THE LATE-NIGHT SHOPPER by Oliver Maxey

As the sliding doors rolled back and he crossed the threshold of the supermarket, the darkness and stillness of the night gave way to the sterile glare of the lights and insipid muzak. He picked up a basket and wandered past the newspaper racks as slowly as he could without attracting attention.

Good news: he wasn’t on the front page, at least.

He scuttled past the fruit and veg, scooping up a fistful of bananas. An old Asian lady unloading giant bags of potatoes onto the display looked round at him lazily and he glanced the other way, then felt compelled to follow his gaze towards the fresh herbs.

He looked at his list again – it seemed a random jumble of letters, so he screwed it up and resolved to pick up what he needed from memory: just the components of a sandwich, some crisps – and some razors and shaving cream. He had to have a shave or it would be obvious he’d been sleeping rough. Plus a beer or two – anything that would help calm his nerves.

A pimply teenager pushing a trolley laden with dog food nudged past him, clipping his ankle. “Sorry mate,” the youth muttered. He mumbled something back, without looking. Don’t make a scene, he told himself.

To make things more difficult, he’d never been in this store before. Asking for help was impossible in the circumstances, so he just had to follow his instincts: the marge would be near the milk, the cheese near the marge, the ham a short hop from the cheese.
His shopping done, he headed for the tills. A full-figured older lady was sitting at a till with no queue, so he half-ran towards her, then stopped himself and slowed to a walk.

As his purchases rolled along the conveyor belt, he picked up a copy of the Radio Times to thumb through; anything to avoid making conversation. All the while, his ears were tuned in to the sound of his buys beeping through. But then a new noise registered. A deeper noise. A bad noise. The razors weren’t scanning. The cashier put her mouth towards her intercom and made an announcement to the whole store.

“Geoff, can we get a price check on Wilkinson Sword, 10-blade pack?” His heart almost stopped as they waited for assistance. The cashier repeated her call over the tannoy before a tiny manager eventually appeared.

“That one’ll be £7.89, love,” he said. “You nearly clocking off now?”

“Chance’d be a fine thing,” she chuckled back. “Another two hours yet.” For god’s sake do your talking in the staff room, he thought. Not here. Geoff smiled.

“Oh well, nearly the weekend, eh?” He strolled leisurely back into the store, in the direction of the warehouse.

The cashier handed over the change.

“Have a good night dear,” she said. He nodded without speaking or meeting her gaze, and walked as briskly as possible towards the sliding doors. Once outside, he sucked in the cold night air like a newborn baby, then stopped for a second.

“Sod it,” he thought: “I didn’t use my Nectar card.”

SEEKS DISSIMILAR by E J Hunter

After Bobby-Jay left me, us, for kinda like, the eighth time, I guessed as how it was ‘bout right that I stood on my own feet. He didn’ love me. I can see that now. I was jus’ a place to lay his head, if yous know what I mean, before he hit the road agin. It weren’t always like that though…

It was so romantic when we first met. Like something outta one them silly films. He had this way of making me feel so damn…special. There was a time when he had me eatin’ out of his hand. Damn those baby blues, hey girls?! You know the kin’. Doncha? You’d’ve done the same as me, wouldn’t ya?! I knows it!

You see, this is how it went, I work tables at the Stetson Bar’n’Grill, and on Friday nights we got ourselves a music night. Bobby-Jay was playin’ that slide guitar o’ his, and oh my gosh, honestly I ain’t been nearer to tears, but it was so beautiful. He played like an angel I tell you. An’ the night that he first played, that we first saw each other, tequila sunrises were on special. And he goes right on and buys me a pitcher, jus’ for me. And he tol’ me I could keep the change an’ all. Now he didn’t have to do that did he? He musta loved me a little bit. Then.

But that was way back when. An now he’s gone. I guess that part of me hopes that this time it’s for good. He can go off an play honky tonk and sing about all them broken hearts for someone else.

He ain’t got the balls to be in love. Not properly. An’ I did love him, I really did. And that’s why he ran. He jus’ couldn’t handle it. He weren’t no real man I tells you!

I got round to thinking that maybe, me an BJ Junior and baby are better off alone. Well maybe not totally alone, but without him. Maybe.

I really thought as how I could do it all on my own. And for a while it worked…you see, after he stomped off this last time, when he found out that Tyler was on the way and he made out like that weren’t nothing to do with him, I decided that I had had enough of men. I mean they weren’t nothing but trouble. I mean I knows I always liked them a bit rough and ready, but there were times when Bobby-Jay was just that little bit too rough.

He never meant it though you unnerstand. It was just something about us together, I guess. It was like I jus’ kinda managed to rub him up the wrong way someways. I mean he said I weren’t no angel either.

But my baby boys, now, they, they are angels. I loves them to tiny little itty pieces, and I knows that they love me too. I know that some people think that they’s a handful, and they give me back chat sometimes, but they good boys. An’ they love their Mama. They love me back as much as I love them.

Which is all I ever wanted from anyone. Which don’t seem like too much to ask. Although sometimes it feels like I is asking God for too much. Least that’s the way it feels.

Here’s the thang, I thought I might try me one of them lonely hearts things. Coz you sees, sometimes I do get lonely. I need some adult time, and I don’t never seem to get that. At home it’s all about the babies and then at the bar the men there are just as bad as the babies. If not worse! So, I do get lonesome. Listen to me! I sound as sad as one of Bobby-Jay’s songs!

So I’ve written this here, but maybe I needs some help with it – what do you think? I think it sounds like me and I am clear about what I’m asking for. I just want to makes sure it sounds right. That I still sound like a lady, and don’t come across as desperate as all get out!

I know there ain’t no shame in it, I just don’t seem to be able to meet the right sort at the moment. But I’m hoping that’ll change right?.

Mama said that I would be better off with one of them agencies, but that feels a bit cheap to me, and this way I get to chose proper before I go and commit to a date or anything.

So here it is: ‘Still pretty at 25, brunette, G.S.O.H.’ (that’s good sense of humour you know – Mama always said that one of my good points was how I could laugh it off, even when life was getting’ tricky and Bobby-Jay was bein’ spiteful an all. So that’s why I’ve included that.) I’ve also put that I’m solvent…well between my tips and what lil’ alimony comes in to the house, we gets by – an’ I don’t want people thinking that I’m a gol’ digger. No sir! I’m an independent woman, jus’ like Beyonce says.

Sorry, I was reading for you all, I’ll start agin: ‘Still pretty at 25, brunette, G.S.O.H. solvent woman seeks rough diamon’ for fun, romance ’n’ maybe more.’

I think that’s OK, I think that it is important that they is a diamond, but I ain’t no snob. My daddy was a honest hard workin’ truck driver, and he was a still a good man. I mean, at least he waited until we was all grown up until he ran off with his fancy woman.

That’s what I mean by diamond. A real man, jus’ like my Daddy. Sometimes I don’t think it hurts to be a little ol’ fashioned.

And I was gonna say about the boys, but it cost more if you went over 20 words.

I’ll tell them about them, if it looks like it’s going someplace. But I can tell you now, that if they are mean to my babies, then they can jus’ git! Straight off the bat! I ain’t gonna be on no Jerry Springer ‘It’s me or your chillern’ like my Aunt Leslee, no way!

We a whole package.

I think that says enough. Don’t you? I mean it’s got all the important stuff – what I look like, how old I am and that I got my own money.

Wish me luck, I’m goin’ to the office to file it right away. I’s got a good feeling about this.

POLES APART Draft

He gazed blankly out the window. A young couple were walking down the street, their big night out having turned from sweet to sour.

The Essex Road looked no better from the number 73 bus than it did from the 495. The bendiness held no especial novelty. He’d been riding the trams for years in Warsaw. Sure the double decker had something. He would go upstairs just to reassure himself that the drab petticoats of London really were more dismal one story up than at street level.

Not true of the 205 though. He took the 205 to Liverpool street and had to concede the view from upstairs was good: the occasional gargoyle and fancy piece of Victorian brick work. And all that glass real estate. In Warsaw the skyline was still dominated by the Birthday Cake despite the explosion of building since 1989. Even the Marriott could not compete with that bizarre Palace of Culture. So much had happened in Poland since the safety of the Iron Curtain had been torn away.

Suddenly the Saturday night couple caught his eye again. The guy had just hurled a huge bunch of flowers down on the pavement. Dmitri Polanski noted wryly that he kept a firm grip on the magnum of Champagne. The bus jolted forward.

“Good,” he thought to himself in his mother tongue. “I get to watch a little.” This was no silent conflict. Nevertheless he could hear nothing above the constant irritability of the streets. They were obviously giving it some though. He could tell by the gesticulations and the grotesquely opened mouths.

A couple of elderly females in front of him were discussing the merits or otherwise of dried apricots. Their voices seemed to synchronise with the action outside. Were you supposed to soak dried apricots and if so why bother buying them. Why not just get fresh ones. Or tinned ones. No: tinned ones tasted completely different. Dmitri imagined it. He concentrated as he peered through the pane. Yes: these young English lovers were having a massive and destructive public altercation over apricots.

He had been in London only two weeks but already identified with the broken and tired population. Like communism before, capitalism seemed intent on snuffing out the mortal flame, turning our natural colour to a monochrome, these poor irreligious folk struggling with their handbags and glad rags. And yet the old regime had been good to him. He had worked, had a home, food on the table, security, a family. Life was simple back then. He drove a tram, and it simply followed the tracks. Not like these bendy buses.

Unlike Britain, Poland had become indominatable in the face of invasion and conquest. The Poles had learned to survive the winds of change, however sadistic and amoral. Not so the British. They were without inoculation and had embraced brash North American consumerism as though it would not kill them all, given time. When the winner takes all, almost everyone looses. To Dmitri, the people on the Essex Road did not look like winners.

The Polish knew an invasion when they saw one and would use it to their advantage if they could; steel themselves against the onslaught. They might even try to stand up to it like they did with the Nazis. They would get the great capitalistic beast and force it to work for them. He, Dmitri Polanski, was a case in point. He was part of a new vanguard now. Part of the great Diaspora that was flowing from the East. The boot was on the other foot and if need be they would bring it down hard on the drowning face of this withered Empyreal State. It made him laugh in a dry unamused kind of way.

Once, the World Service had broadcast a program on emigration. Somehow the transmission had got to Posnan. Even as a child in the 1960’s, the young Dmitri nurtured hopes of lifting the iron curtain sufficiently to slip to the West and more particularly, England. Even then he had the beginnings of an intense anglophilia. He had listened, enthralled. A woman from Somalia had come to the UK in the 1950’s. She had thought the huge signs saying “Take Courage” were Government hoardings, designed to raise the spirits of a beleaguered and battered post war nation. Dmitri wondered if the British Government might consider their own public information campaign now: massive posters proclaiming “Do Not Despair”. He pondered on it a moment. Do not despair. Looking at this London now before him he wondered why one should not despair. Why not? The other happy couple in Downing Street would have to come up with an answer to that one first.

The bus jolted again and Dmitri thought of all those compatriots who could drive this bus so much better if only they were recruited. If British Rail could do it in the West Indies why not Transport for London in Eastern Europe. The whole system could be run, owned and staffed by Poles. How much more pleasant the transit systems could be with a little piped folk music to keep a smile on the face, a song in the heart. He had sought a job but his English was still too shaky.

He was up parallel with the feuding couple again. The boyfriend was searching for something, probably cigarettes, and absently handed the magnum to his girlfriend. She grasped it by the neck. In a split moment she had brought it smashing down, shards and fizzing fluid making a surprisingly large black stain on the pavement in front of them. He could hear the explosion. The couple in front of him stopped talking and looked out the window.

For a moment the world stood still, the bus stood still and everyone stopped and stared. Now they had nothing. A clock ticked inside Dmitri’s head.

And then the moment passed. The great big city machine went grinding on. Lover boy seemed at a loss to know what to do and after another moment of incredulity marched off full pelt ahead. Dmitri could just hear the words: “ you fucking bitch” ringing out in amongst the ceaseless city racket.

“Loud.” He thought.

For a moment the woman looked up the street after her diminishing boyfriend and then slowly turned. As she did her eyes locked with Dmiti’s as he stared, gormless from the sealed window. The two of them were no more than three metres apart. He raised his eyebrows involuntarily. She blinked and his blood ran cold. But then she was off, back the way she had come. She had a mission. For a moment the Pole hesitated and then got to his feet. The couple in front of him said something about ‘young love’ and the ‘happy couple’ as he made his way quickly to the back of the bus. He peered out the rear window. Sure enough, there she was, picking up that big bouquet discarded there on the street.

With a growing smile he found himself another seat.

“Good for you,” he thought to himself sweetly. “That’s good for you.”



Words: 1039

FLOOD LINE

Even in sleep I could not escape.

“Does he know what he’s doing?” Hillary must have asked. The brilliance of the ice blue sky crackled out a warning to us both. This was the Swiss Alps where Opthalmist’s are an invention for city dwellers in their dark corners and shaded walls.

Our cab may have been lost. Ahead of us we saw once again the gap in the narrow hillside road where the raging brook had torn away the tiny bridge. This time banks of snow had appeared. The road was ungritted and compacted white. Insanely the car did not stop but spun forward for a second attempt at the leap.

Back then even we were young and happy, teenagers with best part of life still to come, could we but survive this landslide. I closed my eyes. I would not watch, but clung to the nasty plastic fittings.
All at once the dreams viewpoint switched. I could see the car from outside, its front wheels clear of the gap, its back spinning in the void, slowly upon slow it loosing faith, eking back toward the hysterical waters falling.

I fumbled for the door latch and leaped clear, the open door waving a final farewell as the vehicle turned sideways and vanished from sight.

“Hillary!” I must have cried. And then again, the sound of my own voice and the phone ringing slowly waking me from that guilt soaked nightmare. It was dark. The future did not exist. My eyes would stay closed.

The phone was louder now. The powerful odour of rotting vegetables and sewage hit me like a worse dream than the one I was just waking from. I was in bed. I reached out, feeling for the phone and eventually drew the receiver to me as it might be a beloved child or hope of salvation from the wretchedness of my remorse.

“Barry?” Came a voice from three thousand miles.

“Ah… yes?” I replied, trying to find myself. Playing for time.

“You ok?” I did not understand the question but gave the stock response.

“Yes, yes. Er…?” I was hoping for a clue to draw me from my limbo consciousness.

“It’s Bill.”

“Bill. Ah yes. American Bill.” It was Bill from New York. Mr Ground Zero himself.

“Yes.” He said.

“Father Bill.” I confirmed. The real world was starting to coalesce around me, yet it was formed of putrid shrouds seemingly less real than my sleeping self. I said nothing. My mind was somewhere out there still, falling hopelessly to my death. Clinging to her, white blind and turning. Or worse still. Alive in sleep, as in life. Her: gone.

“Yes…” He continued after a moment. “I was just calling to see if you were ok. The lines have been down.” Somehow BT must have got the system working again. I had not spoken to a soul in days.

I remembered calling Bill during 9/11, the phone announcing that due to a storm there were no lines into New York. I wondered what the world had been told now, given that London was under siege.

“Are you ok?” I diverted.

“Yes I… I was ringing to find out if you were all right. Did you get caught in it?” Suddenly this new world flashed back, punching me in the forehead like some rules free boxer. The phone tremored in my hand.

“We are up to our eyeballs in shit.” I offered slowly. “Every time the tide goes out it leaves a nightmare behind.” Yes, I thought, worse than that. “I didn’t realise that water could cover so many sins.” I was reorientating myself fast now. “hold on.” I said. “You know it’s early.”
I fumbled blindly for the lighter and lit the bedside candle. I twisted my neck to get a better look at the clock.

“It’s three in the morning.” I said without thinking.

“Sorry.” He replied. I had smoked the last of the blow so as to sleep and now I had been woken at the brooding hour. I did not hide my irritation even while denying it.

“No, no. That’s fine.” I lied. “That’s good.” I dredged back to his earlier question. “I’m fine.” I replied. “I was deep in.”

“Were you caught in the flood?” He asked urgently.

“No. I mean I was deep in sleep. Dreaming.” My mind was blank all at once.

“I should let you go.” Bill said. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know that you were alive. I’m glad you weren’t caught in it.”

“What?” I responded. On this one fact I was clear. “No, I was… Oh my god yes. I was up to my eyes and ears.”

“Oh Lord no!” He exclaimed. There was genuine dread in his voice and I felt the fear rushing at me. It was coming at me.

“Yes.” My voice had that wobble. I imagined myself all at once as an old woman: my grandmother, panicked by change, staring out from her wheelchair at me. I ploughed on. “I’d gone down to see if there would be a breech on the North bank. I never imagined things could get so bad so quick.” The words were starting to tumble out. “I ended up stuck in a Pub.” The image flashed before me. “Oh dear!” I said weakly. “Yes.” I tried to push myself off topic. “As if we hadn’t known for years that this was coming.” Bill said nothing. After a moment I began to wonder if he’d been cut off. I hoped he had, just to stop the flood.

“Barry?” He said. No. He was still there.

“Yes, yes. Don’t mind me.” I said as a kind of filler. Bill struck out tentatively. He was always a stickler for facts.

“I didn’t think they were fully aware.”

“What the fuck?” I responded. It sprung out of me like a gob of vomit. “Are you kidding me? We’ve been preparing for this since the ‘70’s. The 1770’s for the love of god! I cannot believe those evil bastards.”

I had a strong urge to take a leek. I had a bucket wedged in the toilet bowl. I’d have to get out of this flat soon. It was my ex-wife, Hillary or cholera. Suddenly my waking dream hit me again. Living amongst sewage meant you never had to smell your own shit. A minute later, having pissed, I was on a roll. I told him about our catch 22:

Without dire warnings of what was coming, the finances could never be raised from the City to fortify us against the inevitable flooding of London. But if we had made those dire warnings, the City itself could have crashed, its confidence gone, being so close to the flood zone. I ranted on, thankful to be almost blaming someone else for the situation. Bill listened. After a while I came up for air.

“But you’re alright?” He questioned.

“Jack!” I shot back. I was angry now. I had been working myself into a light frenzy, like a child striving for tears. “Oh yes. Kicking people off my feet while I’m clinging to a beer tap. I’m fine and dandy.” I had as good as killed that woman as she clung to me for life. I felt a hopelessness shuddering through me. I had kicked her off my foot. I had killed her as good as if I had pushed her down into the bathtub with my bare hands, forcing her head below the milky water, seaweed haired, her eyes bulging with utter desperation, utter hopelessness looking up at me, begging. Me waiting for the release without compassion. I had kicked her off. And now she was dead. I saw a body lacerated by the plate glass of the bar window out on the street after that initial whoosh and vomited up my horror and disgust at what I’d done, before rushing from the next possible onslaught. I awaited Bill’s response. Frightened.

“What was the…? What happened there?” Bill queried. Please forgive me, but I could not bring myself to explain to him as I have to you. Why could he not have just understood? I diverted again.

“Strong east wind, Atlantic surge, very heavy rain.” I said, all matter of fact, but shaking. “The sewers backed up, Essex became water logged. About the only thing to hold up was the Thames Barrier. What’s the point when we all knew at the Department that the water would go round it?” I paused. “Mustn’t spook the City though.” I let my shoulders drop. I had worked at the Department of the Environment. Bill knew I had. I felt blame. Even there I found guilt looking back at me: inhuman like the weather.

There was a long pause.

“Sod it.” I thought. “Let Bill do the talking. I’m awake now.” There was no way I was letting this guy go. Not at three in the morning. I waited for him, like a batsman might wait for a fast spin bowl. Like a boy in the confessional.

“I guess you need your sleep Barry” Bill tried. “I’ll love you and leave you.” But if he wanted to call me, he would have to work for it, for that priestly virtue. Now he could work for it.

“How’s Noah?” I chirped.

“He’s good.” He replied edgily. Even over the phone he was nervous about talking of his ‘special friend’. “Worrying over you all of course.”

“And you?”

“Oh Yes.” He said as if having God on your side meant always fine, always good. There was something about being just fine when you talk to someone who clearly was not. It seemed almost rude. Bill was trying to keep it bland.

“How was the Grand Canyon?” I asked.

“Oh…” he paused. “Awesome as ever.”

“You go to a place like that,” I needled, “you realise just how irrelevant we all are.” I just wanted to make him say something meaningful: something to redeem me.

“Well Barry.” Bill said. I guess he could feel a storm brewing. He was going to head it off. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to differ on that.”

Agree to differ. “You are so full of shit” I found myself saying out loud. I suddenly had a powerful image of his home: so white; so clean. I reached over slowly and placed the receiver back in its black cradle. Agree to differ. Your sins are but the sins of the flesh but mine are mortal. He did not and would not forgive.

I got up and walked over to the window. It was pitch black outside: dark and filthy. The phone started ringing. After a while it switched to voice mail. I rocked my head from side to side. How could I live with myself? The phone started its’ trilling again.
Words 1858

JAYA AND CHETAN'S CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER [draft] A children's story

It was cold and neither Jaya nor Chetan wished to play outside, despite the crisp, clear sky and the frosted trees.

“Why don’t you light a fire mummy Pam?” said Jaya, looking at the cold grey grate in front of her. “I want to send my letter to Father Christmas. We can’t do that without a fire.”

“I want to send my letter to Father Christmas too” said Chetan. Mummy Pam continued with her Seduko. Jaya looked at Chetan. “Haven’t you” she said “told him what you want already?” Chetan looked back at his sister. “No!” he replied. He had been a little shy of the Father Christmas at Harrods and had only mentioned his love of animals to him. He much preferred the idea of mailing his wish list direct to Father Christmas himself. That way there could be no confusion. Pamela glanced over her paper. The central heating had broken down. Her feet were cold as ice and suddenly making a fire seemed like a very good idea.

It was not long before the grate was ablaze, thick smoke coiling from the wet coal. Jaya had prepared paper and pens for brother and herself and was now busily engaged in the task of writing her letter. Mummy Legi had parked herself next to Chetan and they were both working out a brief message of their own.

Now: apart from those present, who is to say what was upon those lists? Only Christmas Day would reveal their contents to everyone and yet it seemed so far off to the children. Having to wait was little less than a cruel and unnatural punishment. But little did they know, a much worse disappointment could be awaiting them on Christmas day.

As they wrote, the sound of the fire appeared to get louder and louder. A large, dry log was hissing and crackling in the centre of the hearth and every now and again it would let off a loud bang, a shocking crack and a shower of sparks.

“Come!” it seemed to be saying to the children. “Post those letters now before the fire dies!”

“Hurry!” said Jaya, “Let’s post, post, post.” Chetan agreed and for a moment they danced in front of the fire like a couple of Elves conjuring up a little magic. Both their letters were ready and now there was not a moment to lose. The fire was hot and hungry and for a moment they felt transported to the world of Harry Potter and the Weasley’s Flu Powder. They would throw their letters into the blaze and magic would take their messages to a Grotto far away: somewhere at the North Pole to be sorted and filed by a multitude of real Elves.

The children, clinging close to their mothers, flung the scraps of paper into the fire. A loud crack and a bang and in another great shower of sparks the burning missives flew up the chimney. Gone! But were those letters complete, or had the children forgotten something important?

Christmas was a cold one. It was to be spent in the depths of the countryside at Ruspa which was colder still than the natural city warmth of London town. Ruiri and Ellana had joined the family group for a couple of days and all the children spent their time rushing from room to room, wildly round and round.

Through the main sitting room with its huge humming fireplace they would fly, into the front lobby. From there the kids would clatter across the stone flagged floor of the long cool kitchen where adults spent endless hours holding tea towels and talking about nothing at all, seemingly without excitement or fun. Then the children would rattle along the carpeted corridor next to the toilet coming out into the dining area and grand stairwell.

This was the danger spot. Adults would suddenly appear in the doorway and it was easy to pile into them or have near misses followed by the inevitable “Careful children!” and “Look where you’re going!” But in truth, this was the children’s domain and they ruled it with flying feet and cries of delight.

Occasionally there would be argument or injury, but there was always the comfort of a parent who, with a kiss and a rub, would send them back to their world of fun and games. If it all got too much or too boisterous there were a myriad of bedrooms in which to take some quiet time. Apart from the coldness this could be a welcome relief.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT


Christmas eve came and Jaya, Chetan, Ellana and Ruiri decided to hang their stockings by the huge fireplace in readiness for Santa’s midnight arrival. But would there be gifts in the morning from Santa’s heavy sack or would their stockings look as empty and sad as they did on that Christmas Eve?

Well, here is your answer: The Elves had been busy. They had received the children’s letters and had built their every last wish. Santa’s huge slay had been loaded up and with the reindeer tossing their heads, ringing out the tiny bells attached to their bridals, the big man and his massive cargo had lurched, then launched itself up and up and then by degrees ever higher into the swirling snow filled air above.

“Oh, ho, ho!” Father Christmas had cried “Up and up and away we go!” the invisible birds of Christmas time catching in his beard.

Christmas night was the high point of Santa’s year. He loved giving gifts to the children of the world more than meat or drink, though he loved those things too.

He enjoyed it so much that on Christmas night his heart would fly with joy as high and as fast as did is great red sleigh. That wondrous night would go on and on. Delight would sparkle in his eyes allowing him no fear, even when his landings were especially difficult.

And this was no easy landing. Santa parked himself amongst the chimney pots of a rakish roof and shot down the first chimney he saw, his sack squeezing improbably behind him.

Finally he had arrived at Cheti and Jaya’s. He bundled their gifts up by the cold fireplace and caste about him for his minced pie and carrot. There was nothing and the room was strangely cold.

“Well” said Father Christmas “It is no matter. A Merry Christmas to you all” he called and his words echoed round the room and returned to him with this reply: “The house is empty and all are gone.” And so it was. 23A Manor Road was silent as the grave. “What could this mean?” he mumbled to himself riffling his pockets for the children’s letters.

“Ah!” he said. “Here we are. I see no special address.” He flipped the letter over and pushed his glasses up his nose. Nothing. Quick as he could Santa placed all the children’s gifts back in his sack and shot up the chimney once more, back the way he had come. And what of the poor house? It was left as cold and empty as before he had arrived.

DREAM CATCHER, DREAM WEAVER


While the children slept the dream catcher worked. She dipped her nets down deep into the wells of sleep to see what she might find. Sometimes she could reweave and patch the broken dreams she found but sometimes she could not. Nevertheless, every dream she came upon she’d kiss and say:

“Return my sweet at break of day,
I’ll mend your dreams as best I can
And send them on their way.”

The threads of dreams were made of hope and fear and Christmas night was always a busy time for this dream weaver.

“Look here” she said “What dream is this,
You dream of what’s not there.
Your lonely sacks are giftlessness
And filled with only air.
Your sorry sacks are whistfulness
And loss is hard to bare.
Beware my pretty sleeping ones,
Beware of loss. Beware.”

A small pearl tear fell from her moon white face as she looked upon the dreams of these beautiful children. The tear fell upon the dreams and broke up into one thousand million shining diamonds and stars, a galaxy of sparkling points leading away ten billion years into the future and the past where everything that could be, both was and was not.

Magic, beyond understanding, shimmered and glowed through all the colours that could be seen and through all the colours that were invisible to the human eye. Waves of hope rippled out to the farthest moons of the most distant planets and back again. The Universe became no bigger than an eggcup then expanded once more to meet itself on the other side of always.

The children opened their eyes and knew what they must do: The four of them crept down to the front sitting room. They listened out for the sound of adults but the big old house was silent. It would soon be morning, though the night was still dark.

"Oh no!" said Jaya as they stood in front of the fireplace.

All four stockings were empty.

"I think" said Ruiri "we must do something".

"Yes" said Ellana, "But what?" The children looked at each other. The room seemed cold despite the remains of the fire.

"Look!" cried Chetan all at once and the other children hushed and shushed for fear of waking the parents. "Look." he said again in the voice of a mouse, pointing straight into the heart of the fireplace.

Right at the back, behind the grate, they saw a stairway that had not been there before. At least, until now they had not seen it. The glowing embers of the fire parted themselves to make a cool and perfect path for the four children.

What an adventure! The children looked at one another. All at once a strange wind whirled about the house. The children could hear it speaking to them with words they could not understand:

“Seize the day!” it whispered. “Those who hesitate are lost.”

“Oh come on!” Said Jaya. Suddenly she could not bare the standing around any longer. There was only one thing to be done.

Chetan, as the smallest of them, took the lead, not even needing to duck his head as he stepped into the fireplace. The others followed bending over as they climbed through the opening at the back of the fire and up into the clear stillness of the starlit night.

Ever higher they climbed until the whole of Sussex lay below them, the orange florescent street lights a cheap imitation of the ever brighter stars above. The street lamps faded further and further as the stars grew stronger and more brilliant.

Now, beauty and wonder surrounded them, comets hovering above, trailing their long, dusty tales. Shooting stars shot by making the children’s hair buzz and tingle. Tomorrow and yesterday vanished into the never endingness of here and now and in that single instant they saw it.

THE MAGICAL MEETING


Far in the distance they all could hear the unmistakable sound of bells. But these were no ordinary chimes. It was as if ten thousand angels where calling out their names. Each one as clear as the next. The children could feel their hearts swelling and their breath coming fast in the cool night air.

A great arc was being traced across the sky. The children gazed across the Universe to see its wide and immeasurable sweep. It was as if the hand of a giant was drawing a huge curved path past the waning moon and shimmering stars and in amongst the bottomless blackness of deepest space. And though time stood still while forever and a day could pass, all four children knew that this enormous trajectory was destined only for them.

Santa Claus was coming, and for the first and last time in their lives the children would watch, open mouthed, as he did so.

“My loves, my darlings, my dears. Where have you been? And now to meet you on the Interstellar Highway. However did you get here?”

Santa Claus was struggling to keep the reindeer in check. They were hot with their journeying and thick white steam rolled off their wet flanks and mingled with itself in the deepening chill of the night. They smelled of mulled wine and wet dogs and it frightened the children not a little to stand so close to the twelve of them.

There was no break to the sleigh and from time to time it would jerk forward as one of the deer became too frisky. The children found themselves having to shuffle along by the side of the sleigh just to keep up.

“My darlings, my dears” the great man said, chunks of minced pie falling from his beard, “Jump aboard. I can tarry no longer.” And with that, the children, clinging on for dear life to the massive wooden and metal craft, lurched up into the air with the strangest of twisting motions. After making a wide circle, they shot off, straight and fast, Northwards.


As you may have guessed, time stands still on Christmas Night. Many moons it takes to deliver a gift to each and every child. And all in an instant.

The children saw and did many things that night that only their imaginations can reveal: waterfalls made of happiness falling to lakes of placid calm. Rivers of feelings weaving to great seas of emotion, running down from the high peaks of clarity and understanding to the depths of the great unknown. Myriads of mysterious mysteries all wrapped up in an acorn shell.

And amongst it all, there was the discovery of their gifts, high up in a mountain of toys at the end of the World, to be carried home to bed.


And what a deep a peaceful sleep it was. The children did not wake till late, the adults having clattered about for hours with their coffee pots and endless talk.

The children awoke and for a moment could remember the night that had just passed. They looked at each other in wonder; still seeing the starlight in one another’s eyes, the sound of celestial bells yet ringing in their ears.

Was it all true? Will their sacks be full? Or are these fading memories nothing more than children’s dreams? They leaped to their feet. There was but one way to find out. And so, in a mass of arms and legs they rushed downstairs to see what the night had brought.

EPILOGUE


Well, it goes without saying that Jaya, Chetan, Ellana and Ruiri all know how this story ends. After all they were there and saw it all themselves. And who knows, one day you may get to meet them too. When you are old and grey perhaps, you may find yourself at a bus stop or a friend’s party and be introduced to someone by the name of Ruiri or Ellana or Chetan or Jaya. They are not the most common of names. But if that ever were to happen, you may venture to ask:

“Were you ever once a character in a story many, many years ago?” And if they answer “yes” then they can tell you how this story ended themselves. You can have a personal account. But just in case you do never get to meet this quartet, let me reassure you now:

They found by that ancient fireplace, still with the smell of minced pies and mulled wine in the air, all four stockings, stacked full with gifts from Santa’s sack.

For however busy our Saint Nicholas is, and busy is indeed the word, on each magical and mysterious Christmas night, he always seems to find some time to make our youthful dreams and desires come wonderfully to life.

The End

PERSONAL AD

Disgraceful!

And a man of my stature too, whittled down to a mere three dozen words. This, and after a lifetime of experience, is all I boil down to.

Reduced and reduced like some French sauce, to be pawed over by lonely, half disinterested females, all of whom are strangers to me.

For the love of life, I’m 51 years old. Nevertheless I have been mulling over the idea of placing a personal advert all summer break. All I’ve seen so far for inspiration is graffiti, scrawled messages on that toilet wall offering sex, seeking same.

Maybe youth doesn’t need to present itself well in order to be seen as alluring. Youth is it’s own best advert. I’m assuming these missives hail from some of the gay student population of London. I might be wrong. But I use the student toilets. They are right next to my office. And there they are: these epithets shouting out at me. They mock me with there big cocks and ungracious offers of anal sex. Beautiful youth.

But see here. What could I write? How about: “Balding, ugly, lonely bean pole of a man in the death throws of his mid life crisis, seeks glamorous young female for nights of passion, days of happiness, a life of joy and mutual understanding.” Yes! That about sums it up. Fits the word limit. But somehow it needs more.

The Professor gazed disconsolately at his irony. Loneliness was not a word he would use to describe himself. But alone he was. Sure, he was married once, like most, back in the ‘70’s when being tall wasn’t deemed to be a social handicap. At 6’ 4” and as thin as a rake he was now viewed as something of an oddity.

Yes, it was true. Youth was it’s own beauty balm, an idyllic beachscape in which to frolic. But with the ebbing of the tide the wrecks and rocks of impending age are soon revealed. Mud and seaweed. His spindly height was noted more and more with times recession.

What really niggled was that even his mother had come to view him as a family aberration. A giant amongst dwarves.

His eyes had locked onto a capital “B” for “But” and now the ink seemed to shift slightly on the page. He wondered why the beautiful phrase “And yet” so beloved of Shakespeare had come to be replaced by the abrupt and unforgiving “But”. He resolved to employ “And yet” a little more in his everyday speech. Language revolution by degrees.

He had not been in a solid relationship for over 12 years and had consequently come to carry his work around with him wherever he went. It was his greatest passion. And yet art history was not to everyone’s liking. Sometimes the passion was too great. He suspected that it could even frighten prospective partners away. A pleasant stroll in the woods could morph itself into an aggressive art rant. And the louder he ranted the less they were inclined to listen.

He had self awareness and yet it did not seem to help him. He still did it. In his darker moments Felicity’s words came rushing back to haunt him from the swirled black and orange of the serious seventies.

“Baldwin” she had almost whispered, “you are the most utter and complete bore.”

And yet that was not him at all. It was untrue. He was kind, honest, someone to be trusted and loved. Kind and honest, someone to be trusted, someone worthy of love.

By this time the Professor had become so wrapped up in his reverie, he had not noticed Evelyn standing in front of him. He looked up to catch her, head cocked, reading the scrawl on his pad. In her job, no handwriting was beyond decryption, upside down, sideways, however it came.

“Professor” she said. “That, I suppose, is some kind of joke.”

When in doubt, he thought to himself, say nothing. He did not speak. “Right” she said. “Here are the papers to mark. There’s a 48 hour turn round.” Evelyn turned round and left the room.

Baldwin scrunched up his nose. “Time for a coffee” he thought to himself and cantilevered his long length up to a standing position. The caffeine might inspire him. And yet it did not. Moreover he had 13 papers to mark and the best part of the day was gone already.

On leaving the building prompt at five he had a quick rummage in his pigeon hole to see what he might find. And there it was. Only visible to touch, a lone scrap of paper. A memo from Evelyn.

Some half forgotten feeling jolted awake inside of him. It was only then he realised how he’d half expecting something from her. After the fact, it seemed the most obvious thing in the world. He stopped on the steps outside. A warm light from the late afternoon sun bathed him in a flattering glow. He read the memo:

“Kind, honest male, 51, tall, slim,
looking for female 35-55 to
share similar interests.
Visiting art galleries and
museums, walks in the countryside
and cosy nights indoors.
Interested?”

NATURAL SHOPPING TENSION

There are less than 2600 shopping days left till the end of the world.

I don’t know if that’s a cause to celebrate or bemoan, but according to the Mayan calendar it’s all over come November 2012.

I hate shopping. I’ll be out there on the streets along with all the other burn outs, wishing for it all to end. But not today. I’ve got this list see. It’s a shopping list. Stuff to buy that I never would if it were me.

Which it isn’t. Me: I’m all Basic Buy this and Pocket the Difference that myself. But not Lucy. She’s more a Buy, Buy, Buy this and Taste the Difference that kind of a woman. Not that she has two sheckles to rub together of course. Not two sheckles of her own that is.

When I look at the organic display all I can see is my monthly allowance for the kids going down the pan. Literally turned to shit and gone. Look here!: Honey from Australia. So they ship this stuff 13,000 miles so as we can taste a hint of nuts and citrus. How delicious can it taste when it’s my balls being squeezed. I’ve got a long, long, long shopping list here. Yes.

Somewhere in it I expect to find scribbled a warning. Between the avocado and mozzarella there’ll be a “careful James. Don’t piss mummy off too much” all broken up so the casual observer might take it for a list of herbs. “Just add a little Careful James and Comfrey before serving.” Maybe that’s pushing it a bit. What would “Mummyoff” be? Something Russian perhaps. What do you think? Russian?

It’s different buying for the kids. You ask them what they want then buy the acceptable version. They know my boundaries by now. They know I have limits beyond which I get cranky.

But adults have all become Shoguns and cheaper versions of Humvees. They bulldoze through and smash you down. With this list it is imperative that I get it right. That’s very very important. There is a particular kind of parmisan and if I fail to find it, it could spoil everything. It will be the wrong sort of cheese and that will mean pain. But how could I ever have managed to end up in this situation, cheese and pain all blended together?

It’s largely my fault. I know that. Naturally I do. If someone’s sitting in shit, there’s a fair chance it’s theirs.

In my case I took what I thought were a couple of easy options way back and this is how it has panned out. Those religious freaks talking about the straight and narrow turned out to be right after all. Is that irony or is it simply life?

So, look at me. Go on. Take a quick look. You’ve seen me before haven’t you? Here I am now standing in the middle of Hades Delicatessen on 4392nd street Fucksville London with the kids, three weeks before Christmas, looking for the life of me every inch the family man. Folks nod and smile, as though my wife were just round the corner getting her hair done. And here I am pushing all this stuff. All these possessions out in front of me in a cage on wheels.

All this life, food, kids. The invisible wife. None of it mine.

MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS

“Come in my dear, come in. Now, just take a seat here. That’s right. Just there. Good. Now. How are you doing?”

He looked at the young women with warmth and intensity. She was beautiful. He knew that he was going to like her already.

He smiled at her then changed his expression. Pressing his lips together harder he let her know that there was something he wanted to tell her which was important. Something that would have to come first. He knew in his heart that it was not truly important, not important important, but for him it was always better to get the matter out of the way to save embarrassment later. It was a small thing but it could plague him if he did not address it straight off.

Even as a child at school his capacity to hold information had been limited. He had even been regarded as backward in his younger years, what with learning to read so late in the day and is inability to grasp even the most rudimentary basics of physics, chemistry or foreign languages.

It was not that he was stupid per say, but that he could not hold information long enough to make any sense of it. As he’d got older things had improved until eventually he had been sprung into the wider world of adulthood where to his shock and relief people genuinely appeared to know very little indeed. Almost nothing in fact.

In real life it turned out there was no motive for recalling the capital city of Malay and so people on the whole did not.

Those middle years of life were something of a respite but as he’d grown older his memory problems had by increments increased until his customary methods for avoiding embarrassment had no longer been sufficient. For years his standard opener to a story had been “stop me if you’ve heard this one before” which usually did the trick. There is nothing more tedious than finding that you have just related an anecdote for the second time to some overly polite listener.

But of late, this no longer sufficed. It wasn’t just anecdotes that were getting repeated but general clumps of conversation. Standard questions. Pleasantries. In the past year or two after a series of embarrassing moments he had taken to giving folks a brief pep talk at the outset of a conversation, one of which was in order now.

“Well my dear” he said. “The thing is, my memory is not quite what it should be, which is all well and good. I am not complaining. Such is life. However I would be most grateful if you could do me a little favour, just to save my blushes.”

The young woman looked at him with what seemed to be almost a sadness in her eyes. The vigour of youth looking at the frailty of age. The thing was, that apart from the wretchedness of his memory he did not feel like the proverbial frail old man.

In fact he was not old at all. At 63 he could still class himself as middle aged. Nevertheless, her look was unsettling. He moved in his chair.

“Forgive me” he said “but my memory is not what it could be. It never has been up to much but now I find it to be somewhat shot to buggery, so should I… If you find me repeating myself I’d be most grateful if you could do me the decency of stopping me there and then.”

There was a look on her face now that he recognised, part way between embarrassment and sorrow. He knew that look.

“Oh God!” He exclaimed. “Don’t tell me I’ve given you this little pep talk already.”

He thought about it a moment and realised the idiocy of the idea. She had just this instant come in and sat down. She moved forward in her chair. He moved back very slightly not sure of his situation. She was about to speak. This would clarify things.

“William” she said, her voice filled with a heartbreaking affection. “You’ve said it before. Of course you have. Of course you have dad.”

SICK

Nobody need know he was there. After only a few moments he could surely back up a step or two and retreat to the comparative safety of the family home. But he had compassion in abundance as is children’s wont, even those we call “little bastards”. At six years old there were no police to call when witnessing a wrong. It was his grandmother that fulfilled that role along with judge, jury and executioner. Justice was an arbitrary emotion that Martin had to manipulate as best he could if he wished to survive it. His life was lived in a sometimes hostile and dangerous environment, which Martin as an adult presumed to be like that of all children. Those that told him otherwise had merely suffered a forgetting, strangely only recalling the sunny days of summer, snow blind to the cold of wintertime. To Martin his parents and most particularly his omnipresent grandmother, were all powerful gods who could both give and take away. At turns too weak, leaving Martin and is brothers at the mercy of their own emotional storms or too overbearing, crushing and damaging the as yet unopened blossom.

He had stepped from the sunlit family hallway into the darkness of the enclosed stairwell. This led down into the basement’s windowless central corridor. The house was large and Victorian, tinged with gothic. Balham in the late sixties was a predominantly African affair. His grandmother’s basement nursery and his home were islands of white barbarism in amongst the tightly packed rented rooms of his street. It had happened once that there had been a fire at the back of a similar sized house opposite and Martin had watched from the lip of is grandmother’s windowsill as twenty or thirty tenants disgorged down the front steps. His family numbered just six. A bedroom each and one to spare. Ice cold in winter, his bedroom a cooking pot in summer, eaten by the acid of his own sweat as the slate tiles baked. But here it was. He stopped at the top of the stair adjusting his eyes for a moment to the terracotta and green gloom.

Vomit had been spilled out over the tile floor. It was nothing more than part undigested canned food and slightly yellowed water. His grandmother was forcing the small black boy to pick up and eat his own malady, he, gingerly fingering the less digested of the peas. This must have been a punishment. Even a child of six knew that illness was not the same as naughtiness and he wondered at the sight. If this was justice then Martin was duty bound to baton down the hatches and wait for life at the end of the long and sometimes foul weathered scrubland of childhood. But he was a son of the house and could wield his power too, did he but know it. He need not stand there and watch as a boy just two years younger than he was mistreated so. He could call on the love of his grandmother. She loved him dearly with the free and open love that only the elders of a family can. She lived with him and cared for him when his mother could not. He had power over her. He need not be merely a witness to his life but could be a player too and right now his sympathies lay not with her, his blood, but with that small boy. He took a step and then another until he was at the top of the stair once more. Slowly he opened the door and retreated silently into the light.

PROBABLY NOTHING

“I saw this film a couple of days ago” They looked at each other. “It was about these two guys. This relationship between these two guys. At least, that’s what I thought it was about. It was great. I loved it. I mean…” he sucked his teeth. “The film? No. I didn’t like it. You know me. I like a happy ending. But…” Pepe caste around for inspiration. “It was love. You know what I mean? Man love.” A smile wandered across is face, whistful like he could do with some of that right now. “I’m not talking about your faggoty thing going on here. That’s the trouble with you guys. You let women destroy you. You haven’t got the balls to take them head on. You think you can run away to Gayville. But you can’t Betsy.” Bert did not like being called Betsy. But that was a battle he had lost long ago. “It’s the most normal thing in the world to fuck. Everybody knows that. You take what’s available. You live on a farm you fuck a pig. If you have to. If you want to, that is. If that’s what’s available and it does it for you. You live in the big city of course you get to fuck anything that moves. It’s normal. That’s right for a guy. But you and you gays. What the fuck is wrong with you? Setting up home like two little love birds so you can get to fight and scratch like a couple of bitches on heat. Jeese. It’s disgusting.” Bert looked at him, impassive. He was getting good at impassive.

This arsehole was telling him. Telling him what? Fuck knows! Something or other. “You see. You put a load of women together in a situation. Leave it long enough and it’s an emotional quagmire. Men. If they’re not bristling up to one another like a couple of ballet dancers then they’re just rubbing along. Getting laid when they can and coming home for a beer.” Bert pouted. “Sure.” Said Pepe, taking the point. “It can’t go on forever. But why is that?” Bert kept eye contact. If he didn’t, Pepe was sure to get stormy. “Because we get old and ugly. That’s why. Nobody wants to fuck us no more. So we have to go for second best. Uh.” Pepe grunted and as an afterthought. “And the kid thing. But you gay guys. Fuck that. You can do what you like. Get a decent job. Hire in rent. Make some friends. Whatever. But no. Bill and Ben have to set up home like a couple of stupid faggots. Get a poofs pooch or two. Who’s game are you playing anyhow?” Pepe sighed. Bert wondered if lecture was over or if chapter two was coming. There was just the background noise of the street outside to fill in. The sound of a taxi. Someone laughing. What were they laughing at?

Bert suddenly remembered that there was a beer in the fridge and life picked up a little. He started to smile. “What?” Said Pepe. Bert niffed up a bit of loose snott. “We’re not like that. We don’t ‘rub along’. You piss me off on a regular basis.” For a second Bert wondered if Pepe looked genuinely hurt. “Yeah” Said Pepe “But we don’t love each other.” Now it was Bert’s turn to feel a little pain and he wondered at it. Did that mean something or was it just a spot of hurt pride? Probably nothing.

SUICIDE NOTE

It didn’t seem to matter anymore. When Tom had not turned up as usual that Saturday she called in the babysitter and made her way to his flat. She had an inkling. After all this was Mr Reliable.

Jessica still had keys. When the front door wasn’t double locked she feared the worse. He had not been answering his phone. There it was. Unplugged. The flat was unnervingly cool. It even felt like death. She made her way slowly toward the bedroom. There was the occasional sign of abandonment: a shoe in the hallway.

The door to his bedroom was open and she stepped in. On a desk in the corner of the room she could see a screen saver turning and weaving its geometric pattern, and on the other side, furthest from the window, the bed. Light chinked in through the crack in the curtain.

Father Peter had said to her that nothing looked more like death than the dead. She stood there for an instant. This was fear she felt. Two semblances of life vied for her attention. The body, lost somewhere in the soiled sheets and that other final message. She could not face it just yet.

While she called 999 on her mobile she moved over to the laptop and sat down. She jogged the mouse, explained the situation over the phone, and then started to read:

“What it is to be stupid. I should know: years at it. Aeons finding myself: perhaps one of the most stupid people in the room. There’s no “perhaps” about it, surrounded by other children who had more of a grip on things than me.

And on top of that to have my face rubbed in it. Ritual abuse. I remember being instructed to write my name. Version after version: each one as wrong as the last. Finally the agony has ended.

“ Here, that’s how you spell it. Thicko”.

And thinking, “I’m sure one of my versions looked something like that” but having no recourse to justice.

I’ll never know if I was dealt a wrong, but it felt like it. Maybe one of my scrawled spellings had been a correct one after all. What did it matter amongst so much error?

Why was there an H in my name anyway?

Who’s big idea was that?

And why put me through the pain of trying to do the impossible?

They were nasty little events, which, while masquerading as a sort of care and interest, had neither at heart. Little wonder I trust no one. I hold out no real hope of help in moments of need. Not from family… friends. Those who cry usually do so in the privacy of their own home.

OK. So I’m on my knees. So what?

Abandoned after seven years by someone who still loves me. That’s ‘love’ used as an accusation by the way...”

Jessica twisted her lip. She wondered if she should have a thought about that now or save it till later. Her neck was seizing up. It could keep. She kept on reading.

“That’s why I’ve always been drawn to a joke and a cause celebre. They are small stories one can tell that bear no relation to ones own personal life. Not really. Not directly. They keep the topic of me and who I am at bay. They circumvent the fact that I’m a loser and a fool. But… I’ve been into save the whale/dolphin/seal for as long as I can recall.

It turns out now doesn’t it that it was just a device for deflecting myself from myself: and those around me.

I remember thinking once, “I don’t mind if someone hates me for my beliefs so long as they don’t hate me for who I am”.

I wonder how old I was then. Did I already have a notion that I wasn’t like the other kids? That somehow deep down inside there was a gay teenager…”

Jessica broke off.

“Gay?” she thought. Her mind kept a cool blank for a second. “Shit!” She thought. “What a fool.”

She backtracked a bit, “That somehow deep down inside there was a gay teenager waiting to blossom with puberty. I must have known it. Despicable really. It’s not a pretty combo: stupid and gay. It doesn’t fit with the stereotype. I wanted nothing to do with it. I just wanted love and marriage but… It’s all long ago now. Surely it’s time to let bygones be bygones.

No point in dragging round the past. Except I know what you’re thinking: How much has really changed Tom over the past thirty years? Are you straight all at once? Are you clever now? Isn’t this just a bad joke?”

It stopped there. Jessica was hot and her breath was coming fast. It was incomplete. There was no apology.

“What a moron” she said. “What an absolute moron.” How could he have been so selfish? There were the children. She would deal with this just as she had dealt with so much. She reached forward and deleted the file. Click. Click.

She turned in her chair and looked towards the bed. The covers were down. Tom was up on one elbow looking at her. In the distance they could both hear the siren’s wail.