 
#  Tales of Life and Beyond

by

Bradley Atkins

Published by Bradley Atkins at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Bradley Atkins

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

Behind the Scenes

Bonnington Square Café

The Grave

The Choir

The forest

About the Author

Contact Me

Coming Soon

The Passion of Lettice Treadwell

Introduction

The Dungeon

Estelle: The Divine and the Dead

Sid: Mrs Whitehouse

#  Behind the Scenes

Thanks to the Bank-Holiday exodus, the pavements were clear of pedestrians. The normal denizens of these Hampstead streets, the well-heeled with their Volvo 4x4's and Subaru Foresters, had fled for the coast and other points outbound, their tailgates burdened with racked bicycles and other sporting equipment.

Beretta exploited the extra space by flipping her skateboard from pavement to tarmac and back again as she slalomed down the Chalk Farm Road. There was an animalistic, almost predatory quickness about her navigation of the street furniture, her fluid, sinewy movements exhibiting a feline and sensual grace.

The way she left it to the last second before swinging around some obstacle, as though toying with an imaginary audience that gasped and marvelled at her daring, hinted at the frustrated exhibitionist within the gothic façade.

In keeping with the theatrical performance, her appearance was striking, not just the loudness of her cosmetics, but also the dramatic appearance of her clothing. Her long black trench coat flapped and danced in the air around her and the sheen on her tight black leggings caught the sun, adding attractive highlights to the muscle-play beneath. The stainless steel grommets and aglets of her black satin basque flashed bright in the sun.

Beretta flipped the board onto the road to avoid a woman walking a fluffy white puppy. Startled by her rapid approach, it danced and boxed on the end of its leash, yelping excitedly. Beretta smiled and waved she passed, then shifted her stance and ground the brake pad into the road surface to slow for the junction with Regents Park Road. The rumble of the wheels was replaced by the loud dragging noise as the gritty road surface bit into the plastic brake pad. The pup darted behind its owner's legs and peered out from behind her ankles, frightened by the aggressive sound.

"Oh. Sorry, darling!" Beretta laughed and cast an apologetic glance at its mistress, who returned a bemused smile.

The lights turned from green to amber as she approached, she jumped them, skimming through the chequered yellow boxes and leaning into a tight left turn into Crogsland Road.

Her Bluetooth earpiece chirruped and shivered.

Straightening her stance, she let the board slow as she reached up and touched the switch on its side. She began a gentle weave from side to side to check her pace while she answered the call.

"You've reached Berretta's voicemail. You know what to do. Beeeep."

The line was quiet for a few seconds, the only sound the rumble of the wheels against the road.

"So you recorded this message while you were on your board? Princess, you're so nimble, so agile; - I'm envious."

She grinned, "That's right you clever bastard, so leave a bleeding message."

"Ha ha ha... I'm too sharp for you, B."

"So it seems, Guido. What you doing still awake at this hour? Last time I saw you it was three in the morning and you'd just dropped an E."

"Still on fire, B. Still on fire..."

Truth to tell he sounded shattered but Beretta didn't argue.

"I was wondering where you'd got to. One minute you were dancing with that gorgeous hunk of manhood, the next you'd disappeared. No goodbyes for Guido. Just poof and you were gone."

Beretta laughed, "Crap. You were so shitfaced you didn't even notice me say goodbye."

Guido moderated the guilt, "Yeah. I was pretty wrecked...."

"I'll say. Last time I spoke to you, you were drooling over poor Jezz like a dog with a bone."

"A dog! Really, dear. You're the one who's being bitchy...."

She boosted the board up onto the kerb to get out of the way of a car that had pulled out in front of her of her.

'Fucking arsehole!'

She gave the driver the finger as he drove off. He must have been checking her out in the mirror because he returned the gesture.

Guido yawned audibly, "Look, that gorgeous guy who was all over you last night, did you get his number?"

"For fuck's sake, G. He's straight!" She was annoyed now and it sounded in her voice.

"Easy," Guido sounded hurt, "just calling to see if you're safe. Why are you always so touchy when you're coming down?

"Anyway, he wouldn't be the first straight boy I've rescued from hetero-hell."

"He might be the last if you're not careful. He was built like a tank. Remember \- some of these straight boys get a little over-excited when you come onto them. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen you do a runner. Anyway, I didn't get his number, he's not my type."

"B! What happened to solidarity sister? If I hadn't wanted him I'd have been happy to pass him onto you..."

"Sure." She was chuckling, "Like I've ever seen you turn away a piece of ass."

"Easy, easy! I do have standards you know." His tone became sly, "Just cause they happen to be extremely low standards, doesn't mean you can stoop to abuse."

Beretta laughed again and braked for the Prince of Wales Road. She looked up and down the street before leaning right and rolling down the hill toward Kentish Town.

"What'cha want, G? I'm busy."

"Busy? It's Sunday fucking morning, Precious. Haven't you heard? It's a day of rest for God's sake. Says it in the Bible and everythin'."

Beretta grimaced, "I'm not working... Just on my way to see my mum, that's all."

"Your mum, I thought you hated her?"

She jumped the board off the pavement and swung recklessly across to the other side of the road, boosting it over the kerb with a flick of her toes and narrowly avoiding the projecting edge of a broken paving slab.

She recovered her equilibrium, "I don't hate her. She's too pathetic to hate."

"Yeah... You gotta watch that raging indifference, Honeybun. It can take over if you ain't careful."

"Oh ha-fucking-ha. That's just so fucking deep, Guido"

Beretta stopped at the end of the road. She ground the brake pad into the paving, the nose of the board held high. She paused there for a few moments, one hand grasping a street lamp.

"What you going to see her for at this time of the morning?"

"I dunno... Thought she might be good for a few quid. She's in town today and wanted to meet up. What do you care anyway? This your business all of a sudden?"

"For God's sake, B. You should listen to yourself when you're coming down. You're like a bear with a sore crack."

"Well if it wasn't for you and for her, I'd be curled up in my bed like any civilised party girl on a Sunday morning."

Beretta looked down the hill, her destination was within sight.

"G. I gotta go guy." Her tone clipped and final.

"Alright, babe. Take care and tried not to get into any fights...

"Say Hi to momma for me"

She killed the connection before he could say anything else.

She stood there quietly for a few moments, possibly to compose herself. Then she dropped the snout of her board to the ground and pushed away from the kerb with her free foot. The board began to gather speed down the hill.

Beretta slowed the pace and swung to her left, flicking the board up over the kerb before threading her way through the tables and chairs of the chic al fresco bistro. Beretta gave the pretty young waitress just enough time to blurt out a protesting, "Madam!" in an East European accent before flipping the board up into her hand and passing her by without comment.

A slim and expensively-dressed woman in a theme of fawn and fine stitching was sitting at a table in the shade of the awning. She watched Beretta approach, her eyes, cool and intelligent, appraising her daughter over the rim of her tea cup.

She put it down and smiled in welcome, "Good morning - Tea?" She indicated the teapot and extra cup with a flutter of her slim fingers.

Beretta pulled the steel chair away from the table, its feet dragged and the tinny frame rattled loudly. An elderly gentleman two tables away lowered his Sunday Telegraph and frowned, his eyes glaring beneath unruly eyebrows.

Beretta returned a cool stare, "This ain't a bleedin library, pal."

She lifted her leg high over the chair back and sat astride it, facing her mother. Careless, she dropped her board against the café window; the metal trucks struck the glass with a threatening 'crack'; the Barista looked up from the Espresso machine and frowned.

"Don't know why you insist on living in this poncey part of town," she growled, glaring at the old man, who pursed his lips and raised his paper with a flick of his wrists. The rustle and snap of the pages gave voice to his disapproval.

Her mother regarded her for a few seconds, her face expressionless, before responding, "It has its charms, dear - it has its charms."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Beretta swivelled in her seat, looking for the waitress. "I could slaughter a coffee," she moaned, disdaining the tea. She lifted her arm and snapped her fingers several times. The waitress ignored her and scooped up the crockery she had just stacked, taking it inside.

Beretta cast a hesitant glance at the teapot, causing a wry grin to flash across her mother's face, quickly removed.

"Do try to be civil dear. It can't be very pleasant having to work the Bank-Holiday weekend. The last thing the poor child needs is boorish behaviour from her customers."

"Yeah, yeah. Life's one long grind for the poor mite....." Her voice trailed away, distracted.

An athletic and well-muscled man walked in off the pavement and pulled out a chair at the next table. He sat with his back to the glass, facing the street. He was an Adonis. A shock of curly hair matched the dark stubble around his jaw. He rested an elbow on the table and looked around. His biceps were easily as thick as her thighs; an artery snaked across each before burrowing into equally impressive forearms. His sleeveless leather jerkin was of a European cut, possibly Spanish or maybe Italian, pinched at the waistline to accentuate his broad shoulders. A broad leather belt cinched heavy brushed denim jeans around his waist, just above the improbably large bulge at his crotch.

He noticed her looking at him and smiled warmly.

Beretta turned away and lifted the lid of the teapot. She sniffed warily; her face contorted with displeasure. "My God, mum. How can you drink this muck? Why not just down a bottle of perfume and be done with it?"

She looked around for the waitress, who had just come out of the shop to attend to the new arrival.

Beretta clapped her hands above her head, "Hey! Let's get some coffee over here," she called. The old man lowered his newspaper and glared at her again.

"What?" Beretta snapped at him.

The waitress walked over to the new arrival and pulled her notebook out of the pouch in her pinny, "Sir?" she inquired.

Beretta pursed her lips and glared at the woman, it was wasted effort; she ignored her.

"An Espresso please," he smiled, "and a Panini - prosciutto and mozzarella." His accent was thick, Beretta couldn't identify it, 'Maybe Italian,' she thought.

He looked from the waitress to Beretta and back, a growing awareness of the mounting tension between them.

The waitress turned to go.

"Hey! How about some service here?" Beretta was losing her cool and it sounded in her voice.

The waitress turned to her, "I'll be right with you madam," she said brightly and flashed a cheerful smile, before walking away without taking her order.

Beretta glared at her departing back, imagining the knife of her ire protruding from between the woman's shoulder-blades. Once inside, the waitress put her pad on the counter and spoke to the Barista, who glanced out of the window at Beretta before replying with a grin. Beretta ground her teeth.

Her mother coughed politely, "Darling, do behave. There's a dear."

Beretta turned and glared at her.

Her mother raised her eyebrows, "You know full well you've been behaving abysmally toward that poor young woman from the moment you arrived. Why do you always have to contrive these conflicts? Do you enjoy anger? Is that it?"

"Oh cut the pop-psychology please. She's here to serve the customers and you know it. I was here before that guy so why didn't she serve me first?"

"Really? - You really can't think of a reason why she would want to ignore you?

"I am your mother, Beretta.

"You've been doing this for half your life, picking fights with people and then loudly complaining about how unfairly you're treated. Would it really kill you to just show some basic good-manners once in a while?"

Beretta noticed that the handsome man with the muscles was looking at them both quizzically. She bit her lip and looked away, still furious.

She mumbled something.

"What was that, dear?"

"Nothing."

Her mother sighed and then visibly rallied herself, "So tell me, dear. What's new with you? It's been months since we last met up - or even spoke come to think of it. Why on earth you can't get yourself a telephone like every other young woman your age is beyond me. It's not as though they're hard to come by. Only yesterday I saw them on sale in the supermarket of all places."

Beretta groaned. She wanted to rub her eyes but the thick mascara forbade it. "God I'm feeling rough this morning. I've been up all night and I'm seriously dehydrated. Alcohol sucks the life right out of you. You forget what it is you're drinking when you're up on an E... I've got a bangin' headache now."

"Oh have you?" Her mother reached for her clutch. "I think I have some codeine here somewhere," she popped it open and squinted inside. Her eyes executed an exaggerated blink, "Really should have brought my reading glasses from the car," she muttered to herself.

"Codeine? - What're they like?" Beretta sounded suspicious, "I've never done one of them before."

"Oh really, B. Do try to listen to yourself sometimes. How on earth can you accept who knows what from some perfect stranger you've just met in a club and then treat a perfectly harmless codeine from your own mother as though it were some sort of poison?"

Beretta sniffed, sullen, "You shouldn't just accept those pills the doctors' hand out," her tone defensive and reprimanding. "Your body has its own defences. Popping pills for every ache and pain just weakens you."

Her mother sighed, "I won't argue with you when you're being so silly. Ninety percent of the people in the world go through hellish agonies without any pain relief because you and your friends treat the opiates they need as a recreational resource. Now here you are turning your nose up at a simple codeine. Just take the blessed thing and be grateful that you can, why don't you?"

She dropped the blister pack of pills onto the table.

Beretta ignored them and looked up at the approaching waitress. She made a point of seeking eye contact as she approached with the coffee. The young woman, making no acknowledgement of her presence, expertly balanced the tray in one hand and placed the coffee pot and cup on the adjoining table with the other.

"Your Panini will be ready in a few moments, Sir" She smiled at him, her eyes lit with barely concealed lust. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No. That is just fine please."

The waitress took a few seconds to decipher this before her face lit with a dazzling smile, "Okay, just let me know if you need anything else. I am right here if you need me."

Beretta bristled and drew herself up in her seat.

"Young lady?" her mother interjected hastily.

The waitress turned to her, attentive. "Yes, Madam."

"A pot of coffee for my daughter if you would be so kind."

The waitress glanced at Beretta blankly before replying, "Certainly, Madam. Will there be anything else?" she asked.

"B?" her mother asked.

"No. That will be fine thanks," she replied through gritted teeth.

Beretta watched the woman walk away, her lips twitched.

"Let's not bicker, darling. Life's too short."

Beretta turned back to the table, "For you it is. I'm still young."

Her mother sighed, "Well thank you for the sentiment, darling. That aside, like most parents, I still cherish fond notions of my children surviving me. So try to understand my distress at this hedonistic lifestyle you're leading..." she regarded her daughter, her expression pointed. "We would all of us rest easier if you got this rebellious phase over and done with and got on with building a life for yourself."

"We? We who? All Dad cares about are his precious guns, fishing and money. You spend all of your time with those creepy theatre people. Even Jenny's not interested in me, my own baby sister."

Her mother sighed, "You know full well that's absolute nonsense. Jenny is studying full time at Uni. If you had bothered to go to University yourself, you would understand what a time consuming activity it is.

"Only yesterday, your father phoned and asked me if I had heard from you lately...." She rubbed her temples with her finger tips and sighed, "Please tell me we aren't going to argue again about how unloved and neglected you feel. You know perfectly well that it isn't true."

"Ha! That's rich coming from you. My own mother... The woman who tossed me out on the street and left me homeless."

"Darling I refuse to believe that you are really this blind to your own impossible behaviour. After all, you made no attempt to even clean up the house and yet you knew I was returning that very day from my holiday. The house was an absolute shambles! Even then, a simple apology and an offer to clean up would have made all the difference."

"Oh yeah, that's right, make B grovel. You didn't give Jenny, your favourite, a hard time for throwing a party for her birthday. You even paid the cleaner to come in on the weekend."

Her mother threw her hands up in exasperation, "You know full well that was entirely different. For one thing she sought our permission first! For another she didn't fill the house with unwashed squatters and drifters who treated the place like a rave in a field." She shuddered, "They even urinated in the pool for goodness sake."

"Oh come on... If someone gets a little drunk and pees in the pool it's not the end of the world. You didn't complain when Netta peed in the pool."

"Netta is three!"

"So what's her age got to do with it? Pee is pee...."

"You know full well that this was the day after the party and the young man in question was stark naked and standing on the diving board! He even waved to me while he was relieving himself. It was an absolute shambles I tell you; I've never seen anything like it."

Beretta laughed, "Oh yeah, Retard. He does that everywhere."

"And why on earth did you allow someone to fix a trapeze to the living room ceiling? They drove a bolt right through the ceiling rose. You knew that was an original Adams.

"Wait until you've built up a home of your own, Beretta, then see how you feel about someone treating it with total contempt."

"You're lucky, Mum... I had to pay him to put one up at my place."

"Oh just stop it! If you can't apologise then just say nothing at all."

"Weren't me that bought it up...." Beretta raised her eyebrows and spread her hands out before her, her face a study in disingenuity, "Was it now?"

"Good afternoon ladies. I am so sorry to intrude. May I join you?"

It was the Adonis.

He smiled, taking the time to hold each of their gaze. His face was impossibly handsome, almost a caricature. Olive skin ripened by a Mediterranean sun over chiselled cheeks and square jaw line.

Both women said nothing for a few seconds, as though transfixed like rabbits by rapidly approaching headlights.

Her mother gently cleared her throat before replying, "I'm sorry young man but we're in the middle of a private conversation...."

Beretta shuddered as she snapped back to the here and now. She held up a hand in a gesture to silence her mother, who trailed off lamely.

"Hi. I'm Beretta," she said and reached out to take his hand, her smile bright, all trace of her earlier petulance gone.

His lazy, almost predatory smile sent a twitch of excitement through her thighs.

"Hello. I am Paulo. It is a great pleasure to meet you." He disengaged his hand and reached across the table, "And you are?"

"Oh... Jean, I'm Jean," her mother diffidently placed her hand in his, her slim fingers like those of an infant in comparison.

"Enchanted," he said as he lifted a chair out from beneath the table and sat down. You could hear the grit beneath the chair's steel legs being ground into the concrete as it took the weight.

Jean seemed nonplussed, much to her daughter's amusement.

"Forgive me intruding ladies, but I felt a strong psychic disturbance and knew I must be joining you at once. These things are not usually coincidence no? Fate always has her hidden designs for us, does she not?"

"What?" Jean looked puzzled.

"Oh Yeah." Beretta chimed in quickly. "Fate, no escaping it is there?"

"Psychic disturbance?" Jean asked. "What do you mean?"

"Oh really, Mother," she spared her a dismissive glance. "I'm sorry," she continued, returning to Paulo. "My mother is a bit of an agnostic." She wrinkled her nose endearingly, "Doesn't really get spirituality I'm afraid."

Paulo gave Jean a long searching look. "No... maybe you are mistaken. Your mother has depths you never see perhaps." He smiled at Jean warmly.

"Well I'm not sure I know what..." Jean spluttered.

Beretta cut in again, not liking his shift of attention, "So you're a psychic?"

"Aren't we all psychic as you call it? Just that most of us never realise the truth of it, no?"

"Isn't that so true," Beretta gushed and turned her chair toward him so that her mother was no longer in direct line of site. "You know I often have psychic experiences myself."

"Oh. You do?"

"You do not have psychic experiences," Jean intruded, indignant. "Not once have you ever told me anything of the kind!"

Beretta gritted her teeth, the better to hold her tongue in check.

The waitress approached with Paulo's Panini and the coffee for Beretta. She stood hesitant by Paulo's side for a few moments. "Sir?" She looked from table to table, unsure where to put down the plate.

Beretta reached out and took it from her hand before she had a chance to react. "Here will be fine," she said and flashed a bright smile of her own.

"Oh!" The waitress instinctively reached a hand to take it back but then gave up as the plate was put down on the table before Paulo.

"Thank you," Beretta said dismissively.

"Madam," the waitress sounded confused and disappointed. She put Beretta's coffee pot on the table and dropped the cup and saucer before her with a studied carelessness before leaving.

"I'll let you know if we need anything else," Beretta called after her as she walked away. The waitress slowed but then walked on without acknowledging her.

"Would you like some coffee, Paulo?" Beretta asked, reaching for the pot.

"Yes thank you."

"Yes please," Jean corrected.

Paulo grinned sheepishly, "Forgive me, Jean, my English. It still is not so good I think."

"Don't be such a pedant, Mother."

Paulo looked shocked, "You think your mother a peasant?"

Beretta and Jean both laughed, "Pedant. PED-ANT," Beretta laboured.

"Ah!" he laughed, still looking puzzled. "Not a peasant then?"

"No!" Beretta laughed. "Not a peasant." She pulled her mother's spare tea cup over and poured Paulo some coffee, then topped up her own cup.

"Ah, this is good. You see? I knew it was right to join you ladies. Already the air of psychic disturbance is clearing and you are both smiling. Such beautiful faces should not be clouded with gloom."

"Well aren't you the flatterer?" Jean, cynical.

"You're so right." Beretta said to Paulo, encouraging, ignoring her. "There is a source of psychic disturbance around here." She looked pointedly at her mother and then picked up the codeine. "I was feeling fine until I sat down." She popped one of the pills out of its blister and onto her tongue before washing it down with a mouthful of coffee.

"Yes," he said looking around. "This would be why you were both so unhappy on this wonderful summer day. There is an aura of gloom here that defies the sunshine."

Jean coughed dismissively, "Well that is one explanation... The other of course is that we were arguing about the way my daughter is wasting her life away as though there were no tomorrow."

"I am not wasting my life mother. Just because I've not bought into the whole capitalist nightmare doesn't mean my life has been wasted!"

Paulo looked from face to face, "Ah, so this is what troubles you both? A mother worried for her daughter's future?"

Neither woman replied.

"Well then let me help you. This must be the reason I was drawn to this place today."

Jean looked at him quizzically, "I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah - what?"

"Well... Let me look into your future for you." He said to Beretta. "I can tell you if your life is going to be wasted or if it is going to be a great success." He beamed at them both. "Isn't this wonderful?" he asked. "I told you! I knew I was drawn here for a purpose today." He nodded enthusiastically at Jean, "Do you not see? If I look into your daughter's future and it is fine, you no longer have to fret about her life!" He looked delighted with himself.

Jean rubbed her brow again, "Oh God," She murmured, "from theatre to farce."

Beretta grinned slyly, "Yeah, Mum. Wouldn't that be great?"

"You do not believe in fortune telling," Jean insisted, "or any other psychic nonsense. I've never seen you so much as read a horoscope."

"Horoscopes," Beretta snorted. "Pulease. How would you know if I'm spiritual or not? You've never taken any interest in me."

Paulo looked pained, "Ladies please. This is the source of the stress between you? Won't you please let me help you?" He looked to Beretta, "You don't believe me?"

"Of course I do," she reassured him. She placed her hand on his forearm, her fingers taking quiet delight in the thick muscle. "I know it's possible to lift the veil on the future. I often visit a psychic in Camden Lock; she's always right."

Paulo turned to Jean, "So, you? You do not believe in the psychic?"

Jean looked apologetic, "I'm sorry young man. I'm sure this is all very real for you, but it cuts no ice with me I'm afraid."

"Don't worry about her, Paulo. Just read my future for me."

"But what would be the point? If your mother does not believe, then it will bring her no comfort." He continued, anxious. "Nothing will be accomplished. The strain will still be there between you."

"Paulo," Beretta said patiently, "trust me. The tension has been there for years. Nothing you can do will change anything between us."

Unexpectedly, he smiled at her, his face radiant, "Of course I can Beretta," as though he had just been struck by a cosmic revelation. "That is why I have been brought here today." He turned to Jean, "The problem is simple, is it not? You have no experience of the psychic, this is why you cannot believe. This we must address first. Let me look into your life and then you will see the truth of it."

"I really don't think..." Jean began.

"Let him," Beretta sounded both eager and scornful. "If you're so sure of yourself, what have you to be afraid of?"

Paulo smiled at Jean and gently took her hand, "Don't be afraid of me," he murmured; "there is nothing to harm you here. If you fear the future I will look to your past instead. This is just a demonstration, to show you that the world of the psychic is real."

He slowly drew a finger down the inside of her wrist and onto her palm. Jean shifted in her seat as she felt a flush of sensual pleasure.

"Now let me see... You are mother to two children," he stated matter-of-factly.

Jean pursed her lips; this was rapidly becoming tiresome.

"Yeah! That's right!" Beretta exclaimed, excited.

Paulo looked up from Jean's hand and held her gaze, "Two girls." He continued.

Jean frowned, still looking sceptical.

"You see?" Beretta crowed.

Paulo looked back to Jean's hand, "One is named Beretta," he said and looked up with a twinkling grin in his eyes.

Jean rolled her eyes and snorted with derision.

"The younger is called Jennifer," he added quietly.

Both women caught their breath.

Jean sat upright in her seat and looked at him afresh, her expression quizzical.

Beretta sniggered quietly, "Told you ...."

Paulo slipped the button on the cuff of Jean's blouse and gently folded it back up her arm in a series of deft motions. He stopped at her elbow and looked up at her once more, "Let me look deeper into your past," it was more a statement of intent than a request. This time he started from the soft skin inside her elbow and slowly drew the edge of his finger nail down the inside of her arm.

Jean swallowed and looked at Beretta anxiously, who grinned at her mother's disquiet.

Paulo's fingers touched the inside of her arm in different places, as though he were reading the events of her past written there in braille. He looked thoughtful, "Jenny was the easier birth, the second child so often is," he observed. "Beretta now..." He turned away from the arm and looked at her, "You're mother suffered greatly with you," he told her. He looked back to Jean, "Not just during the birth. The days after the birth were a black cloud over you. The depression after the birth, you know what I mean?" He looked to them both questioningly. "This is where it started to go wrong for you both, from the start I think."

Jean snatched her arm away and fussed with her sleeve, "Yes... Well thank you."

"So do you see now? The world of the psychic, it is very real is it not?" he asked her anxiously.

"Told you..." Beretta sounded smug. "I've known about the psychic world for years," she assured him.

"Well I have to admit, you were disturbingly accurate about my past." Jean kept her eyes focused on her cuff as she buttoned it back around her wrist.

"So you will trust me to look into your daughter's future? If I can see she is going to be a fine young woman, you will let go of the tension between you? Would that not set your mind at ease?"

"Yes go on. Read my future." Beretta said eagerly. She held out her wrist to him.

"Well I suppose it would do no harm," Jean answered doubtfully.

"Ah, good!" Paulo looked pleased.

He turned to Beretta, "Take off your coat," he said.

Beretta hesitated.

"It will be fine Beretta. Please trust me."

Beretta looked at him for a few seconds and then seemed to gather her resolve. She stood up and slipped the long black coat from her shoulders, she guided its fall so that it draped over the back off the chair.

Her mother caught her breath, "My God, child, you're worse than ever?"

Paulo held up his hand and she fell silent. He reached out and gently gripped the heavily scarred arm, "Sit," he said kindly, "sit," gesturing to the chair with his other hand.

Beretta sat without saying a word, her expression defiant.

"Come. Let us see what the future holds for you."

He regarded her arm for almost a full minute without moving and then reached out with his fingers and ran them gently down the inside of her arm. The broad fingers were surprisingly gentle, the tips bouncing lightly over each ridge of scar tissue. Beretta held her breath; she found his touch electrifying. Jean noticed the flush on her daughter's cheek and coughed, discomforted.

Paulo's fingers stopped at a knot of scar tissue halfway along her forearm. He traced the scars there to either side for a few moments. Then he looked up at her, his expression bleak. His eyes glistened, his distress was palpable.

Beretta felt a surge of alarm, "What? What is it?" she demanded.

He looked across at Jean for a few moments and then looked back to Beretta, "Perhaps you would like to discuss this another time," he said and let her arm fall, "when you are alone."

Beretta felt a cold dread settle on her heart.

"What is it?" Jean leant forward in her seat anxiously. She took hold of Paulo's arm and shook it urgently.

"Tell me?" Beretta said; her voice seeming to come from afar through the rushing pulse pounding in her ears.

Paulo swallowed his anxiety and looked back to her arm, "You have two paths open before you. One leads to a full and contented life. You go to University and you study. You go on to live a fulfilling life in the performing arts." He smiled at her, "It is a very good life," he said reassuringly. "Full of laughter and gaiety.

"And the other?" Beretta's voice was cold and hard.

The bleak look returned to his face, "You die within the year."

Jean let out a quiet mew of distress.

Beretta's breath came in gasps; a violent surge of adrenaline coursed through her; her voice cracked as she found herself swallowing bile. "How?" she gasped. "How do I die?"

"A friend - a friend you trust buys some tainted drugs. You die together. You suffocate on your own vomit." She swallowed again, the bile fresh on the back of her tongue. He looked as though he was about to cry. "I am so sorry, but if you choose this path, there is no other possible ending."

He sat back and looked at her, his eyes pleading, "What will you do?"

Beretta regarded the handsome stranger, her eyes holding on to the beautiful face like a beacon amid a fog of gloom. Her body struggled to recover from the shock of what he had just told her.

He turned to Jean, "I am sorry to have said this in front of you. No mother should have to hear this about her daughter's fate."

Jean dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, "That's quite all right young man," she replied. "It's nothing I haven't imagined a thousand times."

Beretta reached for her coffee, her hand was shaking violently and she had to grip it firmly to bring the errant limb back under control. She downed it quickly to wash the bitter taste from her mouth.

"My God," she muttered and banged the cup down on the metal table. She stared fixedly ahead, her eyes unfocussed, suddenly confronted by the bleak landscape of death, the great void.

After a few minutes of silence Paulo shifted uncomfortably and coughed with embarrassment. Her focus finally returned and she blushed; she had been staring intently at his crotch for the past few minutes.

She stood up abruptly, "I've got to go," she said, distracted.

Her mother reached forward and grasped her arm, "Darling!" she said urgently and jerked on her arm to get her attention.

Beretta looked at her as though from a distance, "What?"

"Darling, if you decide to give this all up and go back to University. Well... I'll be there for you. I'll give you all the help you need to get through it."

Beretta's eyes glistened. Her mouth worked slowly as she struggled for words. She looked at Paulo again, seeking distraction.

He smiled that beautiful smile again, "It is a very good life," he said warmly. You live long and enjoy it."

Tears started to roll down her cheeks, the heavy mascara turned to mud on her face. She looked again at her mother, who was now openly crying as well.

"Come home baby, we'll work it all out somehow if you just come home."

Beretta choked back a sob, "Okay, Mum. I'll come back soon."

She reached behind her and slipped on her coat. She took her hands-free earpiece out of her pocket, "I'll call you," she said. Turning away she picked up her skateboard and carried it quietly through the tables. She dropped it onto the pavement and hopped onto it, turning to wave goodbye.

Jean mimed holding a phone to her ear, "Call me!"

"I will, Mum"

Beretta turned away and pushed off the pavement with her foot. She was soon hurtling down the pavement at breakneck speed.

Jean watched her go, quietly dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. After her daughter disappeared from view she turned to Paulo and looked at him fondly for a few moments, her eyes still moist.

She reached out and stroked his cheek.

"You really need to work on that accent, dear; you're such a ham."

He laughed uproariously, "Not my best, Jean. You know I can't do Latino's. Remember the reviews for Don Quixote last year?"

"Oh dear Lord, don't remind me!"

"We're going to be late for rehearsal. Do you have your car?"

"Around the corner," she replied, getting to her feet and gathering her belongings.

#  Bonnington Square Cafè

Benjamin was battling with the mist on his glasses. Despite rubbing them energetically with his t-shirt, the chilled lenses fogged again each time he wiped them clear. He considered this a minor inconvenience though; the heat and humidity in the Café were a welcome relief from the bitter cold of the snowy street outside.

The queue for food had backed up out of the kitchen and was snaking into the café itself. Nothing unusual there.

The place was candlelit; tea lights hung from the broken light fittings on the ceiling, forming rudimentary chandeliers. The rough brick walls, crudely sealed with a thin varnish, glinted where they reflected the flickering flames.

Neat chequered tablecloths adorned the tables and trellises. In the centre of each, an island of condiments and a simple white vase holding erect a single bloom.

The fireplace, its mantle and surround a distant memory, contained an iron grill balanced on breeze blocks that lifted the small crackling fire off the bare concrete hearth. The unseasoned logs spat streams of sparks into the updraft, to be carried up the chimney and out into the winter night. The smoky smell of burning pine blended gratifyingly with the odours from the kitchen.

Ben breathed deeply and smiled.

He considered the two young women ahead of him in the queue. Cute!

The shorter of them spoke to her companion, "This is a rum looking place you've brought us to. Do you come here often?"

"No — we only found it recently. Jerry went out for a meal with the guys on the set." She looked around the room. "It's different. You've got to give it that!"

"I'll say. Have they been going long?" She looked about the poorly finished room, "It looks like they're still fixing the place up."

"Jerry says it's a squat. Run by some sort of vegetarian collective." She giggled. "Sounds like a plate of mixed veg!" They both grinned. "You get a different chef every night, so you're never quite sure what you'll find when you get here."

"Isn't Jerry with you tonight?"

"Yeah. He's trying to find a place to park. You know what it's like in Vauxhall. All double yellow lines and 'Residents Only' bays."

"I know — awful. We had to park streets away. I wouldn't have found the place if I hadn't been with Mark. You know how hopeless I am at finding my way around." The young man in front of them, presumably Mark, turned and smiled at her.

Her friend giggled, "Oh Yeah — right! I've just remembered the Christmas party."

Jenny giggled, "Oh don't! Be kind."

"How long were you in that car park?"

Jenny glared at her, blushing, before covering her mouth with her hand.

"Freenarfours," she mumbled. She blushed as she caught sight of Ben's amused expression.

"What?"

"Three and a half hours," her voice almost a squeak.

Her companion laughed. "How on earth can you spend three and a half hours looking for your car in a multi-story car park?"

"I didn't spend three and a half hours looking for the car... It was the police's fault," she continued, plaintive. "After I reported it missing they took over three hours to get there! I was frozen stiff by the time they came. I swear I was just moments away from hypothermia."

"And what happened when they did get there?"

"Well — they found my car for me."

"Yes, but where was it?"

Jenny turned away. "Oh look. Leek soup tonight! It's a favourite of mine."

"Jenny."

"You know damn well it was on the next level up. Stop tormenting me!"

They both collapsed into fits of giggles.

"It's not my fault! The silly beggars make each floor look exactly the same. It's discriminatory. The architecturally challenged don't stand a chance."

Two couples came out of the kitchen. They were carrying their food on trays and made their way to a table by the fire.

The queue shuffled forward.

The café door opened. Ben felt a draft as more people came in from the street. The door was slammed shut in the face of the biting cold. The firm thump as it hit the frame caused the glass panes to rattle; all the candles guttered.

The group joined the queue behind him. He could feel them leaching the heat from his back.

Jenny asked, "So! How's the course going?"

"Just brilliant! The tutor is _so_ good. I'd no idea theatre was such a different subject. It's so, so, different from working in front of the camera."

"Sweet... I have theatre next term. What did you do today?"

"Projection. It's such a difficult thing to get the hang of."

"Really? I thought it was just speaking louder?"

"I guess I did too, until today. It's really difficult to describe how to do it. The trick is to act and project your voice to the back of the theatre, both at the same time. You can't inject emotion and feeling into it when you're just bellowing your lines across the stage."

"So... How do you do it then?"

An awkward silence.

Ben smiled. _About as easy to explain as Zen_ , he thought, _and for exactly the same reason._

"I — can't really tell you," Silvi sounded confused. "It's something you just have to practice. It's funny. When you _do_ get it right, it's really easy. Until you do though it seems like magic."

"Ooh Silvi... The arcane mysteries of stagecraft. How intense!"

Silvi laughed, "LAMDA are thorough. We're lucky — not many drama schools have a syllabus this comprehensive."

The door opened again and more people came in.

Jenny stood on tiptoe to see who had come in but made eye contact with Ben. Her face, being the expressive tool of her craft that it was, managed to convey both an apology for intruding on his personal space and a request to move out of her line of sight, all with just a whimsical smile.

Ben obligingly stepped aside.

"Oh! There's Jerry!"

She waved and smiled.

Silvi turned and looked behind her. Her expression changed when she saw her man had joined them. Ben took a voyeuristic pleasure in the love-light that radiated from her eyes and basked unashamedly in the warmth intended for another.

Unconsciously, his face lit with a responsive smile. From the corner of her eye, Silvi caught sight of his change of expression and glanced at him.

She flinched and looked away.

Ben grimaced, rueful.

"I'll grab a table," Jerry called out from the back of the queue. Silvi nodded and turned away to face the kitchen.

Four more people came out of the kitchen bearing trays of food. The spicy odours triggered a reaction in Ben's stomach and it growled impatiently.

The queue shuffled forward again.

Jenny and Silvi had reached the kitchen doorway and were craning their necks to look over Mike's shoulders. For Ben, the way they stood on tiptoe, their glances darting here and there, brought to mind meerkats on lookout duty.

Wednesday. It would be Becky cooking tonight. Ben scanned the menu chalked up on the wall.

Starter

Leek Soup

Pepper & Feta Parcels

Main

Potato, Taleggio & Spinach tart

Chard, Sweet Potato & Peanut stew

Dessert

Baked Apples

Apple Crumble

Ben, being much taller than Jenny and Silvi, could see over their heads into the kitchen.

The range at the far end of the room supported a bucket-size pan that bubbled and steamed. To his left a countertop stretched the length of the room, covered by baking trays, neatly arrayed, containing the food on offer tonight. To the right, a crude sink and flimsy camping table had started to fill up with unwashed dishes and utensils.

Ill tempered, Becky turned her attention to the group in front of him and raised an eyebrow in silent question, "Well?"

Mark hastily ordered the Leek soup and the Chard.

Pointedly, Becky picked a tray off the pile at his side and handed it to him.

Jenny asked, "What's Jerry having?"

"Oh God. I forgot to ask him!" She turned and looked back into the café. Her partner was engrossed in a lively conversation.

"Jerry!" she called.

He didn't hear her; he was too caught up in the conversation. His hands gesticulated as he emphasised some point he was making.

"Jerry!" she tried again. This time she waved her hand to try and catch his eye but he wasn't facing her.

"Oh bugger!" She turned back to Jenny. "He can't hear me. It's too far." She glanced anxiously at the impatient Becky serving the food.

Ben looked at her askance. "Project yourself!" he said.

Silvi stared at him, discomfited. Then her cheeks coloured. She turned back to face the café.

"JERRY!" she projected into the room.

Jerry jumped, visibly startled and got to his feet. "What?" his voice alarmed. "What is it?"

Silvi shrieked and grabbed Jenny by the shoulders. "My God! It worked! It bloody well worked!" she cried.

Jumping up and down and around in a circle, she led Jenny in a joyful capering dance around the kitchen.

#  The Grave

"My goodness James, it's so hot today!" Eva dropped her bag on the grass and sank to the ground. She looked around for a few moments and continued, "You boys must be enjoying this sunshine and blue skies up here, what with this fine view an' all." She opened her bag and took out a bottle of water, "Excuse me darling, I need watering before I melt clean away. Goodness me but that hill's a climb and no mistake!"

She shaded her eyes with her free hand and looked around. Despite her grass hat and sunglasses, the sun overhead was getting in her eyes. The military graveyard was immaculate of course; the gleaming white headstones in neat regimented rows, all at parade rest across the hillside. As always the peace and order of it gave Eva a sense of comfort, everything in its right and proper place, just how things should be.

The flowers on the next grave were wilted and brown. Eva moued, her pouting pink lips the cherry to the cream of her complexion. "Poor Joseph. Why those flowers have seen better times, dear. Here let me give them some of my water." She stretched over to the neighbouring grave and carefully poured some water into the small vase at the base of the stone. "There that's better; that should brighten them up for you." Eva sat back on her haunches, wincing with discomfort she eased her buttocks off her calves and onto the grass. "I'm sure Maria will bring you some fresh ones soon."

She smiled reassuringly at the grave then murmured in an aside to her husband, "She won't be up to see Jo so often now the car has gone." She put her hand to the side of her mouth to hide her lips from view, "they came and took it away last week, it was quite the to do I can tell you! Really — it's disgraceful; her being a war widow an all. You'd think they'd show some gratitude or sumthin'."

Dropping her hand to her lap she straightened up and smiled uncertainly at her husband's headstone. "Well darling I don't know where to start with all the news, there's been so much going on lately and you know what a scatter brain I am. I'm sure to make a muddle of it somewheres."

Eva fell silent, her gaze vacant and far away as she reviewed recent events, then her cheeks flushed and she looked abashed as her attention returned to the present. "Sorry darling, listen to me going on, you always were so patient with me; you're a good husband. I still brag about how perfect you are to everyone, you must think me so silly I'm sure but that's just the way I am. You know I can't help myself even after all your efforts to train some sense into me."

Eva reached for her bag and dragged it onto her lap, pulling its mouth open and peering inside. Her head bobbed from side to side as she tried to see the interior while feeling around with her hand at the same time.

"I have pictures baby," her voice uncertain as she continued to fumble around inside the bag, "pictures of Ivan at his graduation ceremony." She caught her lower lip in her teeth, as though trying to eat the lopsided grin on her face. "Graduation," her voice all disbelief, "where did it go baby, surely it was only yesterday he was starting school, him in his little short pants an' all. Remember how cute he looked?" she smiled brightly at the carved stone.

She sat still for a few moments, her smile fading to a vague glaze. "No, come to think of it you weren't there, what with the army and all..." An intake of breath and she looked back to the bag, "Anyhoo, enough of that, no point going over all that again..." her voice trailed off, then, "Ah! Here we are!" She pulled the photographs from the bag with a flourish and a smile. Putting the bag down, Eva fanned the pictures like a hand of cards and began sorting through them.

"Here, see how handsome he looks in his gown and that funny hat they wear," she turned one the photo's towards the headstone, "see that lovely smile?" She turned the photo towards the neighbouring grave, "You see Jo?"

Eva turned back to her husband, "James, he's so happy these days, carefree really, the whole world before him instead of on his shoulders like before. He got a first you know, he gets that from you of course; you always were the brains of the family. I know I'm not bright but I like to think he got his cheerful manner from me. I love the way he just bounces right back from every set back, he just gets on with it, you know what I mean?"

Eva turned the picture toward her and looked at it smiling wistfully.

"My goodness but it's nice to see him so happy at last."

She fell silent for a full minute, just looking at the picture in her hand and smiling. Gradually the smile faded and she looked up at the carved stone, uncertain. She swallowed and licked her lips before speaking, "Now James, I want you to promise me you won't get mad again; you never did learn to accept things you just can't change. All that shouting and hitting and hurting didn't change him. Well not the way you wanted him changed anyhow. Seems some people are just born the way they are and that's all there is to it. You just gotta' play the hand you're dealt and get on with it. No use complaining or hollering about it, that don't change nuthin'."

Eva placed a hand on the top of the headstone and used it to pull herself to her feet. She raised both hands above her head and stretched her spine. There was a muted 'thunk' as the vertebrae shifted. "Oooh, that's good," she said as she rolled her shoulders and flexed her long, slim neck. She turned her back on the grave and looked out over the rolling countryside, "My goodness you boys have got it good here I must say. Yes Siree, I'd kill for a view like that, that's for sure."

After a moments regard she turned and looked sternly at the grave, "Now look, seems the boy is in love with this Julian and they want to be together. It's a done deal. Nuthin' to argue about. So don't go upsetting yourself over it. There's nuthin' _I_ can do about it and I wouldn't want to anyhow. Who are we to pass judgement on God's creation? It's not our place... I love him. He's my son and I'm proud of him. No amount of shouting and hollerin' is ever going to change that. You'll just have to learn to live with it; that's all I'm saying on the matter. And don't go raisin your fists down there neither, won't do you no good down there. You're dead now; you'll just have to accept what life throws at ya'. You sure had enough of a say when it was your time. Now it's _his_ time..."

She nodded her head in affirmation, confirming that that was that and there was no use trying to shift her none. She stretched again, this time with arms held wide as though crucified, and spun lightly on her heel.

"Darling, I have to admit they do you boys proud here, fair play to 'um. Only seems right with you guys dying for the country an all, they should make it as nice for you as they can. After all it's not like they didn't tax you none while you were alive. They do keep this grass nice, like a fitted carpet, never seen such a nice patch of green nowhere. Must take a fire truck to keep it green like this in this weather."

Eva took out a handkerchief that had been tucked into the short sleeve of her summer dress and wiped her nose, making feminine sniffling noises as she dealt with the pollen damage.

She stared off into the middle distance, a vacant look in her eyes. "Baby, you remember Jessica, Bobby's wife?" She grimaced, "Sorry baby, course you do, silly of me." She turned back to the grave and looked down on her husband's resting place with an ambivalent smile on her face. "Well, she's only gone and shacked up with Master Sergeant O'Rourke... Can you believe it? You're old Master Sergeant, whatever next, remember how you hated him so? It seems that when you and Bobby was killed, he decided to go round the house and comfort her. Guess he must have been _really_ comforting if you know what I mean. It's the talk of the battalion, as you can imagine."

She frowned slightly, lost in thought, "Didn't come comforting me any."

Eva nibbled on the cuticle of her left index finger and looked down at her husband's grave for a while, thoughtful. "She wanted to come to the funeral you know. I guess it must have looked odd with me going to bobby's an all, but of course I wouldn't let her. Don't get me wrong, I forgive her, but it just wouldn't have been right. The two of us grieving over you, and Ivan being right there with us. Sure was awkward telling her though. She doesn't know I know about you two." She sniffed. Her lip curled. "I didn't really feel it was right to be dragging it all up. Not with you and Bobby just being blow'd up like that — by one of them impoverished devices they seem so keen on over there. It's not like we don't have enough misery to go round is it?"

She walked around the grave and perched her bottom against the headstone, taking the weight off her feet.

"I know she's finding it hard with Bobbie gone. Those three boys — they don't run on air you know. It's easier for me of course, that insurance pay out sure came in handy. I don't think Bobbie had any insurance though, so I guess the Master Sergeant ain't after her money," Eva giggled, "perhaps she's found another way of paying for her groceries."

Her voice turned wistful again, "Sure is one fine figure of a man though."

She bent at the waist and picked up the bottle with a small grunt of effort. "Goodness me but it's hot, should have brought a parasol or sumthin'. A girl could get heatstroke up here. Would've been nice if they'd put you under the trees over there. That way I could get some shade when I come visiting." Then after a moment of reflection, "Mind you, I would be forever sweeping the leaves of you in the fall." She tipped some of the water into her hand and rubbed it on the back of her neck, "Well I mustn't grumble, at least they brought ya' home baby. What if I had to fly to one of them Arab deserts to talk to you? God! Now that would be heat, you know what I mean?"

Eva picked up her shoulder bag and pulled out a disposable plastic carrier. She snapped it open with a flick of her wrist. Dropping her shoulder bag back on the ground she picked up the vase from her husband's grave and plucked the stale flowers from it, placing them carefully in the bag. She raised the vase to her nose and sniffed; her nose wrinkled in distaste, just as it did every week. She poured the stagnant water onto the gravel path and refilled it from her bottle. Then she unwrapped the bouquet she had brought with her and settled the fresh flowers in it. She held them up before her, admiring them and fussing them into place with deft flicks of her fingertips. She placed the vase on the ground and cast a proprietary eye over the area. Eyeing a few stray petals she picked them up and popped them in the bag with the dead flowers, then stepped back and inspected the grave thoroughly for anything untoward.

Satisfied all was in order she hitched up her dress and sat down, her back resting against the headstone. With a sigh she closed her eyes and laid her head back against it.

A tear glinted in the corner of her eye. Her fine delicate eyelashes, suddenly moist, clung together.

"I wish you would hold me baby," she murmured. "You've no idea how much I miss that."

#  The Choir

It was a soft and misty day in the Welsh mountains. At this height, I was barely below the sullen grey clouds robbing the valley of sunlight. I was sitting on a damp dry-stone wall with my heels hooked into its granite face. My eyes followed the road as it snaked down the valley to where it dissolved into the grey mist. The cloud shrouded the peaks in a pallid blanket of silence, heavy and thick. Above, on the valley wall, a flock of sheep picked their way through the scree, ascending the slope in search of fresh pasture, or perhaps the warmth of the sun.

I love the solitude and grandeur of places like this. From time to time I seek out their comfort. They remind me of my insignificance, of how unimportant my few minutes of life are in the face of eternity. It liberates me, at least briefly, from the petty concerns and distractions of humanity.

I heard the coach climbing the valley long before I saw it. The pass, with its twists and turns and traversals, tries the skill of all who drive here. From the sound, I could picture its progress in my mind, the roar of the engine rising in hope as it exited each bend, only to drop back to a disappointed growl as the driver changed down again and felt his way around the next.

I reigned in my philosophical musings and pushed myself off the wall, dropping to the ground, the better to make my way to the small ditch on the other side of the road. I had more practical considerations to attend to. Best to pee now while I had the chance; this might be my lift approaching.

I could hear voices singing, youthful, full of vigour and even though in competition with the engine, I could hear they were in harmony. I hopped back up onto the wall, the better to be seen and to keep out of the way should the driver be feeling uncharitable. I could see it now, a short coach, maybe a thirty-seater. I didn't recognise the livery, so it was probably a local coach company serving one of the Welsh valleys. The voices were clearer now, soaring ahead of them as they ascended the pass.

I raised a hand, thumb extended and smiled hopefully at the driver. He shook his head and was going to drive on but then a passenger reached forward, touched his shoulder, and said something to him. The bus pulled up beside me and the door wheezed open. I smiled at the driver, he didn't smile back.

The singing died away as the teenage passengers stood up and craned their necks to see what was happening.

The man, the one who'd told the driver to stop, came to the doorway.

"Hi! Where you heading?"

"North," I said.

The driver snorted and looked away.

"Okay... We're heading for Birmingham, that north enough for you?"

"That would be fine." I reached out my hand, "John," I offered by way of introduction. "Thanks for stopping."

"Peter, Peter Fisher. Welcome aboard." He pointed at the empty seat next to his. "Take a pew."

He grabbed my pack and stuffed it in the overhead rack.

The door closed and the driver gunned the engine. I fell into the seat with a thump as he pulled away, "Cheers." I said as I made myself comfortable. This was a result; I had a view out of the front window and room to stretch my legs.

Across the aisle from me, the seat was occupied by a beautiful black girl, around sweet sixteen, fulsome of lip and breast, voluptuous in fact. I love girls that age — flush with invigorating hormones — they're at it like rabbits. To her right sat a clean cut young man, athletic, maybe nineteen. He smiled at me and said, "Hi. I'm Eric."

I waved a hand in greeting.

Reaching across the aisle I offered the girl my hand, "John."

She smiled graciously and slipped her hand into mine, it was soft and cool, "Salome."

"Salome?" I wondered if she was kidding me. "Now that's an unusual name. Did your parents name you after the asteroid or the daughter of Herodias?"

She looked a little puzzled by this and took a few seconds to answer, "My parent's didn't name me Salome. I did."

Now it was my turn to look puzzled, "You named yourself?"

"Really?" asked Eric.

"Yes." She laughed, self-conscious. "It's the tradition in my culture. When a girl comes of age she chooses a name from the Bible. That's how she's known from then on."

She had a lovely African accent.

"What culture's that?" I asked.

"Kikuyu."

"Ah — Kenya right?"

She nodded.

Eric said quietly, "I didn't know your name isn't really Salome."

"So. Where are you headed?" Peter interrupted.

I turned back to him, "Still north."

"It _is_ my name," I heard Salome insist.

Peter smiled, uncertain. Maybe he thought I was being evasive.

"Yes — I was thinking of maybe something more specific?"

"I don't have a destination," I said, "I'm just out and about taking a break. Thought I'd go north and see what I find."

"Taking a break from what?"

"Study. I'm a student."

"Oh really? What are you studying?"

"Folkloristics."

"Folkloristics? — I've not heard of that. Where do you study that?"

"Tartu University."

"Tartu?" he mused. "Can't think where that is."

"It's North-East of here."

He looked like he was going to ask something else but just then Salome stood up and faced the back of the bus, her hands grasping the overhead racks to steady herself. This hiked up her flimsy T-shirt and exposed a belly like a silken washboard. She was an ini bless her, my favourite. I swallowed reflexively, the better to resist the urge to put my tongue in her belly-button.

I turned back to Peter, anxious not to get myself thrown off the bus as soon as I'd gotten aboard. I was casting about for something to say, when Salome opened her mouth and started to sing; she had the voice of an angel.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me."

The rest of the kids joined in seamlessly.

"I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now, I see..."

These kids could sing! There was some expert harmonising coming from the back somewhere. It swirled around her lead and really made the song pop.

Peter laughed at my reaction, "Pretty good, huh?"

"I'll say."

"You're listening to the Youth Choir from Saint Cecilia's Church in Aberystwyth. We're on our way to the NEC in Birmingham for a revival meeting."

I was entranced by the music, quite happy to shut up and listen rather than get embroiled in a conversation. I made no answer, hoping he would take it as a hint, but he took it as a cue to continue.

"We're the principle choir for the event. We'll be on stage for most of the convention." He was making an effort to sound matter-of-fact, like he wasn't bragging about it.

The kids were hitting the refrain again, "How sweet the sound." It certainly was.

Now Amazing Grace is one of the few hymns I can bear to listen to. When it comes to music, the Church has raised the dirge to an art form. I guess it must be the concentration on the after-life that gives hymns such deathly tones. Most times, you'd think a congregation was singing at a funeral, not a Sunday service.

"Hmm," I mumbled absently — hoping he'd take the hint — he didn't.

"So tell me. Do you believe in God?"

' _Oh my sweet Lord... Thy givest with one hand and takest with the other._ '

I think the bleak look on my face threw him a little. Actually, I was just regretting the lost opportunity — one to enjoy a peaceful ride through a beautiful part of Wales, while being serenaded by my own personal choir — but I think he must have misinterpreted my reaction as some sort of spiritual angst.

He reached out and grasped my forearm. "Are you okay?" he asked, anxious.

I patted the back of his hand reassuringly, and then removed it.

"Yes I'm fine. Sorry, didn't mean to throw you. So — which God are we talking about?" I figured if I was going to be dragged into this, I might at least as well enjoy myself.

He laughed at my disingenuity, after all he'd already told me they were from Saint Cecilia's Church. "The ONE God. The only God!" he insisted with enthusiasm.

"Yeah sorry, I should have been more specific. Err — which one and only God are you talking about?"

This time Eric joined in the laughter. The singing had come to a graceful end and Salome looked down at me. I didn't look up, I knew I'd check out her boobs if I did and there'd be no way to disguise it.

"Okay," Peter was chuckling indulgently. "You've got a point there. I have to concede that." His expression became earnest, "Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your Saviour?"

I sucked my teeth, feigning regret, and shook my head, "No — I can't say I have, to be honest."

Salome laid a hand on my shoulder; I looked up, and with heroic self-control, met her eyes. She looked anxious, even a little distressed. "Oh you should. You really should."

I almost melted at the entreaty in her puppy eyes. The urge to declare undying love for God fluttered around my suddenly vacuous head. I dropped my eyes and concentrated on her belly-button for a few seconds, but it didn't help. I noticed I was licking my lips and so looked out of the window for a moment. It worked; I felt a little more grounded.

"Sorry," I said. "I never discuss God with Christians."

She did a double take.

Peter asked, "What? Why not?"

"Well. If you must know — it's because it frightens them and they tend to become aggressive."

He scoffed, unsure if I was joking.

"Look... You're a Christian right?"

He nodded, "Of course."

"Christians build their whole life around their faith. In many ways it's the bedrock, not only of their life, but often as not their sanity. You guys build this entire edifice of beliefs around you like a wall against the evils of the world."

He put his hand on my forearm again. "Jesus is everything," he assured me earnestly.

I sighed and glanced down at his hand, he withdrew it, his face apologetic.

"Look," I said. "I've met a lot of Christians over the years and not one of them had any idea of what Christianity is about. In my experience, most of them find it terrifying to talk to someone who does. Now while I'm sure that couldn't possibly be the case with you guys. I didn't get on this bus to undermine your faith or put a crimp in your day. I'd get no satisfaction from doing that, and as you wouldn't either, why not let it drop?"

The poor sod. I'd put it as gently as I could, but as always, it was a red-rag to a bull.

He chortled, patronising. "Well thanks for your concern," he said, bordering on sarcasm.

Eric tittered on the other side of the coach.

Salome took her hand off my shoulder.

"I think I can cope with anything you have to say to _me_ , John." He nodded his head, encouraging me to continue. "I can assure you, my faith is a solid as a rock. Nothing will ever shake it."

"Amen!" Salome. She gave me a withering look and dropped back into her seat. She grasped Eric's hand between hers.

"Accept the Lord Jesus into your heart!" she urged.

I was becoming irritated now; the puppy eyes no longer in evidence.

"Look." I was pleading. "I've been through this a _lot_ of times. If you insist on talking to me about this, it can only undermine your faith, perhaps even set you at odds with your friends. Aren't you happy as you are?"

Peter pulled a Bible out of the magazine rack in front of us and waved it at me. "I think you underestimate us," he said, not unkindly. "We spend a great deal of time studying this good book." He waved it in the general direction of the back of the bus. "All of us here attend Bible study classes every week. They're one of the most popular activities in our church."

The kids in the seat behind us started to titter.

' _Oh God,_ ' I thought, ' _here we go again._ '

'Why can't people just leave well alone?'

I looked at him waving his book about, so self-assured, and I felt a bleak spirit descend on me. I really would have preferred to leave him happy in his own little world. I knew from experience that that wasn't going to happen though; he was just going to keep on fishing until I bit on the hook.

"I just love that book," Salome chimed in.

I couldn't help myself, "So you read it then?"

Her laugh, almost a bark of derision, made me wince. "Read it? _I live and breathe it._ "

"I see."

I should have let it ride, but I'm young and couldn't stop myself.

"Tell me Salome, what made you choose that name from the Bible? Was it any particular quality of her character that you identified with? Perhaps you have ambitions to become an exotic dancer?"

"No..." She shook her head. "Nothing to do with dancing." She looked like she was starting to doubt my sanity. "I chose it because I like the name. Why? Don't _you_ like it?"

I heard Peter sigh beside me, but I didn't turn back to him.

"Yes! I like it a lot. In fact I've always thought she gets a bad rap from Christians. After all, it was her mother who used her to trick Herod into beheading John the Baptist. It wasn't _her_ idea; she was just being a dutiful daughter." I gave her a winning smile. "It's great to see a young Christian championing her name.

"The way Christians talk about Salome, you'd think she was just a stripper who'd given her own stepfather a lap-dance."

Her eyes widened and she looked at me in horror, then away out the window. Her hands tightened their grip on Eric. I heard a girl snigger from one of the seats behind her. Salome scowled and turned to say something but then changed her mind.

I regretted it immediately. She'd been so confident and alive just moments before. Now she looked confused, humiliated and angry.

"I don't really think it's fair to say that Christians know _nothing_ about the Bible," Peter said. "We all learn at our own pace."

"Did I say _nothing_? Sorry that _would_ be an exaggeration," I admitted. "Okay. Tell me about the Bible then. Who wrote it?"

He laid a hand on its cover. "This is the inspired word of God."

"Are you sure? It reads more like folklore. In fact it's one of the books I study in Folkloristics. I'll be writing my dissertation on it."

He chuckled, indulgent, "No — no. I assure you; this is the word of God."

"So it's not folklore then? You're absolutely sure of that?"

"Trust me. Millions of people around the world have discovered the joy of a close relationship with God through this good book. If it was just a collection of simple folk-tales I'm sure we would have noticed by now."

"So..." I looked him in the eye for a few seconds, "If you're able to assure me it isn't a collection of folklore — well you must know what folklore is then?"

There it was, that first blanch of alarm. The beginning of the fear that almost always leads to aggression when you question a Christian's pronouncements. This is why I hate it when they insist on evangelising. Why can't they just leave well alone? After all, I'm happy to leave _them_ alone.

His mouth worked like a landed guppy as he tried to recall what he'd heard on the subject. I knew that like most people, his knowledge of folklore could be jotted on the back of a postage stamp, so I took pity and continued, "The _principle_ definition is, 'the unwritten literature of a people as expressed in folk tales, proverbs, riddles, songs, etc.'" I smiled again, "Notice my emphasis on the word ' _Unwritte_ n'."

Peter rolled his eyes and laughed uproariously. "Well there you are then! How can the Bible be folklore if it's been written down?" He raised his eyebrows and shrugged at his friends across the aisle, who all laughed with him. In fairness, he refrained from exclaiming, "Doh!" and slapping my forehead.

I didn't rise to this, just nodded my head and asked, "Okay. So if someone gets around to writing down some folklore, it's no longer folklore but something else? All of these scholars around the world who think they're studying folklore, are unwittingly killing it off? If I write down a bit of folklore about God, it becomes Holy Writ and should be included in the Bible?"

He frowned, "Now you're just twisting my words."

'Oh dear. I do despair of the human condition.'

"Did you notice what happened just then?" I asked, irritated.

"What? What happened?"

"What's he talking about now?" a voice from behind me asked. I looked over my shoulder. The kids behind us had stood up and were resting their arms on the back of our seats, the better to listen.

"I'm talking about what just happened while I was talking to your friend Peter here. Did any of you notice?"

They looked at each other like I was crazy. I turned back to Peter, "Did _you_ notice?"

"I'm sorry; I don't know what you're talking about," he admitted, looking around and out of the window, as though checking to see if we'd just passed a green elephant on a unicycle and he'd missed it.

I sighed. "We were discussing the definition of folklore. A subject I am an expert in, when you accused me of ' _Twisting your words_ '."

His mouth twitched. "Well sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Actually, you did. Your behaviour is typical of people who are feeling threatened. Because I was questioning your beliefs, you sidestepped answering me by resorting to blackening my character, accusing me of some sort of mischief. Namely — I was just playing around with words to try and confuse you." I sighed, "So it seems I've rewarded your generosity by trying to mess with your head. What a nasty little person I must be."

The patronising look was back on his face. "Look. Try not to be so touchy."

"Yeah chill, guy," behind me.

' _God on high! The irony's so thick you can cut it with a knife.'_

"So let me see if I'm getting this right. We were having a discussion about a subject as harmless as the defining characteristics of folklore. You became agitated and resorted to making false accusations about my behaviour. And now that I've pointed that out to you — that means _I'm the one who's being touchy_?" I turned in my seat to look up at the kids behind me, "and _I'm the one who needs to 'Chill'?_ "

Classic disordered thinking. I looked at Peter. The poor man was genuinely baffled by what I was saying.

"Look — I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be offensive or anything."

"Actually you were. I was simply pointing out that you were using a defence mechanism to duck the question. Although you like to think you're actively seeking the spiritual truth, in reality you are defensive and aggressive when people question you're beliefs. This is typical of many people, _not just Christians_. This is a _bad thing_ , especially for anyone who considers them self to be on a spiritual journey of some kind." I looked around, "Anyone want to tell me why?"

The teenage lad behind me sucked his teeth. "Don't take yourself so seriously."

I arched an eyebrow at Peter. "Did you notice what just happened?"

The lad threw up his hands in despair. "What? What _just happened?_ " he asked sarcastically.

I swivelled around again; this was starting to get physically uncomfortable.

"I asked if anyone knew why it was a 'bad thing' for our friend here to be dishing out accusations in response to anyone who questions his beliefs. Instead of acknowledging that this was a flaw in _his_ behaviour, you replied by making an accusation about _my_ behaviour. You accused me of taking myself too seriously.

"The inference being, that as it is a defect in _my_ character that makes me ask the question, there's no need to question Peter's behaviour."

He gave me a 'Whatever' frown.

I looked around at the remainder of them. "So can anyone answer the question?"

"What question?" Eric.

I rubbed my face with my hands, trying to wipe the exasperation off. "The question was, 'Why is it a bad thing to make accusations about people when they question your beliefs." I looked over at Salome inquiringly. She twitched her lips and looked away out of the window.

"I don't know," Eric again.

"Well think it through." I pointed to Peter. "Our friend Peter here — He assures me he's a scholar and takes his faith very seriously. Does that mean he now has an infallible grasp on Christianity? Is there nothing left for him to learn?"

Peter laughed. "I never said that," he protested.

"Of course you didn't — but if you still have things to learn, how are you going to learn them without _questioning_ your beliefs? Isn't it fair to say that there are things you believe today that you will discover to be wrong tomorrow? After all, what is all this diligent scholarship for, if not to fill in the holes in your knowledge, to correct the mistakes in your understanding? To say on the one hand that you're studying the Bible, and on the other, attack anyone who questions your understanding of it...

"Well that's just not tenable."

" _Well_ — okay." He looked perplexed now and was making a warding gesture with his hands. "I genuinely am a student of the Bible who is trying to learn. I'll try to avoid doing that in future, okay"

"Trust me. This accusing people of mischief when they question your beliefs; it's something you _must_ address. It might sound ridiculous, but if you don't, you'll use the very same defence mechanism against yourself. Even _you_ won't be able to question your own beliefs." I pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. "Our young scholars here may think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, but I'm offering you a precious insight that will save you a world of pain."

"Look. I'm sorry okay? I didn't mean any offence."

"I'm not asking you to apologise. I'm just asking to realise what you're doing. My God! What a kafuffle over such a simple question."

"What question?" Eric again, he seemed to be really struggling with this.

The question was, 'If you write down folklore, does that mean it's no longer folklore but Holy Writ? All of these scholars around the world studying folklore, do you think they're killing the very subject they're studying by writing it down?"

Eric opened his mouth to speak. I held up a hand to forestall an answer.

"That was a rhetorical question, Eric. The answer is, 'No it doesn't'"

He grinned.

This was like drawing blood from a stone.

"Look..." I sighed. "This whole thing started with me stating that the Bible was folklore. Peter here, he assured me that it wasn't. Just to check we both knew what we were talking about, I asked him if he knew what folklore is. Vainly, I had hoped to lead into a discussion of how you recognise a collection of folklore and how you recognise a piece of work that was written by a single author."

I looked from face to face; they were quiet now, giving me enough rope to hang myself.

"Look. I'm a writer. I like to write. When I sit down to write something, I edit it and try to ensure the story is consistent and editorially sound.

"If I were writing about this bus trip for example, I wouldn't introduce Peter as Peter, change his name to Ernie halfway through the story and then finish up by calling him Uncle Bob. Like most modern writers I would take care to ensure the integrity of the piece.

"If I hoped to get it published, my editor would reject it until I'd ironed out the inconsistencies in the references to Peter's name. That's how you can tell the piece was written by a single author and is not just a collection of anecdotes drawn from different sources. Something cobbled together before the concept of a literary editor had even been invented.

"That's the primary difference between folklore and historical documentation. Variety and Repetition, they're the hallmarks of _all_ folklore. And that's how you can tell that the Bible _is_ folklore. The fact that it's full of references to the same stories and events, and that all of them are different in detail, shows that it's a collection of folk tales that have been passed down orally."

The lad behind me sniggered, "Get a load of this guy."

Peter frowned, "Josh, please."

"I don't follow," he said. "The Bible isn't full of inconsistencies like you say it is."

"Of course it is."

"No it's not. I'd have noticed."

More sniggering from behind me.

"Are you sure?"

He looked uncertain, "Yes of course. I've been studying it for years."

"So you think the Bible is one coherent piece of work, written by a single author?"

"Well no. It was written over hundreds of years, but in a way it does have a single author, God. He inspired the people who wrote it, to set down his law and his teachings."

"Well if that's the case, he made a lot of mistakes. If however it _is_ a collection of folk stories... Well, then there are _no_ mistakes. Just a lot of different people recalling things slightly differently, the way people do."

He shook his head, "No. There _are_ no mistakes in the Bible. If you think there are, then you just haven't studied it properly."

I sighed. So now I was the one who thought the Bible was full of mistakes, when I'd said not seconds before there aren't any, because the Bible is folklore.

"So you think the problem is that _I_ haven't read it properly?"

"Of course."

I shook my head, "Did you notice what happened there?"

He flinched, "What? — Not again with the accusation stuff, please?"

"We were discussing how the Bible has all of the hallmarks of folklore, and how God must have made a lot of mistakes if _your_ assessment of it is correct. Then you told me the problem must be that _I_ haven't studied the Bible correctly; that _I_ am the one who is arguing it is full of mistakes."

His mouth worked silently as he tried to follow what I was saying. Disordered thought really is pernicious stuff, and a devil to root out of your own behaviour. What I was saying earlier, about the disordered being defeated by the very mechanisms they use to deflect criticism from others, it's so true.

"It's simple," I said. "Either _you're_ correct about the authorship of the Bible and God made lots of mistakes getting it written down, or _I'm_ correct and there are _no_ mistakes in the Bible, just a whole lot of different people telling slightly different versions of the same stories."

"Yeah but..." He looked stricken with angst. "There _aren't_ any mistakes in the Bible; it's the divinely inspired word of God. Let no man add to it or take away from it."

"Really?"

"Of course. You can't believe that millions of people around the world could all study this book every day and not notice that it is full of inconsistencies."

"Of course I don't; many thousands of them _have_ noticed. You only have to go into a Christian bookshop and look along the top shelves, to see book after book written by angst stricken scholars trying to reconcile the 'errors' — I did the air quotes thing — with their belief that the Bible is divinely inspired and infallible." I grinned, "Boy! If you admire theological gymnastics, you should definitely try them. Those guys have saved me so many hours of research."

His face was growing more mobile by the minute as he struggled with what I was telling him, "Really?"

At last! The first seeds of doubt.

"Of course! Well... Either that or I'm messing with your head."

He didn't smile.

"Okay look. Let's take a look at a typical example. In the old testament in Samuel 24:1 God gets mad at the Jews again and makes David conduct a census of the people of Israel and Judah. This census is mentioned again in 1 Chronicles 21:1. Remember what I was saying about repetition being a hallmark of folklore?" He nodded. "There's also _variation_ in this story as well, that's another typical mark of folklore, remember? In this case, by the time God got around to inspiring someone to write Chronicles, he'd clean forgotten who it was that had moved David to conduct the census, and this time he attributes the deed to Satan.

"'And Satan stood up against Israel, and provoked David to number Israel.'

"So if your contention is that God was the author of the Bible, then he either forgot that _He_ was the one who ordered the census, or he forgot that _Satan_ was the one who ordered it, or — if he's that forgetful, perhaps it was all David's idea. Either way, he's a bit confused about what happened."

He looked very uncomfortable; the kids had gone quiet.

"So you can see that we have variation and repetition. The same story appears in two different books of the Bible and the content of the story changes as well. This is a big problem if you believe the Bible is the divinely inspired word of God and infallible. However, if you recognise that it _is_ folklore, then there's no problem at all. You just have different people recalling the same stories about God.

"For the record, it doesn't say anywhere in the _Bible_ that this stuff was all going to be written down and compiled into one book. Let alone one book of Holy Writ that cannot be 'Added to or taken away from'."

He looked like he was about to interrupt, I held up a hand to forestall him.

" _However_ , there are plenty of places in the Bible where God commands that his words be taught orally; even in some of the many different accounts of the creation of the Ten Commandments, the source of the phrase 'Written in Stone'.

"It's this defiance of God's will that's at the root of so many of the Church's problems."

I let him chew it over and went back to enjoying the view.

After a while he said, "I don't know what to say. I'll have to study it further when I get home. The only thing I can think of is that you've confused two different censuses and they aren't different accounts at all."

'So I'm the problem then...' Was he planning to study the Bible further, or my confusion about it? I gave up on the disordered accusations thing and let it slide; disordered people really _can't_ question their own behaviour. "Okay. Let's say my poor scholarship has caused this confusion." He flinched. "What about all of the other examples of variation and repetition found throughout the Bible?"

He looked like he was going to be sick. These Christians, they invest their eternal soul in this stuff and just fall apart when you question it. That seems to be the price of believing you'll be chucked into a lake of fire if you question anything you're told.

I stood up and faced the back of the bus; the kids were all silent and looking at me with suspicion and hostility.

"Hi!" I said. "How many people here read the Bible? Don't be shy. Just stick up your hand if you do."

They looked to each other for a lead; a few hands went up, eventually followed by some more.

"Okay, good. How many of you are familiar with the Sermon on the Mount? Just raise your hands if you are."

Again, a few hands went up.

"So few of you? I thought you were all avid Bible students?"

After some hesitation a few more were raised.

"Okay. Not many of you then. Now, how many have heard of the Sermon on the Plain?"

A few laughed and exchanged glances; a few frowned.

"Alright. One last show of hands. Those of you who think Mathew was right, when he said that Jesus went up the mountain and delivered the sermon, raise your left hand. Those of you who think that Luke was the one who got it right, when he said that Jesus came down from the mountain to the plain to deliver the sermon, raise your right hand."

No one moved or said a word.

Exasperated now; I took out my wallet and pulled out a twenty pound note. "Okay listen up, this could be your lucky day. I'll give this twenty pound note to the first person who can tell me all twelve of the Ten Commandments."

Josh, the gobby one who'd been sucking his teeth behind me jumped to his feet. "You're full of fucking crap pal. Take your bullshit lies about God and shut up."

Peter climbed to his feet, "That's enough, Josh."

"The hell it is, you wimp. You're letting this lying bastard run off at the mouth about our Lord and Saviour. Some youth leader you are. You wait till I tell my Dad."

"Josh! Enough I said."

Salome stood up and approached the driver. I was captivated by the way she swayed with the motion of the bus. "Driver, this man isn't one of our party; he hasn't paid to ride on the coach like we have. Do you think he should really be here?"

The bus decelerated hard, catching me unawares and making me stumble toward the door. My pack fell out the rack, almost taking my head off.

"Yeah that's it, gobshite," Josh sneered. "Keep on fucking going."

"Josh! What would your father say?" Peter again, trying to regain control.

"The driver grabbed my arm, "That's it young man. You get off here. It's bad enough trying to concentrate with this lot singing at the top of their lungs. I'm not putting up with a fatwa as well."

Salome's face broke into a triumphant grin.

The bus had stopped beside a smallholding perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea. As I stood on the step of the bus, a goat bleated at me from the other side of the inevitable dry-stone wall, its tail rotating like a propeller. Chickens picked their way through the tufts of coarse grass, pecking at insects and the like.

Peter picked up my stuff from the floor and handed it to me. "It really isn't folklore," he said, his tone mournful.

A scrawny rooster gave a strangled cry from the other side of the wall.

I stepped down onto the road and turned back to the bus.

"Hang on," I said to the driver. "I think this belongs to you."

I tapped each of my shoes against the doorframe to knock the dust from them.

Peter turned white as a sheet.

I winked at him. "Thanks for the lift."

The door closed in my face and the bus pulled away. Several of the kids gave me the finger out of the rear window as it trundled down the road.

I waved goodbye.

After the bus had disappeared from view I sat on top of the wall and hooked my heels into the stones. The view out over the sea was spectacular. A shaft of sunlight had punched a hole though the cloud cover and turned the surface of the sea into a fiery sheet of planished gold, a lake of fire amidst a grey wet wilderness.

I love the solitude and grandeur of places like this. From time to time I seek out their comfort. They remind me of my insignificance, of how unimportant my few minutes of life are in the face of eternity. It liberates me, at least briefly, from the petty concerns and distractions of humanity and the knowledge that of all the species to stride this planet, surely our span will be the briefest.

I started to hum a tune, "Amazing Grace.

"How sweet the sound."

The Forest

It was cold, the air chill and damp. My sleeping bag clung to me, clammy, limp, lifeless; the must of damp-down made me wrinkle my nose.

Margaret was still asleep. Good.

The urge to pee had woken me. Our reconciliation had got off to a rocky start last night and I'd resorted to breaking open the wine to break the ice. Once again I'd found myself engaged in a uphill struggle. The only one pedalling on a marriage made for two.

I reached for the tent flap and slipped open the zip, slow and careful, so as not to wake her. Margaret doesn't do mornings.

When I looked out, I found that the towering pines of the night before had gone. In their place, a dense white fog. It took a few moments to gather my wits and orientate myself before I slipped out of the tent flap.

While I crouched on all fours, my bladder and I debated what to do. The fog was impenetrable, two paces and I would be lost, unable to get back. My bladder, debating _for_ the resolution, won that round.

Reluctantly I stood up, resigned to starting my day on the back foot. Instead, I found myself immersed in a magical scene.

The dense fog blanketed the forest floor to the height of my waist. Around me stood the majestic pines still slumbering in the predawn light. I was aloft in a cloud. One that had been skewered by the giant trees with their coarse ragged bark and scent of rich amber sap.

Enchanted, mute, I soaked up the scene with not a soul in sight, nor voice heard.

To my left, cast from a sprig, a spider's web sagged beneath its catch of beaded dew. Beyond, a pine cone fell with a muted thump into the bed of needles and moss carpeting the forest floor.

The sound of hoofs seeking a footing and then a doe broached the mist, rising from her slumber not ten foot before me. I held my breath as she yawned and shook her head.

In the distance, the 'thuk thuk thuk' of a woodpecker drumming-up breakfast heralded the dawn.

It was one of those rare and sublime moments that come so seldom to our banal lives. Where every perfect attribute of sight, smell and sound coalesces into a single precious eternal-instant. It's then that you realise: this is why we're here, this is what it was all created for, this very moment, here and right now.

Behind me, Margaret stirred and cursed, "For Christ's sake! Can't you close the flap? I'm freezing in here."

The doe, wild eyed, turned and gaped at me, as I gaped at her.

She tore off through the trees, her neck slicing through the liquid fog.

I watched the confusion of her wake heal-over for a while, the whorls and eddies of mist knitting the wound of her flight, until not a trace of her or the moment remained.

*

Thank you for reading my short stories. If you enjoyed them, would you please take a moment to leave a review at your favourite retailer? You would be helping a hard working author to get out of IT and into full time writing.

Many thanks!

Bradley Atkins

**About the Author**

Bradley Atkins is a hard working IT contractor working in the field of Cyber Security, (until he manages to break out and become a full time writer!).

He currently lives in the United Kingdom with his wife, Brenda. He has two young boys aged twenty one and thirty one and six grandchildren.

Bradley employs his pet capuchin monkey, 'The Bard', as a ghost writer. Not because he works for peanuts, but mainly for his superior typing skills.

You can find out more about Bradley here at his Smashwords Interview.

Contact Me

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Coming Soon

My next novel is called The Passion of Lettice Treadwell. It is a darkly comic mystery set around life, death, The Church and The Sex Trade.

It is to say the least, a somewhat unusual read. I include the opening chapter below, in the hope of persuading you to bookmark me as a Favourite so that you don't miss the book release.

Should you enjoy it, don't be shy about telling me. They don't say that writing is a lonely profession without reason!

#  The Passion of Lettice Treadwell

**Introduction**

My name is Lettice, Lettice Treadwell.

I think.

It's difficult to be certain under the circumstances.

The Dungeon

George Chieveley had been standing before the cross for some time. He did so without movement or comment. George was not in any way a religious man. Nothing in his years of service had ever moved him to the faintest expression of Christian sentiment. In fact religious symbolism left him cold. This was the first time that he had ever been moved to the silent contemplation of a crucifixion.

Even in death, the young woman's face exhibited a profound beauty. The tip of tongue parting her lips in no way diminished this, rather it seemed to enhance her youth and innocence. A crown of thorns had been fashioned around her closely shaved head by the careful insertion of crisscrossed hypodermic needles through the scalp.

The blood that had dripped from the resulting puncture wounds had run the length of her naked body. Its course flowing between her small, pert breasts and then downward, across the soft delicate belly. Where it met her shaven vulva it had flowed around her mons-pubis and disappeared between her thighs before reappearing at her feet to drip and pool at the base of the cross.

She'd been bound with a coarse hemp rope. Welts from a flail — no doubt the one discarded on the floor — patterned her skin. They were livid and red. George noted that she'd lived long enough for them to rise in anger from her pale flesh.

She was without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and he would have been content to stand there for the rest of the day in quiet contemplation.

It was not to be.

He started and then groaned when the Scene Of Crime officer cleared her throat and inquired, "Have you _quite_ finished, Inspector?"

She was clad from head to toe in a white one-piece disposable paper suit that was gathered around her flushed face with elastic. To George, with her thick-black-framed glasses, she looked like a caricature of a myopic caterpillar. She held a camera with a bulky flash and battery pack. It looked far too large for the small white-latex-clad fingers fiddling with the controls.

George took a shuddering breath as he struggled to formulate a reply. He raised a hand in a vague gesture toward the dead woman, while his mouth worked silently.

"I'll be making a full photographic record of the scene, Inspector. If anything remains that has escaped your attention..."

He spluttered, "Of course," and blushed. "Sorry... Please, carry on."

He retreated from the room, making his way back to the reception area of the brothel.

The petite black dungeon-maid was still there. She was giving a tearful statement to a female officer, who was making notes in her book.

His sergeant, Eric Chance, was talking on his mobile phone to the coroner's office, making arrangements for an autopsy. When George joined him, he wound up the conversation and slipped the phone in his pocket.

"Well I didn't think I'd be looking at that when I got up this morning, Sir." Eric nodded in the direction of the dungeon.

"Quite so. Not your everyday scene of crime, certainly."

"What do you make of it?" asked Eric.

"Well. It was hardly an accident, Sergeant. Looks like a pretty clear-cut case of murder to me."

He looked about the room.

"Where's the dominatrix gone?"

"She's at the hospital, sir. The duty trick-cyclist needs to assess her state of mind."

George looked at him sharply. "Why? She working a fast one? Complaining she's hearing voices or something?"

Eric shrugged, "Well she is coming across as a bit loopy, sir. Rambling on about God and such. Didn't strike me as quite with us. I dare say she's off her face on drugs or the like. Under the circumstances, they'll need to assess if she's likely to top herself or something drastic."

"Hmm, I see. Anyone else here at the time of death?

"Just the maid, sir."

"The maid?"

Eric nodded in the direction of the tearful woman.

"The maid?" George repeated, his voice rising in volume. "Are we serious? Was she here to do the dusting? Changing the bed linen perhaps?"

Eric looked uncomfortable.

"What's her name for God's sake?"

"Madeline Kyetoomee, Guv."

"What? How do you spell that?"

Eric looked in his notebook, "K-y-t-u-m-e, Sir. Uganda apparently."

George walked over to the women and looked down on them both with a stern expression on his face.

The young Woman Police Constable stood up.

"Sir?"

"This the other suspect?"

"Yes, sir."

George looked down at the tearful woman.

"You from Uganda?"

She fell to her knees in a submissive pose and reached for his hand. George snatched it away and stepped back.

She sniffed and blinked.

"Yes, sir. Kampala."

"Isn't that where they had the massacre a few years back? Everyone running around carving each other up with machetes and the like? Brother killing brother and so on?"

She looked momentarily confused but then brightened. "Oh no, sir. You're thinking of Rwa..."

"I dare say you think you can bring your tribal ways over here and kill whoever you bloody well like without so much as a by-your-leave."

The woman police constable blushed and looked at the ceiling.

Madeline looked around, as though seeking escape.

"Oh no, sir. I'm a good woman, sir. I never killed no one in my life."

She reached for his hand again.

George stepped back again, a look of distaste on his face.

He turned to the constable, "You read her, her rights?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! Take her down the station and book her for murder."

Madeline began to wail. "Oh no, sir. You got it all wrong, sir. I was trying help her. I was trying to get her down but the mistress wouldn't help me, sir. It was too much, that big cross. I couldn't lift it without the mistress's help. You must believe me. I was trying to help."

"Help?" George made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. "Help? Who helped to put her up there in the first place? You just come in and find her there, did you?"

Madeline wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You don't understand how it was, sir."

"Oh don't I, young lady. You work here I believe?"

She made no reply.

"Well, do you?" he barked.

She burst into tears again.

"Yes, sir. I works here but I don't do no one no harm."

"Did you hoist that young woman up onto that cross in there? You and your kinky Mistress?"

She sobbed.

"Well did you?" he shouted again.

"Yes, sir," she blurted out. "But it weren't like that. She was here before and no harm come to her. I don't know why the mistress wouldn't help me get her down. You could see the young lady had stopped breathing."

"So it was all your Mistress's fault, was it? You were just the innocent bystander who happened to find herself in the wrong dungeon at the wrong time. Well poor you."

He sneered, glancing at Eric.

"No honour amongst thieves. This lot will soon fall to blaming each other. You mark my words, Sergeant. You mark my words."

"No, sir." Maddy protested. "She just kept smiling and ignoring me. Grinning she was, like it was funny or something..."

She trailed off, her eyes distant, reflective, puzzled.

George snapped at the WPC, "Take her down the nick and charge her with murder. Get her out of my sight."

Madeline threw herself at his feet, clutching his ankle. "No, sir! Please. Please don't blame me for this thing."

George pulled his leg free of her grip. Madeline found herself blinking at his shoe, still gripped firmly in her hand.

"For Christ's sake!" George bellowed, furious.

He snatched the shoe from her hand, snagging her fingernail and causing her to cry out.

"For God's sake, get this snivelling pervert out of my sight!"

The woman constable reached down and lifted the weeping woman to her feet. "Come on," she said, not unkindly. "Let's get you out of here." Still weeping and protesting, Madeline was lead outside.

George sat down heavily on the sofa, his fingers working at the knotted bow in his shoelace. He glanced around the empty room warily before snarling, "Bloody Africans. Think they can come over here and murder who they like for the price of a banana."

George bent to the task of putting his shoe back on.

"Can't abide these bloody perverts. Luring defenceless young women into their sordid goings on. That poor young mare in there — dead on that cross — she'll be someone's daughter. Some mother somewhere will be weeping in her cups tonight. All because of this immigrant trash and her foreign perversions."

Eric blanched but made no comment. After a few moments he said, "I'll phone the hospital and see how they're getting on with this 'Mistress', guv."

Estelle: The Divine and the Dead

"Oh God, that's so good," Estelle murmured, as the cherub, seated on the lip of the hot tub, probed the knotted muscles at the base of her neck.

God looked up from his side of the tub and smiled.

Toro, the cherub, had his ox face toward her. "The mistress has not been looking after herself, my Lord," he observed. His voice resonated with a low bass rumble that originated somewhere deep in his cavernous chest.

Estelle spasmed as the creature's slab-fingers isolated a knot and began to work it. Her leg thrashed as pain shot down her side. The surface of the bath water took on a dangerous swell, almost swamping the small boat of strawberries floating by the champagne bucket.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck it!" She opened an eye and grimaced. "Sorry," she grunted. "I can't help it."

God waved a hand in dismissal. "Toro's fingers often move me to profanity, Estelle. Think nothing of it."

He plucked a strawberry from the rocking boat and took a bite. He chewed it for a few seconds, open mouthed; letting the aroma waft over his palate and nostrils before taking a sip of champagne through pursed lips.

Toro's fingers moved on; Estelle slumped back against the beast's legs and let out a heartfelt sigh. She rotated her head, cautious, explorative. The pain at the back of her skull had vanished for the first time in weeks.

God grinned and cocked an eyebrow. "He's good isn't he?"

"You've no idea."

God pursed his lips. "Well actually..."

Estelle snickered. "Sorry. I'm not really up on talking to a deity. I guess I'm used to keeping different company." Her gaze lost focus as her mind drifted back to her earthly life. "Sleazier company if I'm being honest."

She grunted as Toro poked her shoulder with a stiffened finger. Her hair blew across her face as the cherub snorted, indignant.

"The mistress should not pass judgement on the Lord's creation! The mistress is not fit..."

God raised a hand in a laconic gesture that silenced the celestial beast.

"I wasn't!" Estelle spluttered. "I don't judge my customers, I'm a professional!"

"Quite. Quite right," God muttered, placating.

His fingers drifted back and forth over the strawberry boat, indecisive.

"Toro. Make some allowance for our guest. This is her first visit to Heaven after all." He smiled at her. "Let's not forget that her visit today is entirely unscheduled. Estelle was no more expecting to be here today than we were expecting her arrival."

He smiled as he found a strawberry he liked the look of and plucked it from the bobbing boat.

"The poor child won't even have a chance to pass by orientation before she leaves us again." He shook his head. "What Heavenly Resources will have to say, I shudder to think."

Estelle sat up, attentive. "So... Am I just passing through on my way to Hell then?"

Toro bellowed with laughter and stamped his right hoof on the bottom of the hot tub. The resulting wave lifted Estelle off her bottom and swamped the boat of strawberries, which sank out of sight, leaving the fruits floating forlornly amongst the scented suds.

God sighed and chided Toro with a, "Tsk, tsk, tsk," and a shake of his head. "Toro," he said. "I should have given you the feet of a deer, not an ox."

Toro let out another belly laugh. "My Lord makes a joke." He pushed Estelle's shoulder with a stiff finger, inviting her to share the joke but causing her to gasp in pain. "Toro with feet like a deer," he said. "Toro could dance like a ballerina. My Lord is funny."

"Yes, yes. I'm a comic genius, no doubt about it."

Toro stamped his foot again while emitting a kind of basso-chortle that was infectious and engaging. Estelle chuckled as well, despite the pain of her bruised shoulder.

Toro lumbered to his feet and executed a clumsy pirouette; Estelle quickly pulled her knees up to her chin in order to snatch her feet away from the stamping cloven hoofs. She spluttered as a foaming wave broke over her face.

"TORO!" God bellowed at the beast. "Remember your manners, please!"

Toro jumped out of the hot tub, contrite and abashed.

"Sorry, my Lord."

The huge beast seemed heartbroken.

God sighed and rolled his eyes skyward.

"Now don't go taking it to heart. You know what you're like when you get depressed. No one's asking you to fall on your sword. Just show a little consideration for others. Is that too much to ask?"

Toro seemed only slightly mollified by this.

"No, my Lord."

"Good! Good boy!" God smiled. "Now why don't you go and play 'Stampede' with the other Cherubs? Perhaps chase a demon or two. Hmm, what do you say?"

Toro brightened. "Stampede," he snorted.

"That's right. You know how you love a good run."

Toro's eyes were shiny and bright. His breathing had quickened and his hoofs pawed at the ground, gauging a rut in the immaculate lawn.

"Stampede," he muttered speculatively. Then suddenly he was off, racing across the lawn, clods of earth flying into the air behind him. Estelle could feel the vibration through the water in the tub. "Stampeeeeede!" his voice dopplered into the distance.

Estelle extended her legs gingerly into the calming waters.

God chuckled indulgently and reached for a cigar.

"Not one of my most subtly-crafted creations I'll be the first to admit," He said. "But you can't fault the cherubim for lacking enthusiasm! Eh?"

Estelle nodded her head in agreement.

"Give me a Legion of Cherubim over an Army of Saints any day of the week..."

"Really?"

God nodded. "Oh yes. They have the loyalty of a pet dog combined with the homicidal tenacity of an affronted honey badger." He smiled fondly at the retreating cherub. "You can't beat them for company and they're bloody handy in a bar fight, believe me."

Estelle was taken aback and momentarily lost for words. "You been in many bar fights?" she asked.

God snapped his fingers and a flame appeared, dancing on the tip of his thumb. He puffed enthusiastically on the cigar for a few moments until the tip glowed orange and then dipped his thumb in the water to extinguish the flame.

"All of them," he said.

The cigar smoke he exhaled formed into two pugilists trading blows in a smoky bar. The vaporous image winked out of existence when one of them was thrown through a window.

"Eh?"

He grinned at her, "Omnipresence, remember?"

"Oh right, of course... So why not stop it then? If you're there and all."

He looked disappointed.

Estelle felt embarrassed but couldn't put her finger on why.

"Sorry," she said, "have I said something stupid?"

He smiled. "No, not at all." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, not for a human that is."

An uncertain frown flickered across Estelle's face.

He took a moment, favouring her with a long look that made her feel small and unworthy. A feeling she was more used to cultivating in others.

"It's just that I've been thinking of having a word with HR about creating a new role and it occurs to me that perhaps you would make an ideal candidate."

"Me?"

"Yes. Well. _I've been rather lax_ , truth to tell. You can't go introducing an entirely different kind of contract like The New Testament without making some fairly major changes in the boardroom. I'm something of an old softy when it comes right down to it; don't have the stomach for that kind of thing... You know, people do a good job for a few millennia and then suddenly, 'Bham!'," He smashed a fist into the other palm. "It's goodbye and don't forget to clear your desk on the way out."

He sighed and shook his head.

"You need to fire someone? Someone on the err... Board?"

"Well yeah! Through no fault of his own either. Always been there for me through thick and thin. And talk about an attendance record! My word. Try prising him away from work to just crack a few suds and kick back for an afternoon." God glanced about before confiding, "Even _I_ try to take a break at least once a week..."

He shrugged, _'mea culpa'_.

"But when the new deal kicked in though, well, it really made his role completely redundant. I've been keeping all the Old Testament sinners on in Hell just to avoid admitting there's no job for him anymore. With every Rabbi on the Jewish side of the West Bank Barrier," He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the River of Life, "queuing up to d'rabbanan me this and d'rabbanan me that. Telling me I can't be letting everyone into Heaven on a free pass without letting those old rascals out of Hell as well. Bunch of crap about natural-justice and fairness and the like."

He shrugged, suddenly all Arab, his hands both raised out of the water, passing vague circles as though juggling a large invisible soap bubble. " _Well_ ... _What am I supposed to do?_ The old buggers never give up. Every time I hit them with a good practical objection like," He scooped up a handful of bathwater and poured it from His palm, "we'd need to build new boilers if I close down Hell. They're right back at me, telling how their cousin Vinney can give me a good deal on the hardware and they're brother-in-law Moshe has a Palestinian crew that works _really cheap_. Trust me, _it will pay for itself..._ "

Estelle shook herself, "Sorry. Did you say West Bank Barrier?"

He let out a heartfelt sigh. "Don't go there, Estelle. Don't get me started on the whole settlement issue." He cast another furtive glance around, "And especially don't get _them_ started!"

"Oh, Okay."

"No. They're wearing me down and I'll have to bite the bullet someday soon. I'd offer him another role of course, but would you? Would you, ' _move-sideways_ ' if you'd been Prince of Darkness for almost five millennia? Perhaps something in Tourism or Leisure?"

Estelle exclaimed, "You're sacking the Devil!"

He flinched and shushed her while looking around to see if anyone had heard. "Estelle, make an announcement why don't you?"

"Oh! Sorry." She clapped a hand to her mouth.

"No harm done by the look of it. But yes, of course, who else would I be talking about?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm just being dense I guess. Why?"

"Well don't you see? The whole premise behind The New Testament is that I've repented of my wrathful ways. It's finally dawned on me that it wasn't fair to create you and then raise the bar on Heaven so high that none of you would ever get in. If I couldn't create you strong enough to observe the law and overcome your urges, then I've really no business judging you wanting in the morality department. Even less for behaving in the very way I created you to."

He looked regretful.

Estelle looked uncertain.

"So I really should have just jumped right in there and restructured the board at the time. Now I have a flock of Christians, who are all fervently believing in the Devil. Filling him with a power he has no outlet for anymore. Honestly, we're forever adjusting the thermostat on the hot water these days. I should just have created an entirely new role and been done with it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well I'm thinking something a little more, 'light-hearted-flagellation', a little less, 'psychotic-overkill', would be more appropriate. It's all well and good my letting everyone off the hook but it seems they aren't ready for it. They still want someone in a punitive role. Someone to spank them when they're naughty, if you see where I'm going?"

"You're not offering me the job of Devil are you?"

"Oh do pay attention, child! Of course I'm not. I've just told you the role's redundant."

"Oh, right." Estelle blushed.

"No I see a need for a more matriarchal figure. More of a _Celestia Dominari_ if you will. Someone who knows how to leverage the threat of nipple-clamps and the lash. That kind of thing, but without the long term commitment of eternal torment. The sort of operation that can cope with a short-term lease if you get my drift?"

Estelle smirked, "That's certainly an area of expertise for me."

"Frankly they're still arriving in droves at the gates and all expecting a day of judgement. It's really becoming rather tiresome explaining to all of these _Christians_ that my only begotten son has died for their sins etc. It's not as though nobody's taken the time to explain the whole 'New Testament' thing to them. It's hardly buried in the fine print or anything."

"So you want me to judge them and administer a suitable punishment as I see fit?"

"Exactly. It seems like the most elegant solution. It really is rather hard to explain to the devout that they have completely missed the point. Well not without sounding patronising that is. Why not administer a quick slap on the batty and be done with it? It's a win-win solution."

"Okay."

As I said, less of the psychotic eternal torment and more of the, 'You've been naughty boys and girls, don't do it again'."

"I see."

"Do give it some thought for me won't you? I'm sure you can come up with a solution."

"Sure."

"We'll need to do a good job on your death though."

Estelle flinched. "A job?"

"Yes. I'll get the creative boys in marketing to take a look at what can be done. They're marvels at this kind of thing. They'll come up with something to make your death significant in some way... Something to get you established as a religious icon with the right credentials."

"So I'm accepted as this 'Celestia Dominari'?"

"Exactly."

"Sounds great. What does it pay?"

God smiled vaguely and then waved to someone behind her. Estelle turned in the tub to look back. Crossing the garden toward them was a tall, willowy woman clad in a simple white shift. Her feet, bare on the grass, were misted with dew. She had an aura of quiet but implacable authority.

Estelle felt a tremor of apprehension traverse her spine.

"Who's that?"

"Lilith. I expect she's been looking for you."

Estelle flinched and turned back to Him.

"Me? Why?"

He smiled.

"Well. Let's just say she has an instinct for a woman out of place."

Estelle looked troubled.

"Don't forget, you aren't supposed to be here today."

"Wha... ?"

God called out, "Lilith!" As though greeting a much loved child.

"My Lord."

She knelt respectfully beside the hot tub. Then reached out and took the cigar from him, snuffing it out on the wet rim of the bath.

"These wretched things will be the death of you."

He chortled. "I thought that was supposed to be the agnostics."

She snorted, derisive. "The only thing they ever got right — is the fact that for them at least, you truly are unknowable."

God winked at Estelle. "Lilith is rather protective of me," He confided.

Estelle smiled, uncertain what to make of the exchange.

Lilith addressed her, "Someone has to look out for our Father. If things go on the way they are, there will be no believers outside of Heaven to keep Him in existence. Then where will we be?"

Estelle thought an answer was expected but lacked the theological rigour to muster any sensible reply.

Lilith smiled at her. "Sorry. That was intended as a rhetorical question. Don't worry yourself."

Estelle let out a sigh.

"You've caught us by surprise," Lilith continued. She lifted her hand; from somewhere unobserved, a clipboard had appeared. "I'm sure you aren't scheduled to arrive today."

Lilith licked a finger with the tip of her tongue and began flicking through pages on the clipboard.

"What's your name?" she asked.

Estelle, habitually averse to any sort of census or audit, hesitated. She looked to God for divine guidance. He shrugged and looked skyward.

Lilith looked up from the page before her when Estelle didn't reply.

"Your name, dear. What is your name?"

Estelle felt a giddiness take hold; she swallowed bile, the champagne coming back on her.

"Can you tell me your name, dear?"

The tableaux was fading in some nebulous manner that defeated her. She felt a panic rising in her chest. A constricting, choking and desperate sensation that enervated her. Subconsciously afraid she was slipping away into the depths of Hell; she feared she was about to throw up in the hot tub from fright.

Her instincts kicked in; a swell of aggression in her chest empowered her to bark out, "Well it isn't fucking, "Dear", you patronising bitch."

Lilith pulled away from her and glanced at Him.

Estelle turned to Him herself but he was gone. In his place a mist on troubled waters.

Panicked, she flailed about her. The rim of the tub was gone; she realised she was adrift with nothing to anchor her. She lashed out at Lilith. Determined to grab hold of her and prevent her from disappearing as well.

Lilith snatched her hand away in the nick of time.

"Calm down!" she commanded.

Strong hands grasped Estelle from behind, restraining her. Shocked and confused she immediately threw up.

"Damn!" Lilith exclaimed as she regarded the vomit splashes on her shoes.

Estelle frowned; Lilith was wearing shiny patent leather shoes.

' _What? Wasn't this bitch barefoot just now?_ '

Lilith reached out and grasped her chin, lifting her face so that Estelle had to look into her eyes.

"Can you hear me?" she said, loud and concise. "Can you hear me, dear?"

Estelle gaped at her.

Lilith was dressed in a white cotton starched dress. A white starched cap nestled in her hair. For a moment, Estelle thought she was sporting a halo, but then realised that she was looking up into the glare of a bank of fluorescent lights.

'What the fu ...?'

"Can you tell me your name?" Lilith repeated.

This irritated Estelle.

' _Who is this stupid cow?'_

"Of course I fucking can! You stupid bitch. Who doesn't know their own damn name for Christ's sake?"

"Calm down, Estelle." A voice, firm, authoritative, immediate, spoke into her ear. Estelle could feel the speaker's breath in her hair.

Lilith threw her hands up. "Oh thank you!"

The authoritative voice took on a more embarrassed tone, "Sorry, Ma'am."

"I should think so too."

"What the fuck is going on?" Estelle demanded.

The hands grasping her increased their grip.

Lilith switched tack, "Do you know where you are?"

Estelle looked around the hospital examination room, quizzical but silent.

Lilith tried again, "Do you know wher..."

"Oh, do shut the fuck up, there's a good girl," Estelle snapped.

Lilith sat back in her chair and regarded her.

"What!" Estelle barked.

Lilith took a breath and squared her shoulders. She regarded the hostile woman for a few moments and seemed to come to a decision.

"Let me introduce myself... My name is Theresa Forester. I am the senior psychiatric nurse here at Saint Anthony's Hospital."

This jolted Estelle. She regarded Theresa with suspicion.

"A fucking quack? What do you want?"

Theresa grimaced but then recovered. "I've been asked to carry out a risk assessment," she glanced at her clipboard and looked back up at her, "Estelle." She concluded the statement with a tight smile.

"A risk assessment?"

"Yes. That's right."

"What risk?"

"The risk that some harm might come to you, Estelle."

Estelle snorted and then shrugged. "Don't you worry about me, dear. I can take care of myself."

Theresa sat back in her chair. She crossed a leg and balanced the clipboard on her uppermost thigh. She flicked at a stray thread on the hem of her dress with her finger for a few moments before lifting her gaze and looking Estelle squarely in the eye.

"I see," she said.

They both sat there, silent, patronising, for what seemed an eternity but was in fact only about twenty seconds.

The grip on Estelle's arms eased and "the voice" sighed in her ear.

Theresa flushed and looked at her notes.

Estelle grinned, triumphant, and chuckled.

A tight smile crossed Theresa's lips and she looked up again.

"Yes, Estelle. An important part of my role here is carrying out risk assessments. For anyone brought into the hospital in a state of obvious mental distress that is."

Estelle laughed.

"My recommendations influence whatever course of treatment or assistance is extended to you. You, the person in obvious need of help," Theresa informed her.

"Oh fucking please..."

"For example, I could prescribe a powerful sedative. Something to put you in a more receptive frame of mind." She smiled brightly. "Something to make you more malleable... More receptive to suggestion, perhaps."

Estelle bristled; the grip on her arms renewed.

She craned her neck, attempting to see who was holding her. But the woman's face was too close for her to see clearly. "Let go of my fucking arms, bitch."

The woman shook her.

"Behave yourself."

"For example," Theresa continued, "If I thought you were aggressive and likely to harm yourself or others, I could recommend that you are physically restrained until I deem you are fit to control yourself."

Estelle felt a chill grip her chest. _'This bitch is a fucking control freak. She won't keep it real. I need to tread carefully or this cow will have me drooling in my gruel for the rest of my life._ '

The two women locked eyes for a few moments.

"I see," conceded Estelle.

Theresa smiled. A small tight smile, and sat back again. "Good! Now perhaps we can continue with the assessment?" She favoured Estelle with a polite and quizzical expression. "If that's alright with you of course."

"Of course... My apologies. I didn't realise what was happening."

"Of course you didn't, dear. What with you being in such an obvious state of mental distress when you were brought in."

Estelle opened her mouth to speak, but then clamped it shut.

"Yes?" Theresa asked. Her expression quizzical.

"Nothing."

"I see."

Theresa made a note on the clipboard and was silent for a few moments. She lay the pen flat on the board and smiled at Estelle. "Now tell me, dear. What do you remember of today?"

"What?"

"Today. What happened to you? Do you remember what you had for breakfast?"

"Breakfast? Are you taking the piss?"

Theresa pursed her lips for a few moments and regarded her in silence. Then lifted an eyebrow, as well as her pen, and made a note on the clipboard. "So... You have no memory of waking up this morning then." It was a statement, not a question. Her pen busy on the page.

Estelle flinched.

"Whoa! No... Of course I remember this morning. Christ, what are you thinking? Think I'm senile or something? Come on!"

Theresa looked at her with eyes of flint.

"Forgive me, dear. I'm obviously struggling to keep up with the conversation. Do you remember what you had for breakfast or don't you?"

"Of course I do!"

"Well?"

Theresa's pen hung poised over the pad.

Estelle was suddenly confused. All memory of the day gone.

"Err... Well... I had..." She felt suddenly deflated. "Christ! What did I have for breakfast?" she asked.

Theresa dropped the pen to her lap. "Well I was hoping that _you_ would tell _me_ , _dear_."

Estelle ground her teeth.

Theresa sniffed, picked up her pen and made some notes.

"Eggs over easy on toast!" Estelle blurted out.

Theresa smiled.

"No! Waffles! That was it, waffles."

"Waffle," Theresa echoed. Her pen still busy.

Estelle grimaced.

Theresa folded her hands and smiled at Estelle. She remained there, quiet for a few moments. Considering something. "So... What can you tell me about this young woman? The one who died. Do you remember how that came about?"

Estelle's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Theresa glanced down at her clipboard. "The young lady who died. The one you crucified."

Estelle snorted. "Don't give me that crap. Who died?"

Theresa regarded her intently. "You don't remember?"

Estelle swallowed and look about the room. The grip on her arms tightened again.

Theresa glanced at her notes again. "It says here that you were found in the company of a dead woman. A woman who had been crucified apparently."

She glanced over Estelle's shoulder. "That right?"

"Yes Ma'am," the voice replied.

Estelle wriggled her arms, trying to break loose.

"Let go of my arms, bitch!"

She was pulled firmly back into her seat.

"Behave yourself or I'll handcuff you to the chair."

"If there is any restraint required, officer. I will arrange for it," Theresa said, her voice stern. "I have jurisdiction here I'll thank you to remember."

The voice sighed.

Theresa returned her attention to Estelle. "Now... Do you remember the dead woman or don't you? Were you there when she died?"

Estelle felt exasperation rising. "Who fucking died?"

Theresa spoke to the woman restraining her, "Do we have a name, officer?"

"Lettice Treadwell, ma'am."

"What!" Estelle cried out. "That sweet kid? What the Hell happened to her?"

"You crucified her, apparently," the policewoman replied

Estelle wrenched one arm free and spun to face her accuser. "What the Hell's your problem? Why would I hurt the kid? She's a real cutey. One of my favourite clients."

The policewoman deftly swung Estelle's wrist around and into a lock position. Estelle grunted and supported her weight with one arm on the chair as she found herself facing the floor. A cold rage gripped her.

"Get your frigging hands off me, copper!"

She felt a handcuff clip around her wrist. She exploded with rage. With a violent twist she pulled the policewoman off balance and yanked her forward a pace. The officer responded by slamming her shoulder into Estelle's chest and knocking her onto the floor. Estelle found herself face down and her remaining hand snapped into the restraint.

She kicked out at the policewoman standing over her but missed, something that caused her to scream, incoherent with rage.

Theresa sighed. "Great! Now I'll have to sedate her."

"Sedate yourself, you bitch!" Estelle screamed.

**Sid: Mrs Whitehouse**

The doorbell rang, immediately followed by a vigorous knocking on the door.

Mrs Whitehouse hesitated a second, before snipping the errant leaf with her miniature pruning shears. She laid the shears to rest on the open copy of the Telegraph and with a deft sweep of her fingertips, shoo'd the fallen leaf into the small pile of clippings over the obituaries.

The bell rang again, followed once more by the impertinent knock.

A momentary flicker of irritation passed across her face. She glanced at the clock and then back to her flower arrangement while pulling at the fingertips of her scuffed kid gloves. She laid them to rest next to the pruning shears and arose from her chair at the living room table.

She paused in the hall to examine her appearance in the mirror but found nothing to attend to before answering the door.

As she turned her attention the heavy bronze lock, the bell sounded again and knuckles rapped vigorously on the door. Mrs Whitehouse muttered, "Tsk, really," before turning the knurled knob and pulling the door open to the extent of its safety chain.

A thin middle-aged man wearing a cheap suit and trench coat was at the door. He doffed a battered trilby, revealing thin mousy hair over a pink-pate that hosted a palette of liver-spots. Blemishes rendered particularly unattractive by the harsh amber light of the corridor.

Mrs Whitehouse wrinkled her delicate nose and took a step backward.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said with an ingratiating smile. "My name is Sidney Hartnett. I'm with the press. I'd be grateful if you'd spare me a moment of your time?"

Mrs Whitehouse's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. She examined his attire in more detail for a moment. "The press?" she inquired.

Sid shifted uneasily. "Yes. That's right ma'am. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about the goings-on across the hall?"

Mrs Whitehouse looked sceptical. "Which paper did you say?"

Sid hesitated, his mind shifting into high gear. He glanced at the woman's cashmere cardigan and the heavy set of pearls around her neck. With a flash of the intuition that had served him well over the years he said, "The Telegraph."

Mrs Whitehouse's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "The Telegraph... I don't recall seeing your name anywhere in the paper, and yet I have been an avid reader all of my life. I have an excellent memory young man. I'm sure that I would have remembered the name if you had written for the paper."

Sid flushed and made a show of putting his hat back on and readjusting it to cover his embarrassment. He smiled another ingratiating smile and decided to capitalise on the elderly woman's 'Young man' remark, "Just a junior reporter, ma'am. A mere cub who only joined the paper a few months ago. I've been sent out by the crime desk to do the basic groundwork for a piece on the death across the hall. Interview the neighbours, that kind of thing."

"I see."

Sid pulled a notepad from his pocket and slipped the small pencil from its spine. He smiled again and asked, "Have you been aware of the goings on down the hall?"

"Well. If you are referring to the legion of police officers who have been marching up and down the hall all day, then the answer of course, is yes."

Sid suppressed a flash of irritation and tried again. "Forgive me. I should've been more specific. I'm referring to the brothel."

Mrs Whitehouse bristled and reached for the door. "What are you implying young man? Of course I wasn't aware that a brothel was in operation in the building. Do you think I wouldn't have immediately summoned the police to eject them?"

A flash of alarm crossed Sid's face. "Of course. Forgive me. I could have phrased that better. I'm really just trying to discover if you had seen anything going on. Perhaps caught a glimpse of the clients coming and going or anything out of the ordinary really. Any background detail would be helpful and would give me something to report back to the office."

The door inched closer to its frame.

Sid hurriedly continued, "I'm still in my probationary period you see."

Mrs Whitehouse's eyes took on the gleam of shattered flint. "I can assure you, young man. If I had been aware of any such shenanigans going on I would have been the first to complain to the Estate Commissioners."

Sid eyed the closing door and took a last desperate gamble. "Of course, we pay well for any information you can provide."

Mrs Whitehouse hesitated, then the door opened again against the chain. She looked thoughtful. "Well. I can't say as I can think of anything to tell you..."

"Did you never see anyone coming or going?"

Mrs Whitehouse flinched. "Ever," she muttered.

"Pardon?"

She sighed. "I was under the impression that the apartment was occupied by a clergyman. This is a Church Property after all."

"Is that right?"

"Of course. The entire block is owned by the Church of England. I would have been straight onto the Estate Commissioners if I had thought for a moment that anything rum was afoot."

"Is that why you thought it was occupied by a clergyman?"

"Really. Try not to be quite so crass will you? It really is rather irritating." Sid flinched. He floundered for a reply but she continued, "Of course that isn't why... I assumed the apartment was occupied by a clergyman because he wore a clerical collar. Really! Do you think that I suppose every tenant here is a member of the clergy just because the block is owned by the Church?"

Sid, suddenly animated, was scribbling furiously in his notebook. "Erm, no I suppose not. So you saw a clergyman coming and going. That's interesting. Can you describe him?"

Mrs Whitehouse flinched. Wary, she asked, "Are you suggesting that this house of ill repute was being run by a clergyman?"

Sid glanced at her and stopped writing, his expression calculating. Then he said, "Well that sounds very unlikely doesn't it?"

"To say the least."

"No. It's just my reporter's instinct kicking in you see? It's exactly this kind of thing that I'm here to clear up. It's these kind of details that give rise to all sorts of salacious rumour-mongering in the gutter press. Without the quality daily's taking the time to get the details right, we would be awash in gossip and innuendo before we know it."

Mollified a little, Mrs Whitehouse said, "Well, quite."

"So if you could manage a description, it might help us track down who this clergyman is. I don't doubt there's a perfectly respectable explanation. Possibly a priest with a calling to minister to fallen women and the like..."

Mrs Whitehouse sniffed delicately. "Not much I can tell you really; we never spoke. He was middle-aged, balding, with mousy brown hair. About five-seven to five-eight. Perhaps slightly overweight but not by much. He had a key of course, that's why I assumed he was the tenant."

"I see. When was the last time that you saw him?"

"Oh only a few days ago. I see him about the place quite often."

Sid scribbled for a few more moments and then flipped his notebook shut. He gave her a warm smile. "Thank you Mrs?"

"Mrs Whitehouse."

"Mrs Whitehouse. Thank you very much, you've been very helpful." Sid wrote down his phone number and tore off the page, handing it to her. "As I said, we pay well for any information you can provide. Should you happen to see him again, I'll make sure that you're paid handsomely for calling me and letting me know where he is."

Mrs Whitehouse regarded the crumpled paper in her hand for a few moments. "And exactly how handsomely will you be paying for the information I have given you today?"

Sid flinched. "Ah! Well... You see. You haven't actually told me anything today that I hadn't already discovered from your neighbours."

Mrs Whitehouse looked sceptical.

"I'll personally ensure that you received at least a hundred pounds if you can call me with a sighting of this clergyman. Two hundred if I secure an interview."

"I see."

The door closed in Sid's face without further comment. Sid fished his phone from his pocket and thumbed through his contacts. He leant against the wall while it rang. A police officer walked past and looked him up and down.

After a few moments Sid spoke into the phone, "Geoff. Listen up. It's Sid."

"Sid who?"

Sid grimaced. "Sid Hartnett! Christ. Who did you think? Sid Vicious?"

"What the fuck do you want, you fucking time-waster? Peddling more tripe? What is it this time? Dog stolen at tea party? Caught a fag having a copper in a doorway?"

A look of alarm crossed Sid's face. "No! No! Hang in there. I've got a story. Something big."

"You've got twenty seconds and if you're wasting my fucking time again... I'll have your balls on toast for breakfast you little shit."

Sid exhaled audibly. "Listen up. I've got a cute young babe of twenty one dead on a crucifix in a brothel."

There was a pause. "Go on..."

"The brothel is being run by the clergy."

"Oh _fuck off_ , Sid."

"No for real! I have a witness. A neighbour. Saw him using his key to come and go."

"You'd better not be shitting me, Sid..."

"On my life, Geoff."

"Too fucking right it is. I'm sick of you wasting my time with your wild unsubstantiated stories. You make them up while you're taking a dump in the morning?"

"Oh come on. I've just had some bad luck lately. That's all."

Geoff sucked his teeth. Sid held the phone away from his ear and grimaced. "If I take another punt on you, Sid Hartnett, and you let me down again. I swear I'll hunt you down and feed you to my dog."

"This is genuine, Geoff. I swear it."

"And don't forget, Tyson's a fucking Chihuahua, Sid. That's a long slow death, one tiny morsel at a time."

"No really. I swear on my life. I'm here now, at the scene. I've got the story and can email it to you in an hour."

"You got names, details?"

"Yeah. The dead cutey is Lettice Treadwell. Heiress to the Treadwell tea estate no less."

"Fuck me."

"You know it. This is big."

"You sure it's her? I'm not paying for gossip, Sid. Especially not from you."

"No, for real. It's definitely her. I paid-off a copper for the details."

One of the officers across the hall glanced at him and frowned.

Sid turned away and started walking down the corridor. "I'm out four hundred quid for that, Geoff. I'll be putting it in on expenses."

"Yeah, yeah. Go on."

"They found her dead, lashed to a crucifix in this brothel. Stark naked. Buff as the day she was born. Get this too, she had a shaved head and a crown of thorns made from hypodermic needles through her scalp."

"Fuck off! You got pictures?"

"What? Christ, how about a blood sample while we're at it? Fucking pictures for Christ's sake."

"Alright, Keep your hair on. What's this about the clergyman?"

"No bull, Geoff. The whole apartment block is owned by the Church of England."

"So? That doesn't mean they were running the brothel, you clown. You'll have to give me more than that."

Sid sighed. "For fuck's sake. Cut me some slack will you? The neighbours have told me that a clergyman is the key-holder. Seen him coming and going. They were shocked to hear it was a brothel, thought he was the tenant."

"All right."

"You're going to sell a lot of copy on this one, Geoff. Pictures or no pictures. I don't want any fucking about with my invoice this time. You pay full-whack or I take it across the street."

"You do and I'll fucking kill you! You owe me big time for that fiasco you dropped on me last time."

Sid's voice took on an ingratiating tone, "Well why do you think I called you first, Geoff? I want to make it up to you. Even though it wasn't my fault that copper was lying."

"Cut the whining, Sid. You want to play with the big boys? Then you get your shit together and you do the leg-work."

"Right, right. So are we on? I'm on my way to the internet cafe now. You want the story or shall I take it elsewhere?"

"Send it to me. I'll see what I make of it. And God help you if I get so much as a whiff of bullshit."

"You'll have it in an hour, Geoff."

Lettice: An Out of Body Experience

Now, it all seems rather distant of course. I'm sure if I were busy, I would soon forget my previous life all together. But lying here, in this blasted enforced idleness, it gives one plenty of time for review and reflection.

Best to tell you my story now in any case. If there is one thing my sordid misadventures have taught me, it's that we can never be sure that we have time to spare. 'Seize the day, Lettice!' That's to be my motto from this day forth.

Such is the immortality of youth...

No surprise really that it took me so long to realise that I was dead.

In the cold clear light of 20/20 hindsight, I daresay that makes me look rather stupid. Slow on the uptake. Finding oneself floating by the ceiling does rather indicate that your grip on life is tenuous at best. However, speaking from personal experience, one is rather removed from reality at the point of her death. The idea that a girl has shuffled off her mortal coil... Well it simply didn't occur to me at the time.

In truth, I was really rather distracted by the drama unfolding before me: a voyeuristic interest in the plight of Maddy, the maid; and the curious behaviour of Estelle, a woman I had previously come to know as formidable and highly organised.

It was a tableaux that made for compelling viewing. One couldn't help but empathise with Madeline's panic and confusion. Curious, looking back on it. Curious that I was more occupied by her consternation and fear than I was by my own mortality and immediate demise.

Would she save the day by affecting my resuscitation or would she find herself caught up in a ghastly situation? One that she couldn't possibly explain to those near and dear — or to the authorities.

What drama...

Her efforts to rouse her employer were at first timid, in keeping with her station. This rapidly changed to violent shaking and verbal abuse as she tried to snap Estelle back into the here-and-now. Culminating in a comic slap to the face. Maddy screwed her eyes shut as she lashed out. Presumably this was to avoid the sight of her own insubordination.

To her credit, she soon realised that she was going to get no help from Estelle. Her futile attempts to lift the crucifix from its floor bracket and lower me to the ground only left her swinging in the air on the end of the rope. Her legs wind milling as she puffed, panted and heaved. I was going nowhere until she found assistance.

My memory of events after Maddy ran from the room is rather hazy at best. I suppose the lack of focus meant that I drifted into a more ethereal reality for a while. With Estelle off in her own world, there wasn't much to hold my attention. _Until that creepy police inspector arrived, that is._ The lascivious way his eyes were roaming across my naked body... That brought me back down to earth with a royal-flush of embarrassment.

In all of the time I had been availing myself of Estelle's services, I had never once felt as naked and exposed as the way I did with him there.

For the first time since my difficulties began that day, I found myself willing my body to move. If only to squeeze my thighs together and conceal my exposed fufu. The way his gaze kept lingering on it made my skin crawl. All the more because it was my habit to maintain a shaven-haven. Purely on the grounds of hygiene of course; I'd always been a clean girl.

Even then, it didn't really dawn on me that I was dead. What I thought was going on eludes me. It should have crossed my mind that watching as I was — from high over my own shoulder — that matters had taken a rum turn indeed. I can only surmise that I was distracted by my extreme irritation with the ogling pervert. I imagine I was too angry and confused to notice that I was no longer inhabiting my own body.

At least I had the satisfaction of seeing him blush and squirm when the policewoman with the camera asked him if he had finished ogling my pussy. But my satisfaction was short-lived when the flash started firing and my hopelessly exposed body was photographed for God knows who's perusal.

If I hadn't already been dead, it would have been truly mortifying...
