of the day, stopping off for an early warming drink in one of the many country pubs dotted around the woodland. Rick would insist on cooking dinner and then that beautiful closeness. We did not talk about the motorbike business but he showed me the photographs of the progressing building work that looked stunning; the large red-roofed two-story farmhouse with flowers around the door. The farm buildings to the side which had a tall storage barn with traditional wooden window frames, and farmhouse doors that opened out onto a large patio square. It hurt to say goodbye to him on such unresolved feelings but I did love him and thought very seriously about moving out there with him. We rang each other every couple of days and agreed to meet just after Easter as he had a group (gang) of Dutch bikers staying at house during the holiday. The bikers had booked through the internet and had been attracted by Rick's research and information on motorcycle tours, which they called 'runs'. Furthermore the bikers liked to have somewhere to tinker with their machines, then store them safely with like-minded hosts.

He sounded tired, making beds and providing breakfast for his guests after staying up late talking bikes, and was beginning to tire him. At last my long weekend came and I flew to Malaga. Seeing Rick's face as I came through arrivals gave my heart a little skip. He looked great with his laid-back nature, standing upright and sturdy in his tall frame. His hair was longer, which suited him, but I felt any longer would be a mid-life crisis, visions of a grey ponytail appeared.

It was up in the 20's in Spain, giving a comfortable warm relaxing air, having left London with grey overcast skies and strong winds that made take-off from Gatwick just a little bit scary. We had tilted to one side on the way up then dropped what felt like miles, before gaining height, then levelled out above the clouds; upwards and onwards to the drinks- trolley.

I had studied Spanish, yet had never really visited the place. I had spent a few days here and there; Madrid and Barcelona, yet Brussels had came along and that was that. It wasn't too surprising to see how industrial the country had become as I had witnessed the regeneration and subsidy funding for Southern Spain when I worked for the European Community. What did surprise and please me was that the country, at least in this part, remained appealing. I liked the dusty farms, surrounded by rows of olives and almonds and the mountains and hills, covered with those strange harsh-looking pom-pom bushes. It was nice to be away, I was going to make the most of it.

Although he was jovial enough, Rick seemed distracted, and after a bit of digging from me, he came out with it.

'Juliet is back; I know I said she was away but she arrived the day before yesterday. She had taken Saffron out of school, drove to Portsmouth and got a ferry to Northern France and spent the last of her money on a train ticket, which got her as far as Southern France, she has been hitching for over a week. She is a bit high, her wild ideas for the place, paint the houses, each a different colour, bright colours she thinks will attract customers. She said she would like to set up an arts and therapy centre and invite some of the people she met in India over and put a ad in the Ham and High as she thinks it will hit the right demographic'.

He said all this with a tone of desperation; I sank lower and lower in my seat trying to recall if I noticed a flight back later that day.

'I told her that she should really go back, but she said that she doesn't have anyone and she is broke. I think she had stopped her medication that seems to be her pattern. Look, I said she could stay a few days and I would call her brother and get him to sort something out back home. I have managed to get her to take her tablets and things have levelled out a little. She is over in one of the guest rooms, she will not be anywhere near us'.

I sat in silence looking at the poly-tunnels and broken-down farmhouses dating back to Franco's rural exodus, I wanted to flee with them.

'Why is it Rick? Why does she keep coming back to you? Is it because you have not divorced her, I am finding it difficult to understand'

'I will divorce her, but at the moment I don't know what she will do, plus she's got Saffron to care for, Got Knows what the child thinks'

'She is using you Rick; I know that for sure, she is fully aware what's going on, she is manipulating the situation. Does she want to help herself? , that child with her, is going to have some big problems later on if she keeps on like this.'

We drove on in silent dread, the roads becoming progressively uneven and dusty. The countryside either side of the road fanned out giving superb views of the surrounding countryside, I didn't want to spoil our time together, but it felt as if Juliet had done this on purpose and it was unfair. I made an effort to lighten the mood.

'How's business? You must be a dab hand at the bed making now'

I said making him give that smile that always made me feel good.

'Oh you should see my nurses corners' he laughed, 'but there's a lot of work, too much really, there is just one couple at the moment from Belgium, doing the tour round to Portugal. I am already booked for the Paris Dakar Race at the end of the year. I never knew so many bikes followed the race, most trailing the riders right the way through to Africa.'

I should have been more interested, but Juliet had returned to my thoughts as we bumped along the track to the house. Once through the concrete gateposts I could see the house slightly hidden behind some tough looking trees that seemed they could survive drought, flood and Franco. The main house, now finished, looked even better in real life; the aged stone now re-pointed showing off the tasteful window frames and doors imbedded in the walls. To the side a long barn divided into three small giets, each with a front door and sweet wooden window. The far house contained Juliet, the one nearest to the house contained the Belgium's.

In front of both of the buildings, Rick had set out tables and chairs for eating and relaxing. There was a warm breeze that felt kind against my face and bare arms. The inside of the main house had been gutted to make it lighter, with a long living room painted with a soothing off white, the large French windows allowed in the wonderful sunny day. The new extension at the back gave wonderful views to the mountains. Everything was new, the kitchen, bathroom, furniture, and deep plump sofas in front of an open fire set the scene for an idea rural retreat. That is, apart from the other people there staying at the end house.

'It's beautiful Rick, I'm shocked how nice it is, not that I didn't think it would be nice, wonderful really wonderful'.

He showed me around outside. Behind the large barn another smaller building of the same type although a little run-down, rested against the side of the main house.

'This is what people, well the men at least come here for, not my cooking you may be surprised to hear' he chuckled, switching on the light to a large motorcycle garage. The pristine space lined with giant red multi-draw toolboxes on wheels. Electric and compressed air lines hung down from the ceiling. Heavy looking electric hydraulic lifts took centre stage ready to 'hike the bike' up, making it easier to work on. The garage even a had small paint spraying booth for those crash repairs.

'It's cleaner than the house' laughed Rick, running a finger along the spotless stainless-steel workbench.

'I'm impressed' I said holding him close to me. I could see his bike in the corner; just thinking of being on the back of it with him sent a flutter through me.

'Bikers want to have somewhere they can do repairs or just keep the bike looking good and running well. They know that when they stop here they can get parts on next day delivery' he said proudly.

I didn't care about any of that.

'Are you sleeping with her Rick? Just tell me, that's all I want to know, no, there is something else, does she want you back?'

There, it was out, how it had stayed inside me for the last two hours I could only guess.

'No, No and no, that's if there was a third question, no way. She is a sick woman, she doesn't have anyone to help her, even her brother is tired of it. I will sort it out. Don't let this spoil things, come on I will show you 'our' room'

Yes it was wonderful; yes it had large windows that looked out over glorious rural views of lines of vineyards and olive trees, yes, it had a great big bed. The only fly in the ointment was the barking dogs. How could we be so far away from anyone and still hear those little yapping mutts kilometres away. Yet even they made us laugh, with Rick howling back as we lay on the large iron bed on the afternoon of my first day.

'When will I meet her?' I asked floating back to reality.

'To be honest I thought she would have been over already, but if she has 'gone down' and your coming could have done that, we may not see her for a while'

'What about the child? Is that fair, is it right that the girl should have to put up with it?'

'She does love Saffron, but it's difficult to say anything about her, as she is not my child. Juliet does love her daughter, she really does, you should see her with her when she is Ok. I wish she would keep up with the tablets, she knows she should. Trouble is, when she feels so well she can't see the point of them, do you want to meet her now so, get it over with?'

'Yes' I said getting dressed-slowly.

Rick made some tea and filled a jug with orange squash. He opened some of those funny Spanish biscuits and took them outside, putting them on the table in the square in front of the house, then knocked on Juliet's door. He seemed to be knocking for ages before the door inched open revealing a pale-faced girl of around 7. Her hair was raggedy blond, fringing a pale downcast sullen face. She didn't say anything, staring blankly at us.

'Hello Saffron, this is Helen I told you about, I have some drinks and biscuits over on the table, is Mum around?'

The door closed, another age, then Saffron returned shutting the door behind her.

'She will be over soon'

She was sullen wearing a (very) homemade floral print dress. The dirty hair looked like it been homemade as well; looking as if it had been cut unevenly with blunt scissors to just above her shoulders, a crooked hacked fringe, hung over the ashen face. She held on white-knuckle tight, to the bottom of her light green home-knit cardigan with her left hand, the right hand twitching.

She ate the biscuits with her back to us resisting any questions for us,

'Do you like Spain Saffron?' I asked

'No'

'Saffron likes painting, don't you Saffron?' said Rick, glancing at me, shrugging and raising his hands

'Not any more'

A little later the door opened and Juliet came over. She was quite short, pinched smokers face, wild frizzy dis-coloured 70's art-student hair and sludge coloured woollen jumper.

'So your Helen' she said shaking my hand, it felt small and frail, like that of an old person. She lit a roll-up cigarette. The multi coloured Aztec patterned skirt incongruous to the mood of the table.

I tried a few pleasantries but nothing was forthcoming.

'You are so lucky' she finally said 'you have a job, a nice home and now Rick, I didn't think he would go for someone like you'

I felt she was being deliberately provocative so held my tongue.

'You are lucky, you can come out here and enjoy all this, Rick's told me you might be coming out here, and what does that mean? Goodbye Juliet, what will I be left with? Nothing'

I thought this grossly unfair, perhaps I was lucky, but saying these things in front of Saffron seemed wrong and made her seem worthless.

'Do you want me to go now Rick, with nothing to feed my daughter , shall I go so you can be alone with her?' She said this with a smirk on her bitter face.

'Ok Juliet that's enough' said Rick 'I said you could stay until you could sort your self out'

'How can I when I haven't any money?'

I couldn't stand it any more, 'Why don't you work?' I asked, trying not very successfully to keep calm.

'Because I am sick' hasn't Rick told you? Anyway I am still married to him you know, he is MY husband'

I was finding it harder and harder to face this woman.

'Well then, I shall leave you to it then' I got up to leave.

'Helen' called Rick 'come back', he ran over to me, 'don't let her get to you, it's what she wants'.

I pushed passed him, and ran to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Was there a flight back today? I thought wringing my hands. How could I stay there, why didn't Rick say something, why didn't I clonk her? All this went raced my head as I felt the self-esteem I had gained over the last few months drain away into the surrounding vineyards. Why was I so lucky? Is it lucky to lose you daughter, lucky to break up with your husband, have to take time from work because of stress, where was all the luck then?

A little while later Rick came to the room,

'Look I'm sorry about her, she plays up like this when she feels threatened, she feels insecure'

'I don't think I can stay if she is still here, honestly Rick, why is she here?'

'She just turned up, I didn't invite her, but she has agreed to apologise to you, I will do my best to get rid of her'

He held me and I began to feel a little better. Early evening, we heard the Belgium couple return on their bike from their day trip out. Both were in there early sixties; he tubby with a long grey moustache, perhaps compensating for the balding head. She short, brown bobbed cut hair, now flattened by the helmet, the apple shaped body fitted into tight leather trousers. She had the look of having worked sitting down for thirty years, eating her lunch at her desk for most of that time. Her glasses were modern; narrow and black rimmed over crow's feet surrounded the eyes, she was delightful. The couple invited us out to the patio table for a drink later that evening; luckily Juliet was in her house with Saffron.

Bridget joined me at the table, a nip in the air but still nice enough to sit out. We spoke about Brussels and the men joined us after they had stored the bike and caught up on some running repairs. Reno puffing on his curly pipe told us of their trip through France then Spain, Portugal, northern Spain and back to Belgium. It felt good sitting out talking to these nice people, I saw for the first time Rick's vision for the complex, then the music started. Loud 80's pop preventing any chance of conversation. All four of us looked towards the end house, the window wide open for maximum effect. Rick looked at us in mute apology.

'I'll just go and see how things are' he reassured, walking briskly to the end house.

We all watched as he banged on the door. It took a while then the shouting started resulting in the door being slammed shut, then opening again with Juliet, pulling Saffron out into the square, with the music louder than ever, Juliet stood with her daughter a little way from us.

'Come on Saffron lets dance, don't let these bores spoil our holiday, it's fun, isn't it?'

She pulled the girl this way and that, a strange sad, contorted take on Rock and Roll, twirling the worried looking young child round and round. Juliet seemed lost as she swilled her daughter round, a strange wide grin moulded on her face. Saffron held tight to her tee shirt with her left hand, her face anxious as if she was being thrown around by a gale-force wind. The music and spectacle prevented any conversation, although we did not wish to witness this show, it was difficult to ignore. We sat in embarrassed silence until the music ran out, Rick stood up

'Thank you very much that was very entertaining'

Juliet looked angry pulling the little girl off to walk. Rick apologised to the Belgian couple who, still in a state of shock kindly smiled saying; 'no no , it's fine'

Rick explained that Juliet had been unwell and perhaps she had forgotten to take it. Although we all felt on edge we managed to chat happily for a while, The thought of Juliet returning gave each of us an edge, yet we all managed to have these thoughts remain unspoken, for fear of giving in to her.

As the Belgians were saying their 'goodnights' we heard them come back, looking the other way as they rushed to the house and slammed the door for greatest attention. The music started again, louder than ever, so loud in fact it drowned out the far away howling dogs. All four of us stood for a while unable to speak. Whether it was the collective unconscious, critical-mass or just the end of our tether, we marched in unison to the door and banged loud.

Saffron put her head round the door 'Mummy hates you all' the door shut.

We banged again even harder, this time Juliet opened the door.

'Get the fuck out of here, you sad fucks, get a life'

Reno was the first in, pushing the door open and turning the music off. Saffron huddled in front of her mother, Juliet's eyes flashing like a cornered Vixen.

'You are a very rude young woman' said Bridget, her voice quivering with rage.

'You have no manners and have upset us all. You have gone out of your way to aggravate us with you show. If you are ill I am sorry, but look what you are doing to your daughter, what sort of life does she have with this rubbish going on?'

Juliet looked at Rick for support, but he just lifted his hands as if to say 'it was the last straw'.

Bridget continued 'do you have your medication with you?' silence. She moved closer to her.

'Do you have it with you?' she hissed, we could sense her rage, so Rick took over.

'Saffron, does your mother have her tablets?' The little girl looked at her mother then nodded.

'We are not going until you have taken them' he said looking at Juliet.

'I don't like to see you like this, please take them' he said gently, then turning to Saffron 'will you get them for mummy?'

The little girl walked to the bed and crawled underneath; her thin legs poking out like two sticks as she hunted. She bought out five bottles; each had a bright label stuck over the drug companies with Childs writing;

## 'ONCE A DAY. TWO TIMES A DAY. AFTER TEA. BEDTIME. 'BAD' TIMES.

Rick ran some water handing the glass to Juliet.

'I fucking hate all of you' snapped Juliet,

Bridget ignored the remark, lowering her voice

'It's a nice place here, you could have some real fun with Saffron'

Juliet swallowed the tablets, slamming the glass down on the table, walked to the back bedroom and slammed the door.

We said goodnight to Saffron, telling her that she could call on us during the night if she wished, but Juliet called out sadly; 'leave her alone'

We said goodnight to Reno and Bridget in the now quiet square.

Reno and Bridget left early the next day, so Rick took advantage of the time off to take me to a strange little place far inland The place he took me, not a million miles away from where they shot the Spaghetti western films, back in the sixties. Although it was sunny, there was a chill in the air as we biked through the countryside leaving the coastal green for the more desert yellow and scrubby ochre inland. Pulling off the main roads we followed the winding tracks leaving a trail of dust in our wake to a sleepy small village. Around what looked like an outdoor swimming pool, small café's and ice cream stalls, now shut up for the season waited for summer. The water in the pool was a pure light green, soft to the touch and warm. Every twenty yards or so, a shrine to the Madonna over-looked the sparkling water. Rick told me that a hundred or so years ago, when this was parched desert, a natural spring cracked open the baked earth and flooded the land. The water irrigated the land so well that people moved there, soon farms and vineyards sprang up like the water.

The local people built the large pool for people to swim, as it is said to help all sorts of aliments. Three times a year there is a fiesta to the Madonna, as thanks to Mary for such a miracle of wonderful water to spring from the earth at a time of great need.

We drank coffee in a small café that was open for locals. The thick tobacco smoke, blaring TV, the odd dog licking himself, set the scene for a central-casting rural Spain café bar. We arrived back happy at lunchtime, everything looked quiet over at Juliet's. We relaxed and we spoke about Lesley. I had of course told him after I had returned from seeing her, I am not sure he approved of my actions and methods, I don't think anyone would have especially Kenneth. But it was something I had to do. I told Rick I thought I might see her again when I went out to visit Emma's agent who was now constantly writing to me, regarding contracts and licences on her work. De-Hems had told me her work was in demand in the States and projects were moving forward. He was kind enough saying through his PA that things needed to be sorted out sooner rather than later, and to come out ASAP. I knew I would have to face all that, but I wanted and needed was time.

The afternoon was warming up, Rick's next guests would be arriving Monday, the day after tomorrow, it would be my last day. That meant we had a day free, that is apart from Juliet. I asked Rick if we should call in to see her but he said no.

'I know things look bad, but when she is good she is great. She just gets mixed up and sick to death of being reliant on drugs. Deep-down she knows she has got to get back on board, even if it is just for Saffron'

Later that evening we saw Saffron looking out of the door, when she saw us she pooped back in. All was quiet over there, this worried us a little, but we passed the evening reading and going to bed early; looking at the snowball stars, through the large open window.

The next day we though we would take a walk for a while in the late afternoon. There was a dusty track at the back of the house that led to some vineyards so we ambled along silently, both thinking how hard it would be to say goodbye the next day. We never really spoke about how the situation would resolve itself; me in England, he is Spain; making a pretty good go of things. I could retire, and move out, but I didn't really want to do B&B, or to live in Spain, it was nice enough, but not to live. Rick however, loved it, not the hard work, but a success of his own ideas. The bookings were coming in through the web site, but it was really the word of mouth, that brought the most bookings. So we just denied the heavy thoughts as we walked home, me making noises that I would come over every so often to see him.

Juliet's door was wide open, for a moment we thought she had gone, a moment later we saw Saffron coming out of the geit where Reno and Bridget had stayed. We ran over to the house

'God she's wrecking the place' puffed Rick

'We're changing the beds' said Saffron smiling, holding pillowcases.

Juliet stood over by the bed, holding the sheets, she looked calm and lovely. That hurt me, she really was beautiful, her face was less pinched, her eyes soft and tender. Her thick shinny hair was tied back with string, bits of the fringe escaping falling in her eyes, giving a healthy youthful appearance. She wore a pair of Rick's cord trousers; turned up at the bottom, belt tight at the top.

'I will stop if you want me too' she whispered to the floor, 'I just thought I would help that's all.'

That's why Rick has stood by her, this new girl, and she really did look young, standing with her glowing young sweet daughter.

'I'm helping mum' she smiled.

Rick looked at me silently quizzing me, would I shout at her, did I want her to go? No

'No' I said, questioning Rick with my stare

'That's fine by me, Rick?'

'Oh that great by me too, thank you. How are you today Saffron?' he asked.

'Fine thank you, where are the clean things for the bed?'

I walked with Rick to the linen store inside his house.

Mother and daughter worked there way through the rooms and started on the other giets, Saffron singing as she went; if she sang one bar of 'whistle while we work' I would have run her over. A little later I looked through the window of the main kitchen, as was Juliet emptying out the cupboards and re-arranging the disorganised storage. When I went back the whole place was perfect. I heard her saying to Rick;

'Don't be silly Rick, you know I can cook and entertain, I will do all this, you need to concentrate on the clients and bikes, leave this to me and Saffron' adding go and have some fun!'

The dinning table amazed us; the long wooden table, now covered in a white linen cloth with candles and flowers arranged beautifully, making the composition subtle and perfect in the dying light of the day. Juliet could lay an exquisite table, yet I could attempt the same task, and look like I laid bricks. She had 'that' touch, the touch I didn't have, and it's something you can't really learn.

She made Rick take her and Saffron into town to buy food and good wine. They arrived back with huge bunches of flowers that she arranged in each room and on the little reception desk, she had set up just inside the main house, it was just what the place needed, the cow. She had taken the edge off the place, from a garage with some rooms available, to relaxing pleasant place to stay.

'Are you going to let her stay?' I asked as soon as we got into the kitchen.

'What do you say?' asked Rick, reading my face for the answer. It was not quite a 'I told you so' face' but he was not as shocked as I was at Juliet's appearance or work, but I was increasingly worried and insecure.

'A couple of days ago I would have said yes, but now she seems so, so bloody nice, I'm worried now you will sleep with her, and God knows she's bloody gorgeous enough. I don't want to go back to England and be all churned up inside, I've had enough of that'

Rick laughed.

'Don't laugh at me Rick, I am serious, I will be leaving you here with Snow White cleaning the cottages with Pollyanna, how is this going to work out Rick? if she stays on the tablets and looks like that, I'm done for. I know what you are thinking, and what she is thinking, you would make a good team and Saffron could be happy here. Don't tell me this thought didn't cross your mind, as soon as you saw her in the house. You must have, because I did, and I don't even want it to happen' I huffed and puffed.

'Well, I do want you to be alright, but I don't want the other stuff, the back together stuff. But if you do, tell me now, don't mess me around'

'You are the brightest person I know' soothed Rick; 'yes I did think it, a little. But it's you now, lets see how she gets on'

I brought the clean sheets down to Juliet, determined to be a part of this set up. I knew I could be racing away with my imagination but seeing her there; so beautiful in her scruffy clothes, changing the beds and helping around the house, she was as much a part of this house now as Rick. She knew what he wanted, and how things should be done, in was a fine team.

I handed the sheets to the now jolly Saffron; Juliet was cleaning the toilet with a long brush.

'Thank you for bringing the things over'. Said Juliet, standing up smiling, rubber glove holding the brush. She was flushed from cleaning and attempted to brush the luscious hair from her eyes.

'I am so sorry about yesterday, really I am, I know I was bad, sorry Helen'

Unfortunately she really did look sorry, it was terrible to see that face unhappy.

'No, not at all, Rick tells me you have been ill'

'I have been ill for some time, it's kind of like Bi-Polar, a depressive illness, but I get episodes when I feel trapped in the drugs, and just want to be like everyone else. I have apologised to Saffron, and will to Rick. He has got a good thing going here and I don't want to spoil it for him'

'Yes, I said, still harbouring some anger from the night before or was it because she still wearing his trousers 'it would be sad to see it all go down'.

'I'm glad he has someone like you, I am sorry I said those things yesterday, I was very jealous, but I am pleased, you are right for each other'.

Her sincerity took me off guard, touching me deeply.

'What are your plans?' I asked almost rhetorically.

'Oh I don't know, ask Rick to lend me the money to go home, I won't hide that from you. Try and find some work and a nice school for Saffron. The benefit system was built for me, but I don't like to use it'.

'Why not stay on here for a while and sort yourself out?'

She looked surprised, almost shocked, mouth slight agape.

I continued, 'If you do, I will ask you to carry on taking the medication because I don't think you, Rick and especially Saffron, can take that crap anymore.'

Who was I to tell her anything about her life? But I had to say it, and she seemed to want to hear it.

She put the brush down and slid off the rubber gloves, set them down on the basin, then turned and hugged me.

'Thank you Helen' she whispered in me ear. She held on for a long time, her arms around my neck holding me close. She felt lovely and smelt fresh and new. Saffron came into the bathroom, then seeing us hugging said 'where's mine?'

At dinner that night, Julie asked me about Emma, she knew all about her, yet still listened as I tentatively told of Emma's art and even her father. It was all very civilised, she telling of her trip to India to find herself and what a waste of time it all was. She said the trip had produced Saffron, and that was good enough. Later Rick asked Julie if she would stay and work with him until she was ready to move on. Much later I would reflect that meeting and wonder how it all went so fast, how things could change so much overnight. I had interviewed hundreds of people for work and know that you can, and do, make up your mind on someone within 20 seconds of them coming into the office. All this regardless of experience, educational and ability (and rationality). But most of all it felt right, that they should be there, that Julie be with Rick and help him. As much as I didn't want them to be together, it was right for the time being.

For now, mother and child could stay in the large mobile home Rick used when restoring the house, this was agreeable to both parties. It eased my edgy feeling of jealously a little, having them separated and they not using the spare room in the large house. Yet I was aware that if they wanted to jump into bed they could, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. It was my last night there and Rick looked tired, yet happy and contented. We stayed out in the open air for a while, enjoying the peace before the midnight barkers made their presence felt.

Next day we heard the bikes coming long before we could see them. Two large Honda's with all the storage boxes made their way up the dusty track to the house. Philip and Gerard greeted us in their graceful French way. They looked like those modern day French footballers; tall and lean with the obligatorily long black hair, both, I guessed in their early thirties, dressed neck to toe in black leather. They, like most bikers passing through were touring the country having found the place on the web site. They were on their way to Africa for a two-week holiday. Julie showed them to the giets; chatting to the larger one Gerard, then introducing him to Saffron. Julie, I noticed took just a little longer to explain about the accommodation to Philip, he in turn keeping her talking, by asking her about the surroundings and how old her daughter was. They walked back to the house Saffron skipping behind them.

'Looks like they have hit it off' said Rick smiling.

'Don't you mind just a little?' I asked half teasing, half desperate.

'Oh God no, I'm happy for her, but I don't want her to rush into anything, she needs rest and stability'

'Don't we all I joked' perhaps a little bitterly. But I was far more secure now, seeing Julie wallowing in the glow of Philip's interest. Later Rick pleased me by saying he would never introduce Julie as his wife, 'that would just complicate things.'

It was time for me to move on. I said goodbye to Saffron, both arms tight around my waist.

'Do come back soon' said Julie, she seemed to mean it.

'I will when I can, you must look after yourself my dear, and tell Rick not to over do it'.

As I loaded the car and waited for Rick from the house Julie came over.

'I won't wear his clothes any more, that was thoughtless, I am glad it's you, really I am'

'So am I' I said 'It's good you are here, take care, and love to Saffron.

At the airport I kissed Rick goodbye, promising to call when I got back.

##

## Margaret, and Kenneth call

##

'Could I pop down and see you old girl? Talk over a few things'

It was Kenneth.

'What is it?' I said down the phone irritated at the secrecy and drama, which I believed would only turn out to be something trivial anyway.

'Is something wrong, what is it?'

Since our divorced we had met a few times, mostly to go over finances and sort out belongings. We hadn't really talked about why we had broken up, both resigned to the thought that living together without Emma was really not a good idea, thinking rightly, that we would only remind each other every second of every day, that we were alone. After the break up, Kenneth had moved back to his elderly mother's for a while, then bought a new flat not far from the station. When we broke up, I did miss him every now and again when I wasn't eaten up with grief for Emma and hate for Lesley. Now I was with Rick, things had changed, and with some time between us I felt much better about my ex husband.

'Is it mother?' is she alright?'

'Mothers fine Bee, a little gar-gar but still going strong, she sends her love. I just have something to discuss with you and I could take a run down Saturday morning, about eleven OK?' he said a trifle coercing.

'Oh for God's sake Ken' I said exasperated, 'you know that I clean on a Saturday morning, come at twelve when I have finished'

'Suits me'

'Don't be late' I added 'I may be going out in the afternoon'

'I'll be on time'

'Alright I'll see you then-oh are you staying for lunch, you know, just something small?'

'Love too' he said rather flippantly.

I put the kettle on at 11.55 and at 12 noon the doorbell rang. He had changed, it was only a year or so, yet he seemed younger and more relaxed. His hair was longer, giving the air of dashing, rather than dandruff. He was jauntily, giving me a 'Hello Bee' kiss on the cheek as he came in. ('Bee' being the last part of Kirby'.)

This is a lovely place, very swish, you were right to buy it' he said looking out at the gardens, no doubt imagining grassing the lot over and whacking a golf ball around it.

'Now don't 'Bee' me' I said, sitting him down having already made the tea.

'How are you?'

'I've said I am very well now what is it?' I said huffily, what a fuss, I knew it wouldn't be important.

'I'm getting married, to Pamela, you remember Pam from work'

I did remember a Pamela from work, she was younger than me; blond/grey, quite slim, and what I could recall, not a bad sort. I was shocked.

'What on earth for? Are you sure she wants to marry you Ken? She's rather pretty'

'I know I am not the best catch in the world but...' he hesitated, we are in love' He flushed not really knowing where to look.

'Dear God' I said, still a little taken aback. 'Where's her husband? Wasn't it Frank? The one with the flashy cars'

'Frank went off with a blond bimbo; you know that mid-life crisis thing. Left Pam and the daughters, they are both grown up now but they still felt it'

I sat down, holding on to my saucer tightly, feeling that if I should stand I would be very unsteady.

'Well,' I said haughtily, 'if you want to remarry, why drive all this way here to tell me, it's none of my business, you are a grown man, you obviously can do as you wish'

'Not tell you Bee, ask you, ask you if you don't mind, I want your permission'

I could feel my eyes beginning to moisten, I'm not sure why.

'You don't need to ask me, I'm not Pam's father' I managed after a pause.

'Just as well' laughed Ken 'mans been dead twenty years' Look, I know we have had our differences but you are, well you know...my friend and wife'

'Ex-wife' I snapped.

Everything was changing and moving on at such a speed I could no longer even try to control it. I didn't want Kenneth any more, he was nice enough, always had been, so why should I be upset that he was getting married? Perhaps I just felt left behind, even though I had Rick, it just seemed to make the break, the break from the past and therefore Emma, permanent. I always thought divorce would be the closure, would be the lawful and ritualistic end to the union. But in reality, it appeared that when the ex partner re-marries or co-habits following the marriage, that is the sign, the signifier to the conclusion.

Most people break up because of a third party, the reality being, they have really got fed-up or bored with their partner, and go looking for someone else. With Kenneth and me, we broke up because we were alone. I wanted him to be happy, though not that happy, and certainly not with someone who was pretty, sensible and bright, that wasn't fair.

'Oh go on then' I said, after an age, go and marry her it you must, just take your face out of the newspaper every-so-often for her, and wear a different after-shave for the poor woman'

'Well done old girl' he beamed.

He did look happy, not smug, which might have been the case a couple of years back, just pleased, it was settled, Sherry time!

'I did love her' He said, as we sat opposite each other at the lunch table, wine bottle draining as we spoke.

'Just didn't understand her.

'I know you did Ken'

'I didn't know what she wanted' he continued, 'she could be quiet and secretive. I know I should have been more open with her, but being a only child myself, I was a bit lost on that front'

'You did fine Ken, there's worse than you. You helped her with her homework and took her to music lessons, don't blame yourself, it wasn't all you' I said, as the quiet of the room and the spring light cloaked us in an intimacy previous unknown.

'Reading the paper while she spoke is one thing, being jealous of her is another' I wasn't drunk, but these hidden, locked in words, were now beginning to slip out of my mouth, words I had never allowed to formulate consciously past my burning ulcer.

'I don't believe that for one moment' huffed Ken

'Of course I was, still am, if I was honest, probably why I felt I had to help her, stay with her, support her, all of it. I always thought she had it too easy: the good schooling, the trips out, the music, horse riding, and then the art. We had struggled for so long for everything, school, college and all those god-forsaken courses one has to endure, yet she didn't have to do any of that. Gives up History, picks up a camera and bang, she's made. Do you know how much she was making for those pictures?

'The kind of money that would have taken us years to make.'

I was in full stride now, not caring what I revealed.

'At her death She was worth more than any of us, my parents included. I don't begrudge it to her, but I couldn't help feeling that she had it easy and was lucky. Of course that does nothing for my guilt and sleepless nights.

Kenneth sat opposite me' shaking his head saying: No Bee, don't say such things' I continued.

'The whole thing was guilt that pushed me on. It was a strange and debilitating dichotomy when she asked me to work with her. One part of me was chuffed to bits having been asked to support her with her studies. Yet the other part resented her for her ease at succeeding so easily. I know it's not the right thing to say but it's the truth. I loved her, but felt it all fell into her lap. Of course, then she was knocked down and everything I had hated or was jealous about, came back to haunt me. In some way I felt it was my fault, felt that I could have prevented it. That she may have even known I resented her success, oh God, I don't know what I am talking about' I started to cry and Kenneth put his hand on my shoulder.

'People must have looked at the distressed mother at the funeral and thought what a caring loving mother. No, not me, guilt riddled my body and mind through the whole service' I sat quiet for a while, holding Ken's hankie then continued;

'I feel I did all the right things, for all the wrong reasons. I know it sounds horrible, but I wanted her to succeed, but not more than I had, and certainly not at twenty. I know it's wrong somehow, but it's how I felt Ken, I was torn up with jealously, perhaps this is why I have avoided meeting Emma's art agent out in Texas. He emails every week telling me I must sort things out as her estate is growing, what does that mean? See, 'art agent out in Texas' who wouldn't be jealous, a bad mother that's who'

Kenneth came round and sat with me, holding me close, closer than ever before.

'I wish I could have had more time to be with her, to grow through that post-teenage stage with her. Mothers and daughters, sons and fathers feel that tension of the next generation taking over the mantel, but my tension stopped in the middle of that jealous phase, I feel I have been trapped by it ever since. I would have gotten over it in time, chuffed to bits that she had got on well, better than we did, it's the natural thing. It was like her dying in the middle of an argument and I not having the time to say sorry. But she was not unhappy with me. I don't think that she was gloating, nor trying to out-do me or be better than me in any way. See, even her kindness hurt me, I was bitter and resentful. I would have been over that now, I can see I was stupid and insecure. It was about me really, me getting lost and seeing our darling girl growing up and out of my control, which, as you know I am not very good at'.

Kenneth gently held my hand, and after a pause began to speak.

'You have been a wonderful mother, even if you say you were resentful, and I don't believe it for one second, you looked after her, gave her time and attention, more than I ever did. You cared for her, loved her, I could see it in your eyes, and she loved you. If she came home and I was there, she would always say 'where's mum? I must tell her about a painting I have seen today' or some such thing, she loved you Bee, don't put your self down, she loved you very much. I would have felt the same if we had had a boy and he started to beat me on the golf course. Probably chucked the clubs in the pond and sulked off home, I do understand Bee. As you say it's a natural process, but if you did have these feelings towards her, you didn't show it, she never knew. You would have worked through it, and been the best of friends, I know that.

'I have a little confession to make; when Emma died and we had split up, I had a bit of a break down, couldn't cope with the loss of both of you. I missed Emma so much, just her being around and her quiet way. I had things I wanted to say to her. I wanted to be at her wedding you know, the normal things a father does for his daughter, all gone now, I didn't want to go on without her. Dam silly really, told work I had some sort of illness, doctor backed me up on that one, off for months, I had to take 'happy' the pills for a while though. Losing you didn't help, missed you like mad, all a bit off really, all went pear-shaped.'

After a while we sat on the sofa, he with his arm around me, I laying into his chest thinking why it took such a tragedy to get this close. We sat quietly until Ken dozed off. If I hadn't of had to go to the toilet I wouldn't have moved but there the spell was broken, reality was back. We spoke about De-Hem, as Kenneth had no idea what was going on with Emma's art. De-Hem would email me saying that this or that image was being used without permission, that things needed to be sorted out and that unless copyright was applied for Emma's art, it was being stolen. I didn't know what that meant but De-Hems now held most of Emma's work, yet only the first few images where owned or controlled by him.

'What? Emma making money out there? What real money from the photos?' he said surprised, adding

'Tell you what though, I wouldn't trust those yanks'

'I don't know Ken, it's all a bit much for me, but he's the only one looking out for her. I don't understand it. It's only photographs and those paintings she did in the garage. I thought she had sold the painting to him and we had kept the rights to negatives and things, I really need to meet him, he has invited me out to see him but, I feel a bit bad about it. A little 'head in the sand attitude' really, but I promise I will go, it should be put right'

'If you're up to it, but go when you are ready, you know what these pushy Yanks are like' same old Ken

'Look, there is one other confession I have to make' I said.

'Is it the motor-bike man' laughed Kenneth, which shocked me.

'Oh' I said 'someone's been talking?'

'When you were away, Emma's hospital rang me to clear something up and I got chatting' he smiled

'I was going to tell you Ken, but you know how things are. No the secret is not about him. When I was away it was not really a holiday. I met the woman who killed Emma, I traced her and beat her up'

'Dear God, what on earth?' He pulled back from me confounded,

'Dear Dear God, good on you girl, but dear God' he spluttered.

I told him the full story, the hospital, the police, the beating and how, eventually we got along. This of all things seemed to hurt Kenneth most. It was as if I had gone over to the other side, let Lesley get away with it, let Emma down, and from his point of view he was dam right. I explained the circumstances as best I could and he seemed to come round a little.

'Well, if you are sure Bee, sure she wasn't taking you for a ride, you know what these people are like' and I did.

Lesley could have been lying to me, could have been pulling the wool over my eyes in the most manipulating way possible, but the weight gain, the drug and alcohol dependence and most of all, isolation, made feel she was genuine.

'You know what you are doing old girl' said Kenneth; still unable to create a mental picture in his head so relied on the facts I had told him.

It was late now, I made Kenneth a light snack and asked if he would like to listen to the News. I turned on the radio and there we sat, looking out at the now dark garden lost in thought. Without asking I made up the spare bed and tided up. Ken kissed me on the cheek as he went up to bed, then turning on the stairs simply said;

'Thanks love'

'Mrs Kirby?' you may not remember me but I am Margaret Howard, Lesley Howard's, mother in law'

How she had found my phone number I may never know, as I was not in the book. It was a month or so after Kenneth had been down, and having just arrived home from work the phone rang.

After the usual pleasantries she got straight to the point;

'I think we should meet up, I know you still work in town, how about lunch or tea at Simpson's-my treat'

Of course I asked what it was all about, but she was hesitant to answer.

She waved me over to the table by the window, I hadn't been to Simpson's for a long time, it hadn't changed much, which was comforting, but the continuity of decoration did nothing to allay me fears. I had asked if Lesley was all right on the phone, and Margaret affirmed she was, it was 'something else' she needed to talk to me about.

'I believe you visited my daughter in-law when you were last in America' she questioned in her 'school mistress' tone. 'She told us all about it. You see, both Julian and I are worried about her, you must remember that Julian is a Doctor and knows best'

I sat nodding to the Margaret Thatcher waxwork, pinched and tight-lipped. She had a way of leaning towards you when she spoke, to emphasize her point, then moving back, preventing response.

'I believe you may have made her give up her prescription tablets, medication she needs to stay healthy. She is a sick woman, always has been. You of all people should know that, she knocked down your only daughter and killed her, while under the influence of alcohol. You saw her out there in America, what a disgrace. The whole family are, the brother breaking up with his wife the father going round the bend, you know the sort...'

She sat back, took a sip from the teacup, replaced it and leaned close.

'I don't know what you are playing at, she killed your daughter, ruined my son's life, can you imagine how he felt having the newspapers, if that's what you can call them, prying into our affairs. Having his picture in the paper, associated with that woman, nothing but trouble, drinking and driving, indeed, and he a respected doctor' she sat back adding, 'I told him he should never had married her'

I sensed she had said too much.

'I didn't realise you where still her mother-in-law' I said, as casually as I could.

'Of course I'm not' she snapped 'and thank God, but she is still taking money from Julian, he bought her that house after she had to be moved, we are still looking after her you know, this is for her own good. I would like you to keep away from her, why you should wish to meet her, I have no idea. And another thing, do not ever, ever, use my daughter Charlottes name, pretending to be her indeed, what were you thinking woman?

'You have seen her now, and I can see she has manipulated you, got you just where she wanted you, right in the palm of her hand. Those silly child-like eyes, Julian fell for those too. Can't you see that you are being used? All pally pally are we now? Keep away, I am telling you this for your own good'

Her face was now tight and contorted, she looked like a strange wild animal, a hungry eagle perhaps.

'I went to see her' I retorted, 'to hear why she did it, why she killed my daughter' I said, now tense and edgy after the verbal slap.

'And did she tell you? Tell you she was drinking all night without telling Julian, then got in the car?' She seethed, a sarcastic smile on her chiselled face.

'She didn't know why she did it, she couldn't say why she did those things.'

She sat back in triumph.

'Well there you are, she was so drunk she couldn't possibly remember'

'I used your daughters name as it was the only way I could see her, I am sorry if I offended you or your daughter Charlotte, it wasn't my intention.'

She lent forward; 'do the descent thing, forget about her, we are looking after her, she is back on the medication and if she wants to balloon out with the junk food that is her problem. Julian is taking care of her, what other husband would have stuck by someone like that, my son is a saint'.

I stood up, 'thank you for inviting me, I will think upon what you have said to me, but I feel it is up to me who I visit, it was my daughter you know'

'And she is dead now remember' she spat.

I threw down the napkin onto the table; 'don't contact me again'

'You've been warned' she said casually as I walked from the tearoom.

My first thought was to call Lesley. I had often considered calling to see how she was getting on, but thought better of it. I had asked her not to call me, thinking that it may somehow complicate things. After a few days following the meeting with Margaret I decided not to call after all. Margaret was obnoxious, but probably right, I should leave Lesley alone, in the end, she did kill my daughter. What did I know about medication and anti-depressants? Well quite a lot really, but I didn't want to get involved in any of it. Margaret had being rude, very rude. Yet I reasoned, that I would be the same if someone was interfering with my family. I knew this was a different situation, but chose to leave it and move on, I had Kenneth's wedding to...'look forward to', is perhaps too strong a sentiment, 'consider' is a more appropriate choice of word. I had mixed feelings about the wedding, but to see him settled was a comfort, if a little frightening.

Pam, the happy wife to be, called not long after Kenneth had been down to see me, she was sweet, making me feel just a tiny whiney bit jealous and dull. She sparkled as she spoke, eternally cheerful and optimistic, she must be marrying Kenneth, I thought cruelly.

'So glad you are Ok about the nuptials' she enthused. And thank you my dear for putting Ken up when he came down to see you. I am so sorry about Emma, she was such a sweet young thing, we all loved her'

This was no empty platitude; she had been most kind to Kenneth and me when Emma was knocked down; writing letters of support and sympathy. She would call round once or twice to see if she could help, all done without fuss or invading our personal space and grief. Her daughters' laid a beautiful bouquet of flowers at the funeral and I recall them all crying their eyes out. Frank, her husband wasn't there, too drunk to come, yet the girls stuck together and never ever, ran the poor man down, saying he was 'too unwell' to attend.

Other times Pam could be quite honest about Frank; 'he's away in his cups,' Pam would laugh, however heart broken and embarrassed she must have been at her husband's mutable social faux pas.

'Would you be a darling and meet up with Ken and chose a decent tie for him for the wedding? Said Pam, chuckling down the phone.

'You are about the only person he trusts. Both the girls have offered to take him into town to help with the wedding clothes, but he is having none of it. Did you know that my eldest is pregnant? Could be around the time of the wedding, but she has promised to hold on until after to have it. We are so looking forward to it coming Helen, God, I feel old saying I'm going to be a Grandmother. Ken's looking forward to it too, I can see him with the grandchild on his knee, as long as it doesn't pee, that is'.

This stung; Granny, Gran, (anything but Nanner) it would never happen to me, Rick didn't have any children so that would be that.

Pam felt my hurt through the silence.

'I am so sorry my dear, that was very thoughtless of me, I do apologise' She meant it, I could feel it.

'Please don't worry about it, I'm very happy for you and your daughter. I am so looking forward to seeing them again at the wedding'

We chatted for a while on the arrangements, the legal ceremony at Bromley Register office, then to the golf club for the wedding breakfast. I finished the call promising to meet Ken, pleased that he was marrying Pam, God it could have been much worse, it could have been someone like Margaret. I could now see why Pam would want someone like Kenneth: stoic, disciplined, routine orientated, stolid and just a tad boring, being the complete opposite to the pickled Frank. Ken could cope with a small child now, we both could, knowing at a terrible high cost what we should have done the first time round. He would bounce the new baby on his knee, cuddle it fondly, making up for all those empty years. I would love to do that, could feel that yearning deep within me.

'Not that one Ken, oh for God's sake, it's hideous' We had been in Marks and Spencer's for almost an hour, and still the tie was elusive, to me anyway. His choice of shirt and tie for his wedding would have consisted of: brown shirt and yellow tie, pink and green tie, dark-blue and light blue tie, it was no good. I lost patience when it brought over a 'Casual shirt and tie pack'. It had been reduced in price (I wonder why) and obviously put together by The Colour-blind society; it was time I took charge. So metaphorically, taking him by his ear, marched him along the upper floor of the Bluewater shopping Centre in Kent, straight to the John Lewis store. After precisely three minutes I had a white cotton shirt and grey tie that had slight celebration silky sheen to it.

Following lunch, I sent Ken off to look at the gulf equipment section while I chose a hat for the wedding. I felt old; I could remember my mother trying on hats while I waited for her bored rigid. It would have been bearable back then, if I had been allowed to try on a few of the funny looking hats to pass the time, but that was frowned upon. My hands began to sweat as I tried on the hats that didn't make me look too much like Paddington Bear. That uncomfortable feeling occasionally creeping up on me, the one that whispered I should be doing this for Emma's wedding, not my husbands'. We parted with Ken thanking me for being a good wife, apologising for his shortcomings, and I for mine. We kissed and went our separate ways each searching for our lost cars in the huge car park.

The day passed off pleasant enough, the registry office was not the cold clinical patent office I thought it would be. Pam's daughter provided some beautiful music for the service, and the other daughter had arranged some wonderful tasteful flowers. Kenneth looked bemused and embarrassed by it all, saying what he had to say, standing stiffly next to the beaming Pam. Her daughter's father-in-law had given her away. The pregnant daughter Elizabeth, looked ready to give birth any moment, and there was Rick.

Rick didn't think he would be able to come, the business was busy and to be honest I was glad. I wasn't ashamed of him but...I don't know really what made edgy, he wasn't like the other people there and felt that he may feel uncomfortable. Kenneth shook his hand rather haughtily for my liking, grunting something. Later however, I overheard him asking Rick'

'Brought the bike with you old man...? Got to be careful of those Spanish ...and all those English people out there, don't know how you do it'

Although Rick was in his late forties he looked young against Kenneth, even though he was just sixty. Ken had always been old, some people just are. He didn't look like Rick at that age, which was I thought as relatively youthful. I had escaped the jokes, at least to my face of having a 'Toy boy'. How could a man in his forties be a Toy Boy anyway? Although Pam and Kenneth looked the 'happy couple' they were not the centrepieces; the huge fronted Elizabeth gained the most comments, with everyone one asking

'When's it due?' etc. To be fair to Pam, she was gracious enough to go along with it, and 'Liz', kind enough to pass the light back to her mother when she could.

During his speech, Kenneth wished Rick and me happiness; it looked like he meant it too. Later he had his photograph taken in the middle of Pam's daughters', bringing a smile to his face, I was pleased for him. Rick and I wandered around the outside of the club-house, the heat was unbearable on that early summers day, especially for Liz who seemed tired and ready to give birth at any moment.

'How's Saffron? I asked fanning myself with the new hat. 'Is she well?'

'She's fine; she is quite the mummies girl now. Juliet has stabilised and is working hard; to be honest, she is almost running the place. She does the laundry, the breakfasts and cleaning which leaves me time for the advertising and the workshop' Rick glowing at the thought.

'Oh good' I said, a little of the green monster creeping through the undergrowth. 'What about Saffron's education? I take it she is going to stay'

'You know she has learnt Spanish well, better than me. There's a little school she can go too, but I said I would speak to you about things before anything is finalised'

To be honest, I was finding things a bit much this living in two different countries, wondering if we could 'make-it'. But when we were together it was wonderful, perhaps it was because we lived away from each other. Every so often I would be exasperated by the situation, yet pacified myself by thinking that it wasn't forever and things would one day work out.

'Sounds like you three are getting along just fine' there, the green monster had jumped out and there was nothing I could do about it.

He held me and smiled. 'You remember that Philip, you know the French one? Well he called back in on the way back to France, not for my cooking which you might be shocked to hear. He wanted more than somewhere to stay, he's been back twice since, gets on well with Saff too'

The monster was running down the fairway, far away, taking with him, the tight back pain that came with possessive envy. I felt a decade and stone lighter.

The cake was cut, photos taken, promises of lunch with just about everyone from Pam, her daughter, and even Franks brother where forth-coming. A round of kisses and goodbyes and it was over, leaving us to drive back to my flat in the heat of the early evening. Later that night, Elizabeth gave birth to an 8lb 7oz baby girl named Emma.

## De-Hem

##

It was driving me mad, I could not longer deny, nor put off, putting Emma's affairs in order. If I was to admit to it, I feared finalising Emma's affairs and putting her work in order. What would happen once I had done that; sorted her work and stored them in some dark cupboard. I did hang a couple of the screen-prints, ones that I remember working on with Emma what seemed so long ago now, a different age, the others? I did the most natural thing, nothing, simply pretending they didn't exist. It was easy to begin with, a child's art or course work took up a large part of any parent's attic, and we were no exception. What was different however, I had pushy American e mailing me most weeks, well in fact his secretary, informing me that we should meet or put Emma's affairs in sort of order. De-Hems had bought Emma's first photos and paintings back when she was a student. He had promoted two of the photos; one in a successful ad campaign featuring her friend Warren, and the other, a picture of a young couple on his cable music channel. The image was to be used on all their art-work, and the back drop for the TV show, young people bought the tee-shirts with the image printed on.

Truth was I didn't want to lose control, didn't want to lose any part of Emma, didn't want to 'let go' of the art work, especially those that I had worked on, but I didn't want to hide them away either, that was unfair to Emma. De-Hem part-run a media company that dealt with just about everything; Advertising, magazines with fingers in many pies including cable TV. I had met De-Hems assistant Bezz, who had been so kind to attend the funeral and had been with Emma the night she died. Emma had planned to work with De-Hems for at least a year, his company paying her as an intern.

The company had been kind to Emma, and she was looking forward to working in the States, but then it all went wrong. Although De-Hems emails were annoying, the turning point came when they stopped coming, I suddenly felt alone and frightened, not really knowing what to do, set adrift. I had come to rely on the badgering emails, some gruff, some abusive, yet always on the side of Emma, wanting the best for her work and reputation. He had bought the pictures in the first place because he liked them, for his private collection rather than making money from them, that was a agreement he had with Emma, but things took off out there and they agreed to 'business up'. When I had not heard from his company for almost six weeks it was my turn to email him, enquiring the state of Emma's affairs, I soon received a reply.

'If you wish to discuss Emma's business you must come out, things have moved on and projects are progressing. Your daughter was an employee of our company and it's time we got this whole dam thing sorted out.

Please arrange flights and accommodation with Billie (my PA) and book at least a two week stay.

DM

His PA Billie, arranged the flights for November as it was the soonest I could secure leave from work. I submitted my details over the Internet to a efficient, but not very friendly Billie. It was a nice surprise to be given first-class; at least I could get some sleep and stretch my legs. Who cares about champagne? I just wanted to put my feet up and fend off the varicose veins, thus slowing down any moving blood clot for a few more years. The pictures of the hotel looked nice, with all the extras; swimming pool, gym, Air-con and beautiful view. The conformation came through on the Thursday evening when I checked the computer after work. The reservation email preceded another; a font and design I recognised from somewhere, but for the life of me I could not recall. The email looked like cheap 'spam' something about deals on car-hire and travel insurance and a return address for confirmation. A while later in the shower, a chill came over me, the same font, bright cheery colours, it was the exact same design as the 'Maureen' emails.

By the time I had opened the email 'in-box' there was another one which freighted me. I had not seen or heard from Maureen for almost two years. She still worked for the same company, as I had seen her name come up on training schedules. I had not quiet forgotten the help that was given to me by her and her 'friends', both the business with the next door neighbours and the Lesley search, were most helpful. It worried me they knew I was going away, were they monitoring me? Did they know everything that I did or sent over the Internet? It seemed they knew more than I cared to think about.

Reading the email, this time more closely, I could see what they were asking.

'Now that you have booked your vacation you have been selected for a special travel option, use the link below to contact us'

I waited over-night sleeping on the thought, hoping that I would know what to do, or that it would all go away. What would they do if I didn't contact them, what would they do put a horse head in my bed?

Next day as I was leaving work, reception handed me a courier letter

'Dear Helen

We understand you have booked a flight to America and would very much appreciate while you are there delivering a document to a gentleman on behalf of one of our friends. All arrangements will be made, and you can rest assured that there is no danger or anything illegal regarding this delivery.

We will understand should you rather not undertake this service. But, you may recall, how a little help can go a long way, to alleviating pain, for these around us, who cannot get help, any other way.

Please reply by email

With kinds regards

Maureen.

I emailed back saying that I would do it, adding that this would be the last thing I would do for 'them'.

I made Maureen meet me for lunch.

'Look it's nothing sinister' she laughed, ' it's just a friend of ours, her husband has run off to the States and forgot to provide his agreed maintenance, it's very near to where you are going, all you have to do is hand him a document saying we know where he is. You don't need to know any more than that, but it is like us all, when control is taken away from us. Think of it like the Women's Institute, sometimes a letter of complaint is not enough. You remember that don't you, how do you think these things get done?

'I don't like being spied on' I said, Maureen laughed,

My son in law Greg says that if you own a telephone or use the Internet you are wide open, everyone knows that, or should know anyway. Helen, these are friends of ours, people like you and me who can't help themselves'

'I want this to be the last one, I don't like it'

'You don't have to do this, I have turned loads of stuff down, no one is going to hurt you, do what you wish, we are all together, all on your side, don't worry'

'Just deliver a document? Nothing else? No drugs or anything I will go to jail for?'

'Just think about it Helen, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. But Greg told me to tell you that when you where out in the States the last time, a search was put out for you and the sister in law of the lady you went to visit. Greg put a hold on things until you returned. Everything is fine now but it could have got messy'

'Jesus Christ, what is all this? It's like the secret service'

'No' she smiled, 'just people like you and me looking out for each other. Just family and friends making life a bit easier'

We said our goodbyes, me promising to think about it and get in touch. I have to say it worried me, not so much delivering the document, well not unless he was violent or something. No, it was the thought of never escaping all this. I had paid my fee for both the next door neighbours and the Lesley search, both, I admit thoroughly professional and cheap at the price, I just worried that they, whoever they were would keep asking for 'favours'. I thought it must be Maureen's Greg and other people like us, who could not get justice any other way, partially through the courts. This man out in Texas, perhaps smugly thinking he had got away without paying maintenance to the little woman. OK, I thought, I will do it, but this is the last time, and anyway I thought I owed them something for the stalled police searches, God, how high did this go? I didn't want to think about it.

After a restful first-class flight, I was met at the airport by limousine and driven to the outskirts of Houston, away from the downtown business district that I had expected to go.

The grizzled driver spoke through the intercom; 'Mr De-Hem's sends his best wishes and hopes you had a nice journey' then looking at a piece of paper, added; 'Mrs Kirby'

The hotel was just as good as the photo hinted, if a little faceless and bland. Inside was nice enough, with a wonderful view of the hills and a far off freeway. Billie called to see if I had settled in OK and asked if I could come by the office tomorrow. I said all was fine and that I was looking forward to coming over to meet Mr De-Hem. A time was arranged so all that was left to do was to have a massage and then Mexican meal at the hotel restaurant.

The office block was on a high-tec low-rise complex not unlike Bluewater, but the building was surrounded by blue-chip software and IT companies with satellite dishes dotting the roofs. Pulling up at the reception I could see the sign behind the desk; 'SAND-SPRING MEDIA' home of WRREX 98.5 FM and SSM Cable TV and printed Media'

Everyone was very pleasant, an older woman (about my age) came from behind the desk taking my hand in both of hers whispering:

I am so sorry about your daughters passing' this said with the sincerity of a cable TV evangelist. The building was a very large, an open-plan steel and glass construction picked out with wood, that just tipped the place into expensive 'tat'.

I sat flicking the array of magazine published by SSM; fashion, style (there is a difference, I know now) in-house TV, film and Art. I taken to the second floor, sharing the lift with Shane, he smiled, showing me to Mr De-Hems suite. It felt rather like being taken to the head-masters office at school, only this time I hadn't the foggiest idea what he looked like.

'Mr De-Hem will see you now' said the young man knocking on the huge 'western' wooden doors.

'OK, Ok' barked the irritated answer to the knock, we walked in.

'Where the god-dam hell have you been, I have been contacting you for the last year and you have persistently and consistently have been ignoring my requests for a reply. Do you know how long I have been trying to talk to you? It' a God-dam disgrace. You should be looking out for your dear daughters business, God rest her soul, instead of burying your head deep in the God-dam sand, and letting a gang of sorry low-lives steal the very tail off the horse.

'Don't you think that your daughter would have wanted you to sort this sorry mess out? And another thing, you were in this country last year, an hop and skip away and you didn't come over, I have had two heart attacks, had had a triple by-pass operation, doc tells me to lay off the smokes, God-dam, he should have warned me about you, you're a health hazard. Jesus I feel like I am having a coronary right now, one year, three months, 75 emails and a thousand cigarettes later you turn up here when all this should have been cleared up a year ago. You owed it to your daughter to take care of business'

His face was purple red, tinged with grey, I felt like I had just walked into a hurricane. He was inches from my face, having moved towards me with each word. I was unable to move.

'Can I get you a drink Mr De-Hem? Asked Shane calmly

'Dr Pepper' De-Hems snapped, staring at me intently, waiting for what, I was not sure.

'And get the woman something'

I shook my head at Shane hoping to follow him out and fly back to England as he left the room.

'And don't start feeling sorry for yourself, you have suffered loss, we all have God-dammit, but we don't forget our loved ones, we respect them, do the best we can for them, not sit around drinking high-tea with Hugh Grant, or wishing too, while the world turns round, and God-dam, everyone else is ripping off your daughters work and lining their God-dam pockets'

He was so close now, I could smell the cigarettes from his breath, see and smell the nicotine remains on his yellow/brown-pointing finger that was now inches from my face. He dropped his hypnotic gaze and finger, turned and walked back into the office towards a large, I mean huge, floor to ceiling window overlooking the grounds at the back of the complex.

He must have been about my age, but from another one. Snake-hipped, tight blue jeans, ornate brown pointed cow-boy boots, tight white shirt with metal tipped collar, sleeves rolled up tight to his upper arms, revealing sinewy tattooed arms, oh and a cow-boy hat curled up at the sides.

'Good morning Helen, did you have a pleasant flight?' I asked sarcastically.

'Now don't get funny, it doesn't suit you' he said, still walking without looking back, adding 'God dammit' clenching his fists as he walked.

He looked out over the grounds; a large ornate fountain formed the centrepiece of the mock Mexican landscape.

To the left side of the office, a massive elaborately carved twenty-foot wooden desk. Three computers sat side by side, more worryingly racks of handguns lined the walls behind the desk. Across the room two humongous black leather sofas surrounded an outsized western-style coffee table, laden down with books and magazines. I stood like a naughty schoolgirl waiting for the detention. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched the fountain fill the trough. Shane came back, putting the can of Dr Pepper together with a glass on the coffee table.

'I thought you might like a mineral water' he said with a sly smile.

I heard a whisper from the window 'Mineral water!' shaking his head.

I drank the water, looking at the guns, there must have been every type of handgun ever made; old cowboy looking pistols, examples from both world wars, Nazi party too, and a massive gun that could bring down an elephant.

'Sit down' he barked, then realising his tension, whispered; 'sit down- please'

He turned from the window, gesturing me to the sofa. He walked over to the desk pulling out a two hundred pack of Marlborough's, then lit up. He seemed to calm down, the tense sinewy frame unlocking as he sucked in the thick grey smog, then letting out a thin stream of discoloured mist towards the ceiling.

'You have been a very very bad woman, I don't even wanna hear why, you never contacted me or my people, nearly gave Billie a complex. I wanna say this before we put the boxing gloves on; I am sorry about your daughter, our loss, she had a huge amount of potential, and it's too bad things have turned out this way'

He lit another cigarette off the diminishing butt, catching my eye as he did.

'Don't look at me like that, Jesus, I pay a doctor enough to send both his daughters to college to do that for me, what does he know anyway...'

'I didn't neglect my daughter...'

'I haven't flown you all this god-dam way to hear your sob-story, this is about young Emma, this is about her, not you' he snapped.

'You are being very rude and unfair' I got up to leave

'If you walk now, you will have to sort this out yourself, this should have been done over a year ago, now you have every agency who owns a computer ripping off her work'

I sat back down.

'Do you know how much money you have lost? He said seriously 'That is not a rhetorical question, go on how much?'

'I don't know' I said rather sulkily

'Go on indulge me' he said

'Five thousand pounds?'

He jumped up shouting 'Jesus H Christ, Jesus fucking Christ, you haven't got a God-dam clue'

He started to shake his head and laugh 'Five thousand pounds, Jesus Christ'

So we played the game:

'Twenty thousand?'

'Up'

'Thirty?'

'Up woman up, keep going up'

'A hundred thousand?'

'Ha'

'Two hundred?'

'Now you're getting there, and that was for just the West-Coast ad agencies, for the use of that fagot looking kid promo.

You have lost money because you would not sign the necessary paper-work and trust me, and that's nothing to do with the book deal'

'What book?' I asked incredulously,

'What book? The book just about every art publisher wants to put into print. The only reason they didn't is because I forged your signature, now don't get all shirty about that either'

'I wasn't going too' I said calmly

'Wasn't going to? Jesus Christ, no wonder we are losing money. Guy you never met says he's forging your signature and you don't MIND? Jesus'

'Don't play with me' I snapped, my body tensing tight across my shoulders and back. 'I don't know what is going on, why should I?

'Why should I know about things like that, who would? Now raising my voice to shout level. 'I don't know how these things work, we are normal people, not arty at all, we are from God-dam ORPINGTON'

I stood up, this was the nearest to walking out I could get without leaving the room. Abuse was one thing; I could take that if it was going to help Emma's work, being used as the butt of his jokes was another.

'OK now calm down' he said 'you'll end up like me'

I sat back down, he lit another cigarette.

'Lets get to it then' he said puffing. 'I love your girls' work, have done since I first saw it almost two years ago. Your friend Mr Stephen's sent Emma's artwork, along with some other images through the wonder of the Internet, for me to look at. Stephens and me go back along way; he contacted me when we published some images of the Gulf war. He was doing some God-dam research on the subject and we kept in touch. Anyhows, I loved the work, you know why?'

'Do I have to start guessing again?' I asked dryly

He gave me a sideway glance, saw I wasn't up for any more quizzes.

Because the people in them pictures were smiling. Have you seen the majority of images around today? Unless they are Coke adverts or weddings, most people-subjects are down-right poe-faced. I remember sitting in this very office day they came in, Billie was sitting right there, I'd had a bad weekend, third wife playing up again, wanting even more money, babbling on the phone while I opened the images and bang, I had a God-dam smile on my face. I had to put the phone down on the woman. That little French girl up on the jeep, what an image, Jesus. The picture of the old-hags smiling, made me feel good you know. Not so sure about that picture of the Virgin Mary picture card on the memorial, bit creepy, but hey, I've done acid, I know weird when I see it. It's how I got started; you know, that hippie thing back in the sixties...'

He seemed to start losing himself now, sucking a little harder on the smoke, blowing out less, leaning back a little more.

'You do acid Helen?' he asked causally.

The look I gave him, answered his question.

'Anyhow' he said sitting up 'I started doing graphic design for those old Psychedelic freak shows, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Hendrix, all those swirly patterns topped off with that fat bubble text. Did that for couple years before the whole scene became a sell-out. I moved down the coast from San-Francisco in the early seventies just when the surf thing was happening started a small 'cool' magazine, with my partner Will Wiler. By the eighties Apple computers had got their act together and we wanted the big bucks. We were ahead of everyone, producing artwork and magazine on those early computers, colours bit fuzzy, but those surfer guys are so stoned man, they think we did on purpose. We were headhunted by SSM here in Houston to work on the graphics for the new growing youth market. We are still on the board of three of the titles and producing credits for the cable shows, 'youth market', who the hell invented that concept? MTV probably, holy shit!'

He started to laugh then cough so hard I thought his chest would cave in.

'Just a tickle' he spluttered' he was away again.

'I like your daughters art, like her choice of subject, where she turns her gaze, that's what it's all about; choice. Where we look and what we choose to look at. Have you seen those god-dam photography books you see in those super-book-stores? Black and white pictures of poor people and the American wilderness, Jesus, what are we in the 1930's. critics say 'In black and white you can see the texture of the tree better', or some such esoteric horse-shit, if you have to have a black and white photo to show you the texture of a tree, you have not been outside of your house. Those photos of rural folk, depression on their faces, everything is so dull and boring, we have a beautiful country, beautiful people, Jesus, now I sound like Martin Luther. Only those who have enough money and live in the city would want to see such images. Then wham, I saw the screen-prints Emma had done, wo-oh, they knocked me out. That colour, man, Ok, it's a bit Warhol, but shit, if you gonna rip some one off it's gotta be that guy.

I sat back drinking the water, letting the raging river flow.

'I bought the whole set of prints and negs from the French trip for $10.000, including the one of that young punk on the school bus lighting his own gassers, hey, guys in New-York probably say that's art too! The screens, I bought for a $1.000 each, but you know Emma kept the rights to any publications, and that is the thing I needed to talk to you about, things been getting out of hand. I had a show of her work, don't look at me like that, you got an innovation but I heard nothing'

(For the record I can not remember any of invitation email, perhaps my mind was elsewhere; Rick, Emma, the boys next door, but I swear I didn't see it.)

'The show was in a small down-down gallery over in Austin owned by a friend of mine, you know, one of those group shows, I just wanted to show off my brilliant find really, everyone loved the pictures. That's when I sent Bezz to check out her work and we got in contact with her. When she did the images over in the Carson show we knew we wanted her. She had a good unique eye, 'fresh', they call it in the trade. She was bright and clever; the pictures that were sent back from that show blew me away. We projected them all over this building, I had them on strict rotation on my wall here, twenty foot high, then the girl gets knocked down, in the god-dam street.

He sat back taking off his hat momentarily as if to let a little air in and steam out. I could just make out a grey greased quiff before he put the hat back on and continued;

'We didn't hear from you, didn't know what the hell was going on, she was one of our employers, had signed a contract for two years, you know what? She still on our pay-role, so you got that too. When she died my friend at the gallery told some people, students and the like, that the young Brit girl had died, and would of course not now be coming out. Like vultures round a dead buffalo; Emma Kirby was in great demand. We did another show in her honour; had people, serious collectors and all from the West-Coast, offering silly money of those pictures. We had fagot guys coming into the building here wanting to know more about her, wearing tee-shirts they had made themselves from the images in the catalogue that Pippa had taken, God dammit, she was becoming an Icon!'

I didn't hear most of the above, I had got stuck on 'two years contract'. I always thought Emma said it was one year, it cut me but I was not going to bleed there.

'Some of her images were being used without permission, I didn't mind those crap garage band guys who wore them at their crap concerts, but when they were picked up by a ad agency, I put a stop to it. I claimed the rights, trying in vain to put a stop to those guys making a quick buck out of a dead girl, that's when I signed your name. You gonna tell be you didn't get the e-mail asking for permission for the perfume ad? We had a long meeting, all the office, Bezz and Pippa were there too, it was the only image we said they could use, that was the one that rode the New York buses and subways for so long' He looked at me puzzled 'Do you have any idea what is going on?'

'None at all'

He shook his head and broke off for a much-needed break; it was like being hit with a puffing hammer. We sat out on the shaded terrace looking down on the fountain.

'Do you want to take your shoes off?' he asked, concern on his face.

'Both my first wives always did that, and you look hot'

It was glorious, my feet had been aching for hours, the heat was not so kind to me as it was in Arizona, nor my breathing. I sat wiggling my toes under the table as he smoked.

'I collect art, always have, mostly photos, some screen-prints few canvas's, if the right thing comes along. We publish magazines, on just bout everything from fashion to music, only thing we don't publish is porn or woodwork, good money in both mind you, but don't seem right somehow. I wanted Emma's work, and wanted her to work on a couple of the magazines art department, she felt it was a good thing to do, even Warhol did that. She was an artist, not fine, nor graphic like me, hell, I used to work with t-squares and sharp pencils, more equipment on my work bench than a high school storeroom in the old days. But I pictured Emma selling and making art, I wanted her to do a book for us, hell, I've had to put a few blocks on the books about her'

'Books on Emma?' This shocked me, books about my girl, 'what on earth would they say about her?

'Put a block on one just the other day'

'What are they saying about her?' then it dawned on me 'it's because she had her hands cut off, then died, is that it? All this fuss because she died isn't it?'

De-Hem took his hat off. 'Not all of it, but the art market is like that, the whole dam media world is like that, rock stars, artists just about everyone sell much more work when they are dead than alive. Don't necessary mean it's a sick thing, no, people scared of losing something special, like your daughter Emma, worried she taking a beautiful piece of the world away from them when they ain't ready for it. Prices for her work went up ten fold when she died. I don't want to make money out of her loss, but I don't want anyone else to either, and they will if we let them. It's the way it is, and I think Emma would have liked to have sold the work and become famous, I know this sounds kinda ungracious, being posthumous an all, but it is her name, her work and love we taking about. Why not take some time out and think about it, meet Will and some of the guys here, see what we're about. You can use the office over there, see the one with the plants? One of the women here bought you an English Rose, kind make ya feel at home.

'That's most kind' I said rather puzzled 'why do I need a office?'

'So you can research your own daughter, and be careful, don't believe a God-dam thing unless I wrote it'

'Do you want to ask me anything before we move on?' he asked.

'Only one thing for now, do you always wear your hat when you are inside?' He smiled at this.

'Only when I'm unsure about something and I'm unsure about you, little bit less than when you came in, but the hat ain't off yet'

'Emma Kirby' click.

1856 related pages, well my God, this was scary.

'Emma Kirby, the young London fashion student knocked down in a London street by a drunk driver'

Next;

Emma Kirby, the young artist whose arms were amputated due to the result of a accident with a London bus...

Next;

Emma Kirby photography. Here the website showed some of the French photographs, a screen print that I had helped with and a photo of her in what looked like Milan. Perhaps one that had been used at the exhibition that De-Hem had set up, this was all too much.

Next;

'Emma Kirby gay icon'

Next;

'Emma Kirby ended her own life as a limb-less torso....'

Next;

'Kirby's work sells for a million.'

I decided to end it there and take a break. What the hell was going on, this was not my little girl, they all had the wrong person, even De-Hem somehow thought she was a girl about-town aware of her fame, everyone had the wrong person. She had not planned any of this, or had she? The more I looked the more difficult it was becoming to know what was real. One thing I did know, I could not handle this myself, I needed De-Hem. I looked over at the vase of Roses on a glass table by the massive window looking out at the fountain. I could make out De-Hems office, could see him pacing about. Someone had taken a lot of time to arrange these flowers, as they looked so beautiful.

We met for lunch on the terrace of his room, he drinking coffee, me eating salad.

'You see Helen, everyone projects what they want that special person to be, Dykes want her to be a dyke, Gays want her to be an icon, Princess Di or something, and the art media call her Frida Kahlo. See what we are up against?'

'But they have got it all wrong,' I said bewildered. 'it's like they're talking about someone else.'

De-Hem laughed; 'tell me about it, ask anybody at all who has even the smallest amount of fame, they will all tell you that they got them wrong too-it's projection. Who do you think wrote that horseshit about Richard Gene and the Hamster or God-knows what it was. Not his fan-base, no, just some lonely gay guy with a hutch full, hoping'

I had no idea what he was taking about, hamsters!, what did they have to do with my daughter? But I could see things were being made up about her, and even I knew that when enough people agreed on something, however untrue, history is made.

'What are we going to do?'

He took his hat off 'Lord have mercy, the ladies arrived'

'There are around 300 known images produced by your daughter, I have most of them, own about fifty and signed for the others. As you know almost one hundred screen-prints were made, 20 have already been sold at a silly price before she died. Don't Marker if they're signed, Warhol got his friends to sign his anyway, but we need to formalise all this before it gets out of control. We held the other screens back after her passing, as things were crazy. What I would like to do and I've spoken to Will and Alice who owns the gallery about this, and we hope you would go along too.

'We have a retrospective exhibition with just about everything we can get hold of, retaining a few select items, giving the art dealers and her fan base a healthy hint of paranoia. We bring out a serious of three books; two on the photos, one on the screen prints. We would like to have a proper web-site built and some interviews done with the art press, if it's not done you can be sure they will make it up. Alice thought, and I agree, that at least fifty of the prints could warrant screen-prints made from them, and we get a registered number done, proper like, then we either copyright or license her work. How's that sound?'

'Yes to all of it, but just a couple of things; I would like a veto on the projects, not your items, you were good enough to buy them, their yours. Just a look at what's going on, that's all.'

'OK'

He showed me round the complex; the large offices filled with computers, the graphic department, the 'chill-out Zone' and the boardroom. Met Will; a short tubby man with round glasses and grey ponytail, and Billie, a prim, well dressed African-American, who asked if the flight and the hotel were 'of standard?'

While we walked he talked; 'well, right now, I'm on my own, just broke up with my third wife, just can't seem to settle. We originally from Holland, great grandfather crossed the country looking for gold like every other poor guy from Europe, Likewise with many others, he got diverted down here in Texas, you know, promise of Jobs and all the rest, they got by though. My own father and brother are in a correctional facility up near Dallas, which is handy for visiting and all. Pop got ten years because of his record and my brother got a straight eight; importing and selling stolen goods, ma died in 92'

He asked me about my life I told him what I could; commuting from Orpington everyday did not seem quite so exciting.

'Here at SSM, we will have nothing to do with the promotion of the work, all that will go through the Alice gallery. What we will do here is inform people and create a little hype through the magazines, not that it will need much. We want your daughter to get what she deserves, a worldwide audience, in a controlled, classy way, the way it should be. Take a few days out, get to know Houston, think about things then if you are happy come back and finalise the show'

'I do need to get away for a while actually, how far is Houston to San Antonio?'

'Hey, you got business out there? Better deal huh?'

'No, not at all, you are specious' I laughed

'I have to see a man, about...about something'

'Cagey lady!' he laughed adding; 'Bezz will take you, Pippa has family out there, he can show off his new plane.

## Make you an offer...

##

The plan was that I should go to the office of Mr Ripley-Moss and ask for him at reception. I would have to hand the document to him in person and 'make eye contact', wait for the message to sink in, then leave. It there was any problems I should call the number given and/or call the police. I would say that I was delivering a letter for a friend; the names would be given once I had called the number. I would be glad to be clear of this one, but someone had to arrange for my help with the brats next door, someone had to access Lesley's private details, so I could do this-but it would be the last.

Bezz and Pippa picked me up at the hotel early Tuesday morning and drove me to the private airport. They were younger than I remembered, twenty-five perhaps, Bezz was a pure Latino, wearing a white cotton under vest and blue jeans that hung down his backside. Pippa too was latino, but mixed with a few Europeans along the way. They spoke of their sadness of losing Emma, telling me of their last night they had with her and how happy she had been. They said Emma had been looking forward to coming out to Houston and working with the team on a style magazine, and flying out to different locations for photo shoot projects. Pippa kindly invited me to stay with her parents but I declined, but took their number in case anything should happen.

It didn't seem right (or safe) somehow, that this young boy, with his sticky-up up black hair, youthful smile and wore-out baseball boots, multi-coloured string bangles and chucky platinum watch was going to fly me 200 miles across the Texas sky. There seemed an awful lot of airliners flying around when I landed at Houston airport...

'If you don't mind me saying' I said rather cautiously

'You are very young to have your own aeroplane' which was the nearest I could get to saying;

'Are you old enough and safe enough, to fly us across this State without crashing?'

'Don't worry' he chuckled, reading his flight charts and checking his sunglasses in the mirror. 'I have hundreds of flying hours, flown in all weathers, ask Pippa. I've been flying since I was fourteen. Most kids I know have access to a plane, one way or another; it's not that unusual this day and age. In the old days, kids would ask to borrow their Dad's car to go riding, but now you borrow the plane, but this babies mine'

Pippa nodded: If you live on the coast, most kids have a boat to sail, us, stuck so far inland have a plane, bit safer anyways'

'It's not so unusual mam' said Bezz as we shot along the runway, my hands clenched with a vice-like grip to the seat

'Most families go in for a fractional share scheme, and aviation gas is still pretty low-cost, even with the down-turn in the economy' then we were up.

I sat behind Bezz and Pippa in the twin-engine eight-seater, gliding up to God knows what.

'De-Hems tells me you out in Tucson last year, couple of nice airfields there; Ryan Field? Apache Junction? Get to see them?'

I had to say I hadn't, remembering that all I could remember was Wal-Mart and Blood.

'Just sit back and relax, we do this run at least once every month'

I did sit back, trying my hardest not to enjoy myself; I felt a little twitchy, on account of why I was there; the 'letter' waiting for delivery in my handbag. Cheering up a little I thought of much Emma would have loved all this. This should have been her, not me. I looked down at the Texan land divided up into squares of dark green and a sort of pinky brown, of which I could not quite make out what these patches were, I began to release my hands and breathe, watching, the long road train trucks on the long endless roads.

The couple up-front chatted for a while unaware I spoke Spanish.

Mostly about the sleeping arrangement at Pippa's family house, and why her mother would not let them sleep together, I looked out at the passing terrain far below.

After going our separate ways with Pippa and pilot taking a hire car to the suburbs. The taxi took me out of the busy city and to a high-tec science park on the outskirts of town. I found the Office building; a tall concrete and glass box. 'A-MECRA, computing solutions'

I was determined to get this out of the way as soon as possible, leaving the cab waiting I strode up the steps to the reception.

'Good afternoon' I said to the receptionist as cheerily and confident as possible.

'I'm a good friend of Mr Ripley-Moss who works here and I have just arrived from Britain and he said I could pop in any time I was in town, and here I am, would you be so kind as to call him to come down for a moment'

The receptionist turned to her colleague who had been listening to my every word and shrugged

'Ok, Ms...?'

'Smith' I said, kicking myself inside for being so unoriginal

'Very well Ms Smith, please sign here, one moment'

She turned her back as she tapped in the number

'Mr Ripley-Moss? Yes, you have a visitor down in reception; no, she does not have an appointment, no... someone to see you on an informal visit'

She moved away from the desk and turned her back on me, yet I could still hear her whisper down the phone.

'Yes female, no, middle aged, average...'

Then she giggled and turned back to me. 'Take a seat he will be right down'

I stayed stood up, holding the sealed white envelope, trying not to look suspicious. The other three women behind the curved reception desk, speaking into their microphone head-sets, the woman who spoke to me stood watching me from the corner, hoping no doubt, for a wonderful reunion by these wacky Brits.

I knew it was him as soon as the lift door opened, just much younger than I had imagined, but it is perfectly possible to be twice married and avoiding maintenance payments at thirty these days. The dark suit, short-gelled hair; the look of a bit-part player in an English East-End gang movie.

He looked disappointed I was not a blond cockney scrubber, yet he was still the charmer, holding out his hand to me as the receptionist waved him towards me. I took the hand firmly, giving him a big confident eye contact smile and welcome.

'Mr Ripley-Moss, very nice to see you again, I've waited a long time to meet you'.

He smiled, slightly unsure what was happening

'I'm sorry, do I know you, were you at the Austin conference?'

I laughed; 'yes that's right, and I was just passing and knew you worked here, I've brought you a little present, more an invitation really, from Mrs Ripley-Moss'. I handed him the envelope.

'Just a little reminder that you are never far away from those you should care about'

He looked at me puzzled, irritation beginning to tense his body and fixed smile. He was unsure what to say having been taken off guard, so looked over at the receptionist who was now blatantly watching with hands on hips.

'Thank you' he said, anger rising as if he had been the subject of a practical joke.

I had planned to walk straight out the building after the handover but his attitude stopped me, I moved closer to him.

'Anything you want to say to me?' I said, standing my ground.

He looked at the receptionist 'No, not right now'

'Well' I said getting ready to leave 'if you think of anything, you can ask me next time I come to visit you, don't worry I know your timetable'

'I'm sure you do' he said now thoroughly irritated at the realisation that his past had just caught up with him.

'Goodbye Mr Ripley-Moss, everything will work out just fine you'll see'

I started to walk out, then turned to the receptionist, 'such a sweet man, has children back home you know...'

I got to the bottom of the steps then felt a hand on my shoulder.

'You come anywhere near me again and you will be in serious trouble'

His teeth clenched, seething the words.

'Take your hand off me, or I will blow your fucking head off'

I could feel his body tense as he pulled back from the gun pushing into his rib cage. We stood looking at each other for what felt like minutes but must have been no more than a few seconds. I knew that it was my stare rather than the gun that made him back-off calling as I climbed into the waiting taxi;

'Fucking nutter'

I told the driver to take me into town, anywhere I would walk for a while and change cabs. I looked back to see Mr Ripley standing on the steps holding the letter, I gave a dainty wave, worthy of the Queen as we turned out of the drive and onto the main-street.

The adrenalin pumped hard and fast through by body, I wanted to go back for a second go, be even more sweet, charming and intimidating, take my time, lean forward, relax a little, smoke a cigarette perhaps. I had wondered in the past why people did this sort of work, and now I knew, it made you feel bloody brilliant; I wanted to join the mafia.

Exhilaration ripped through me, pumping around my body that made me clench my fists with excitement. I wanted to eat something, yes, a big slab of chocolate that was on top of a rich chocolate cake, have sex, and buy expensive clothes, all at the same time if at all possible.

Back at the hotel, I lay on the bed after the most relaxing bath, surrounded by unopened shopping bags from expensive shops and beautiful gorgeous chocolates, in a thick gold box, while feeling the gun.

It felt right; the size, weight and balance, so perfectly ergonomic, why wasn't everything made with such thought care and excellence? I had tried every gun on De-Hems wall while he was called away. I could see him waling across the courtyard so, knowing I had all the time in the world I looked for some protection. I didn't try any of the big handguns at the top being a little unsure I would be able to carry them; it was the little shinny ones at the bottom that caught my eye.

There were two or three flat rectangle shaped 'pieces', but they didn't feel right. Down on the bottom row, a little silver revolver, with highly polished wood handle and stubby barrel, it felt like Emma's hand in mine; perfect and right.

'Anything in a gold frame and expensive price-tag, that was my first wife's criteria for buying art, Jesus Christ, she used to look in magazines to see what she should like. It's like someone telling you what music to buy. How the hell we had two children without looking in a style magazine, I have no idea'.

De-Hem had been like this for about half an hour; like most of his employees, including Billie and Bezz just let it all flow over them. I had arrived back in Houston with shopping bags full of clothes I wouldn't wear and the promise of a diet some time in the future. Anything else would have to wait until I flew to Spain!

De-Hem was now in full swing, setting up the future for Emma's art and the 'Estate'. He had set up a series of meetings for me with his legal team to oversee the development of the first book of photographs. I sat looking out the window while De-Hems went on and on, I only woke up when he mentioned Emma.

'Yes Emma, she didn't need someone to tell her where to point the camera, she just knew, you can't be told or learn such things, you got IT or you ani't. People ain't got a clue what they like, well that's a lie they do, but they so scared that it ain't gonna be the "right" thing to like, they ain't got the confidence to say 'that painting is a piece of shit' just cos some God-dam idiot for the East-coast says it's good, don't mean it is.

'Like what you like and stick with it, that's what I say, don't make no different what nobody say, well it shouldn't, it's too God-dam important. Look at the young people today; what the hell is going on there, retro this retro that, too scared to break out the mould, so they live in some kinda sixties-seventies cultural hybrid, base-ball, boots, flared jeans, I think I'm having a acid flash-back when I go into town these days.

'Only kids who breaking out with their new scene is the black community, least they got something of their own going, but even now I'm seeing a few afros, like the Jackson Five all over again. What the kids gonna look back on when they sell out and get married? A retro-retro a pastiche of a time that didn't exist... know what else they bringing back now? Vinyl, yeah, records on vinyl; they think it's cool. Cool? What's cool about playing a black dinner plate full of scratches, it will be eight-track and cine-film next. They can download music now from the Internet, yet 90% of the stuff they rip is from the 60's and 70's Led Zeppelin and the Who. Young people buy anything media tell em too. And who's the media anyway? Some sad misfit kid who had to be in before 10.30. The problem seems to be that they buy the image from the music TV shows, yes I have a music TV show but... the music comes from the image now-days rather than the radio, which is much stronger.

While he went on and on, it gave me time to file my nails, square, like the women out there in the States, 'it would be nice to have it done properly, perhaps I will do that before I go' I thought as De-hem paced the room puffing.

'Have you heard one thing that I have said? Jesus Christ' he lit another cigarette shaking his head

I sat up, 'of course I have...very interesting, all of it'

'Now I ain't gonna get you to jump through hoops, that's not the way either of us want it to go, but I would like to reward Peter Sach; the director of our Cable music TV channel. He liked Emma's work and supported the decision the have her work as part of the corporate logo, you know the kissing couple image behind the TV presenters?'

I nodded slowly, eyeing him suspiciously

'Just that Peter knew you were coming and asked if we could do a live web chat after the Top-Forty show tomorrow, just asking questions and the like, Emma got a lot of exposure because of that, well will ya? Take a few questions? Just a few, she's becoming an enigma'

During the closing credits for the TV music show that whizzed left to right across the screen at such a speed that it's a wonder that anyone could read them, an email address for the cable company flashed on the screen for people to email me once the show had finished. The young Japanese presenter made an announcement at the end of the show that the mother of the young British artist who died in an automobile accident would take questions on a live web-chat.

Peter Sach was sitting with me; a large well-groomed, with hair-sprayed hair.

'Ready Helen?'

I nodded; 'as I will ever be'

'This is a real be trill for us all, God Bless you' he said nodding righteously.

The emails were waiting on the screen, so I took them as they came:

Chris from Cold Spring

'When did Emma take up photography?

This was easy, I thought, I was worrying over nothing

Helen; 'When she was eighteen, while on a college trip to France'

Abby from Galvesten

'Did Emma have a premonition of her accident?'

'Oh dear here comes the nutters' I thought.

Helen; not as far as I knew

Scott from Crockett

'Was the shot of the young girl on the army Jeep in France a critique on the Gulf-War

Helen; Not as far as I know, I believe it was a pure opportunist photo.

Roberta from Blessing

The shot of the French senior citizen women, show imbedded wedding rings. I took that image as expressing the constraint and oppression imposed by the patriarchal regime upon women in the Middle East, was this Emma's intention?

Helen; No

José from Navasota

What equipment did Emma use, and did she ever use digital?

Helen: Well José you have got me there. Emma borrowed a camera to shoot the early French photo's (the little girl on the Jeep etc) but she used a Cannon Sure-Shot that we had at home for most of the others. Later when she earned some money she bought a 35mm Pentax but I am not terribly sure which type, sorry.

Jake from Eagle Lake

Did Emma retain an interest in photography after her hands were amputated, and if so which images did she take during that time. Very sorry to hear that she died.

Helen; Thank you Jake. No, Emma did not have any interest after her operation, therefore did not take any photos.

Stuart and Kiel from Honey Island

Would Emma have enjoyed being a gay icon? We just adore that 'boy on the Bus shot'

Helen; I didn't know she was, but yes, I should think she would have been chuffed to bits, why not!

Beth Sable from Palestine

Did Emma come to the States, if so, where and when?

Helen; No, but Emma was planning to tour the country. She would have liked to visit New York and follow Warhol's route across the country to the West-Coast, then head back down here to Houston to take up employment.

Chelsea from Cedar Lane

It is clear Warhol was a major influence, who else?

Helen; yes Emma loved Andy Warhol's work. She also liked David Carson the Graphic designer and attended one of his work-shops in Milan. Another artist was David Hockney in particular the Pearblossom Hwy collages.

Cher from Waco

Is it true that Madonna owns two of her screen-prints, and that she had optioned the book?

Helen; I don't think so, to both questions

Merrill from Austin

I read on the net that Emma's ashes were stolen and that she hung out with Boy George

Helen; I think that's probably enough for now, thank you everyone for your questions

Helen Kirby

'They seem to put so much into the pictures' I said to De-Hems, while I sat exhausted in the air conditioned office.

'Called projection Helen, we all dump our feeling on art, that's what it's for'

Smoked De-Hems sitting opposite me, in one of the large comfy armchairs, hat off and legs stretched before him.

'The young people seem to think there is much more than there really is, they dump their hopes and reams and their desires onto the image'

I stretched too, looking at the sun go down through the large windows.

'It will only be there for those who want to see it' he said earnestly 'and going by the reaction of the work and the web-cast there is a lot of folks seeing a lot of stuff. Let me tell you something Helen, I saw something too, Jesus Christ, I don't know what it was; just reached out and touched me. Who can say what it is we see.

'I just don't think it contains what people think it does' I said casually.

He jumped up, pointing at me.

'You been in love Helen?'

'Yes, I think so'

'Well then you should know. Now if all the other women saw what you did in your man, he would be a lucky guy, but only you can see that love and beauty in him, no one else can see it, touch it, or learn about it like my ex wife from a magazine, but God dammit its there or IT ain't, love and art is in the eye of the beholder'

He got up and looked out at the orange and yellow sky filling the window.

'Now I know this is gonna sound strange, but I have to say it.'

He stood facing out the window, the orange sky now turning red in the quiet.

'I feel a bit bad about buying your daughter Emma's work'

'Why' I said, sitting up. 'You have been very kind, why would you feel bad?'

'I know it sounds kinda dumb but... sometimes I think I killed her somehow, I know what you're thinking, 'ole De been on the grass again' but I'm serious.'

I got up and walked over to him, he seemed smaller than before, I had never seen him this thoughtful.

'What on earth are you talking about, how on earth could you have killed he, you gave her life'

He turned away from me

'I know it's gonna sound kinda strange but... it's like this; I have only really collected three peoples work, I know I have bought loads of other paintings, but that's business. These three women, all European mind you, and this is the worst of it, all dead. Helen Farr, a young Scot, part of that whole Glasgow school of art thing, magnificent images; transcending, a real high. Bought the whole show over the phone, died in an automobile accident a year later. Helen Chadwick, got captivated by the woman and her art, reduced me to tears, that fucking shrine she did for Frida Kahlo died a few months later, in the middle of her prime. I thought it was coincidence but then I saw your Emma's work, so young, I thought nothing could happen to her, Jesus, she was just a kid. Just feel I killed her somehow...'

My first reaction was to laugh, I had never heard such bunkham in my life, yet looking at him, staring off into the distance I could see he was visibly shaken, crushed and guilty.

Instinctively, I put my hand on his shoulder

'You didn't kill her, I can tell you that, most defiantly. Nor did you kill the other women, it was not you, not in any way shape or form, now there's an art term! Or is from it 'South pacific?'

He turned and smiled, but the light had gone from his face.

'You mean that?'

'I do sir, take it from me'

He held my hand then hugged me tightly, then gently, I could smell the cigarette smoke, feel the fresh cotton shirt and the relief as his body relaxed.

'Thank you, thank you' he whispered

I pulled myself together as we sat down, he lit up.

'Your Emma's work, Man, it's good. It doesn't intimidate people, it's accessible to everyone, but it's deep enough to swim in. But you know who's buying it the most? Women and young girls, men like it too, but the females identify with her somehow. You know it would be good to do some silk-screens and have an exhibition at the gallery, there's a waiting list for any prints that have come out, how do you feel about that Helen? Stop me if you think I am going too fast'

'No, a show of screen-prints would be good, but I must ask one thing'

'Go on, what is it?'

I swallowed hard 'I want to do them, I helped with the others, I know how she would have liked them done'

He laughed loud at the ceiling 'Glory be, Glory fucking be, this is gonna be great, I will get you the best studio in town'

We talked of the practicalities of the project and I got up to leave. Standing by the open door I paused. 'I have a confession'

I pulled out the gun and handed it to him. 'I'm sorry, I really am'

He smiled, 'Well Jesus Dam Christ, I ain't gonna ask why, just take it, but be careful' He laughed again.

'No' I said 'it's yours, it's part of your collection, please take it, it belongs back there on your wall'

Reluctantly he took the gun and I walked out the door. Half way down the corridor he called; 'You women, Jesus Christ, you're a Goddam mystery to me, but that's why I love ya all'

## Hair-do and nails

I flew first class from Huston to Tucson, feeling not exactly scruffy but dishevelled; I had on my new khaki trousers, light-blue cotton blouse and soft brown leather slip-on pumps. These felt right but I just needed a sort-out, I somehow felt, and looked rough beside the other women on the plane. Perhaps it was because I was feeling better, more positive, but when I looked at myself in the ladies room mirror at the airport my hair was standing on end, and not only that, it itched like mad.

I told the woman at the car hire desk that it didn't Marker what the car was as long as it was big and had lots of space in the trunk and powerful air conditioning. A young boy brought round a large navy-blue 4x4 Range-Rover type car (truck). Sitting high up in the soft white leather seats, air-con protecting me from the baking heat and a Iris De-Mont CD that De-Hem had given me playing softly on the stereo. All this made the drive to Lesley's house a pleasant experience.

I had called Lesley from Texas to see if I could come over to see her. This would be the first time I had spoken to, or seen her for nearly a year. We had agreed not to communicate on leaving, but I had wanted to contact her, but then her ex-mother-in-law called and soured everything and I held back, Lesley sounded good.

'Do, oh do, it's been so long I have much to tell you, when will you be here?' she gushed.

Something was different; I wasn't sure what, but Grasshopper Drive wasn't how I left it, it felt odd, I was to find out later much had changed. First thing I noticed a little yellow car parked on Lesley's drive. The baking heat on just opening the car door, knocked me back, but the air was good and that fresh air feeling hadn't changed, allowing me to breath deep without pressure on my lungs. I felt I could straighten up and pull back my shoulders, which I did as I rang the doorbell.

While waiting I looked at the house, it seemed different; a whole lot cleaner and brighter. The front yard was tidy and had flowers planted, then the door opened, I thought for a moment I had the wrong house, then she pulled me close hugging me tight, It felt all wrong as I held only half of the woman I had known last year.

I could only utter; 'Dear God, dear dear God'

She held my shoulders at arms length, I pulled back immediately, I moved back to the car, feeling repulsed. She was back again; the woman in the dock, the woman who killed my daughter, the blond hair the pale skin, that smile, and of course, those eyes.

She ran to me 'Helen, Helen what is it, why are you being like this? I thought you wanted to see me, please come in, please don't do this, it's me Lesley'

I stood staring at her, jumbled up inside, as if I had been slapped awake from a beautiful dream. I could hear Lesley taking far away somewhere in the distance; ' Are you Ok? Come in, please Helen, I don't like it your scaring me'

Somehow I got in the door, walked like a zombie to the back kitchen and I sat automatically on a chair; a bottle of water and a glass placed before me.

After a few minutes I looked nervously round the kitchen, everything had changed; the whole place had been gutted and turned round. Gone was the high serving bar, the one where Lesley found the knife and slashed her arms, collapsing behind it. The wood-effect units had vanished. Instead tasteful cream cupboards, dark kitchen tops and a stainless steel sink and mixer tap. It was light and airy, peaceful and calm, but I was dazed.

She sat beside me sensing I was coming out of shock, laying her hand on mine. 'Tell me Helen, tell me, what's troubling you?'

So I told her, told her it was a shock to see the old Lesley back, the killer Lesley, not the old fat dependant Lesley, who could not fit in the shower. She didn't say a thing, just held my hand and listened. When I had finished she put her slim arm around my tense shoulders, now tight and rounded.

'I'm sorry, I am so sorry, I thought you would be pleased, you helped me Helen, all this is for you. I always thought that if you should ever come back, I wanted to look better for you, show you I have worked on this, worked for you every day, I hoped you would come back. You know I can't leave the country, so I have had to wait here for you. I always thought you would be pleased, I didn't do this to hurt you'

A smile came to my lips breaking the tension. 'Stand up' I asked.

She smiled, then like a little girl in her new party dress, stood up

'We my God, you look wonderful'

The blond hair, perhaps a shade or two darker, plus a few grey hairs at the side, but still beautiful. She was tall 5.9- 10 and slim, not as slim as she was, yet slim, just the same. On her feet; fun confident green pumps, embroidered with playful gold tread. The white fitted trousers, emphasising the long trim legs, the white cotton blouse topped with a soft round décolleté collar, illuminated the silver chain and crucifix that hung from her elegant neck. But none of this Mattered; it was the smile that counted, together with the warm blue eyes radiating benevolent grace, not the face of a drunk-driving killer at all. She was stunning.

'I have lost ten stone, toning each day so as not to have skin hanging down, but you don't really want see my tummy, I still have some work to do down there'

She beamed proud like a first prize-winner, and of course she should be.

'But Helen you look different too, you look amazing' I said stunned.

We sat in the kitchen for a while boasting each others egos, before showing me round the transformed house, starting with the front room that now had wood floors

'They were hiding under these dreadful carpets' she laughed. Everywhere was painted a soft off-white, the furniture; natural colours such as stone, Hessian, and straw. The bathroom white with small grey/blue tiles with a light coloured blind, filling the room with dappled Arizona sunlight.

'I have loved working on the house, did it all my myself mostly, except the kitchen, but then I got someone from the church to install it' she touched the chain around her neck, then looking down like a school-girl with a crush said;

'I think I have found the lord'

We talked about the changes to Grasshopper Drive. Lesley told me this main road running around the edge of the estate had now been re-routed and people no longer used it as a cut-through. Consequently the area had become silent and forgotten as a result. It did have an exceptional peaceful air, to what was an already a slow-moving pleasant address.

'Can I take you out to lunch' I asked

'You can take me but I'm paying' she smiled, she really had returned to the beautiful girl in the dock.

'Look, what I would really like is a haircut, I remember a place down at the mall would you come with me, see if they could fit me in?'

She looked me up and down smiling 'sure, I think I have business card for that mall, let me look'

After tossing a dime, I went first, while Lesley had her nails done. My hair had always baffled me and everyone else. Long, coarse and wavy. What the 70's adverts used to call 'unmanageable' God how right they were, now I wanted it off. So there we sat, me in the middle of a row of black hairdressing chairs filled with women talking, drinking coffee and reading magazines while Lesley sat near the back chatting to the manicurist.

'I don't like any of it, the length, the thickness nor the condition, you have a free hand' The young lady stylist, dressed head to toe in black with black framed rectangle glasses, lifted the Brillo-pad textured hair, and let it drop' grimacing as she did so.

'Lets get started' she said

'If you don't mind me saying I like your hair' I said as we walked to the shampoo basins.

'I want them curved not straight and not too long, oh and a pearl clear varnish' The manicurist nodded then we chatted for time while Lesley sat in the black chairs. The stylist looked much more interested than she did with my mop, she called assistants over to look at the long naturally blond hair. But it was not the dirty rat-tails anymore; it was fantastic;

Gemma the stylist worked miracles on my hair; tons of the stuff lay on the floor, it was now soft and straight, and with the tasteful colour, it was not me anymore in that mirror, but I liked who I saw. A consultant asked me if I would like to see a beautician, just to help with makeup, now that my skin tone would look different, did she need to ask?

Through all this I had worried that I would look some sort of tart, or a dogs-dinner, but it seems those days have gone, there's big money out there making middle aged women feel and look good, rather than stupid. Lesley's hair of course looked gorgeous, we laughed as we met at the coffee bar.

'Helen you look wonderful, truly wonderful'

'Thank you, I feel wonderful. But yours is lovely too, no other word but lovely.'

We walked around the mall, every so often I would catch a look of my reflection in the shop windows, disregarding the initial shock, I was quietly chuffed. I looked younger than I did at college, without actually trying to be younger than I was. We stopped for coffee, feeling good with each other, but I had to bring us back to earth.

'I was warned off talking to you by your ex mother in law, she wanted me to stay away'

Lesley smiled and knowing smile

'She's like that, likes control, even when we were married she had the rains. I do feel grateful, living in the house that they bought, I feel I owe them something, so I put up with it. I'm not sure why she should worry about you though'

'Nor am I, she is a bit of a funny one, bit of a pushy cow really, though I was with her all the way at the trial'

This seemed to put a slight dampener on the day, so I said 'come on, let's buy some shoes'

Although I was still spending my money, I was spending it a bit easier knowing that Emma's money had been paid into my account. I didn't want to benefit from her death, go out enjoying myself, getting 'dolled up' like some pools winner, when she had suffered so much. It was a lot of money that had been transferred into my account; touching seven figures, and this would increase significantly if De-Hems was telling the truth. It was a funny feeling having the bank account stuffed full of money. I pacified myself, reasoning, that if I helped with the work that sold I could take a salary; otherwise, if I didn't earn the money I wouldn't take it.

We drove back in the 'tank' feeling peaceful, happy and free, my lungs expanding, due to the clemency of the atmosphere, producing a most agreeable feeling of well being. We bumped over the traffic control bumps that were now in place along the now silent roads that led to Grasshopper Drive.

I dropped Lesley off and headed back to the hotel, I had thought of staying with her but I didn't want to intrude, so I promised to come over in a day or two. During the time I had been at home in England I had received a number of letters from Becky's parents: Stephen and Brenda. To start with, the letters really just told me how Becky and Joyce were getting on and any softball scores. Later Stephen had asked after my enquiry regarding his trust fund, and it was to this subject, that I had arranged a dinner meeting with them at their house.

The quiet single storey wood-clad building, stood on a long wide street, shaded with large well cared for trees. It was good to see them, and they most welcoming, taking genuine pleasure at showing me around the ornate house. Matching carpets, curtains and soft furnishings filled the house. Large high-hung gold-framed photos of the family lined the walls; Rebecca as a baby, Rebecca as a toddler, Rebecca as a girl scout, first day at school etc until I came to the current picture which shocked me. Even after just a year, she had changed, more grown up, slimmed down with a little of the look of Stephen in her eye. She came running in from school, hugging me as if a long lost friend. The greeting touched me, even if I was cynical about the sincerity.

'It's so nice to see you, Gee, I have pestered Dad to take us to Europe to see you, but he's too mean' she shot him a glance, which he returned by poking his tongue out. She ran over pretending to punch his arm.

'How's Joyce these days?' I asked, interrupting the bonding, yet sensing it pleased Brenda that I did. They looked at each other.

'Not good news Helen, They have moved to Phoenix, Her mother lost her job and became unwell, they have gone to live with Joyce's aunt. She has had her education disrupted and things are not so great, it's too bad'

Brenda pulled out all the stops for the meal, before which we bowed our heads and prayed. The best floral printed china, crystal glasses, napkins that matched the furniture in the back dinning room and heavy elaborate cutlery again florid decorated, picking out the pattern of the plates. Conversation centred round Becky. Softball was on the way out, and boys and exams were on the way in. Becky had met a 'nice' boy at church and had been taken to the movies (and picked up) by Brenda, they seemed happy enough, even though Becky said she could have made her own way home.

After dinner the couple showed me the photographs of their son who had passed away. Unlike those of Becky, Patrick's image was not dotted around the house but a small shrine on the wall on the first floor landing. A narrow table stood in front of the bank of pictures showing the life of the frail boy. Even as a baby he looked ill, thin emaciated, and pale. All the pictured followed this pattern of fragility, yet there was smiles too.

Brenda began to choke up when she explained the pictures, Stephen held her, taking over and trying hard to raise the atmosphere.

'He was a great kid, great fun, always a smile on his face, gave his sister what for, if he thought she was getting one up'

We sat on the back porch until it got dark, then moved in for tea that Brenda had bought specially; it was getting late so I moved in.

'I hope you don't mind my being forward, but you mentioned a trust fund to help someone go to college, is that still on?'

Stephen looked at his wife who nodded.

'It is'

'It's just that I know, or knew someone who may need some, or even a lot of help to get through school, his name is Sean and was in hospital with Emma...'

I told them about poor old Sean, and how he had made such progress since being in rehab. The latest I had heard was that there had been a few slip-ups at school, mainly due to family problems; Dad turning up drunk at sports day, and one of the brothers stealing a teachers car hadn't help Markers. Despite all this he was being 'groomed' for Cambridge, and even a scholarship could not pay the education and living costs.

They nodded their heads and listened intently, that was one of the things I liked about the American people I had met, they did listen, then I got to the point.

'Look, like you, I have had some great misfortune losing my child. I think we both feel that we would like to do something to help others in the memory of our children. In one way I have been very lucky, my daughter has accumulated a large sum of money and I am told that this can only continue. The point is, if you help Sean, I will help Joyce.'

This shook them a little, making Brenda shift around on the sofa; they nodded for me to continue.

I know Joyce's mother would not like to take hand-outs, or any charity, but this will be an educational trust fund. Not some poverty payment, made to make them feel poor; anyway, what am I going to do with the money? I haven't any children of my own anymore. I know there are children in my own country that need help that's why I thought of you with Sean back then. Not to take the place of Patrick but for Sean to succeed, turn his accident into a positive rather than negative.

They sat for a while in silence, then Stephen spoke;

'I have one question'

'Go on' I said, all ears

'Can I have some coffee, I can't get on with this tea'

We all laughed prompting Brenda to go into the kitchen leaving Stephen and me alone to talk. He couldn't see any problem with the idea, saying he would love to make some links with Britain again. He felt that we should present a Educational trust fund to Joyce's mother Lily-May, as it would sound better than a hand-out, knowing her pride was still intact to support her daughters without state help.

I left around 10.30, with Brenda promising to think about the proposal and talking it over with Reverend Seger, Stephen gave me the 'thumbs up behind her back. Before I got in the car Brenda touched my arm.

'I believe the Lord works in mysterious ways' she said beaming a most contended smile, then added;

'And I have been meaning to say all evening; your new hairstyle's most becoming, I wish I could wear mine like that'

Two days later, I went to see Lesley

After a superb early dinner (all low-carb and calorie) Lesley took me by the hand: 'I want to show you something'

She led me through the back door and on to the garden patio, and stood for my response.

Initially it felt strange, like I was falling and needed to hold on to something, as if being near to the edge of a very tall building and looking over the side while your tummy turned.

'Lesley, what have you done?'

'Do you like it? Tell me Helen it's important that you like it'

'Just give me a moment' I said as I let go of the back door and walked forward. She took my hand and we made our way down the garden, and walked and walked for hundreds and hundreds of yards into the desert. When the heat became too intense, we turned and looked back at the house. It was like looking back from a ship after sailing from shore, the land where you had once stood, now far away and appearing different.

I laughed, giggled at the strange illusion, a fair-ground trick to unsettle the senses.

'Yes I like it, I really do, I can see it now, I really can'

'It took me so long to think about, but once I got the idea it was simple, and so freeing. I was going to make a desert garden with all the indigenous plants I could find. I looked it all up on the Internet. I planned out the spaces and the sun direction, the view, and even thought of some night lighting, but it didn't feel right.

Then, laying in bed somewhere between sleep and wakefulness it came to me, I looked out the window towards the garden in the pale morning light, and got up. I put on some old clothes and went down to the end fence, and took it apart bit by bit, until all that was left was the posts. I dug round them until they fell and I dragged them out. I was careful not to hurt the colourful wildflowers that grew just the other side of the fence: bright Honeysuckles, Desert Willow, Trumpet Creeper, Paintbrush, and Coral Bean. I was later to find out that these plants attract Hummingbirds, but I had not heard them before. The next day I found the rake and spread the shingle from the garden out into the desert, blurring the boundary of the garden and the land.' Lesley laughed shaking her head.

'Next door must have thought I was mad, but nobody has complained, and I don't think I have broken the law.'

We stood looking out at her new garden that now extended hundreds and hundreds of miles to the hills, mountains beyond.

'Sometimes I sit on the porch at night and watch the animals come into the garden. The unrestricted view allows me to witness the sky change colour from blue to yellow red and then black as the night falls. But the best bit is I can now hear the song of the Hummingbird'

It truly was liberating, the space was endless, and unlike my initial fears, the space now had a strange comfort to it.

'It's wonderful, I hope you are safe though' I said a little concerned

'No more at risk than having the fence up and people hiding, I'm pleased you like it, I really am. But I need to tell you something; when I was dismantling the fence I began to feel strange, at first I thought it must be the hard work. When I started to dismantle the fence something started to open in my head. It was as if a little door creaked open little by little as the fence came down, it felt as if the garden opened up and the confines vanished. I ignored the feeling by raking the shingle out from the garden and onto the land blurring the boundaries, and sat down with a soda. I just sat, looking at the garden drifting out to the rough spiky sea, and I started to remember the night... remember the night of the accident'

I turned to look at her, she averted her eyes, gazing down, wringing her hands nervously as she sat on the edge of her chair, she looked up.

' Not all of it, just small fleeting glimpses; getting ready to go out, Julian, even the function we attended beforehand...

'I have made a good friend at the Church I attend on a Sunday, a lady called Christine, and I have told her everything. She has kept it to herself but her brother in law Chester is a therapist and I have started meeting with him'

## Behind the door Warren

My name is Warren Foster, and I consider myself one of Emma's closest friends. Helen has asked me to tell you about her daughter from my point of view. She has said in the past that she didn't really know Emma that well. I believe she exaggerates this a little, as I believe she knew Emma as well as anyone. Helen has asked me to be honest and give a perhaps more rounded view of her daughter as she believes that her view is rather narrow and tight. Furthermore, she has promised not to change or edit the following in any way, so here goes. Helen or Mrs Kirby was not always as she is today; open, friendly and dare I say, nice, she was not like that when I met her.

I first met Emma on her second day at Art College; she had changed from history to art in her second year resulting, as you know, from her photographic success. She was sitting on the floor outside one of the classrooms in a busy corridor, surrounded by what looked like a college jumble sale: her personal bag was emptied out, the contents of two huge portfolios lay strewn, and what looked like the sale items of a stationary shop, covered the floor as students stepped over her, I stopped to help.

'I've lost my car keys and my mother will kill me' she said flustered.

Her hair was incredibly straight, shinny and kept falling in her eyes. I loved her immediately. She had a slightly turned up nose and wonderful blue eyes, yet looked so venerable and a little helpless. I stood her up, she was tall, well, taller than me anyway. We packed up all the stuff and walked back into the classroom to look for the keys. We started chatting, just the usual stuff; courses, homework etc, she was nice, not like the other girls, trying a bit too hard to be cool. Having no luck with the keys in the classroom we walked to the car park where we found her keys still in the ignition. I got my bike and that was it.

We would see each other in the canteen, she with some of those boring arty types. Together with my friends we noticed that all the 'creative' students all look the same; dressed down middle-classers trying desperately to construct memories because they will not come naturally. OK, I'm a bitch, always have been, but this is about Emma not me. It wasn't long before we stuck together like glue. The other students on the English Lit course I was on all seemed to have an extra loony or angry gene, and therefore kept my distance, my friends came from outside the English lab.

Pretty soon Em and I found a common interest, dance, we loved it. Both put of by the regimented classical ballet that Emma called 'organised gymnastics'. She was bright and funny that way. That is one area that Helen has missed out, Emma had a great sense of humour, she would make me laugh so much. There was a dance programme at the college so we would go watch the girls (and the men!) do their thing, and it was rather good. We liked to buy the ice-cream, and ice lollies they sold at the dance shows, especially the highly coloured ones that make you look like you are wearing lip-stick, that too would make us giggle. We got to know some of the male dancers; I knew a few of them anyway, from around town...

Sometimes a few of us would go back to my place; (61) that I shared with Bernadette (who everyone called Bernard due to her angry dyke moods). She wasn't around much, so we had the place to ourselves, as Bernie had a pretty girl-friend across town and stayed there most of the time. The college had a large dance library with many videos that some of our dancer friends (le and Tim) would take out. We would watch the old classical ballets mostly to mock really, cat calling the hunky men and bitching the women, it was all harmless fun, all jealous of the skills on the screen.

We fell in love with Martha Graham, everything about the woman, her look, natural control, choice of dancers and costumes. We knew she wasn't the first to break the ridged dance conventions. Isadora Duncan was another hero and perhaps even more groundbreaking, being well... larger than the average dancer of the day. Yet we loved her freedom and simple expression that wasn't a regimented routine. But it was Martha 'Our Martha who art in Heaven' who captivated our hearts.

Lee and Tim would bring home college dance videos of Martha, and project them twelve foot high on to the wall from a projector they stole from the college, it was magnificent. We would sit and marvel at the magic on screen, stunned at the woman's talent. Sometimes lee would get up and mimic Martha, dance along with her, he was always such a drama queen.

Sometimes the four of us would call into the sweetshop on the way home from college and buy 'penny-sweets' (only they weren't a penny any longer, more like 5); milk-bottles, white chocolate mice, sherbet pips, and penny-chews ready for the performance in the evening. Our top three Martha Graham pieces would be: (depending on how we felt of course):

1. Lamentation

2. Appalachian Spring

3. Frontier

Frontier would always be third but the top two could, and did change. I have video footage of Emma dancing Martha's new bride to Tim's Merce Cunningham in Appalachian. This will never be released, it's too beautiful, sometimes we would project the film on the wall; she really was pretty good.

Emma couldn't work at college, she said it was like a factory. Ok, Warhol had a factory, but he didn't have loser students expressing their first time away from mum by looking like a prat and playing the rubbish records the music papers told them to play, she needed Aaron Copland. The predicable noise from the CD players in most of the studios only served to emphasised how little young people are prepared to venture out of the box. Things changed when she started to work at home, the worked flowed once she was away from the tutors who all wanted her work to look like something they had seen before in a magazine or book- or more worryingly like something they would like to do.

I know Helen has mentioned Emma's feelings on the creative process and I, along with the others agreed with her. She felt people, which really meant the critics/tutors confused a well-crafted painting and technical competence with art. Oil on canvas does not make art, that makes a coated canvas, art is the other bit. She said it was like love; just because two people come together it doesn't mean there is love, you are either in love or not. Not a little in love, not sort of, but you are or you ain't! You might have all the ingredients and elements; it might make a baby, but not love.

Emma didn't think her work was art, she just thought that it was photographs, or silk-screens, if people made art out of it that was fine. Emma didn't think that telling people it was art was right, what is art for someone may not be art for others. She said it was because people felt frightened not to know what ART was, and needed others to tell them. I thought it was art, and just about everyone else thought it was when they first saw it Emma's work.

Now her work is in the public domain and people have wrote about it so it must be art! It's as if the culture police will come and arrest you if you say Van Gough was crap. I think she felt like that because she did not come from that sort of back-ground, both Helen and Kenneth knew rubbish when they saw it, never taken it by hype. Furthermore, Emma went straight into the second year of her Art degree, thus missing her foundation and first year, when students are 'told what art is. She was like the little boy in the Emperors New Clothes who didn't see the imaginary finery, just a fat mans willy.

After hearing Emma chat (and I mean chat, she never got haughty or doctorial) about the painting/art dichotomy Tim wrote a great essay on the said theme, it upset just about everyone who read it, which of course was his intention. He wrote that Classical music would not be around today if it was not for the middle class. He said classical music was a tool of social positioning that separated the classes. Furthermore he said that nobody listened to it anyway, being used as a visual comfort. One could look with satisfaction at the CD collection and know that no one in the council estate had any of them . He did balance it out a bit by saying that the working class would not smoke and drink and shout as they walked home through the tree-lined expensive houses from the pub if the middle-class were not here to listen to them. Tim didn't stop there, saying that middle/upper class people didn't like most of the social signifiers: art, music, or wine they had in their homes. They were frightened to buy something they really loved just in case they were 'wrong'. They had to be told what to like from Sunday-paper magazines, that's why they were there; to tell people what was 'right' and once consumed, confirm their choices. Tim didn't get a good mark

Lee told us a story of a guy who was going to sue some theatre because Rudolph Nureyev did not leap high or long enough, and wanted his money back. I remember Emma saying that the guy 'probably missed the wonderful feeling and joy of the jump, through worrying how high it was'.

She expressed dismay that such beauty could be measured in feet and inches.

We were all excited when Emma told us she had a date, I say excited, as we all felt a little put-out that she could like someone outside our set. But we wanted it to be like a Hollywood movie, where we would dress the young girl up for her important date with the hunky quarterback, then ask her if she had sex with him when she returned home, but it was not to be. We did dress her up, but she didn't need it really, she was lovely. Anyway, when we saw her for the post match analysis, something was wrong. She didn't want to say much, but it seems like Mr Quarter-Back (who was really a third year English student) was forceful-very forceful. Not sure if it was quite rape, but something happened, and I am not sure she wanted it to happen (I told you these English students are weird). Some of her light faded after that but, work and Martha pulled her through at least ostensibly.

Early in her third year Em had sold her work to Mr De-Hems, it was like a fairy-tale (well it was at our house) we all dressed up and danced showing all three favourite Martha pieces one after the other. I would bike over to her house sometimes. Compared to our place it was very cold and quiet, even colder and quieter than my home (but that's another story). I would talk to Emma as she worked in the garage. The work was absolutely brilliant. Helen would come out to tell Emma to turn the lights out when she had finished and clean up the mess. I never liked Helen or Kenneth; it was as if Emma worked at the house, or was perhaps a lodger. I never saw any closeness between parents and daughter, worse still; Emma didn't miss it, at least I was aware of not having any experience of parental warmth. Emma was not in anyway neglected, she had a stable home and that counts for a lot, just a chilly distance between her and Mum and Dad.

Of course all that changed when Emma opened up to her mother, asking her for help she didn't really need. I am pleased and proud that Mrs Kirby, who then became Helen, worked with us during those last few months together. They were happy times, I could see Helen changing; she didn't suck her teeth in, didn't' tut'. She wore old clothes that were much better than those ill-fitting flowery catalogue clothes, inch-by-inch she let go of the vice-like grip on the invisible ties around her daughter. We drank Champagne when Emma had completed her show, a wonderful time for all of us.

I saw less of Emma when she started to travel, such as the Milan trip, but we still kept in touch, then the accident happened and Helen went back to being Mrs Kirby, and I understood completely. It upset me so much me, to think of Emma like that, her poor hands removed. I have to confess I couldn't go to see her, just couldn't face it. It is something I will always regret. When she went to Sussex, Helen asked us not to visit for a while, but I drove down with lee after about four months. We walked up to the unit and saw the kids through the window; some hobbling around with scares on their heads, another young girl in a wheel-chair with a protective helmet on, and then Emma; feet tied to a tricycle, being pulled along with a glazed look on her face, while her stumps rested on the handlebars. We just couldn't go in, just couldn't face her; I know it's little compensation to say we cried all the way home.

When she died, it sent Tim into a depression that didn't really end for at least a year, and Lee and me were just torn to bits. The day before the funeral we went to the countryside to pick wild flowers for her, but they looked so dead when we got back we didn't lay them for her. In truth we would have like to have bought Emma flowers from the supermarket, she would have like that lack of pretension. Even better, buying 'tacky' flowers from a petrol station forecourt, leaving on the sickly paper wrapping, Emma would laugh at the gesture. But we reasoned that Helen and Kenneth might have thought it was lack of respect, so we just did nothing.

I loved the girl; I really did and still do. It annoys me when I see things written about her on the Internet or in magazines by people who never knew her. Helen and I are in full agreement that anything confidential will stay that way. We will release images and information in a very controlled way. I have at least 200 hundred rolls of film that Emma kept at 61. Some of these rolls of film are very very personal to both Emma and me, and no one will ever see in my lifetime. Mr De-Hem has approached me to compile a set of three books; two on the many photographs Emma took of the dancers rehearsing and performing, and one of the 'Pride' march she 'covered' in London.

A exhibition of the silk-screens taken from the 'dancers' shoot will be shown concurrently with the publication of the book, Helen will silk-screen the images, as no one else knows how Emma would have liked them done, furthermore these is no one better at printing than Helen.

## Deconstructing Lesley

Chester's one storey prairie style house overlooked the desert. The ethic rugs on the wood floor, and the white walls gave the house a rather contrived atmosphere. He was business-like which impressed me; I didn't go in for things like this so I was naturally suspicious. He was around 5, 5 with short curly hair and round glasses. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt, firm handshake and positive air. The 'couch' was covered in a heavy woven material, in the style of a highly coloured Aztec pattern, which was surprisingly soft to the touch. It was set against the large, floor to ceiling glass window that over looked the parched desert. This terrain with the wonderful rough scrubby trees and bushes, red/brown sandy earth, bulking up to the mountains and hills, topped with the light-blue sky.

'I didn't think you used them anymore' I said pointing to the therapist couch. It produced the same feelings of dread like that of the dentist chair.

'Most people expect them, and I am not here to challenge historic practice, if people find it helps, well, I shall use it'

Then realising he came over a little sharp added

'Anyway it has a good view of the countryside'

After a drink we got down to business

'I am here to help Lesley, help her uncover any thoughts or feelings that she may wish to express, and having spoken to her, perhaps she feels that now, is the right time to talk.

I looked at Lesley who simply nodded saying 'it feels right'

Chester followed on;

'This is not a deep psychoanalytic therapy, but just to facilitate what Lesley would like to tell me, this is free association, with an emphasis on the 'Free'. This could be very painful for both of you, there could be things said here that will hurt. Yet I believe that in the long term, it can only help Lesley come to terms with the past.

'Now Helen, I can not let you in the room when the session is on, there are confidentiality issues here, I'm sure you understand that. You could become upset, in fact I can guarantee it, and it will break the flow. But Lesley has expressed a wish, that the session be recorded. I have cleared this with my advisor, and as long as you listen to it here, and I have the ownership of the tape and material.'

'Why does she want to do these things anyway, she knows what happened, she knows she killed her' I could feel myself becoming hostile, I felt cornered and angry.

.

Chester waited for me to sit back down.

'Helen, Lesley came to tell me what she has been remembering, or thinking what she has been remembering. The point being, is that she has never told anyone. At the trial the only thing she said was 'sorry'. Now she can remember parts of the night, such as the car ride, and really needs to talk. If she has repressed something, she really needs to express it for her own mental health, in her own time and way. Just talking about the crash will help her come to terms with it, and perhaps prevent any negative lifestyle-choices such as alcohol and drugs in future.

I stood up 'What about me? What about my feelings, what about the anger I have carried, what about Emma?'

He came over and sat by me.

'Both of you have carried this for so long, I think it's time you moved on, and you both seem ready.

'You did do it Lesley, I'm sorry, but you still did it' I shocked myself by my escaping anger.

'I believe that if Lesley was in denial about this, she would not be here' said Chester in not very calming voice.

'We all know this happened, but please let me say this Helen, we will never know how bad it is for you, and I believe you suffer most. However, and I have worked in this area before, in prisons and such. The strain of living with the knowledge of having killed someone, especially a child is Immense, and therefore ddebilitating.

'I just don't want Lesley to come over as the victim here' I said fuming.

'I needed someone to talk to when you were not here Helen' said Lesley, you saved me, made me carry on, I can never repay you enough for your help. I am not here to try and forget what I did, I am here to remember it.'

'Look, do you women want to come back at another time' sighed Chester, as if caught in the middle of a woman's tiff.

'No,' I said, 'but I have not forgotten Emma's suffering and never will, even when I sleep I can't escape, I still wake from dreams seeing her die'

'For Lesley to move forward she needs to do this, and to do this she needs help, and I think I can support her. Her mind will only release what she can cope with, but the guilt can build up again'

I felt myself calm down a little , but I was not done

'I only let you live, so that you could remember what you did' I'm sorry but it's true'

Chester interrupted.

'I feel that if Lesley needs to talk to someone, and help her through the therapeutic process, she wants you to know what is being said, so that you don't think she is trying to pass the guilt or blame'

Lesley gave me that poster girl look

'Stay with me Helen, don't go'

Chester explained a few things to us;

'What we are talking about here is repression; According to Freud, and I know he is out of fashion these days, but he got this right; people often experience thoughts and feelings that are so painful that they cannot bear them. Such thoughts and feelings could not be banished from the mind, but could be banished from consciousness. These thoughts and feelings can be buried so deep that people don't even realize they have repressed them'.

I always thought she was lying about not remembering, blaming it all on the drink she had that night. What a cop-out, how convenient to forget everything when you are in court for killing a young girl. I was worried that she was in some elaborate way, manipulating her church, Chester and me, but she must be pretty sick to go this far.

Chester would never allow me into the room while the sessions were on and quite honestly I didn't want to be there, listening to her talk about the night; how she drank, how she knocked Emma down. I thought that if I heard this, I might just really kill her this time.

Up until that time, Chester had given Lesley relaxation tapes and exercises to do so she could be ready and relaxed enough to talk without direction or prompting. She had a small income from her ex-husband, and some money left to her from her father, this would fund her therapy.

What follows is the much edited transcript of the weekly sessions with Chester and Lesley.

'I met Reeves when I was training; I fell in love with him and came over to England to follow him. I worked in London until I had to move and found a good job in Oxford. I lived with a girl called Christine who had a dinner party and one of the guests was Julian. He was the idea man; tall, bright and handsome-and a doctor...

...There was a nurse on my ward called Chloe. She was the fun girl, the one that always dressed up for charity nights and Christmas day. Anyway, she had a shared house with three other nurses across town, whose parties where famous. The first one I went to was late on a Saturday night, it was packed with nurses and med staff including Julian and his 'A-Team'.

They all looked and sounded like him; ex public school and confident and sure of themselves. One thing they could be sure of, was the nurses, they would fling themselves at them, it made me uncomfortable...

Around 1am when everyone had far too much drink, the 'team' started some games. I noticed a new nurse, a tubby girl down from the north of England, who looked out of place with her frizzy hair and unfashionable clothes. She was pleased to have been invited and was flattered to be the attention of the doctors... they suddenly they grabbed hold of her pulling her on to the backroom dinning table.

Everyone was laughing at first, then the 'Team' started to hold her down and take her clothes off. She was calling out for them to stop, but they laughed louder, they pulled off her top and bra and threw them across the room... The girl began to cry but nobody helped, fear I suppose, of getting in trouble with the doctors. I could hear her screaming as they pulled her shoes, jeans and underwear off. Still they held her down for everyone to look at, one of the team took some photos. The girl was distraught, crying loud, as she was held spread-eagle on the table, people mocking and laughing at her. I could see the doctor's faces, leering and mocking the girl. Despite what the glossy magazines may say that a women's fantasy is to be watched, this was not a pleasant experience.

...I went to get my coat and Julian stopped me, I said I didn't like what had happened, but he laughed and said it was just fun, later he asked me out to dinner. Like the tubby girl I felt flattered, saying I would think about it. Days later, I thought I was being a prude about the party, and said that I would go out with Julian. We went on a dinner date; he was charming and swept me off my feet...

...He said that he had been watching me while I worked, that he felt I was special, and not like the others. We agreed to meet again, which was very nice, as he seemed kind and a real gentleman. When I told people at work about him, they were very nice, yet hesitant with their best wishes, but I was falling so I didn't care, I put it down to jealousy.

...Even on those early dates he said he didn't want to hear anything about my past boyfriends, nothing at all. He said I was 'his angel' that I was so pure and beautiful. I met Margaret a few months later who was a little cold with me, but I put it down to her being a widow and all, and Julian her only child, she doted on him. She asked about my family and mocked the American med schools...

...Eventually we moved in together and things were good- for a while. I was deeply in love and I could see no bad in Julian at all. After about six months, he became possessive, I mean very possessive, no parties no other couples, only us, us alone. He liked me to be 'girly' my long blond hair in a ponytail, 'sweet'-frilly blouses, he called me his 'little girl'...

He didn't like me to talk about other men, even if it was someone we knew, or worked with. He threw out all my jeans and trousers, saying he liked me to be he's 'sweet child' the 'little sister' he didn't have. I blocked all this in my head off and concentrated on the house, his good looks, and his status at the hospital... He opened and read my letters, listened in when I called people, sometimes accusing me of ringing other men. I wanted to return to the States to see my brother when his marriage broke down but Julian prevented me, saying that he couldn't bear to be without me and would miss me too much. When I argued with him he became very upset, it began to worry me.

...Getting on for a year together, people had started to remark how I had changed; the 'get up and go girl' that crossed the Atlantic by herself and made a new life had gone... Julian had made me give up work, so I just wandered around the house in my pink dresses, Alice band in my hair tiding up the nursery of a bedroom we slept in...

...Julian had funny 'ways' he liked me to dress 'pretty' for him, white underwear, no perfume, he told me once to 'smell of soap and water'. He wanted me to shave 'down there' to be smooth like 'my little girl'. I did it in the end, which didn't make me feel good about myself, but I couldn't take the rows or silences...

...In secret, Chloe came over for lunch one day, and after a few drinks told me about Julian and the team. The undressing of the girl at the party was not the first time they had done that. Yet the nurses still flung themselves at the doctors hoping to be picked. Sometimes the team would make the girls strip off and then they would choose.

'I know it's sad, but the girls like it, it's a laugh really' said Chloe, a little unconvincingly.

'But we girls got to see them when they put our uniforms on, and they started to rugby tackle and 'scrum' each other, they love that, on top of each other stuff. We were all watching as they rolled on the floor with each other, some of them got 'heated'. ...Julian likes the young blond types, pretty girls, always did' then remembering she was talking to his live-in partner added;

'But that's all in the past now'

...Julian hated Reeves most of all, as he was still around to remind him of my past. Reeves would have to visit all the hospitals in the South of England at some time or another, and someone had told Julian I knew him. After one of Reeves visits there were weeks of rows and silences.

...Julian desperately wanted to know about my past but didn't want to hear it; it was a mayor conflict for him. He slept in the spare room calling me a 'slut'.

We got married in the spring with Margaret coming along for the honeymoon. Over dinner one night she told us that she expected a grandchild and that this would be the perfect time to conceive. At the end of the night she held Julian's hand saying 'you have always been a good boy, she will carry our child' but that was the trouble; 'She' never could.'

While listening to this part I turned off the tape I didn't want to hear anymore, it was all too intimate; too strange, what had this to do with Emma? I didn't want to hear all this, this...nonsense, yet I knew I had too.

...Six months before I came to England I had an abortion, Reeves didn't even know about it until much later. ...I hadn't seen Reeves for a long time before he came back to our town in the States and we had a 'reunion', it was a heat of the moment thing, with neither of us thinking past our clothes coming off. Not long after I discovered I was pregnant and began to panic. It wasn't that my parents would get mad or anything, they are the most understanding people you could meet, perhaps it was their kindness that stopped me telling them. If they didn't care about me or had treated me badly, one could expect a child out of wedlock...

...I didn't want to let them down, it was a small community, everyone knew everyone else and their business. My only saving grace was that it wasn't a local boy, because then the whole community would know.

Reeves used to laugh saying

'...community? That's where everyone one else lives', and he was right.

Yet we were part of our community. I wanted to contact Reeves but he had returned to England and I felt alone. My brother's marriage was on the rocks and my grandparents were going through a long painful illness. I felt I had to be strong through this and booked in to a clinic. They talked through adoption and the other option, which at the time felt right for me. I took a weeks holiday and told Mom I was visiting a friend...

...The operation seemed to go well, but when I got back to a hotel I began to bleed heavily. I began to panic, I felt totally alone and guilty, for not telling my folks and Reeves and for the baby I had just terminated. I sat in the shower hoping the bleeding would stop; I didn't know what to do so I called an ambulance and went to hospital. I had to stay in for two weeks as there had been some internal damage and I had lost a lot of blood. I told everyone at home and work that I had caught a virus on holiday and had to stay away...

...Not long after I got back home I looked for jobs in England, it didn't take long to get a job and I went. I met up with Reeves again and told him what happened, it was strange, he was angry I hadn't told him and this put a distance between us. I became depressed in London, the job, the place, and my health was going down hill. ...Twice my boss warned me, that I would lose my job if I didn't pull myself together. I had made mistakes, none fatal thank God, but they could have been. I got the job in Oxford and moved there.

...It was good that Julian didn't want to know anything about me, he wanted snow-white... if I bought up the past he would go crazy, saying,

'I don't want to know what you have been doing, don't ever ever tell me'

So I didn't. ...It got difficult when the baby didn't come, made worse because Julian had told everyone we where trying for a baby, plus Margaret would ring every week and ask if I was pregnant.

.... Julian of course tested himself, and everything was fine there. He asked me to see a doctor in London, as he didn't want anyone from the hospital to look at me. The doctor told me I would never have children because of the internal damage from the termination. He knew exactly what had happened... I asked him not to tell my husband why, which he agreed to, but Julian knew from the medical report how the damage occurred.

... he would leave me for days, living at the hospital or with his mother.

...I was left alone in the house, Margaret would come round to tell me what a whore I was, and how I had ruined her son. I couldn't go home, I had told my family how good things were as they were having such a hard time at home, what with my grandparents and my brothers marriage trouble. Julian proscribed Trelinox; an anti depressant drug that kept me numb, like a zombie, and I began to drink...

...Julian had put in plans in place for a divorce and I didn't really know what was going on.

...one day he came round and asked me to pull myself together for a function down in London. He told me I had to say we were happy and very much in love and together; he thought it would look bad that he was still single or worse still, getting a divorce to his colleagues in London. I still wanted to make up and be with him, so went along with the farce.

...The function was at the Royal Free hospital in Hampstead. Julian, and some his team were being honoured for a clinical procedure. All very black-tie self-congratulatory, mutual backslapping, I had been to them before, like the parties at Chloe's house, only now in evening dress.

...I put on my best face and we travelled down, Julian said nothing and told me to shut up and don't say anything to anyone about the baby, or look at any of the men. We stayed in a hotel in separate rooms and attended the prize-giving the following evening...

...I remember the drive down in the car. Julian received his prize, and I was proud, but he didn't talk to me, he went off and left me with a couple of other doctors wives. They were kind enough, they pored some drinks for me, everyone was celebrating. Perhaps it was because I had been talking the Trelinox, but I felt in a cosy, fluffy womb...

...I didn't notice Reeves, he came over and sat with me. His company had sponsored some of the prize-giving and he looked great in his DJ. For the first time in months I laughed. He brought over Champagne and along with the other two women at the table, drank the bottle dry. We went and stood by the large windows overlooking the grounds, he bought another bottle of fizz, and we stood chatting in the buzz of the party.

...I remember loving him that evening, feeling warm and fuzzy, just looking at him, feeling close and bonded to this kind and gentle friend, everything was right being by his side, from nowhere, Julian found us.

He stood looking at us, when we turned he said sarcastically

'Planning a fuck, don't worry about contraception mate, she can't have a baby'

Very calmly Reeves said 'I know'

'So this is the father? Laughed Julian

'A fucking Sales Rep, is that the best you can do?'

There was some pushing and shoving until one of Julian's friends came out and stopped it. Julian walked off shouting at me to get my coat....

The night air hit me, making me woozy, the tablets mixed with the wine made everything fuzzy, I was feeling sick.

'Why don't you go off and fuck him? You have fucking shamed me, a fucking whore. Jesus Christ, where's the fucking car keys, you have ruined this night, my night, as you ruined my life'

He stormed back in to the party to look for the car keys...he had wanted to park the sports car outside the function so everyone could see it, but the security made us park it round the back.

... I had to sit on the pavement, shortly after he returned with the keys. He pulled me around the corner to the large old Mercedes. It didn't have headrests and I couldn't find the seat belt, I felt so woolly, my head was spinning, I felt sick. We drove at speed around the one-way system and up towards Hampstead Heath, we turned a corner too quickly and bumped up onto the pavement...

There was a very long silence from Lesley on the tape, then she spoke very slowly and quietly

...It all happened so quickly...for a split second I saw a frightened young girl stretch her arms out, I must have hit my head on the dashboard...

I woke up back in the Royal Free with dreadful pains from a long cut across my forehead ...later I was told was caused by hitting the steering wheel. I couldn't remember anything at all. The police came to talk to me, asking about the accident. The last thing I could remember was Reeves... I felt shocked and guilty, as if I had been found out about everything; the termination, hurting Julian, not being able to have a baby...

They were saying that a young girl had been hurt. Had I been drinking? Had I been taking drugs? Yes to all.

...Did I remember hitting a young girl two nights ago?' I couldn't be sure. Julian came in and told the police not to badger me, that he would get a good lawyer, that I didn't mean to do it, that I had been drinking heavily because I had been depressed as I couldn't have children. The police had tested me; three times over the legal limit, large consumption of prescribed drug Trelinox that should not be taken while in charge of machinery ... it was true, I had been so anxious about the party I had taken two extra tablets and had drank more than I had in years. I am not sure of most things that happened that night but, and I may be wrong, but I swear I was not driving the car.

## Goodbye Rick and Roger

##

I resigned from my job during a strange lunch with my boss Roger. If I hadn't left I felt should have been sacked, as I had taken so much time off that it was impossible to continue to hold down a stable job.

'My God Helen' said Roger, you look wonderful; I never would have believed it was you. Your hair is great and you have lost weight, I know who to put out as our poster girl now.'

This made me blush; yet secretly inside I was chuffed to bits. Roger was not the only one to say I looked good; Kenneth was also forthcoming (for him) 'very nice dear'

I told Roger I was leaving, explaining why and how I had enjoyed working with him and that if he ever decided to retire and work part-time he would be very welcome at the 'Emma Kirby Trust'. We drank a little too much and sat talking about old times for a while. He held my hand for a while then he told me about the developments at the charity and how things were going well. I felt it was a good time to go.

I had known Rick now for almost two years and we had reached a halt in the relationship. His business in Spain had taken off really well, much of it's success I must admit to Juliet. She had stayed online and had taken control of all the boring background work of the business, stuff that Rick had not really planned for; bed-making, making breakfast, advertising and banking and investing, paying back the loan. It had been a hard year slowly building up the business, putting up with the occasional gang fight and knocking the property into shape. Saffron was now settling down at school and beginning to master Spanish. Rick was booked up for almost a year in advance following a write-up in a motorcycle magazine

'Rick's Dakar pit stop a hit with riders'

There was a photo of Rick in the article sitting on his latest bike trying hard to smile. The clientele was different now, higher class, which meant less fights but more demanding. These were the rich motor enthusiasts, who didn't really need to work and took off on their bikes going to trade shows and motor racing anywhere they pleased. They wanted more than pizza in the evening, resulting in Juliet hiring a chef from the local town when need be, but Rick had to be there all the time. He could not come back to England, he did the 'meet and greet' and everyone who came down to the 'Dakar Pit Stop' wanted to see Rick.

I was busy working for Emma's and Joyce's trust but took some time out to visit him, although we would not admit it I believe we both felt that this was make or break time. Juliet greeted me enthusiastically, kissing me on both cheeks and holding my arm as she took me into the kitchen for a drink. She had filled out a little and it suited her. She said I looked 'fantastic' and that Saffron would love to me again. The place had changed, much more professional, gone the days of clients paying in cash out on the patio table. Now Juliet had arranged for a small extension to the main house that served as an office and reception. She had designed a desk area and arranged for credit-card payments that most (including the biker gangs) welcomed for tax purposes.

There was now a 'laid' driveway leading from the main road that didn't throw up so much dust. The giets had been renovated to a very high standard and now included satellite television (for the race channels mostly) and a trouser press! Juliet showed me round, saying hello to guests as they came and went, she seemed to know them all, and them her.

'That's where the swimming pool will be, and the tennis courts just to the right'

Later we sat drinking tea.

'Thank you Helen, thank you for trusting me, I love it down here and Saffron has settled down so well. Rick's working a bit hard these days but he loves it, we can't wait till you move down'

When Rick returned from having taken some German Christian bikers for a run. We were a little cold with each other; still it was good to see him. We chatted about the improvements to the 'Stop' yet every five minutes, either one of the clients or Juliet would call asking for this or that. He would get up and apologise, leaving me to sit waiting while he sorted out what couldn't wait.

We could only walk for a short while as he had another run to do in the afternoon. He spoke enthusiastically about the improvements to the property saying the swimming pool would be covered and the tennis courts would be double, with basketball nets either end 'for the yanks'. The more he told me about it all the more I felt left out or left behind. They had moved on, he and Juliet were living like a old married couple, which indeed they were. They were happy with their success, and it showed in his tired yet contented face.

We managed to have some time after the clients had drifted away after dinner, which had been interesting, but not the sort of thing one would I like to do every night. Stuck talking about the latest Honda to the Munich Christian Biker Club, being shown photo after photo of every model from 1950 to the present day with a full description and discussion on each.

It's the only thing I have done well at Helen, just a bit longer and I can leave it for Juliet to run for a week or two, we could go somewhere. Anyway after Dakar it will be a bit quieter and I can come back to England for a while'

'But that is almost a year away' I reminded him.

'Why can't you transfer your Trust to down here in Spain, the wonders of the Internet and E mail you could be anywhere' he said with 'that' smile

I could see his point but I was focused on getting back to the States, itching to get the trust going with Stephen, then there was the Screen-prints and the exhibition to organise with De-Hem. There was a lot to do and I wasn't sure I wanted to live in Spain, it seemed far away from everything, of course that's the pleasure for some people, but not me I was not running away any more. Furthermore, I could not breath as well as I could in Arizona, it was there I could breath easy, plus it was a nice flight to Texas. I even found myself looking up the Tucson junior girls soft-ball results on the internet, while I waited yet again for Rick in his office. I looked up the flying lessons at Apache Junction private airport that Bezz had told me about, just for fun...

I felt Rick was holding me back, and I him, but it was the next day that made up my mind.

After a delicious lunch, which Juliet had slaved over, had returning red-handed yet smiling and made me a drink. She was tanned now and looked pretty, her shoes kicked off, skirt hiked up in a gesture of contented relaxation, that made her look beautiful.

'I need work, a purpose; I don't like time to think, because I think bad negative thoughts, can't help it, always have this keeps me busy-and happy'

She smiled, holding her head back in the sun. The school mini-bus trundled up the driveway, dropped off Saffron and turned in front of the house, its windows filled with waving children.

The little girl, taller now, with long hair tied back in a ponytail held together with a black bungee elastic, toped with a large red silk flower. She wore tight jeans and a 'Dakar Pit-Stop' tee shirt. It was lovely to see her so well and happy. She held my hand as she told me about the school and the other children. She also told me about the house and grounds

'Do you know we are going to have a swimming pool?' she said full of innocent enthusiasm.

I told I did know, and about the tennis court, I was genuinely pleased to see her again.

'Where's daddy?'

'Oh' I laughed, turning to Juliet and winking 'and who's that?' I asked

'Roo, said Saffron, rather sharply, as if I had asked a silly question, 'Ricky Roo'

Juliet looked embarrassed,

'Darling I have told you not to say that, haven't I? I said you could call him Roo but not Daddy remember?'

I got up and walked back to the house, I heard Juliet call 'Helen' but I kept walking.

At the door one of the German's came over to me.

'Helen I have found that photograph of the 1973 Honda twin model I said I would show you'

'Oh bugger off' was all I could muster, without hitting him, slamming the door in his face.

Juliet followed me in and caught my arm.

'Helen, Helen wait, it's not like that, really, it just that Saffron has taken to him, she started calling him daddy as a joke and it sort of stuck. I said she could call him Roo, you know, because he is always jumping on his bike and bouncing off somewhere'

I looked at her, I didn't know what was going on but I needed some time alone.

'Thanks, thanks for telling me'

I lay for a while thinking, this was not working out. We were like different people now and he seemed to have his own ready-made family. Rick was meant to return for dinner that evening but rang and said he couldn't make it, as one of the clients was taking him to show him his yacht. I pretended to be asleep when he got back and rose early in the morning. He apologised, but I felt that this was how it was going to be. I was due to stay to the end of the week but booked a flight the next day, there was no need to prolong it any further. Of course Rick explained the next day on the way to the airport that nothing was 'going on' but I felt I was locked out of the intimate circle of work and Spanish life, that bonded them together. We got on well enough, but even on the way to the airport he constantly took calls on his mobile phone, two from Juliet and one about a 1973 Honda.

I went back to England not really knowing if I would not see him again. We had grown apart and it was time to move on, Emma's work had to continue, and to me that was what Mattered now.

## Mr Lee/confronting Julian

##

'What absolute tosh! Who the hell does she think she is trying to fool? She will deny anything to save her skin'

I had phoned Kenneth as soon as Chester called me with 'developments' I shouted at him across the Atlantic until he told me what Lesley had said.

'I have been taken in Ken; I have been an absolute fool. Woman's trying to say she didn't do it now, what a bloody cheek, going in for all this mumbo-jumbo therapy business, they probably put it into her mind to say that'

Kenneth listened while I shouted and ranted for almost half an hour, before calmly saying 'she could be telling the truth'

I sat up most of the night, the whole thing coming back to me; being told of the accident, the hospital, the removal of her hands and her beautiful eyes now vacant and empty, then her death and funeral. I wanted to leave it behind now, walk away, I had had enough, I was beginning to move on and now this. I really didn't think I could take anymore. In the morning I went to see my solicitor Mr Perkins.

'These are very serious allegations and this will not stand up in court' said Mr Perkins as unruffled as his dark suit.

She finds God and has therapy, and all of a sudden she has started to remember things' I countered 'and very conveniently she can now remember that she didn't do it after all. They brain-washed her'

Perkins listened, said he would look into it, but said that we should think very seriously before we went accusing people of killing someone. He said the case was closed and unless there is a private prosecution and/or new evidence it would be difficult to reopen the case.

'Do you really believe her?' asked the towering Mr Perkins, our solicitor, who had seen us through our divorce a couple of years back, hands behind his back, as he walked the lino in front of his desk, black shoes shining.

'You see she admitted to it, the blood tests showed she was well over the limit. He is a most respected doctor and it won't look good, having evidence from a American therapists couch, you see, there's been so much of this lately, you know, that recalled memory thingy, I am not sure it will stand, let me look into it'.

Ken and I thanked him and walked to the door, then Perkins called.

'Look, don't take this the wrong way but, well, didn't Emma ever tell you who knocked her down, I remember she was conscious for a while-just a thought'

We went for coffee in M&S in Orpington, dazed to think that I never asked her, it was somehow always taken for granted that Lesley did it and we never spoke about the accident to Emma. We spoke of the consequences, but never of the actual event. She said she had been out for the evening, started to walk home, the car came round the corner and hit her.

'Do you trust this Lesley woman Bee? do you think she is pulling the wool over your eyes, manipulating us in some way?'

'I did, I don't know for sure, not sure of anything anymore Jesus Ken, I thought we could start to recover, move on from all this, it feels like it did two years ago when all this happened'

He held my hand and asked if I wanted to come back home to Pam, I did, but I wanted to sort this out, and soon.

'The only one who spoke to Emma that night, was that chap Lee, you know Dennis Lee who called looked after Emma at the car, I'm going to call him'

Mr Lee's house was one of the large villas overlooking Hampstead Health. He lived on his own now that his wife had died a few years back, and it looked like it. Books and scientific papers were stacked everywhere in the tall Victorian hall. We stepped over bundles of yellowing papers as we walked up the littered stairs to the first floor sitting room. He told us he had been a physicist for almost sixty years, and still gave talks all over the world. He wore a worn out cardigan and old cord trousers.

'Thank you for seeing us' I said as I moved the notes and journals from the sofa.

'Sorry, what did you say? The hearing is not what it was; explosion during the war'

I explained, raising my voice a notch that we just wanted to clear up a few things, and thank him again for his kindness with Emma that night. He was kind enough to show us from the window where he had walked the night of the accident.

'It's behind those trees, over on the other side of the Heath'

He told us, as he had told the court, what he had been doing that night.

'I had been over to a friends house, a small monthly gathering with some like-minded star-gazers, not much really, few sherries and a look at the sky, done it for years, lots of astronomers around here. Anyway, I walked back about 10.30, don't like to leave it any later, and I saw the car and your Emma, terrible business.'

'Did she say anything?' asked Kenneth

'Sorry old chap, speak up'

'DID-SHE-SAY- ANYTHING' ken shouted

'Oh yes, 'move her, something like that, but I couldn't really make it out'

I looked at Ken

'Do you think that she may have said 'moved her?'

He sat back and scratched the dishevelled grey hair on his head, for what seemed a long time.

'My hearing is not so good these days, but, yes it did sound like that, but I thought she was asking me to move her, which I couldn't.

I thanked Mr Lee again and walked to the car telling Kenneth to pack a case for the trip to Oxford.

After checking in to the hotel rooms we drove to the hospital, telling the receptionist that we had an appointment with Dr Howard. We were told that we were a day early, as his clinics were the following day. At 4pm the next day Julian Howard walked from clinic office at the end of the long corridor. He was of the medical old school: suit, white shirt, silk tie. Not for him the blue oxford shirt, kaki chino trousers, and the ever-present stethoscope around the neck. He pretended not to recognise us as we walked towards him, he looking far into the distance until Kenneth called him.

'Mr Howard? We would like a word'

'I'm sorry, I didn't recognise you, how do you do? look I am due in a meeting teem minutes ago, can I get my secretary to make some time?'

Kenneth moved forward

'No, I'm sorry but we won't keep you'

He looked around the corridor, than waved us into the clinic waiting area that was now empty, save for the mess of magazines on the table in front of the rows of padded benches.

As we walked Kenneth whispered.

'Let's give him the benefit of the doubt'

I nodded and sat down

'How can I help?' he said, smiling with his best bedside manner.

'Your wife, your ex-wife, well... she has been saying things, things about the accident, in short saying that she can remember what happened, and... that it wasn't her that knocked our daughter down'

Julian stood up shocked.

'For Gods sake, the woman is a mess, always was, I am sorry, but I am not going to listen to this rubbish. She had fooled you all, she was on drugs, but she can manipulate very well, you've been had'

He got ready to leave

Kenneth stood his ground

'We just wanted to ask you what you remember, that's all, we are not accusing you'

'If you were I would sue you for everything you had, you heard what I said in court, she had been taking those drugs and didn't tell me she had been drinking...I'm not saying any more, now get out, before I throw you out'

Kenneth pushed him back, forcing Julian sit down.

'Don't you dare speak to us like that, we only came to talk to you' said Kenneth red faced.

Julian stood up shaking.

'You came here again and I will put a restraining order on you.'

He walked briskly from the room patting his hair back in place.

'What has Pam been feeding you on?' I said with an anxious smile on my face.

'Sorry dear, but he seemed so rude, so arrogant, but he's hiding something'

I rang the States to talk to Lesley; I wanted to hear it from her.

She said she could remember most of the night of the accident now.

'Chester believes that with my Christian background, the termination and the divorce, I felt I deserved the punishment, blocked it all off. I almost wanted it to be me, a suitable punishment for my sins'

Of course we went back to the police and to Perkins. The police interviewed Julian but he held tight, plus his solicitor was brilliant, turning it round to us, as if we wanted to make money out of him somehow, in this time of compensation.

Perkins said he could put together a private prosecution but it didn't look good, Lesley had been tried and found guilty, mostly on her confession, and the good character of Julian. His mother had called me to warn me off, saying I was wrong being manipulated by a very sick woman. To be honest, I too, had my doubts about all this, it was like mind games. If I had not been out to Tucson to meet Lesley I would never have believed it could be anyone else but her, now I was not quite so sure.

The whole world had it seemed closed ranks round Julian, as if a doctor and a handsome one at that, could never do such a thing and then lie about it. I must admit it is against everything we respect and stand for. I was sick of it all, I needed to know the truth. I did consider using Maureen's help, but Julian had his own very good support system.

'If you are lying Lesley, or playing some sick game, you must stop it now' I said as ultimatum.

'I know it sounds strange' said Lesley, her sincerity poring down the phone,

'But I still don't want anything bad to happen to Julian, not even now that I know. I wouldn't do this to you Helen, I swear to God, but I can't live with it anymore, I can't, and now God has given me the strength to tell you'

Kenneth and I left Perkins office at 8.30pm on Friday after an exhausting all day session trying for one last time to find a loop-hole in the law to bring a case against Julian. Perkins had spent the day on the phone and meeting barristers and anyone who would listen to him. At eight PM the last came through telling him that there was no case. We could go ahead with a private case but every and everyone said we would lose, with Perkins summing up;

'If she had not admitted it, had not been so drunk, had not taken more tablets than proscribed there may be some glimmer of hope' he said this drained from the case adding; 'it will break you both'

On the way to Ken's home I said that 'I was already broken'

Ken held my arm and comforted me, before waving me off as Pam opened the door with young Emma in her arms.

Sitting in the dark sitting room looking out at midnight, I wondered how I could get justice. I had read about restorative justice, and how that can help people came to term with feelings of resentment and hate, but that was not for me. I could easily get a child-porn site account put on to his computer, but I wanted him to be sacked for lying about, and killing Emma. What would hurt him most, what would turn things round, and there in the dark his mother came into view.

I knocked at Margaret's door at 7 in the evening, she didn't recognise the woman with the American make-over, then she did and shut the door in my face, after knocking again, reluctantly, she let me in.

Although all the props were in place, and I should know: the obligatory bookcase, the piano, photographs of the family, the reading light, an old clock, everything had it's place, yet I didn't feel I belonged in that setting anymore.

'Never, never in a million years would my son do something like that' he face white with anger.

I asked her if she knew about the abortion, she didn't, but said it 'didn't surprise her' But I could tell she was a little stunned, so I moved in,

Did she know that Julian would never let her talk to other men, talk about the past, or that Lesley would have to dress like a nine year old?

She snapped

'What's all this got to do with anything? She was lucky have him; he could have had any girl he wanted, she should shut up and count her blessings. She has ruined my son's career, smeared his good name, I knew she was a bad lot from the start.

'Did you know he liked to dress-up in women's clothes at parties and 'wrestle' with other men on the floor?' I barked.

There was a just the faintest hint of recognition, her gapping mouth shut slowly, she looked crushed and found out.

I moved nearer to her,

'I am trying to help you, it will look better if he admits to it himself, I am sure he didn't want to kill my daughter, it was an accident. But what he did was wrong, you know that'

'Don't talk to me about right and wrong, you have no idea what has gone on here...' she stood up and hastened to the kitchen.

A little later she came back into the low-lit sitting room.

'I have thought about it and I think you are wrong, now please leave'

I got up, and gave her the ultimatum.

'Then I have no choice than to go to the newspapers, tell them everything, weather they believe me or not, it will be printed, you know what they are like'

She screamed at me

'Get out of my house and leave us alone'

By the time I arrived home there was a message from Margaret

'I think we should talk'

## Coda

Julian was charged with perjury, was struck off and received 9 months prison. It's funny, I used to think would I go and forgive Julian as I did Lesley, practice 'Restorative Justice, have our hair done together? I think not. I believe there is only a certain amount of forgiveness in each of us and my share had run out. Now five years later he works for a medical research company in Holland.

Sean is doing very well at school and is being 'groomed' for Cambridge he will get there Stephen will make sure of it. We all met up a year or so ago, I didn't recognise the boy, so tall and well spoken. He said that he found it hard to adjust to the school, well, not the school exactly more the other boys, but any problems soon dissolved. Sean said his Dad still cut his hair but had learnt to do it much better, he thanked Stephen for his help but Stephen would have none of it. Sean still limped, and probably would do so for life. While Stephen was over he spoke of Joyce. I had of course been keeping up with her progress and had been pleased when she had been accepted into a top South-western College to study Business. She was doing very well, as was her sister and mother, Becky was not. She had not taken Joyce going away very well. He grades were down and community college was her only option. She got in with the wrong crowd and started taking drugs and later became anorexic, she is now an airhostess and is learning to fly herself.

Young Emma is now five and proud of her two year old brother James. I take her shopping when I am home, we talk eat cake and try on lots hats together. Pam and Kenneth a still the 'love-birds' but had a scare when Pam found a lump. The doctors were wonderful and believe hey have removed it all.

Lesley is now a Lay-Minister of the Tucson Christian Church and was very kind to Becky when she was ill. She married two years back to a widow named Randy. He is about ten years older than Lesley but nice enough, and has a young girl called Mary now aged ten. She sold 6996 Grasshopper Drive and now lives across town in Randy's house. We still keep in touch but she is keeping things simple 'for the Lord'.

When I am in Texas, most days I work in the studio De-Hems had build near his office. I like to start work early and finish at lunchtime. A couple of afternoons I will work on the promotion or production of Emma's work. There have been eight books produced from 'our' office, including one containing images of ballet dancers that was written by Warren. He comes over every so often, he seems to be happy and lives in Brighton with Mark. The other afternoon I fly my own little two-seater plane with the help of Bezz, but only Bezz as He and Pippa broke up. She was offered and took a job with Disney in California that evidently put an enormous strain on the relationship.

For my birthday De-Hem arranged a small get together in his office, after something of an embarrassing speech he handed me a small box.

'Go on open the Goddam thing' he barked' so I did

In the box a exact replica of the gun I 'borrowed' back then when I was Clint Eastwood for an hour. I held it in my hand weighing it up, identify how perfect it was, how it fitted my hand so well, and what a wonderful piece of art I had made it.

'Don't think you're getting any ammo' laughed De-Hem, 'I know what you're like'

To be honest I didn't want any, but I treasure it to this day. On that note Maureen retired from work, I don't know about her 'other' job but I haven't had any more emails or requests, but I think I would still help out if I had too, so there is time yet.

At the five years anniversary of Emma's Accident I travelled to St Andrew in France. It was the first time I had visited the town, and after parking the car walked through the rows of little shops to the monument. I had been apprehensive taking the trip but I knew I had to at some stage, but I was not prepared for what I saw. The jeep on top of the blocks of stone was just as Emma has captured it; slightly leaning to one side and painted a funny yellow ochre colour. It was the writing that covered both the jeep and the stones hundreds and hundreds of names and messages. There was a lose rope surrounding the 'site', so stepped over it to read the writing.

'God Bless you Emma' 'We love you Emma' 'I think of you everyday my love Stefan Hamburg'. People from all over Europe, some from as far as America and Australia.

I stood open mouthed at the site; the writing covered almost every part of it. There were things left, plastic flowers, ribbons, statues, and pictures and photos of some of the people who had visited the site. One photo showed two young Japanese girls who wrote under the Polaroid 'your Art is alive, you are alive' Looking closer, some of the writing and the things lefts were a little spooky. Someone had left a small wooden crucifix with the ends of the crossbeam cut off short. I counted three little statues of the Virgin Mary with the hands snapped off; this sent a chill through me and made me pull back. Other cards left said 'Pray for us Emma' even one asking 'Emma, give us peace in the world'

Behind what looked like a biscuit shop was a small café run by a young woman from Paris, I sat with a coffee trying to recover.

The woman started to talk to me as children ran in and out laughing.

'Just for a visit Madam?'

I told her I was passing through and had noticed the monument, she laughed.

'That is a funny story, a young English girl came over a few years back and photographed the monument and were printed in America, you know what they are like out there' she said shaking her head.

'Well the young girl was in an automobile accident and had her hands taken off and then she died. Some students started to come hear having recognised the place and started to lay flowers, then the writing started and then God knows what; statues, crosses, everything.'

She wiped the tables and cleaned some cups away and continued.

'The jeep and the blocks of stone were only meant to stay for a few months for the anniversary of D Day but the mayor has said it must stay. We don't mind it brings in lots of business, look I have a post card if you want to buy one'

She held up a postcard with the picture of the wonky jeep on the stones covered in flowers. Two young girls came into the café and went behind the bar and made some drinks, nodding to me as they did so saying bonjour Madam. It gave me time to settle myself, sipping the wonderful coffee.

I made out I recalled seeing the pictures

'Yes I remember now, wasn't there three older ladies in one of the photos?'

The woman came round from the bar and sat with me.

'Two are dead now and the other...she pointed to her head and revolved her finger 'You know upstairs has gone'

'She is in a home now, but the local paper asked her about Emma, all the poor woman could say was 'beautiful Emma, an angel. Of course the paper printed that and people would come and pray at the jeep-crazy!'

'What about the little girl in the photo the one in the jeep' I asked innocently.

'That's the strange thing, no one has been able to find her, she does not come from this town or those around here. The mad people say she is an angel too, I say she was on holiday.'

I had another coffee, trying to come to terms with all this. I thought of visiting the old lady, but thought better of it. Let the woman have her dreams, if it is a comfort to her in her last years, so be it.

I said goodbye to the café owner and the children, who insisted on showing me a little bookshop that sold books on Emma and her work. I didn't go in, but looked at the display of books that I, De-Hem and Warren had put together, then woolly headed, walked to the little park where Emma had taken the pictures of the widow women. No old women, but it was just the same as the photos. I sat on the same bench as the women and Emma had, and felt I was with her, talking and laughing about all this.

After a review of One of Emma's books on the BBC, her old art college called and asked if they could hold an exhibition in her honour, I declined saying they were five years too late. De-Hem suggested that we dedicate a book to her old tutor Mr Stephens who recognised her work. We did this and passed over a royalty to him for his kindness. This should allow him to follow any path he wishes, hopefully keeping his wonderful eye out for new artists.

Juliet has a one-year-old baby girl from Philip the French biker who divorced his wife and came back. Saffron is of course fluent in Spanish and we speak on the phone in our special language. She tells me Mummy is happy and Philip 'silly'.

It turns out he was not so silly. He and a consortium bought Rick out, letting him stay on the board and have a large share of the business and ideas. Philip have opened three more 'Dakar Pit-stops' all based on Rick's Idea

What of Rick? Well, returning from France I drove to my flat in Sussex in Pole Hill, just sauntering up the drive early in the morning I saw something chalked on the large white wall, a little further on I managed to read it.

RICK CUTHBURT FOR HELEN KIRBY

There by the flat stood a large motorbike.

Now we mostly live at 6173 Grasshopper Drive Foothills Tucson, like Lesley's old house backs onto the desert. Hardly a car drives through Grasshopper now, leaving the 'Drive' to sink back to nature. We could have lived in 6996 but neither Lesley nor us wanted to live there with the ghosts of cactus past. Lesley sold the place and sent the money back to Margaret who now lives in...where else but Holland.

Rick has devised a cross-country bike 'run' that follows the Warhol trip he made back in 63 and is looking into a 'Pit-stop' somewhere along the route.

Emma lives inside me, and going by the press and letters we receive in many others as well, especially a lot of young girls who are not sure of their place in the world. I would like to say thank you to her, and the only way I can do that is to do the best I can with her work. I miss her and talk to her everyday. The only time I feel she talks to me is when I silk-screen, sometimes I feel I am being guided, that gentle touch, making things beautiful rather than technically perfect, that where the art lies.

Who knows when that strange alchemy turns like into love, form, line and composition into art, and hate into forgiveness? I don't, but this I do know. When the fences and barriers that surround us are taken down, you can hear the hummingbirds sing.

