Finger the matching jug of cream that came with it, dainty with its pattern of bluebells and daisies and the little cap of yellow risen to the top of the liquid. Consider pouring it on top of the tart and watch it coat those purple little buds before bursting them with the attack of the fork but decide against it, pushing the plate away from you a little so that you won't be as tempted, because you don't want to start without him.

Wait.

 Pull out your compact to check your make up. Put it away again. Pull it out again and grope at the bottom of your handbag until you find your lipstick. Purse your lips and, carefully considering the cupid's bow reflected back at you; smear on the lippy, careful to get the edges. Press your lips together tightly, moving them back-and-forth a little so that the colour will be evenly distributed. Consider the effect in your reflection. Decide that it is perfect. Close the compact with a sharp snap.

Nab the waitress as she walks by and ask her if the clock on the wall is correct. Nod miserably when she tells you what you already know, that yes, it is correct, thank you very much, it is quarter-to-three.

 Resent their happiness bitterly.

Have a wild bubble of joy rise up in your throat and threaten to strangle you when a man walks through the door.  Pull out your phone and play on it until the burn of the humiliation has subsided a little.

Glance at the clock. Repress the jolt of anger when you see that five whole minutes have gone by.

Pick up the cream jug. Put it down again. Cross your arms and sigh. Fidget.

Smile automatically when the waitress brings the cup of tea. Pick up your spoon and carefully harvest on the lip of the cutlery a nugget of vanilla scented foam. Savour it, eyes closed. Make it last.

Flinch when a gust of cold wind from the door envelops you. Open your eyes and see him, see him finally, standing there, muffled in a big, green coat, tartan scarf around his neck, his face flushed red from cold.

Recognise him instantly. Raise your hand to wave at him and call him over.

Hesitate, hand in mid-air.

Smile awkwardly when he sees you and lumbers over. Panic when he reaches the table and extends both arms in the expectation of a hug.

Sit back down, that awful stiff smile on your face, and feel relieved when the waitress bustles over to take his order before either of you can say anything. Nod and keep smiling when he squints at your mug and plate and mumbles that he'll have the same thing as her, the exact same thing as his daughter.

Try to ignore that feeling inside. Comment on the cold weather outside and try not to launch yourself across the table and grab both shoulders to shake him, repressing the scream inside you, why are you so late why why why. Smile and ask about his journey. Try to keep smiling when he leans over and puts his hand on yours and the stink of him washes over you. Try not to look disgusted.

Fail. Watch the hurt in his eyes when he takes his hand away and mumbles something about meeting friends in a pub. Maintain the fixed rictus on your face when he peers at the clock and says something about losing track of time. Nod and pick up the cream jug, pouring it over the tart, regretting not doing it earlier, when it would have tasted sweeter whilst you were still in the happy bosom of expectation, and not buffeted by the cold winds of reality.

Pierce the fluffy golden top of it and bring the forkful to your mouth, nodding as he talks and talks and talks, going on about his life.

Let the increasingly garbled words wash over you. Finish the tart and the London Fog and order another cup of tea, Earl Grey this time, thank you, ducking your head at the waitress' knowing look of sympathy.

 Pour the remainder of your cream onto it and start to eat, looking at him flatly and nodding occasionally.

Say nothing. Chew. Sit in silence.

Think.

Look at him. Notice the wear on the elbows of his jumper, the shine on the collar of his shirt, the dinginess of the scarf and the way the pattern clashes with his coat. Purse your lips disapprovingly at the shaving rash on his neck. Be faintly disgusted by the bags under his eyes, the jowls at his jaw, the broken web of red beneath the skin. Finish your food and wipe your hands on the napkins provided in a pernickety gesture, crumpling up the disposable item before dropping it onto your plate.

Look at the time and make an excuse, rising and gathering

up your coat, pulling out your purse to abandon several notes on the table, far more than is needed to pay the bill but whatever it takes to get rid of him and to get out of there relatively unscathed.

Ignore the bruised look on his face.

Walk. Walk and don't look back, pulling your chin up and high, breathing in that sharp, clean breath of air, moving forwards and onwards, always, leaving behind a weight and a waste with hardly a regret.

Walk and don't look back.

 Patches of clear ground struggle as the tangled grass takes hold again; you follow its line until all that is left is the rich smell of decay. In the dense part of the wood you hear rumbling; something is burrowing beneath the sinking ground and it will emerge if only you keep quiet long enough. But long enough is forever and your breath is catching up with you.

The hut in the clearing is painted blue, and underneath the blue it has flaked to watery yellow. And white, crumbling white.  Someone had said he'd seen the brown beer bottles full of blood, but they were empty now. Just a dribble of beer, mixed with rainwater.  His face is picked out by the light of something hidden, the tremblings maybe of a candle, and he talks, shouts, at an imaginary person, or rehearses an argument for the evening, taking both sides. The argument goes on forever in silence.

Last time you'd taken fright, seeing those bottles, hearing his shouting.

The path from the road into the woodland was darker, and every time your family drove past on the B road your grandmother would look into the black wood and say, as if for the first time, 'That would be a good place to bury a body,' and you would all groan.

You heard the voices as your feet crunched leaves on the path, voices that whispered to you to turn back: 'Don't follow us.' But they were only voices in the ground beneath, and noone listened to them. There were ructions in the soil, as if a life had been about to break through, but changed its mind.

On the ridge you could see the motorway where a lorry had pushed half into the grass embankment. The back was open and a gang of kids emerged with white boxes, triumphantly flinging candles and soap into the air, onto the tarmac. Or down the grass embankment as far as they could. A siren sounded, and in the approach of the flashing blue light the kids disappeared. As if they were never there. The police car paused beside the lorry before shooting off, light flashing but silent.

The back of that lorry was a dark, black box that contained anything you could imagine; if you slid down the slope and made sure you hid. Kept an eye open for police cars. Sometimes unmarked. They put their hands in but the good stuff was always just out of reach. When they were done, there were blackberries and small sweet apples on the tree by the path.

You watched them. In the distance.

And they said that he'd give you beer if you were there in the afternoon. He would stand at the gate holding two bottles, but only one opened, saying nothing, waiting. You just had to take him a gift, something he needed, living in a hut in the woods. Soap and candles. But if he needed them so much where did the beer come from? Where did he get all that stuff in the hut?

You never knew anyone who'd been there before for definite except the McGuire twins and they were tough and fought like tigers until Sam threw his brother through the first-floor window and cut a vein in his own arm doing it. You stood with him in collective horror, as the blood ran down his arm onto damp earth, forming a darker puddle on the water collected there. Light glinting off hard angled glass and soft water. Sam was shouting through the window, silver daggers pointing up to his chest. The McGuire rage they called it. Red hair. Red rage. Angry at something and nothing. Shouting, what was he shouting? They'd been to the hut. You'd smelt the beer on those boys' breath; they weren't lying. So it couldn't be true, everything people said.

You'd heard about the boys chased by the police, another police car cutting them off between the abattoir and the fields of the open prison where the grass cut your legs. They ran fast through the fields but the police were relentless. Gasping but relentless.

You'd watched as they were marched, still clutching the candles and soap on the walk of shame with the whole school at lunch, to the Headmaster who was entertaining a distinguished guest, a councillor and business man, probably a Freemason with secret punishments for thieving.  They'd said they'd take you with them but they didn't. Left you waiting. Now their lies were relentless, breathless with fear, but cut off mid-word, in front of the parade of green and white, boxes of candles and fairy liquid.

There is a whisper that you can hear from someone you used to know well, whose face is hidden in the trees, in the forms in the bark, in the shapes the leaves make. On the tree a line of Jew's Ear's brown rubber and you can tell there's stinkhorn, somewhere poking through the ground. You have forgotten their name but you want to see their face once more. To hear their voice. In the silence.

Along that path in the woodland you can hear the jackdaw crying, coarse and thuggish, and you want to go to that door, knock on that wooden paneling with the crumbling paint, to stop the muted shouting even though you have no gift, no roadside treasure to trade for a beer. You want to leave it all behind, to drink beer, not just sips, to drink it properly, gulp it down. To taste whisky. Feel it burn your throat. The taste of oblivion. The clearing.

The bare earth gives a little. The leaves crunch down, leaving the marks of your trail, dark in the woods, but still clearly visible in torch light when they come looking.

 There is nothing you can do. You wait and watch as the nurse comes in and checks the drip, fills in the chart and asks you if you want a cup of tea. She comes close, places her hand gently on Eileen's forehead. She turns to go, but halts in the doorway.

"Mr Khan will be along afterwards… this afternoon… to talk to you, Mr Kelly and your wife."

You nod a thank you to her.

"Martha… Mrs Kelly, will be here after her work." You say. "As soon as she's finished in the school kitchen."

Mrs Flaherty will pick up the other wain after school. You are not looking forward to what the consultant has to say.   But with his smug ways he had it coming.

"Mr Kelly, it may be that God has chosen your Eileen to be with him and our Blessed Mother and be spared the sully of this vale of tears," the priest had said.

 The Guard that had come along from the Kesh, pulled you off him. Now the screw sits, there in the corner, pretending to read the *Belfast Telegraph*. His big body bulges over the chair. He told you there is an armed RUC man outside the door. The screw's eyes flicker on you. Your own are moist. The cuffs make it hard to rub away and hide the rising tears.

"Chosen by God?"

How could a loving God choose a nine-year-old girl? You reach for Eileen's hand. Her wrists are stalks now. Once at Portrush, in Water World, those small hands had clung round your neck as you'd set off down the slide. The lifeguard had told you off and once out of sight of him you had both laughed at the small act of shared wickedness.

After your arrest, you thought at first that her becoming thinner was her keening for you. The weekly visits seemed to be taking their toll on her and Martha. Getting so early to the Sinn Fein office on the Falls for the Minibus, and then the long journey to see you, seemed to be draining the life out of her, the fire in her red hair fading. But Seamus didn't seem to notice anything, not the searches nor the clashing of doors, nor the turning of keys. He'd sit on the floor playing with a racing car or colouring in his book. Eileen seemed sad, pale and thinner on each visit. Then, that time Martha came without the children, you knew it was bad. She burst into tears as she entered the visitor space and saw you. They wouldn't let you touch her or comfort her.

So now you wait for Mr Khan, the consultant. It is strange how the consultant is always a Mister. They must have climbed to the top of the heap and dropped the need for the honour of being called Doctor. You wonder if the queen was ever called plain Mrs Windsor. Now that is an odd thought to you, to learn everything and know so much you become a plain Mister again.

Eileen stirs for a moment and whimpers. You long to cradle her in your arms, the way you did that time when she fell asleep in the back of the car and they made you get out at the checkpoint at Aughnacloy. You would not have her wakened. You stood and watched and she slept across your shoulder as they took the car apart. Then, when they finished, with everything you owned out on the ground, they'd leave you to put it back. You'd settle her down on the back seat and the soldiers would be looking, watching and laughing between themselves. You couldn't make out a face. They were shadows with guns and you were a blinded rabbit in the glare of their floodlights. They knew who you were and what you believed. So, you took their payback, but you would protect Eileen.

It was Mr Khan who had told Martha it was Leukaemia, had told her that recovery rates were better than they were twenty years before. But you knew what Cancer was.

Martha had brought a leaflet that told about blood cells and marrow and all the great work going on at the Royal Victoria and elsewhere and the world-famous doctors, right here in the North, that were breaking new boundaries, that in a year or two would result in a cure.

  They took swabs so they knew you'd been handling.  If it had been a General, a Lord or an Earl you'd have proudly spilled the beans, taken the whole wrap and protected the others. So, in the end, all they could put you away for, was handling.

You'd walked in that part of North Belfast a dozen times that week. You'd seen the dark green BMW outside the gardened Square near Queens. You walked past where it would be parked, knew when it would be there and for how long. You learned the escape routes. It is easy to be invisible; you become part of the scene. You had a wad of leaflets to push through every letter box, for double glazing, a new bar and whatever else they got for you. The streets there were well used to you coming and going.

From what you learned, it was you that chose the time, when few students would be about. There were no cameras in that part of the street and you'd practised the tying of laces by the target. But the street light was blinking and fading that night and the street was dark, as you bent down to tie your shoe, and stick the device under the car, and then to pull the cord gingerly, to arm it. In the dark it was an easy mistake. Black can look dark green.  So, when the blast came you were far enough away to be seen running back. Never run away, that's what the guilty do. The scared freeze and cower. The good, the helpers, the compassionate run back, run towards.

They cordoned off the scene. They expected another bomb to catch the arriving Brits. This time there would be no second one.  But somewhere a camera caught you. They had suspicions. The hooding and beating didn't help them. You were silent because you were shamed.

It was the one from the dark corner that spoke. The one not in uniform. Him with the English voice.

"See what you have done? Killed a good man."

The one who'd beaten you in the cell, now held your head between his hands from behind. He was strong and he held you in his vice.

"There's no good Englishman!" you shouted.

 Blood from your nose dripped on the smiling picture of a middle-aged man and below it a picture of three girls and a woman and the same smiling man.

The English voice called, "Enough!"

 Dr Forbes was a world-renowned cancer expert with a special interest in childhood Leukaemia. His loss will be a great blow to the international community engaged in this area of research.*

You remember you said. "I'm sorry for him."

"Sorry?" said the voice.

"Sorry, but there's a war on."

"You people." The voice said, "You people…"

Martha comes in. There is a female screw with her. She searches Martha and does not allow you to embrace. You notice that Eileen is struggling for breath.

The nurse opens the door. An Indian looking man, in a suit, enters. You catch a glimpse of a priest behind him. A different priest. He is in the grey robe of a Franciscan.

"I asked him to come." Martha says. "The friar…"

He follows her and stands by the window. He nods to each in the room.

The Consultant bows his head before he looks up. He breathes in and you struggle to cover your ears. The cuffs only shut him half out. He has nothing to say that you want to hear…

 He scratched at his crotch, then brought his finger up and rubbed the stubble on his top lip. There was no-one else in the flat. He sniffed his fingers properly.

Cheese. Most probably from the huge bag of Doritos on his chest, which he intended to fold into a tight, precise triangle when it was empty and leave on the floor. He sighed, reaching down for his beer.

TV was alright at three in the morning. *Family Guy* and *American Dad* episodes back to back. All repeats. He'd seen them a hundred times before but the routine was comforting. Framed his day. Something mindless to burn through the hours before he felt tired enough to sleep.

He sipped the beer, angling his head so he wouldn't have to sit up, and became aware of the ache in his neck. The can fell over as he put it down, beer glugging out onto the carpet. He swore, fumbling to get it upright again, and managed to knock it under the sofa. While he was retrieving it he found a sheet of paper, now sodden. He remembered he'd put it there three weeks ago to keep safe.

*Dear Mr Hunt, Following our consultation on the fifth…* blah blah blah*… we regret to confirm…* blah blah blah*… standard compensation under the terms of the waiver…*

He sighed again. They'd explained the risks when he signed up. He'd dismissed the possibility of anything happening, eager to get the payout. It would clear all his debts with a bit leftover. They hadn't told him how many other men had taken part in the trial and he wondered if anyone else had 'suffered adverse reactions'. He told himself he didn't want kids anyway. He stopped himself screwing up the letter into a soggy ball. He might need it for the claim.

The last episode ended. He watched the credits to the end, not ready for the silence. There was a documentary on next about soldiers in Afghanistan. Gritty reality presented by some former soap actor. Blokes being blokey in sand-coloured uniforms. Penis-themed nicknames. Banter. Then shouts of "Contact!" and shaky footage of the camera operator's feet running for cover.

He stabbed at the TV with the remote and looked round at the room.

"Time for bed," he announced, trying to sound cheerful.

He took a leak, didn't bother brushing his teeth. There was nothing pressing to do the next day.

He woke up suddenly, convinced he wasn't alone in the room. There was something cold and wet on his cheek. Probably spit. He wiped it away and lay still, listening.

Nothing. He laughed to himself and rolled over.

Then, as he was drifting off, he heard a thump. All the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. Then the sound of something sliding over carpet. He thought he saw the blankets twitch. He wasn't sure what to do but a rising panic and the pressure in his bladder convinced him to move. He inched across the mattress. The bed creaked.

Whatever was under there started crashing about like an animal caught in a trap. He jumped out of bed, fumbled with the door, and ran into the bathroom. He locked it, pausing for a moment, then pissed noisily into the toilet. He sat down and looked around for something to use as a weapon.

A few minutes later he was listening outside his bedroom door, clutching a bottle of spray cleaner dusty from lack of use. He burst into his room brandishing the bottle, pointing it left and right like a cop in a crime drama.

The room was empty.

This is ridiculous, he thought. It's just a mouse or something. He flipped the duvet up with his foot and stepped back. Nothing. He got down on all fours and put his head under the bed. On the other side, a long white tail was slithering away from him. He went cold and couldn't move. The tail curled upwards and over the top of the bed. After it disappeared he became aware of something right next to his face. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye.

At first he thought it was a snake, but the head was too big, almost the same size as a rugby ball. It was milky white and shiny like it was made out of glass. There were no facial features of any kind.

The thing twitched. He tried to stand up but fell over backwards, dropping the spray cleaner. He scrambled to get away and banged his head on the wardrobe. The thing followed him as he went, gently snaking through the air. He screwed up his eyes waiting for an attack but it never came. When he opened them the opaque white had cleared. The inside of its head was bustling like a rock pool.

There was a central mass, larger and darker than anything else, wrapped in folds of gently billowing material. Tiny bubbles were coming and going from it, moving along a delicate network of chains connecting all the different parts. There were structures that looked like sheets of lace, others that looked like rough pieces of gravel, and others smooth like blobs of oil.

The thing came forward very slowly and grazed his cheek, then backed off to a corner of the ceiling and engaged in something that looked like preening. He sat up and wiped the dampness from his face. He stared at the thing on the ceiling, fascination displacing fear. He wondered if it was some kind of alien. It must be. There was no animal on earth it resembled. It was like a balloon on a long string. A giant white tadpole, or a—

"No, it couldn't be."

The creature stopped preening and looked over at him.

"But how… "

 He stood there staring. It looked back for a while, then settled, slowly turning milky again, tucking its head into the loops of its tail. He had absolutely no idea what to do, but suddenly he was exhausted. He'd think about it in the morning, and tonight he'd sleep on the couch. He pulled the duvet off the bed and grabbed a couple of pillows. On his way out he picked up the spray bottle. The chemicals might be harmful. As he left he very gently closed the door so as not to wake it.

Over the next couple of weeks he got used to having it around. Naturally, he couldn't have anyone over. But he never had anyone over anyway, so that wasn't a problem. He began to look forward to coming in after a long night's work. His new friend was becoming a part of his life.

"We need to give you a name," he said one evening.  I wonder if you already have one, back wherever it is that you're from. Hey, buddy?"

They were in the lounge. They often watched TV together these days. It looked at him and cocked its head.

"How about we just settle on Buddy?"

### The Fear Of Your Own Reflection

### M ichael H argreaves

He pa sse <sup>d</sup> <sup>u</sup> n n oti <sup>c</sup> <sup>e</sup> <sup>d</sup> through the bodies on the high street, like a ghost. Tate was beside himself, walking. There was a familiar weight to the air. It was as if the world had exhausted itself and was leaning on him in its entirety. I had the advantage of being able to see the past and present, as one. From the right, I could see his past. He was pulled forward by his chest and each step claimed whatever ground it touched. But from the left, I saw him now, burying his gaze in the pavement.  It reminded me of all the patients I'd visited over the years. After just a few months of wearing a straitjacket, the muscles adjust to the pose and the only comfort they can find is in that position. Tate, like many before him, was 'fixed'.

I joined him again as he stepped into Ben's office. Ben managed only two or three acts, including Tate. His office was always filthy. Every time Tate had visited, the bin had not been emptied and the small flip-book calendar on his desk was a few days behind. Although Tate hadn't actually been to the office in the last six months, the routine never changed. Ben always pretended to be on the phone as his acts walked in. He'd then wave Tate in to sit down while he wrapped up the conversation, spending at least two minutes doing so.

"Sorry about that. Producers – you know?" he joked. "How was-" Ben glanced to his computer screen before continuing, "-that play, the audition?"

"It was fine. I only came by to drop off these headshots." Tate placed the envelope on Ben's cluttered desk. I knew what Ben was thinking. *Why have you made more headshots? You look the same as ever. I'm only going to use the ones you sent me last time.*

"Great!" He smiled. "Let's have a look."

Tate's eyes found themselves focusing in on Ben's fingertips as they moved slower and slower the more he noticed them. When they finally reached the envelope a strange fear came over him. He almost reached out to take the envelope back, but didn't. The crunch of the paper as Ben picked up the envelope, slit straight through his spine. When the envelope was ripped open Tate's body began to ache. He fought against himself by gripping the sides of the chair and tightening his muscles, refusing the urge to fold into himself like a car being crushed into a square. Ben dragged the headshots out of the envelope and looked at them in shock.

After a few seconds flicking between the pictures, he whispered, "I'll get these out."

The next time I saw Tate was in his home. The shop windows on the high street, the photo frame on Ben's wall – I'll give him this, he was doing well to avoid me. His house was in steady decline; stamped-out cigarette ashes were smudged like rain clouds into his carpet and a collection of circular coffee stains overlapped each other across the arms of his sofa. His knees creaked as he lowered himself into the cushions. He took out a pack of cigarettes. Only recently had the comfort of smoke set in, feeling like fresh air in and out of his lungs. I felt my chest being touched. *At the same time, Ben's fingertips brushed across the laminate of the headshots, pushing them to one side*. Tate's face became another piece of clutter on his desk, buried beneath another.

Tate watched the phone ring for a few seconds; it was Grace. He considered not answering. She'd already called him a few times today. He decided that he owed her at least one minute of conversation. As Tate spoke to her he began to think about the last time they'd had sex. She had come over after the closing night of the play they co-starred in.

"Amazing – they said! Did you read it?" her voice squeaked through the phone.

"I heard it was good. You got a mention didn't you?"

"Yeah, they said my performance was *elatedly reserved!"*

Tate took the phone away from his mouth and sighed out smoke. He wasn't even sure how that was possible. He joked to himself about whether or not you could call Grace's acting a performance at all. I would have told him that his own was not much better, that night.

"Yeah, I remember reading that," he lied, "What are you doing now then?" he stubbed the cigarette out.

"What, right this second or generally?" she giggled.

Tate rolled his eyes and continued,

"Both, I suppose." He picked at the coffee stains as if they were scabs.

"Well, I've got an audition next week for a part in this new drama – honestly, you need to get yourself over to television. You're good looking enough for it – and right this second, I'm just on my own in my house." Her tone dropped off towards the end of the sentence as if she was trying to dim the lights on the conversation.

"Sounds lonely," he said, grinning slightly.

"It is…" She whispered. "You could come and keep me company if you wanted? We could celebrate the review…"

He'd never been to Grace's house before. It was much better kept than his and had actually been decorated by Grace herself. Tate had simply moved into a furnished house and never bothered to make it a home. It didn't take her long to make the first move. She leaned over and started to kiss Tate. He felt unusually nervous. He was not the same human he used to be – as much as he could pretend he was, depending on the company at hand. Grace placed her hand on his wrist and guided it up to her hips, like a puppeteer. I began to wonder if it mattered that Tate was Tate at all; maybe he was just on-call that day.

I found them again when they entered her room. There was nowhere for me to see them on their way upstairs. Tate's eyes were closed.  He started unbuttoning his shirt. His muscles were still well defined even though he'd dropped his very precise and intense fitness regime. When his eyes opened, all his confidence vanished. He looked at the side of her bed. The wall was completely covered in mirrors. I stared at him and he was forced to stare back for the first time in six months. I could see myself through his eyes. The skin beneath my chin swung like an empty noose, my arms were strangled in varicose veins and there was a growing death around my eyes. He panicked and pulled at his neck. Frantic and beside himself again, he pulled and pulled but his skin felt fine. As she took off his shirt and started kissing his chest, he could only stare over her head at me. Her teeth bit into me and the loose flesh draped over her face like mouldy leather. Tate pushed away from Grace – afraid she could see.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He stood before her, but still he couldn't take his eyes off me. Grace turned her head to the mirror and smiled.

"Alright, Narcissus – come here."

She sat down on the bed facing him, opened her legs and pulled him towards her. He tried to ignore me, but there was no-where to hide. He watched as a patch of my wrinkled flesh faded away, leaving only the reflection of the wall behind him. *Ben threw one of the headshots in the bin.* Tate felt a chill crawl through his stomach where I had vanished. Grace stared up at him.

"Tate, what's the problem?" She looked at him with her eye brows pulled together in disgust.

He shook his head. He felt another chill down the left side of his face. He watched as mine dissolved. *The second photo fell.* Grace stood up. Tate didn't hear what she said. *The third and fourth scraped against each other.* He lost all feeling in his body that wasn't physical. He watched helplessly. Grace said something again. *Ben's fingertips grasped the last photo.* Tate suddenly returned to the room.

"If we're not going to do this could you just say so? I'm barely in the mood now." Grace hissed.

Tate couldn't even look at her. *Ben dropped the last headshot*. The last of me disappeared. Tate's stomach fell like an anchor through water; his heart, the bow, was pulled under too.

## A Real Purple Patch

### R ussell R eader

He ' <sup>d</sup> <sup>b</sup> ee <sup>n</sup> awa k <sup>e</sup> since half-past five, holding it in, jigging, twitching, trying desperately not to wake his brother and sister who he shared the mattress with, or – worse – his dad, who was snoring in the bed in front of the window, his bulky body hardly a foot away, rising and falling to a soundtrack of whistles and heavy sighs.

Sam refused to use the bedpan, though nobody else seemed to mind it – their urine fermenting like punch at a party until his mam swilled it all down the drain the next morning with a bit of carbolic.

 That'll teach them, Sam thought, as he tore the last square of newspaper off the string and scrunched it up into a ball. Dirty bastards.

He was out of the house before seven; they all were. Mary and George – younger than him, only two and four – went to Nana's next door. Sam walked with his mam and dad to the mill at the bottom of the street; his dad going down to the warehouse, him and his mam climbing up the stone stairs to the spinners where they'd stay until six.

His dad spent Saturdays in the con club. Sam spent them entertaining Mary and George, wandering around town with them until the bakery put the *Half Price Bread* sign in the window just before closing. Quick, grab it. This particular Saturday – this lifeless, shivering Saturday – seemed to go on and on and on. As he loitered on the high street, his siblings playing hopscotch as he patrolled the precinct; both eyes locked on the bakery, he felt something under his shoe. Hard, solid. He instinctively dropped, pretending to tie his laces. It glimmered in the winter sun as he moved his foot slightly, making him squint.

He'd never seen a pound coin before, never felt one in his palm. His whole body shook as he twirled it around in his pocket, hoping that nobody had noticed him pick it up, his hands sweaty, his heart racing. He strode straight into the bakery and bought the bread at full price – two loaves this week – then went to the grocers next door. *Half a pound of cheese please, and six slices of that ham.* A block of Dairy Milk for his mam, the newspaper for his dad, a bottle of pop for Mary and George – and a roll of Andrex for himself.

His mam's eyes lit up when he told her what had happened. She grabbed plates from the cupboard and starting laying the table, excitedly humming show tunes, the spring back in her step. Mary and George ran around her legs, giddy at the thought of a mouthful of pop. Then his dad walked in.

The pop bottle smashed against the grate, specks of sarsaparilla flying into the flames and making the fire spit and crackle. He threw the brown paper bag against the wall, a heavy thud of ham and bread and chocolate and newsprint and toilet roll bouncing off it in different directions, then he turned and glared at Sam, his round face pumping with crimson veins, like a balloon that was about to pop. *You should have given it to me,* he roared.

Sam gingerly tore five sheets off the roll before he went outside the next morning, folding them up neatly. He sat on the broken seat, watchful of the daddy longlegs on the ceiling and the cobwebs in the corner, and traced his fingers over the blue and mauve splodges on his thighs. When he'd finished he took the sheets out from his pocket, unfolding them onto his lap with delicate fingers, like a historian might unfurl a rare tapestry, and wiped them softly against his skin. He'd never felt anything like it. *This is the life*, he whispered, under his breath.

This is the life.

## Lucky Dress

### J o H iley

He <sup>f</sup> <sup>o</sup> l l <sup>o</sup> <sup>w</sup> <sup>s</sup> he <sup>r</sup> into the petrol station and parks up nearby. He walks towards the kiosk and as he passes she swears as she fumbles with the petrol cap.  He stands in the queue and watches her through the window as she replaces the hose and tightens the cap. When she bends down to reach for her bag on the passenger seat her dress rides up exposing bare, dimpled flesh. She walks towards the kiosk. It's late; the only other customers are men, most of them taxi drivers. A few look her up and down; one of them smiles at her.

He picks up some chewing gum and hands the money to the man behind the counter. When he turns back around she is coming through the door. He walks towards her and drops his keys at her feet. He bends to get them, looks up, smiles and says sorry for getting in her way. She blushes, says its OK. He starts to walk out then turns back and catches her watching him. She turns away quickly and pays for her petrol.

Back outside he reaches into his pocket then drops down by her car pretending to tie his shoelace. He plunges a knife into the wall of her tyre and hears a slight hiss as the air begins to slowly leak out. He gets back into his car and waits for her to climb into hers. She looks over to him and smiles. He smiles back waiting for her to pull away and follows. She doesn't drive far before she notices her tyre is flat. She pulls over, puts her hazard lights on and gets out of the car. She looks at the damage. He pulls alongside her, rolls down the window, says can he help.  He parks up in front of her car, climbs out and walks towards her. He says she's lucky, he's a mechanic; it's no bother at all to help her out. He's changed hundreds of tyres in his time. If he had a pound for every one he'd be a rich man.

She opens the boot and shows him the spare. Do me a favour he says, go and get the torch out of the glove box.  He takes the knife from his pocket and stabs the spare several times; the air hisses out. She hands him the torch. Bad news, he says; looks like the spare's flat, nothing he can do tonight. He says he can tow it for her first thing in the morning.  Yes please, she says, if its no trouble. No trouble at all, he says. He can see she can't believe it's happening to her. She's not married, she says, just her and the cat at home. That's a lovely dress, he says. She blushes.

She locks her car and climbs into his passenger seat. When she turns to pull over the seatbelt her dress rides up her bare thighs. She doesn't pull it back down. Where to, he says. Just carry on to the next village and she'll tell him where to turn, she says.

## Stirring Of The Wind

### J ohn B eresford

He <sup>l</sup> <sup>e</sup> a n <sup>e</sup> <sup>d</sup> <sup>o</sup> <sup>n</sup> his rake and surveyed the results of his efforts. Nine neat piles, the dark green grass between them virtually free of leaves save for where one or two had escaped the pull of the tines and fallen from the path of the rake. He breathed deep of the autumn scents and smiled. The year was not yet old enough to have a winter chill, but had left summer far behind. Mornings like today – mist-shrouded and mysterious, damp and cool – were his favourites. One could do a day's work without breaking sweat and have time left in the still lengthy evenings to enjoy the view, or sit on the deck and savour a glass of wine.

A gust of wind teased his hair as he stood looking over the valley. A few leaves from the tallest piles shook themselves loose and fluttered away onto the grass. He pulled a plastic garden sack from his pocket and began stuffing it with leaves, anxious to complete the clearing up before the wind undid his day's work. As he grabbed handful after handful of the leathery brown leaves their sweet musky odour filled his nostrils, shaking loose memories of school mornings when he and Kate would kick their way to class, scattering the yellow, red and brown threads of the road rug with their polished patent leather, creating new patterns and shapes as the leaves flew and fell, flew and fell. Laughing at the gentle soughing and the smells and the joyous feeling of togetherness, the excitement of a new year ahead. New knowledge and new possibilities, coupled with pangs of old yearning. Wondering whether this would be the year she would start to look at him as more than the boy next door. Kate of the autumn-red hair and brown, gold-flecked eyes that shone and flashed as she laughed at his silly jokes. He played the clown for her to hide his longing. Cracked a joke to mask his embarrassment at the strength of feeling inside him. Stole a sidelong glance at the wonderful curves of her growing body. And fought down the need to declare himself in love with her, for fear of frightening her away.

The wind spoke again, and the trees answered. Sighing and rustling. He dashed away a tear with his gloved hand, the suede rough against his cheek. He knotted his bag, stood, and surveyed the garden once again. The few tentative gusts had blurred the edges of his piles, flattening and spreading them out. Sending handfuls of carefully collected leaves back out across the grass. Another few years and it would be too much for him to manage on his own, especially at this time of year. Too many trees, too much grass. And way too many memories. He always knew the leaves would unlock his past. Like evil spirits flying from Pandora's box, those bitter-sweet rememberings were always set free at this time of year. The season in which he'd had Kate, and the same season he'd lost her. The world had lost her. Like walking into a winter that never ended, and all that was left was cold and dark, crisp and bleak and featureless like a land buried beneath a lifetime of snow. Where Spring could never come

### Michael, 38

### F aye C hambers

He <sup>k</sup> <sup>i</sup> c k <sup>e</sup> <sup>d</sup> hi <sup>m</sup> in the face, then placed a handkerchief over his mouth, making the captive pass out long enough to get him ready. Michael did the nails first, clipping the edges and filing the centre into sharp points. His clothes were removed next. There were patches where Michael had to tease the material away from where it had stuck to the flesh, still bleeding from the struggle. Finally he placed the black collar around the neck, neatly fastening the buckle and unfurling the leash. Michael stood back and looked on, satisfied.

He secured the leash to the hook on the wall and bound the wrists and ankles. After all, he didn't want his pet to run away.

 the cretin said, groggily, as he awoke.

His collar was tightened for that. Never in his life had Michael been so insulted.  He left, locking the manbeast in the loft.

No. He was not gay. He went to the music room and burned all of his Elton John records, just in case.

Alice, 37, never expected anyone to respond to her ad. In fact part of her had hoped they wouldn't. But when Michael, 38, wrote to say how amazing it was to find a partner who shared his passion for photography, animals and crocheting, she couldn't believe her luck.

She finished plaiting her hair and tied it with a baby blue

ribbon to match her cardigan. She remembered how Michael had said he liked her blue cardigan on their first date. That was almost three months ago now.

"This could really be it," she said to her cat, nuzzling its ears with her delicate ivory hands. "Goodbye Mr Snufflekins," she called, and left, locking the door behind her.

As she approached she felt nervous – she had never been to Michael's house before. But he welcomed her with his winning smile and she felt at once like she was home. They sat and talked, fondly, as they always did. On Alice's request they had been taking the relationship slowly. She grew embarrassed as Michael edged closer to her, and in a panic, excused herself to the bathroom.

She took some time to calm herself down. Finally, she plucked up the courage to go back downstairs and join Michael. She was ready to take the next step. She dragged her timid feet out from the shelter of the bathroom and headed for the stairs.

But she stopped.

Alice stood, frozen. She could hear words creeping their way down from the loft above and into her ears, her mind.

"Help me," they said.

"Run," she thought, but her legs didn't listen.

There was a thud, and the voice slithered closer, a snake in the grass. Then silence.

It appeared suddenly, startling Alice. It was a face which resembled the face of a man, but could not have been. The thinning dark hair was matted and falling out in patches, the way it does on a stray cat. All light had been extinguished from its manic, grey eyes. Snarling jaws revealed the owner of the voice. A voice that wasn't really a voice at all, just ragged air rattling through the hollow shell of where a man's face should have been.

Alice felt hot and cold all at once. She looked upon the creature, fearing, pitying, and she thought the sight of it may drive her mad. The ringing of the voice inside her head deafened her to the footsteps coming from below. Shiny black shoes announcing their fanfare on a polished oak floor. Ascending the stairs to Alice purposefully, each 'clip clop' kept the tempo with clinical precision.

Michael felt a little dejected. He had liked Alice; she had nice feet. He had much grander plans for her than this. But it did not matter. The man beast had been seen. It must be dealt with.

The creature began wailing, putrid, animal sounds unlike anything she had ever heard before. It cowered against the magnolia wall, staining it with sweat, and cradled skeletal arms around its wilting body. The fear and hatred emanating from its gaze was directed somewhere over Alice's right shoulder. She felt a cold hand upon her back. Michael's hand. Spit started pooling in her mouth, and she barely resisted the urge to vomit.

"Ah, Alice…" he said, playfully. Sickeningly. "I see you've met my pet."

Michael reached between the sheltering arms of the creature and pulled on a black leather cord, which curved its way across the torso and up around its neck. Alice looked upon the collar and understood.

\*\*\*

For three days, Alice had been trussed up like a turkey on Michael's bed. He had taken away her clothes, and bound her with thick red ropes that ate into her soft pale skin. Four times a day he came to photograph Alice, experimenting with different lighting. He decided dawn was his favourite. He liked to watch the shadows dancing on the wall as her body squirmed in the half light. On the dawn of the third day, he had knelt at the foot of the bed and began to lick Alice's feet, exploring the gaps between her toes with his tongue. But he did not touch her anywhere else. After all, he was not a monster.

The fourth day was a Tuesday. Alice's screams had torn up her throat like an old newspaper, and were now only occasional whimpers. The manbeast had not been fed for six days. It was time.

When he cut the ropes from around her limbs, Alice dared to hope that she would be freed, but that hope was misplaced. She felt the familiar tang of bile rising in her throat as Michael led her to the foot of the loft stairs where the manbeast dwelled. As they approached the door she could hear him scratching, clawing at the wood between them. Michael opened the padlock and pushed a reluctant, shivering Alice inside.

She locked eyes with the manbeast, his grey stare more disturbing than the last time their gaze had met. The creature still seemed hollow, devoid of humanity, but starvation and madness had taken hold. Eyes that were once vulnerable now peered at her with unmistakable bloodlust. The beast was hungry.

"Hush now my precious one," he cooed. So calmly. "Dinner time."

And then it began.

Michael made a circular incision around her left breast, and peeled the skin back from the flesh as though it were an orange. He put it to his lips and toyed with it, as though it were the breast of a lover. Or at the very least, still attached to a human. The manbeast tried to break free from his chains and claim his meal, panting with anticipation.

"Beg," Michael demanded of the snarling beast at his heel. It obliged.

He inhaled deeply, then tossed it to the beast, who tore at it wildly with his jaws, howling like a jackal. As Michael put the knife to the right breast, Alice's body was overwhelmed by convulsions of pain and terror. She kicked out, at nothing in particular, and Michael slammed his body into her fragile leg, shattering the bone.

As the snarls grew louder, she heard a loosening of chains, the panic rising in her like the heat of an Indian summer. All at once the claws and limbs and teeth and sweat of the beast were upon her. Their eyes met one final time as the creature lunged for Alice's jugular in a frenzy, and she passed out.

\*\*\*

Four months later, Michael was sat in his squashy armchair enjoying a nice cup of tea. He glanced at the framed picture of Alice on the mantelpiece – day two, twilight – sighed contentedly, and took a bite of his toast.

There was a flapping in the letter box, followed by some

grunting, and moments later the manbeast appeared with the morning paper in its mouth.

"Good boy," Michael cooed, patting the beast on the head and taking the paper. It nuzzled against his knee in response.

A headline caught Michael's eye. Something about shocked ramblers at Cromwell Bottom. The discovery of body parts. Thought to be a local woman. '*large scale enquiry*…' Blah blah blah, '*appealing to witnesses*…' Blah blah blah, '*Raped and murdered*…'

Well that was plain misrepresentation.

Shaking his head, he shuffled his way to the personal ads at the back of the paper and, taking a pen from the desk beside him, put a large black ring around 'Sandra, 36'.

## Cairo Salutes

### J ohn R athbone T aylor

He f l <sup>i</sup> n c hes <sup>w</sup> he <sup>n</sup> he hears it. Outside, not far away, the barking and pining of a dog. Inside, he manages to remain silent, save for his troubled breathing and occasional grunts of pain.

He is in a wheelchair with a khaki sheet draped over his back and shoulders, like a cloak. He is wearing pyjamas with the seams of the sleeves and trouser legs cut to widen them. His left leg and foot are heavily bandaged, as are both his forearms and hands. He has gauze taped around and below the right side of his neck, and crepe bandage wound around his head, holding gauze across his forehead and eyebrows. Lighter bandaging and dressings cover his right ear and much of his face, with breathe-holes cut for his nostrils and mouth. His eyes are not covered. They can be seen clearly as he raises his head to listen and look in the direction of the unhappy animal.

His name is Harry Ackerson. His rank is Catering Sergeant. He has been wheeled in to the makeshift courtroom for this particular phase of questioning. Nurse Colette Durand stands at his side.

\*\*\*

"… and range?" "Six hundred twenty." "Set six hundred."

"Rog' that! … Six hundred ten, six hundred five, six hundred… and set!"

"On my command … hold … hold … fi–"

The British tank-gunner fired, instinctively numbing his reflexes to the pulverising sound-shock of detonation. He let his body loosen – enough only to give himself into the Sherman's violent recoil.

The shell struck the oncoming Tiger tank, ripping off its right track and drive sprocket.

The German tank-gunner also fired, but half a second too late – just as the Tiger lurched sideways. Its cannon shell blasted off at an angle and buried itself in a sandbank two hundred yards away.

The Tiger couldn't be steered forwards or back. Its Commander screamed down to the gunner and driver:

"Reload! Reload! Rotate left thirty! Schnell! Schn–"

Before he could finish the order, a rocket from a swooping fighter plane blew the tank's turret away – and the top half of his body with it.

The ruptured rectangle of metal and flesh spun seventy yards through the air before it too slammed into the desert sand. The turret hit first, leaving the barrel pointing into the sky. To the British infantryman who watched it come down it looked ridiculous. Like some giant snorkel! But his attention was back on the decapitated Tiger. He was already calculating. Artillery fire and tank and airplane strafing was everywhere. More tanks and German infantry were coming. An ignored tank wreck could offer more protection and a better vantage point than his temporary trench-hole. No time for thinking twice about it. He grabbed the flame-thrower, hooped its feed tube over his shoulders and set off on a crouching run towards the smouldering vehicle.

Only yards from the Tiger, he stopped short. A severed human leg rose up from the top of the tank. It was being thrown. It arced into the air, bounced off the hull and fell to the ground before him. A second one was tossed after it.

A muscular figure with blood-streaked hair and a sootcovered face pushed himself up from the torn opening where the tank's turret had been. He clambered on to the flank of the hull and got to his feet, swaying as he did so. When he saw the infantryman he stilled himself and stared at the man, wide-eyed and unblinking. The whites of his eyes shone out against his blackened skin and the glistening red liquid trickling down his forehead. The infantryman saw only an expression of lunatic wildness. Calamity ran like a chill up his spine. His own eyes widened, and fear clenched his cheekbones. It didn't occur to him that this projected a similarly maniacal grimace to the German.

The two men gaped at one another until the German went to say something. He opened his left hand in an involuntary gesture as he did so. The infantryman immediately raised the flamethrower and shot off a venomous plume of fire at the man. Firing more in reaction than intent, his aim was not good. But the swirling tip of the flame-stream still reached and wrapped itself, whip-like, around the German's right ankle. It burned into his boot and gaiter on contact, and flared upwards along the thinner fabric of his trouser leg. He screamed as he tried to twist his upper body away from the fire swirl, and halfleapt, half-fell from the tank to the ground.

He landed awkwardly on his side. Straight away he threw up his free arm in a defensive gesture:

"Surrender! Surrender!" he shouted, "Please not shoot! Bitte! Take prisoner!"

Then he winced violently and turned to his burning trouser leg. He clenched his jacket cuff to the palm of his trailing hand and stabbed at the flames. He jerked around again and wailed at the infantryman.

"Bitte, bitte, Englisher, my leg is fire! Most pain! I am surrender. All my others dead. I am only loader man. Please to God help me!"

\*\*\*

Tomorrow's flatbreads would be ready soon after midnight. Harry had laid out the dough pats, forty a-piece on each of the eight large baking trays, then loaded the trays into the catering unit's three big bread ovens. He'd been paddling bread and cake trays since before the war when he had his own bakehouse, so the muscles on his left upper arm and right lower arm were noticeably developed in relation to the rest of him. He'd often get ragged about it if he walked around the camp in short sleeves.

"Been kneading the officers' bread Harry, or beating your monkey again?" they'd say. Or "Who've you been spanking this time, Acker, eh?"

Harry might chuckle to himself if anyone came up with an original jibe, otherwise he'd just huff and shake his head to let the pranksters know he thought their jokes corny.

In his presence, Harry's kitchen assistants never commented on his arm strength, or said anything else personal about him. They were POWs. They knew not to. He wouldn't expect it. He recognised all three of them were strong enough to lift a loaded tray on the oven paddle – especially POW Klaus Begemann, who had well-developed arm muscles also. But the POWs understood that lifting and balancing a paddle and loaded tray to chest level, manoeuvring them into a fire-hole without hitting the oven door, its side walls or the roof of the oven cavity, and doing this quickly enough to minimise heat loss – all took considerable skill. It was bakers' law in this kitchen that Sergeant Harry Ackerson trusted no-one but himself to do this thing. There was an occasion when he had delegated the job to Klaus – when Harry was off ill and had no alternative – and he did use Klaus to roll the dough pats; but otherwise, Klaus and POWs Rolf Ziegler and Gunter Hansen could do the other things.

After loading the ovens Harry had finished off the kitchen wash, scouring and rinsing the larger serving trays and cooking pans, the tureens and ladles. Now he was leaning back against the sink unit, drying his hands on his apron, and listening. The sounds of clunking wash-buckets and mopping in the storeroom had ceased and the POWs were in conversation. Harry didn't understand German but he gathered from the tone and interplay of their voices that they were discussing a problem. Rolf and Gunter seemed to be urging Klaus, their rank senior, to agree with them and to act in some way. The voices stopped, then Klaus stepped through the bead curtain doorway.

"My Rolf and Gunter have finished all things, and I too, mein Sergeant. But there is a place of hard grease and dirt upon the floor. Next to the stacking of cooking-oil drums and bully-beef tins. We cannot make this clean without I must ask you for more strong detergent."

Harry cursed under his breath. He'd been tipped off to expect an officers' spot inspection in the morning, so he'd already watered down what remained of his detergent ration for the extra cleaning. He needed everything tickety-boo, but he also wanted to finish early. This was the night he'd promised to take young Gunter into Cairo to see the belly-dancing. Though all three Germans had completed their stint in the store-room all the more enthusiastically, they were still tight on time. And time could be a problem. Disguising Gunter as one of the regular Tommies off to the 'entertainment' district for the evening would be easy enough. He'd done it with the others, and for the usual three ciggies, the supply-room Private had lent him the extra greatcoat and battalion beret he needed. That would get Gunter past the MPs. But if they were too late to walk out with all the other lads the gate sentry might spot something. It would need at least another four woodbines to buy his silence. No argument, they'd have to get this grease up, and pronto.

"Right Klaus, we need to do a hurry-up then. There's no 'strong' detergent. Tell Rolf and Gunter to dry these pans and ladles and put them away, and you mop this floor for me. Do it with water and vinegar. I'll see if I can scrounge some paraffin from the Transport lads. Be back in five minutes."

It took Harry nearer twenty minutes. Almost all the paraffin available had been commandeered by the outer defence units for their trench lamps. What was left had been securely locked in the Garage Sergeant's office for the night. Harry had to wait while the Garage Duty-Private syphoned a quarter-gallon of petrol from a senior officer's Jeep, in for a suspension repair. Two more ciggies and the promise of an extra chocolate ration.

When Harry returned he found the Germans seated round

the prepping table, partly-drunk mugs of tea in front of them. There was a full one waiting for Harry, at his empty chair. Klaus was leaning back on the other chair, smoking a roll-up. Rolf and Gunter were sat on upturned boxes, both perched forward with their elbows on the table. Gunter was noticeably red-faced, and he looked down at the floor when Harry came in. Rolf had his hands crossed and spread across his cheeks and mouth, but his eyes were laughing. With a covert wink and nod Klaus signalled to Harry that they'd been having fun with the youngster. Harry guessed they had been teasing him about what he was going to see that night. The lad was almost certainly still a virgin. Harry smiled knowingly at the two older men. Then he looked around the kitchen. He nodded a couple of times, gesturing and confirming his approval on seeing the freshly mopped floor. It looked spotless and already nearly dry. The electric fan had been brought in to help the warm, evening air circulate over the wetted surface.

"Good initiative, Klaus," he said, without looking back at the German.

Harry stood holding the fuel can, still eyeing up everything. He rubbed his chin with his free hand for a second before speaking:

"Tell Rolf to mix some more water and vinegar and have a go at cleaning the transom windows above the sink units."

Rolf heard his name and looked puzzled until Klaus translated for him, then he looked at the windows and nodded. Gunter knew some English, so he got up straight away when Harry suggested he should go fetch the overcoat and beret from the bunkhouse.

"Best if you're ready to go, lad, soon as we've topped this cleaning."

Gunter headed for the kitchen door. Rolf began to busy himself at the sink. Harry started towards the store room, gesturing to Klaus to come with him.

The German narrowed his eyes and shook his head to himself as he followed the Englishman and studied him from behind. He realised Harry had issued Gunter with the instruction to go the bunkhouse to allow the boy an escape from his embarrassment.

"Some day I will have to acknowledge this unassuming Englishman and his unexpected decency," he told himself. "This Sergeant Harry Ackerson is in charge of us because this is wartime and we are the Allies' captives. Yet, somehow, he never makes us feel anything less than his equals."

Klaus thought back to an incident six months earlier. Harry had been absent for two days, apparently with a nasty bout of 'Mummy's Tummy'. A Corporal from a different Catering unit had been assigned to oversee them. On Harry's return the man reported that he had seen Klaus feeding scraps to a scruffywhite terrier that hung around their kitchen block. Harry had looked displeased and told the Corporal he would deal with it, so Klaus had expected a scolding. But when the man had gone, Harry sat Klaus down, gave him a cigarette and thanked him for taking care of the dog. It turned out Harry had been secretly feeding the stray himself. He called the dog, 'Luckyboy'.

Klaus wondered what his parents in Freiburg would make of this tale when he was finally repatriated. Especially after their loss of the house, and the injuries his mother's sister had suffered, all as a result of British bombing. And what of the Brandt family, and the Krugers, whose boys, Willie and Michael, had died that grim death beside him when their Tiger had been hit? What would they say to Klaus, the only one to climb out of the pulverised panzer alive, if he was to tell them not just of the valour and sacrifice of their fine sons – the thing they would be so desperate to hear – but also of his positive experience in captivity from an enemy Englishman?

Inside the store-room Harry walked to where the oil drums and meat tins were stacked. He spotted what looked like the grease patch on the floor and pointed at it. Klaus nodded.

"It's probably leakage from the oil drums that's hardened over time," Harry said. "These tins don't always have perfect seams and the delivery blokes aren't that gentle with them. It should fetch up with this…"

He leaned forward and carefully poured some of the petrol

along the length of the patch. Then he stood up and produced two cleaning rags from his pocket. He tossed one to Klaus.

"You start that end. I'll start this."

Klaus knelt down and immediately smelled the petrol.

"This is not paraffin mein Sergeant. It is gasoline!" he said, concern in his voice.

"I couldn't get paraffin. But this'll do the job." Harry grinned and rocked his arm back and forth. "Come on Klaus, get that brawny arm moving!"

They both set to, rubbing away at the grease. It was softening, but the floor was rough concrete so their rags began to tear and it was difficult to get into its little indents and crevices. Harry leaned back, stretched himself and cricked his neck from side to side.

"Better fetch us some wire-wool, Klaus. And bring a couple of old pointed meat knives. I'll soften the stubborn bits with more petrol. We'll scrape and scour it. We can't do any more than that."

Harry mimed the arm movements again, this time overplaying the stabbing and prising actions.

Klaus laughed and said "Jawohl Herr Sergeant". He mocked a Nazi salute, purposely holding out his cleaning rag, dropping it, and imitating Harry's arm action as a clown's repeated, but failed attempts to catch the rag on its way to the ground. Harry laughed too. "Go! Schnell!" he said, pointing with his own rag at the store-room doorway. It was one of those moments when things clicked between them. Klaus pressed on his good knee to push himself up, then walked out of the store-room exaggerating his limp, knowing Harry would be tickled by his playfulness.

As Klaus picked two knives from the cutlery draw, Gunter came back in. The greatcoat was slung over his arm, but he was already wearing the battallion beret. Rolf noticed first and wolf-whistled. Klaus turned and was about to add a mickeytaking whistle himself when he heard a short squeak in the store-room, then a longer 'wroomp' sound that completely captured his attention. It was palpable, dull-noted and lowforming at first, but accelerating into a louder, dominating air gush that engulfed things. Klaus knew in an instant what it was, and in the next, he felt the horror coming. He became at once nauseated and breathless, and wavered off balance. He dropped the knives and swayed back against the metal worktop. His eyes rolled and the confusion started, but at the same time the 'help words' came to him. He didn't realise he was shouting them out loud in the kitchen:

"My hands! Get to my hands!"

He was already clenching his fists, forcing himself. He'd been here before and was getting practised. A part of him knew what to do now.

"The hands! The words and the hands!" he told himself. "The Me that moves them! Got to hold… hold on to the understanding. It's only a panicking mind. That isn't Me! I am the true… the one that does the understanding! Got to let the horror go. Let it pass. Mustn't hold it! Be alright then. Alright … after the long second's passed."

In the other long seconds he'd been through, his hold on spatial reality, not only on his mind, always loosened. That was how the horror came. He knew he was about to go through it again, so he told himself again:

"Breathe Klaus, breathe in and let it pass you!"

*The room had sentience but couldn't hold to its bearings. It lurched about, rising and plunging, zig-zagging its lights – everything meant to unbalance and dazzle him. It blurred its parameters and distances. He lost the sense of having things to hold on to. He was spinning between hallucinatory corners, doorways and shadows. Then everything suddenly in-folded. This was the shock point, the stomach-sickening moment when his trauma memory seized him and all self-volition would rush from him. He tried to focus on the breath he had just taken. His body convulsed as he did so…*

*…He was there again, trapped and choking in the blackness of the fume-filled, metal coffin… buried under bodies… his comrades' smouldering, torn-apart bodies!*

*…But something else was there. A voice he seemed to know about,*

*inside him, telling him that it was he that had air in his lungs, he whose fists were clenched. He who knew how to get out of this. He heard himself using the voice. It was He, Klaus.*

"I move you now. Got to breathe, Willie! Forgive me, Michael, I get past you!"

As he spoke, Klaus looked down for his hands. He saw instead someone else's, on his forearms. Rolf's hands. And he realised Rolf was speaking at the same time as he was, saying something to calm him:

"… passed now, Klaus. You hear me, kamerad? It is over."

Barely had he grasped Rolf's words and realised his panic attack had passed – that he was breathing fully, back in control, aware of everything around him – than he was recalling and running over the sounds he had heard in the storeroom again. It was not a squeak, but a man's shriek he had heard, followed by a loud, ricocheting, clanging noise. It was Harry who had cried out. Then the other sound must have been the petrol-can Harry had been holding – crashing and bouncing on the storeroom floor? But, it wasn't 'then' … it was just now. Now!

Klaus raised his hands and smacked both of his cheeks. He looked up.  The petrol-can exploded just as the three of them turned towards the store-room. The initial bang reverberated into a fracas of other violent sounds as flying metal struck ceiling and wall, glass shattered, and cooking oil burst from drums, ignited – and spattered a shower of fire over a screaming human. For Harry Ackerson was screaming – just as Klaus Begemann was shouting, and was swinging his gammy leg, loping towards the store-room as fast as he was able.

"Gunter, get help! Rolf, water!" he cried.

Burning fuel smoke and the smell of burning flesh hit Klaus as he entered the opening. His eyes smarted and he gagged, but he shouted for Harry. A gurgling cry came back. Klaus stepped blindly towards it. He made out a ray of light entering the room from a broken window. Smoke was curling up the beam. Harry was at the bottom of it, slumped on the floor with one leg stretched in front of him, the other bent awkwardly beneath him. His extended trouser leg, shirt front and sleeves were on fire.  His eyebrows were black smudges below peeling skin, and his lips and nose a mess of red raw flesh, mucous and oil smears.

"Mein Sergeant," Klaus said, conscious immediately of how quietly he had spoken.

Harry groaned.

Klaus had on his cotton kitchen jacket. He ripped it off and smothered it around Harry's arms and upper body to starve the flames of oxygen. Using his forearm, he tried to do the same with the sizzling hair and skin around Harry's neck and ear, but Harry shrieked at the touch. Klaus spat two drools of saliva on the area instead. He turned to beating out the flames on Harry's trouser leg. Burning oil in the cloth stuck to the skin of his palm and fingers, but the pain brought the thought to him that this scorching was endurable compared to the searing-hot blast of a flame thrower, and he ignored it. He was worried though that he was starting to choke from smoke inhalation. He had to get Harry up, but how was he to do it? Just then the two of them were showered with a bucket of water! Rolf was behind him.

"Help me Rolf! Get the other side of him!" Klaus spluttered.

Harry howled as they hoisted him to his feet, but they managed to keep him conscious enough to put a little weight on to his less injured leg. This made it easier to steer him back to the kitchen. There they laid him carefully on the floor. Rolf made a pillow with a folded towel and slid it gently under Harry's head. When Gunter arrived with the Duty Officer, Klaus had just spread the borrowed greatcoat over Harry. He was leaning in close to Harry's face, telling him that the medics would soon be there to give him something for the pain.

\*\*\*

The Officers' dining room had been re-organised for the inquiry. Divisional Commander Lesterly sat at the centre of the top table with one of his Lieutenants and the battalion Padre to one side of him, and the Major of the Medics' core on the other. Sub-Lieutenant Fenton of the Military Police was acting as court interrogator. Seats for Klaus, Rolf and Gunter were positioned in front of a side table. Only Klaus was standing. Due to his seniority of rank over the other two, and his better command of English, he was answering most of the questions.

"So, Lance-Corporal Begemann …" said Fenton, avoiding the German titular rank name, 'Obergefreiter', that would credit Klaus with a slightly higher status. "We have heard from Corporal Jones, Duty Officer on the night in question, that after hearing an explosion in the catering unit and being alerted by POW Private Hansen, he rushed to the kitchen and found you and your other compatriot leaning over Sergeant Ackerson."

He passed a cursory glance at Rolf and Gunter.

"Corporal Jones also says that you were holding – no indeed – 'pressing' someone's greatcoat over Sergeant Taylor. Over his face as well as his body. I put it to you that you, Lance Corporal, saw and took the opportunity to murder Sergeant Ackerson, a man rightfully your superior, in rank, and in responsibility over you as a prisoner. You knew he was using petrol in the storeroom and you threw a match or a lighted cigarette on to the floor beside him to ignite it. This story of a spark from his army boot is pure invention. Who would believe such a thing?"

Fenton turned towards the Inquiry Commander and three officials alongside him. He raised his hand and made an exaggerated gesture of putting the tips of his thumb and index finger very nearly together:

"A tiny spark!" he said, with sarcasm.

Klaus was struggling to keep up with the speed of the Sub-Lieutenant's words and to comprehend the full meaning of what the man was saying. As he did begin to grasp the seriousness and implications of Fenton's accusations he turned pale and started to shake his head. Rolf and Gunter understood less of the interrogator's words but they had sensed the vindictiveness in his delivery. Now they could see the anxiety in Klaus's reaction. Rolf tapped Klaus's arm to ask what was wrong, but Klaus pushed his hand down without looking at him. Instead, he was trying imploringly to meet eyes with the Padre – whose own expression was almost as pained as Klaus's. Then quickly, he turned to look directly at Commander Lesterly:

"Nein… nein. No!" he shouted. "This is not true, mein Commandant!"

Fenton made to continue and the Commander rapped the table for order. The Padre leaned forward to say something to him but Lesterly raised a hand to stop him.

"No, Charles, please, wait a moment."

The Padre sat back in his seat, biting his lip. He exchanged pointed looks with the Major from the Medics' core, who also seemed uncomfortable.

Having gained the silence, the Commander addressed Klaus and then Fenton.

 You will be given the chance to reply. Now, Lieutenant, say what you have to say if you will, but I believe it would be more fitting if you were to, to, let's say, slow down your delivery and moderate your tone a tad."

"Yes of course, Sir. I will try to do that, Sir," Fenton replied. He turned back to Klaus, and spoke his words slowly but firmly.

 And further, I put it to you that when Sergeant Ackerson managed to drag himself out of the fire, you and those two men beside you tried to asphyxiate him. You thought we would conclude that the fumes from the fire killed him.  But when Corporal Jones turned out to be nearby, he appeared on the scene so quickly you were thwarted in your cowardly little game. And now you would have this Inquiry believe that you were trying to save Sergeant Ackerson…" Fenton paused then said, "…have us believe that you prisoners, 'German' prisoners… prisoners of war… act like heroes… towards your captors–"

Before Fenton could finish or Klaus could respond, the Padre spoke up. He looked indignantly at the Commander:

"I'm sorry Peter, Commander, but I must interject. I wish to put a question to Obergefreiter Begemann. Please do not make me insist on it."

Lesterly stared back at the Padre, at first without speaking – though his cheeks twitched. Then he nodded:

"Very well, Charles."

He signalled to Fenton to sit down for a moment. The Padre stood up. Klaus was still incensed, visibly trembling – struggling to hold his tongue and compose himself. The Padre took a few moments, then spoke:

"Obergefreiter Begemann, Klaus. I have only one question for you. It is really for all three of you. Please tell me honestly, what kind of a relationship did you have with Sergeant Ackerson?"

Klaus swallowed at the question. His breathing faltered with emotion; his chest rose and fell and he blinked away the tears that filled his eyes. Though he gave his answer to the Padre, as he spoke it, he turned to face Harry:

"He was… he is, our best friend."

Klaus stood to attention and saluted Harry. Rolf and Gunter immediately stood up from their seats and also came to attention. They too, saluted in Harry's direction.

No-one in the courtroom spoke, but everyone turned to look at Harry. He was staring across at Klaus and trying with difficulty to raise his bandaged right arm. The nurse understood what he wanted and placed both her hands under his arm as he raised it, as close as he was able to, into the soldiers' salute position.

Harry whispered something to the Nurse.

"Nurse Durand. Please repeat to the court what Sergeant Ackerson has just said to you," Commander Lesterly asked.

"He tells me, monsieur," she smiled, "He said we are both bakers!"

## She 2

### F ord D agenham

she says she's probably got an ulcer she says she always tastes her tears and she scrapes the ice and frost out the top of the office fridge to make a nothing slushy and i remember a winter when i saw her in the lift with a fistful of snow for lunch

## A Greyhound Pass

### E rinna M ettler

S he <sup>h</sup> <sup>a</sup> <sup>s</sup> <sup>w</sup> <sup>o</sup> r k <sup>e</sup> <sup>d</sup> as a waitress for as long as she can remember. It is all she knows how to be. Coffee flows through her veins, ketchup drives her heart, the smell of fried onions fires her brain.

Betty-Jo was just sixteen when Mr Simms built The Coyote Diner on the edge of town, where Main Street seamlessly transforms into Route 58. The town was small and perpetually covered with a thin layer of pale desert dust, as if it had been kept in storage for a long, long time. There was one bar on the outskirts, frequented by drunks and farm-hands, and no place for kids or women. The excitement amongst the bored backyard teenagers grew with the building site, as out-of-town workmen levelled the one-pump gas station and erected eatery Eden. The kids watched its progress from porches and pushbikes, standing in huddles to gawp at the passing trucks and rising walls and to speculate on how the place would look when it was finished. It was 1962, and those workmen left behind more than just a building; they left the tiny dirt-track town the much needed hope of rock 'n' roll glamour and more than one illegitimate child.

Betty-Jo went to see Mr Simms before the work was completed, the main shell having been constructed but the inside not yet beautified. She peered through the glass door, still with its protective plastic sheen, and watched him scan the local paper and slurp back coffee. He was a big, grey-haired Texan, complete with the requisite Stetson and spurs, even though his Chevrolet Impala was parked outside.

Men were a mystery to Betty-Jo. Her Daddy had left when she was nine – preferring hard liquor and gambling to providing for a family – and then it was just her and her Momma, who spent her life sitting silently on the porch in her rockingchair mending the town's clothes for a meagre living. From this spot Betty-Jo's Momma squinted at the desert, which stretched out between the peaks that punctuated the town, as if she were waiting for somebody to ride over the horizon. Somebody she knew deep down would never come. Money was tight. Sometimes Betty-Jo dreamt of going to Vegas and winning big on the gaming tables she'd seen in the movies so that she and her Momma wouldn't want for anything. Whenever she mentioned this, her Momma would reply that money was better when it was earned and that Betty-Jo should concentrate on her studies instead of spending her time day-dreaming about things she'd never have. Betty-Jo never was one for schooling. Her Momma was right; she did spend most of her time in the classroom gazing out of the window, the teacher's words lost in the mist of her daydreams. She wouldn't ever be college material, but she had the savvy to walk up to The Coyote's door, before any of the other girls in town, and ask for a job. She stood a good while at that door before Mr Simms got the feeling he was being watched and spilled his coffee on himself as he started up and beckoned her in. As soon as she stepped over the threshold she knew she belonged.

In 1962 The Coyote seated a hundred and fifty. It had the smooth chrome lines of an express train complemented by deep, red, leather booths and bar stools. Each table had a mini jukebox, ensuring that the music was always on. When Betty-Jo arrived for her first day, in her short pink uniform and regulation lipstick, The Tornados blasted through the outdoor speakers and grease monkeys in newly pressed overalls tuned up cars on the parking lot. They stopped and whistled as she passed and she felt more like she was in an Elvis movie than starting work in her hometown.

In the back room, under a fog of competing perfume, the

girls fixed their make-up and hair for the grand opening. Betty-Jo knew a few of them – Cherry, Marlene – but mostly they were from out-of-town, and Betty-Jo blushed with pride when they complimented her on her legs as she tied the laces of her roller skates. They became the sisters she never had and Chet, the grill cook with movie-star looks, became her first husband, though none of them knew what they would mean to each other on that first day. Back then, they shared an unconscious immortality, certain only that the next day would be better than the last.

The Coyote's fame spread. The last stop before the desert, it drew customers from far and wide on their way to the natural wonders of the valley. It was also the place to hang out if you were young and looking for love. Betty-Jo was its star, a whizz on roller-skates, Mr Simms' favourite girl, popular with customers and co-workers alike. It was no wonder; she was very striking, tall and thin with the friendliest of ice-cream smiles. Her hair flowed in unruly auburn curls that kept coming loose from the bobby pins she used to keep them up. She considered it her best feature, even if it did smell of burger grease.

All that was nearly fifty years ago; and on almost every day of the intervening years – barring the few taken for funerals, childbirth and holidays – Betty-Jo has looked out across the parking lot to the desert at sunset. There is a particular moment she likes best, when dusk begins to dissolve into night and the sun tucks itself beneath the covers of the horizon. She always takes a minute to stand and watch its progress, awestruck as the orange light casts lengthening cactus shadows across the plain. The Coyote's vast windows give her the full Panavision experience. In these moments, she feels at one with the world. Today is the last day she will witness this spectacle as a waitress and she has a lump in her throat as she watches a lone car move slowly away toward the infinite.

From her first day at The Coyote, Betty-Jo remembered everybody's name. It came naturally to her, as if the brainpower needed to retain all the arithmetic and fancy words in school was just waiting for a purpose. She added up cheques in her head and remembered the favourite dishes of her customers, even if they had only visited once or twice. If folks were new to town she greeted them warmly as they settled into a booth and made sure to ask how they were doing. Sometimes it was hard. Sometimes her heart felt like it would break. In her time at The Coyote, she has gone through two husbands and her fair share of lovers. Chet ran off with another waitress after ten years together. Her second husband, a refined older man named Mitch, died of lung cancer a few years after they wed. Both left her a son apiece, Eddie and little Malcolm.  Later, they came to the diner after class and Mr Simms always gave them a jawbreaker while they picked something from the menu for supper and did their homework in the back room. Mr Simms was a sympathetic boss, more like a granddaddy to her boys. He said they were as cute as pie with their mother's red hair and Opie freckles and he taught them their first magic tricks, and then poker, over the counter as Betty-Jo worked.

Malcolm was killed in Iraq. He was twenty-nine. They flew him home in a coffin wrapped in the stars and stripes. The army presented her with the flag at the funeral.  She had no tears left to cry. She keeps Malcolm's flag folded in her dresser drawer, out of sight but never quite out of mind.

Eddie didn't cope too well. He got deep into drugs, and the crimes that go with them, and ended up with a fifteen year prison sentence for armed robbery. Neither son had married. There are no grand-kiddies to dote on, not yet, and not without considerable luck. Eddie isn't young anymore; his red hair was shaved to the skin last time she visited and his face was puffy and grey. Betty-Jo wishes she could visit him more often but he's in a cross-state penitentiary and the bus fare is more than she can afford. That's her business though. The customers don't need to know about her personal dramas. For them, she has only a smile and a few words of encouragement when it looks like they might be suffering.

In the 1970s the music changed. Approaching thirty, Betty-Jo adapted her roller-skating technique, swishing in time to heavy disco beats with a tray poised preternaturally on one hand. The diner still buzzed and Betty-Jo still wore her smile. Most of the original Coyote girls had left, married or gone South to seek fame and fortune. Betty-Jo was older than the new girls and more like a mother than a sister. She gave them advice when they had man-trouble – God knows she'd had enough herself – and provided a shoulder to cry on when they needed it. Mr Simms looked after her, made sure she was eating right and had enough shifts to pay the rent. She thought of him as the father she never had, a bond unspoken but acknowledged in the cheery *'mornin, how are you?'* they exchanged each day. When Betty-Jo's momma passed he paid for the funeral and afterwards sat with her until dawn sharing bourbon and memories.

Another decade passed under the unforgiving desert sun and Betty-Jo's skin began to wrinkle. She had good genes but the laughter lines ran deep turning her mouth down at the edges so, unless she was fully smiling, she carried an air of sadness about her. She still loved her job, though it wasn't the same after Mr Simms had his heart attack. Right there in the spot she'd first seen him, almost thirty years to the day. He slumped to the floor and his coffee spilled on the table, seeping into his newspaper and blurring all the stories into one. The Coyote passed to a nephew, who never came near, and the management of the place was taken over by a young man called Gregory, who had a sour face and a silent manner. A Starbucks opened on Main Street and a drive-thru McDonald's across the road. People wanted their food fast. Custom dwindled quickly and within a year of Mr Simms death half of the booth space in The Coyote was given over to slot machines. The music was turned way down.

Today, Betty-Jo shows her replacement the ropes. Carmine is her name; it doesn't suit her. She is a tiny, mousy thing with glasses and acne, just out of school. She has to be shown how the staff lockers work several times; God knows how she'll cope out front, but that's not Betty-Jo's problem anymore. At least the roller-skates have long been replaced by sensible sneakers, rubber-soled so as not to mark the floor. As Carmine stows her outdoor shoes in her locker, Betty-Jo looks at herself in the back room mirror. She smoothes her hands over her belly, noting how her uniform stretches across her bulging middle, and then touches the tight grey perm peeking from under her hat. The auburn curls are gone. For some time now she has been squinting at her order pad through bi-focal lenses. Her smile is the same though, a little puckered around the edges maybe, but still as radiant as a desert morning.

Betty-Jo's last order is a rush. At six-thirty the door is opened by a stranger wearing blue jeans and a pressed white shirt.  It's unusual to see an unfamiliar face at The Coyote these days. He carries a Stetson and, though he bears no physical resemblance to Mr Simms (he's too short and dark), he reminds Betty-Jo a great deal of her former boss; perhaps it's his soft Texan accent and twinkling eyes. He orders coffee and blueberry pancakes with canned cream and as she pours Betty-Jo asks on the off chance if he is related to Mr Simms. *Wouldn't that be something on my last day?* She says. But the stranger smiles and tells her he's just passing through and there's no connection at all. Betty-Jo is as attentive as ever but her co-workers spring a Happy Retirement cake on her so she doesn't have as much time to talk to him as she would like. Gregory – now middle-aged but no more communicative – makes a short embarrassed speech about her being their longest serving employee. There is applause and tears and they present her with their gift – a china model of a cowgirl riding bare-back. It's pretty, hand-painted, with fine detail on the long red curls sticking out under the cowgirl's hat. Perhaps they thought it looked like she did in the old photographs that now adorn The Coyote's walls. It's a lovely gift, planned, thoughtful and completely useless. Betty-Jo hides her disappointment under her usual enormous smile. A Greyhound pass was what she wanted, so she could visit Eddie more often. She was sure she had dropped enough hints.

After the party, she places her cowgirl safely under the counter and insists on clearing her last table. The Texan is long gone. He smiled and tipped his hat to her during the celebrations. She watched him walk to his car as the waitresses set off party poppers and sang 'For She's A Jolly Good Fellow'. Betty-Jo pockets his tip without looking at it, assuming from his smile that it is a more than generous note. She goes out for a farewell beer with her colleagues, knowing she will see them rarely. She doesn't think she could bear to come back as a customer. The Coyote is as much her diner as it is anyone's; it wouldn't be right to be waited on. It is only when she is home, sitting alone in front of the TV rubbing her stockinged feet, that she remembers the tip. She sits up and fishes into her coverall pocket. She is surprised to find that the folded paper in her palm isn't the twenty dollar bill she was expecting but a lottery ticket for that night's county draw. She thinks about her momma, sitting on the porch mending clothes, telling her that money is better when it's earned. Betty-Jo remembers her teenage dream of winning big in Vegas, a city her momma never got to visit. A smile crosses her lips as she reaches for the TV remote and changes the channel just in time to catch the jackpot draw.

### No Regrets G ordon W illiams

S he wa <sup>s</sup> su r r ou n d <sup>e</sup> <sup>d</sup> by faces but only interested in her own. A silent audience of black and white photographs – previous occupants of this room, the nearly famous and the forgotten – looked on as she applied her make-up. Three hours at the hairdresser's that afternoon had changed her grey roots to the same auburn colour as the rest of her hair, now set in midlength curls. Blusher completed, she applied eye shadow and mascara as intermittent laughter rose in distant muffled waves beyond the room. She brought her face closer to the mirror to confirm she had finished her lashes, put the little black brush back in its case on the dressing table and picked up her lipstick as another wave of laughter broke past the corridor outside the door. A pout, some heightened local redness, another pout and a tissue gently pressed between her glistening lips. There was more laughter, music starting and people clapping. Sideways on, left and right, she nodded in agreement with the face looking back.

A last look as the music and applause faded away. She stood and did a half-twirl to each side, admiring the reflection of her glittering gold strapless dress as it sparkled, lit by the circle of pink lights surrounding the mirror, before holding the dress with both hands behind her to ease herself into the brown leather armchair. She switched off the lights around the mirror but the harshness of the fluorescent ceiling light left the small room, with its windowless magnolia walls and brown carpet, looking as ordinary as it was, so she switched the mirror lights back on and put her tights-clad feet up on the dressing table. Resting her hands on the cigarette-burned arms of the armchair, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in.

Before she could breathe out somebody knocked at the door and said, "Debbie?"

She opened her eyes and asked, "Who's that?"

"Tommy. Tommy Nash," the voice answered in a thick Scouse accent.

She said, "Shit," quietly to herself, took her feet off the dressing table and went to the door, where her black cashmere coat hung on a hook. She unlocked the door and saw a tall, overweight man, with thin hair greying at the sides, grinning and taking up most of the doorway.

He wore a dark suit with a purple bow tie and asked, "How's it goin', kid?"

"No better for seeing you," she answered, and walked back to her chair as Tommy followed her.

"I saw your name on the bill and thought I hadn't seen much of you recently," Tommy said, "although in that dress I'm not sure."

"How did it go tonight?" Debbie asked as she sat down beside her mirror.

Tommy bent forward to unfasten his bow tie and top shirt button.

"Gorra few laughs," he replied. "Nobody threw anything. The usual Friday night crowd. I haven't been here for a while but at least they asked me back. When was you here last?"

"Before Christmas," said Debbie. "I usually go down well here. Do the songs they all know. Keep 'em happy."

She leaned over the arm of her chair and pointed to the room's other chair – black leatherette, torn at both top corners – by the door.

"Sit down," she told her guest. "I'm on after the bingo so I've got nothing to do for twenty minutes.

"Thanks, kid. It's great to feel wanted," Tommy said, rolling his bow tie around his hand and stuffing it in his jacket pocket.

"Sorry, Tommy, but it's been a bad week," Debbie said.

"I wondered why you had a face like a smacked arse,"

Tommy said as he sat down. "So what's happened then? House repossessed? World War Three? Got pregnant?"

 Did you see *The Des O'Connor Show* on Tuesday?"

"No… er, Tuesday… I was doing a stag night in Preston. I did the bluest stuff I know and it went down great."

"You don't usually do really blue stuff…"

 I couldn't get away with that here but I was bluer than an Eskimo's varicose veins last Tuesday – they were so pissed they'd have laughed at anything. So what was wrong with Des O'Connor? I've watched him meself sometimes but he's never spoiled my week."

"It wasn't Des," Debbie replied, leaning back into the armchair.  I'd hoped I'd never see his face again, even if it did look like it had been ironed. He must have had those Botox injections. And his hair was darker than when I last saw him – and that was over twenty years ago."

"Who's Marty Mann? I've never heard of him."

"I wish I'd never heard of him. We used to be in a band together a long time ago, called Daybreak…"

"I remember them – I must have been in short pants at the time…"

"How old's that, then?"

"Thirty-nine. Just like my mother: she was thirty-nine for so long I eventually overtook her."

"Well if you knew this fella over twenty years ago, you must have been…"

"A child star, like Shirley Temple," Debbie interrupted.

"So what's happenin' with this Marty fella?" Tommy changed the subject.

"He's come back to Britain for a tour and to promote his new CD."

"What's wrong with that?" Tommy asked.

"He said on Des's show that he was hoping to re-form

Daybreak*.* That was the first I'd heard about it and I was the lead singer. He never asked me."

"It could be worth a few quid if they re-form. Better than singing in places like this," said Tommy as he waved his arm about. "What's the problem?"

"That two-faced creep Marty's the problem. All the trouble he caused when we split up. He cleared off to Australia while the rest of us had to work to pay off the contract we were stuck with. I'd never heard of him for years but they said he'd made a name for himself there…"

"Is he big Down Under?" said Tommy.

"I could tell you… but so could a lot of women. I should have known better," Debbie shook her head, her auburn curls swinging. "When we first started we spent three years driving around in a Transit, playing every crummy gig we could get before we got signed up by a record company. Marty could play guitar OK but he wasn't much of a singer. And he was great at hustling. That and chasing women. He managed to combine business and pleasure by charming the knickers off a PA to some record company boss to get us an audition. When they signed us it was like Christmas every day: three hit records, an album, concerts – we were on *Top of the Pops* four times…"

"I must have seen yer – in me short pants an' all…"

"…interviews, meeting famous people – I actually met Shirley Bassey and Cliff Richard. I was on cloud nine for eighteen months. Then it all ended," Debbie said through her teeth.

"How come?"

"Marty and me had been an item for over a year. It was the best year of my life – everything was going so well. We rented a house in the country where nobody knew us – it would have been bad for the image if Marty had a girlfriend or a wife. Only those in the band knew about me and Marty. I thought I was the one to stop him wandering… but I was wrong."

"What was he up to?"

"I found him with one of our backing singers before a gig in Leeds. And she was supposed to be going out with Tony, our drummer. They were in the dressing room but they were using it like the undressing room. I was hitting Marty with my handbag, then Tony heard the row and came in, and he started hitting him as well. And Marty's still trying to get his clothes on…"

"I wish I'd been there…"

"I wish I hadn't. We still had to do the gig that night. I had to sing a duet with Marty … called 'Forever True'*…"*

*"*I remember it," Tommy started singing. "*All my life I'll spend with you – 'cos I'll be forever true…"*

"Stick to telling jokes, Tommy. I was singing three feet away from Marty – I could see his bruises from there, even under his make-up. I had to smile and sing through gritted teeth for an hour.  I heard there was another fight in the dressing room afterwards, but I'd already cleared off by then. It was in the papers two days later. I still remember the headline: *Daybreak Up."*

*"*So it all ended – just like that?" Tommy asked.

"Our manager tried to get us back together, telling us we still had six months of our contract to run but there was no chance: Jeff, our bass player, went into rehab for his coke habit and Tony ended up in detox in Withington. All the problems we'd been trying to hide caught up with us. When the papers found out there was another headline: *Daybreak Down.*"

"So you had musical and personal differences, then?"

"You could say that. We only talked to each other through lawyers afterwards and I haven't seen any of the band for years – not till I saw Marty on the telly last Tuesday."

"What happened to all the money you made from the records and the concerts and that?"

"I wish I knew. The record company wouldn't pay us, saying we'd breached our contract. I got a lawyer to look at it; he said it was an unusual contract and we should have had somebody check it over before we signed it. That's how naïve we all were then – we were over the moon just to get a record deal. And our manager said we owed him money 'cos the rest of the tour was cancelled. I spent two years doing gigs in pubs and clubs – anywhere – to get enough money together to pay off what they said I owed. They were the worst gigs I ever did – singing to the sound of knives and forks scraping on plates because people were more interested in eating than listening to me…"

"I know, I've done it. I bet you've never played to an empty club like I did once: some place near Chester. I asked the manager if there was any point in going on and he said I wouldn't get paid if I didn't. So I did an hour in this empty club telling jokes to candles flickering on the tables. Didn't get many laughs that night."

"I've played some real dives myself but I've always had a few people in the audience. I was still calling myself *The Voice of Daybreak* then*,* even though I hated it, because it was the only way I could get any gigs. Since then I've kept quiet about it. Marty didn't bother trying to pay off what he owed – he just declared himself bankrupt and scarpered to Australia, the spineless little shit…"

"So you're not bitter about it then?" said Tommy.

"I didn't think I was till I saw him on telly the other night. All the trouble he caused and then he just ran away. And now he wants us to make up and be friends again." Debbie shook her head, and curls, again.

"So what's wrong with doing it just for the money?"

"I don't do this for the money now. I do it because I want to do it. I didn't bother while the kids were growing up but I had to start again a few years ago. Singing while I was doing the ironing wasn't enough. I had to be out there," she pointed at the door, "singing."

"You must've married a rich fella if you could stay at home all that time."

"I went to see an accountant to help me sort out the money problems after Daybreak finished – the tax and the contractual obligations. It was good to meet somebody normal for a change. Then I married him."

"I've got the same accountant as Ken Dodd," said Tommy. "He recommended him to me. Before that I thought because I lived on the coast in Southport I didn't have to pay money to the Inland Revenue."

"The old ones are the best, Tommy."

"There's always someone who hasn't heard 'em, thank God. You know they brought in self-assessment a few years ago? I thought of it long before they did. The accountant said he'd save me a lorra time – about two years if I got caught."

Debbie smiled for the first time that night, stood up and twirled.

"What do you think of my dress?"

"A bit smart for this place, innit?"

"It's one of Shirley Bassey's." Debbie twirled again and sat down, easing her dress into her chair with both hands. "Dave bought it for me at an auction. He wouldn't tell me what it cost but it'll end up as an allowable expense. I put it on tonight to cheer myself up." She pointed to the clock on the wall and said, "I'm on in five minutes."

 Don't let this Marty fella get to yer."

"His agent 'phoned me yesterday. Some smooth-talking Southerner. Asked me if I'd seen Marty on the telly. Said he was doing a comeback UK tour, and there'd been a lot of interest in the possibility of Daybreak reforming and doing a tour and a CD. The other members of the band had already agreed and they wanted me to consider it."

"So what did you say?"

"I let him keep talking.

"How much was that?"

"Enough for me and Dave to retire on. The agent fella kept talking and asked me if I'd heard Marty's new CD. I told him in Marty's case it stood for Compact Dick and there was more chance of John Lennon re-forming The Beatles than there was of me ever singing with Marty again. Then I cut him off and I've heard nothing from him since."

"Was that a wise career move?" Tommy asked.

"I don't care.  He's just a third-rate singer who ruined things for me and everybody else."

"And he's on the telly and you're singing in Salford.

"I'd rather be mixing with the likes of strippers and drag

artists and you and all the other comedians you meet in this business than have to see Marty again."

"You could be right, kid," said Tommy. "There's worse things than doing this for a living – I know, 'cos I've done 'em. After fourteen years on the assembly line at Ford's I wake up every morning – and some afternoons – and thank God I'm still in this business. I might not be Billy Connolly but even dyin' on your arse in Burnley beats shift work at Halewood."

Debbie turned and took a mouthful of water from a glass on the dressing table, stood up to gargle and spat into the hand basin to her right. She bent towards the mirror to apply a final touch of lipstick, then climbed into her sparkling gold high heels.

 "Go on – give us a smile, kid."

Debbie pulled a face in reply.

"I suppose a fuck's out of the question then tonight?" Tommy asked.

"Sod off. I'm on in two minutes."

"That's all I need some nights."

"You're still the same, Tommy. And so are the jokes. Sorry, but it's show time… and tonight I'm going to be… Shirley Bassey. Again."

"Go on, kid – break a leg," said Tommy as he stood up.

"I'll break yours if you don't get out of my way," Debbie said and walked to the door.

Tommy followed her through and waited as she locked the dark blue door with its shiny yellow star stuck on above the words *Artiste's Dressing Room* and bent to put the key in her shoe. They walked along the corridor of cream-painted brick walls decorated with more framed black-and-white photographs towards the sound of voices at the side of the stage where the bingo prizes were being given out. Tommy told her to break her other leg as she took several deep breaths and waited. The compere, thin and balding in a charcoal suit, frilly shirt and lilac bow tie, gave out the last of the prizes and walked offstage to greet her.

"Hiya, darlin'," he said as leaned forward to kiss Debbie's cheek, close enough for her to smell the lager on his breath and feel his moustache tickling her skin. "You in good form?" he asked. "The place is full and they're ready for you."

Debbie tried to smile; she didn't speak but kept on taking slow, deep breaths as the compere walked back to the microphone at the centre of the stage. The house lights went down and the footlights brightened to show cigarette smoke curling upwards around the compere's legs.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the compere began, "we're always very pleased to invite this lady to our club. She's a fabulous singer and a great favourite of ours, so please give a big welcome to… Debbie Clarke."

The band – three middle-aged men in dinner jackets squeezed onto the left hand side of the stage with their guitar, organ and drums – starts into 'Hey, Big Spender' and she walks onstage to lively applause.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," she tells them as the intro fades, "it's always good to be back here. I'm going to start this evening with a song you all know – 'Memory' from *Cats.*"

Streisand may do it better but she never played Salford Labour Club. It's as good a version as they've heard here, followed by 'I Will Always Love You', with notes as long as Whitney ever held. The applause allows her to pause for breath, then she waits for two men carrying trays of drinks from the bar to reach their table near the front. The spotlight makes her gold dress sparkle and stand out from the burgundy curtain behind her. She lifts the microphone from its stand and starts into 'Cry Me A River', deep and heartfelt, walking slowly across the stage. The guitarist takes his solo and she looks out at the audience – four rows of crowded tables stretching away from the stage to the bar at the back – before rejoining the band for the last verse. When they finish clapping she tells them:

"This is the most beautiful love song ever written by somebody from Salford… or anywhere else for that matter," introducing Ewan McColl's 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face'. The respectful silence holds between its slow lyrics as nobody dares to lift a glass and spoil the effect.

When the applause subsides she does a twirl, asks:

"Do you like the dress?" and gets several wolf whistles in

reply. "It's one of Shirley Bassey's that my husband bought for me. I've always wanted one." Then she leans towards the organist and tells him, "I bet you've always wanted to get into one of Shirley's dresses." When they finish laughing she tells her audience, "This is one of Shirley's dresses and this… is one of her songs," launching into 'As Long As He Needs Me' with full dramatic effect, leading to a climax that demands applause.

"Do you want some more of Shirley's songs?" she asks when the clapping ends.

Without waiting for a reply she nods to the band, who start their intro to 'Hey, Big Spender' and she gives it everything*,*  shaking Shirley's dress and its contents before leaning suggestively over two startled men at a table near the stage. Their wives are laughing and the applause allows her to take some more deep breaths before launching into 'What Kind Of Fool Am I?', slowing the tempo again to prepare herself for the fullon vocal assault of 'I Who Have Nothing'. The applause gets louder and some of the audience are cheering.

She takes another bow and announces, "Ladies and gentlemen – thank you for being such a lovely audience. I'm going to finish off this evening with a song made famous by a woman that the French called *The Little Sparrow*, but I'm going to do the version that Shirley did a long time ago – in English, because I don't speak French and I know that not many people in Salford do, either. Edith Piaf was tiny and she wasn't good-looking, but she lived life as it's meant to be lived – to the full. This is 'No Regrets'."

A short intro and straight in… *No, no regrets*… the warbled phrasing just like Piaf's, even without the French accent …*No, we will have no regrets* … that strength and that vulnerability as she dominates each verse, each chorus… *One last kiss, shrug and sigh*… she gives it everything and they're transfixed by the intensity that she generates… *No regrets…. even though it's… good… bye*.

A stepped crescendo that stretches her voice to its triumphant limits. The big finish and then some. The applause surrounds her and continues for long enough to demand an encore, as she stands bowing in the spotlight, catching her breath and hoping that the tears and mascara running down both cheeks haven't spoiled her finale.

# For My Sins

### M a x D unbar

S he <sup>h</sup> a d n ' <sup>t</sup> see <sup>n</sup> this coming.

The sin-eater was a fat man with curly, almost bouffant grey hair that made Lexi think of Donald Trump. He wore a bomber jacket and denim shirt that carried stains from long-ago meals, faded into the fabric like patchwork. When he spoke, Lexi saw that his teeth were bent and croggled.

"Miss Blythe, is that right?" The sin-eater pushed past without waiting for an answer. He didn't bother either to take off his boots or to wipe them, and messy footprints appeared on the hall carpet as he strode. "Can I trouble you for a cuppa?"

 She brewed coffee and took two mugs out to where the sin-eater sat in slants of sunlight from the French doors looking out onto the garden. The mugs had CHROMOSAL TEC logos on them.

"Fucking good view up here," the sin-eater remarked. "Can see right downt' Abbey."

"It's great for parties when summer comes," Lexi said. "So, can we get to the point? How does this work exactly?"

She wanted to move things on: the sin-eater had the style of a man who would talk away the afternoon about nothing. And she was tired.

"Did Mr Day not tell you anything? Terrible remiss of him. Still, he ain't a reliable man. Sold a bunch of bad pills that killed his best friend at Global Gathering. Police never traced it back to him, of course, but it's *the dark night of the soul* that gets you, don't you find that, Miss Blythe?" The sin-eater had a giggly, rollicking voice that was out of sync with the morbid nature of his words. "Terrible guilt that young man went through. Mr Day almost took the jump, did he tell you that? OD'd, had to have his stomach pumped at the LGI. Terrible. Still, I got to him in time, and now he's fine."

"He didn't tell me any of that. We were talking at a party, he just recommended you. He didn't tell me what the treatment actually involves. Are you like an alternative health guy?"

When the sin-eater talked his teeth waggled like piano keys.

"Nah, I ain't new age. I been around a long long time, before Jesus even.   The sin-eater drank down half his coffee as if it were water. "You need to tell me everything. And I mean everything. *Feed me.* It's pretty intense, I warn you. I seen grown men crying over this."

"I just want the guilt to end," Lexi said. "I want to be able to wake up without feeling afraid and to sleep through the night. I have my house, my money, my social life, I should be able to enjoy all that without the guilt."

"Once you've given your full account, you take a little blood from your hand – no way around this, I'm afraid, so it's tough luck if you're squeamish – and mix it into the food you're gonna prepare for me."

"Does it have to be a particular kind of food?"

"Nope." The sin-eater tossed back the rest of his coffee. "Can be anything. But I like burgers."

Lexi grew up on the Hawkswood estate. Her best friend was a girl called Kelly Dales. As teenagers they wagged off school, got drunk down at the Aire with the popular crowd, sledged on Toboggan Hill when it snowed, and did everything they could to fight the atmosphere of tedium and bitterness that pervaded the Hawk. Kelly's passion was computers. She could make little arcade games and personal websites, and showed Lexi how. By the time they were fifteen both girls could code to industry standard. They used this talent to hack into the school computers so that they all crashed at the beginning of the lesson, displaying an error message that read '404 Error: Mr Schofield bends it'.

When Mr Schofield found out what Lexi and Kelly had done, he did not punish them as they had expected. Mr Schofield asked them how they had done the coding. Mr Schofield got very excited and started talking about algorithms and systems and domains. He said that when they left school they should go to college and do a degree in programming. Then they could get jobs at Google or Microsoft. There was loads of money in computers, he said.

Mr Schofield mentioned this at parents' evening, and Lexi's mam just laughed and said that college would be too expensive, and who was going to pay for it, and that sort of thing wasn't for the likes of them anyway. Lexi knew what she meant. You didn't go to college. You left school at sixteen and had a baby and got a council house and maybe a part time job as a nursery nurse or care assistant. That was the algorithm of the Hawk.

Lexi hardly ever ate burgers and had made the sin-eater's meal out of a breakfast muffin and leftover mince from the shepherd's pie *dauphinoise* recipe she'd served to guests last weekend. The burger didn't look nice to eat.

"Is it me or is this thing *pul*sating?" she asked.

"That's your sin."

He sprayed ketchup, mustard and mayo, one after the other, on top of the throbbing meat, then demolished the patty in five minutes. The sin-eater then downed half a San Pellegrino and produced a belch like God's death-rattle.

"Much obliged. That was delish."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Fuck all. That's how you can tell I ain't an alt-health practitioner. It's the pain and regret and misery I like to eat, for each sin's a drop of honey to me."

Actually she'd felt nothing while she told the tale. Even enjoyed the retelling. Thinking about Kelly had been worse than talking about her. For after school let out for the last time Kelly and Lexi spent a few years working minimum wage and getting wrecked in the Bridge or LS6. Then they discovered webcamming. For a floor show lasting maybe three hours, they could clear three hundred each, even after the camsite had taken its cut. It was fun, they had their regulars and a real sense of community to the whole thing, people used to tip big when their shih tzu dog, Barney made an appearance, or when they could see Kelly's older brother watching at the door.

 They had lunches in town and bought cool clothes and went to parties. But Kelly was not satisfied. She had always been the more ambitious and accomplished of the two, and was working on what she called a 'killer app' – something that everyone with a smartphone would want. At the same time she started going out with a lad named Pete Forrester, a big shot who worked as a web developer in the city's financial district. Lexi thought this was slightly unfair – she had met Pete Forrester first, had got off with him at Vanessa Rideout's New Year's Eve party in the hills. But aside from flirting and cockteasing Forrester when Kelly wasn't around, there was nothing she could do.

Last year Kelly had finished the app: a free game called 'Eat the Bean'. You played a cute little dinosaur that had to run around the place, eating beans that fell from the sky. The thing was ridiculously addictive, and Kelly started sending samples out to software companies. The way Lexi told it, the screentime had burned itself into her face so that Kelly had looked rough for a while, and she'd developed an awful rattly cough, even though she'd never smoked. Last summer Kelly had started to cough all the time. Then Kelly started to vomit. Then Kelly started vomiting blood. It was scary. Lexi thought she might have cancer. It wasn't cancer, though. It was something called *idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis*, and over the next six months it went about the business of killing her.

After the sin-eater had gone she went to lie down for a while, but found she couldn't get to sleep. Her heart seemed to dance with playful emotions, and marvellous universes formed and collapsed behind her eyes. She wondered why she was even in the house on such a sunny day. She went for a run around the Abbey and then hit the Clock Cafe for a beer and some nachos. The sun was out late and she wandered over to the Bridge Inn.

Most of Lexi's and Kelly's friends had been students or postgraduates or people just out of uni and casting around for some big idea. There were plenty of the old crew in the beer garden.

"Jesus, looks like we might actually get a proper summer this year!" Johan said.

"Lex," Day said, "got any holidays planned?"

"We should go to Benidorm," Fran said. "Lexi! Let's do ironic Benidorm!"

"Nah," Lexi said. "Benidorm is not good even in an ironic way. I only holiday in places with an umlaut."

They ended up at a little session at Johan's place: a session that turned into a party. She remembered lying in an attic next to Fran, and bars of strobes coming through the spaces between the beams, and the beat of something – Faithless' 'Insomnia' – pulsed in and out with the lights.

"Lexi," Fran said, "you look great. For the first time in months."

Lexi knew this. Everyone had been telling her. Day had that energised unburdened look, too.

What she said was: "I *feel* great."

"I can tell. And it's good to have you back. We thought, you know, you kind of blamed yourself for what happened to Kelly."

"Maybe I did," Lexi said. "Maybe it was, like, survivor's guilt."

"Did your therapist tell you that?"

"Yes," she said, lying. Her therapist had referred her on after she'd offered him oral sex in return for codeine drugs. "It can be good. Traditional therapy. Old school."

Over the next weeks she wondered really what she had made so much fuss about. It had maybe been the stress of looking after Kelly that had fucked her up. She hadn't had to work; the app money had come through, and most of the time after buying the house she had simply lain around in it, entire days watching Netflix and reading fashionista blogs and eating takeaway, sometimes going to an event she couldn't possibly avoid or calling up an old friend with benefits for the evening.  She had eaten a lot of chocolate, she recalled, or at least watched a lot of chocolate commercials – commercials that pitched breathless clichés of *desire* and *indulgence* and *sin*.

But now that she was up and about and socialising again, cleaning the house and buying new clothes and back on the LS6 party scene, she thought that maybe she had been too harsh on herself. After all, she had looked after Kelly for six long months. A dreary whirlwind of appointments and bureaucracy and care packages and adaptations. Of seizures and night terrors and fingers turning blue.

Twenty-three was possibly a little young for the menopause, but she had tested herself, and the test came up negative. But it was a fact: she hadn't menstruated since giving the sin-eater his meal.

Summer came and passed quick. She saw Lady Gaga in Rio with Fran and the emoji crowd, spent a month in the better part of Greece with a dashing young registrar she'd met through Johan, did weekenders in NYC and across the Pennines. Although she now thought of webcamming as a thing of the past, she began again to document her life on social media, uploading YouTube fashion tutorials and pinterests and long, drunken, giggly podcasts with her girlfriends.

Then the autumn came, and brought bad news.

It came in the form of a skinny young man who approached her in the Bridge. He wore a beanie hat and the flustered expression of badly skilled criminals. He called her by name, and it took a beat for Lexi to remember who he was. Oh yeah: Kelly had an older brother called Liam, and this was him.

"Lex, how's it going?"

"I'm alright. Still drinking the pale ale?" Lexi nodded to his glass.

Liam sat down. He was eating some kind of roast panini from the van outside.

"Yeah, I heard you're the real gallivanter these days?"

"What can I say? I get around.

"Sorry," said Liam. "Burger vans. My guilty pleasure."

Lexi hated that expression.

"So how you doing, anyway?"

Not like she cared. It was a while since she'd had to talk to anyone this dull.

"Not so well. Morrisons paid us off, then that went, had to move back in with the old girl. Jobcentre sanctioned me, and Mam's hassling us for non-dep charges."

"I'll give you fifty quid if you cut the sob story," Lexi said.

"Actually, Lex, I was thinking you could do a bit more than that. You're rich off that dinosaur game, and we both know that weren't your idea. As Kelly's grieving relative I deserve a cut, plus percentages."

"No way! The game was developed by the limited company. I was a co-director. You have no legal claim."

"Maybe not.  Maybe others should know. Maybe the papers'd be interested." Liam got up. "So if I was you, I'd keep your spare change."

She'd meant to be going to Calum and Dave's Headingley bash but had delayed it: she wanted some time alone to work this out.  Twice a day this overwhelming need came upon her, but all she could produce at the bowel were these spatters of black rabbit droppings.

She lay in the bath and drank her wine and thought – what hurts isn't what he could do but the fact he *said* it. Formed words out of the regret she used to feel. This worst possible interpretation.

She made a carbonara, took it into the front room, flicked around on the TV until she found an old *Take Me Out* and munched down the carbonara, then ate a pack of mini crème eggs. *Guilty pleasures.* Another cliché. Another thing used most often about food. She finished her glass of wine and poured another. Yeah, Liam could spread lies in the papers, on Facebook and try to ruin her socially. All he could do. He wasn't getting any money – not that there was all that much left. The last time she had spoken to her financial adviser, just before the New York trip, he had told her that her capital was running low, the percentage deal hadn't been as good as she had thought, and the man had even advised her to think about 're-entering the workplace'.

*I could do anything.*

But Lexi couldn't imagine leaving the city. She was a gallivanter, like Liam had said – but she couldn't imagine herself *living* in London or Rio or New York, where she knew no-one.

*It was that he actually* said *it. Actually said it.*

*I could kill him.*

She finished her meal and turned off the TV. It was time to plan what she would wear to the party.

"No. I ain't doing it."

"I'm not asking you to do anything," Lexi said. "I'm just asking you to eat the sin."

The sin-eater shook his head. They were in the Royal Park and he was eating pork scratchings.

"It's an indulgence, a big one. I don't do indulgences. I know a guy who can handle it, mate of my brother's, but –"

"Then put me in touch."

"What you're proposing is a *mor*tal sin. It is murder."

"Come on.

"I know the Hawk. It's a small estate and people don't generally leave. If this guy disappears the police are gonna notice."

"But you have power. You can protect me."

"No, I can't."

The sin-eater munched up his pork scratchings and Lexi watched him. Pork scratchings, the ultimate pub food, crunchy and wet and hard and soft all at once. How could you eat something like that?

"I cannot interfere with the laws of man. It's the Covenant. I already done enough. Look, there's stuff that's bigger than you or me.  The wasting disease."

Lexi drank back a vodka and Coke. It was true that she hadn't seen Mark for a while – but this didn't matter now. The vodka had a cold, slimy taste, she suspected from an inferior supermarket brand.

"Well, damn lot of help you are."

"Hey, all I've ever offered is temporary ease and restment. I get in trouble enough for that. Sin is always with us. Not just the mortal and the venial but the sin of being alive, of despair and sadness and regret, what the Catholics call *original sin*."

"Whatever," said Lexi, and left.

She flagged down a cab outside Abu Bakr. When she got back Liam was already waiting outside her front door. He wore a town shirt and enough aftershave to stun a mountain lion.

"Good. You're here."

She opened the door and Liam Dales walked into the house as if he already owned it. The blackmailer walked into the front room – walking trainers all over Lexi's Pashtun rug she had picked up in Fifth Avenue – and peered at the DVDs.

"*Legally Blonde 2*? I never seen such shite."

"Well, you didn't come here to watch the movies," she

said – straining to get exactly the right note of stern flirtation into her voice. It was tricky because too much leg and cleavage would scream honeytrap, and yet he had to believe there was a chance. Her outfit for the evening had been carefully calibrated.

In the kitchen she poured two glasses of wine and carried them back on a serving tray. The tray also had a sheaf of documents. She sat down next to him and smoothed her skirt over her legs, with care. With her remote she turned on Lady Gaga.

"Prefer a beer, if you got one," said Liam Dales.

"Tonight you drink wine."

Dales shrugged and knocked back half the glass.

"Let's get down to it.

Lexi passed the papers to him. Liam gave them a cursory scan – no more – before signing them with Lexi's Parker pen. Lexi had used it to sign her co-directorship of Chromosal Tec, about a hundred years ago.

"Nice one. When do I get the money?"

"It's a straightforward transfer. Be in your account in four hours."

"Cheers, Lex." Liam stood up, then staggered.

"Sit down, arsehole."

Liam fell back onto the sofa.

"I always thought you was fit as all that. Like my sister.

"Well, that's really sweet of you to say so."

She cupped his chin and forced more wine down his throat. He wasn't so good at keeping it in his mouth and some of the wine would have splashed over Lexi's new Sofaworks, had she not taken the precaution of putting an old blankie down.

 Drink to your success."

 You had the drugs." He was laughing now. "You could of done it."

"I could have," said Lexi, "but I didn't."

It took another twenty minutes for Liam Dales to die. Lexi put *Gogglebox* on and burned the papers in the fire – useless anyway, she had just mocked something up on Microsoft Publisher. She had some wine from another bottle and got quite into the TV show. Fast-forwarding through a commercial break she glanced at Liam Dales and realised that he was no longer thrashing around or even breathing. She took his pulse. Nothing.

She picked up the phone. Now for phase two. Scatter some drug paraphernalia around and pass Dales off as an OD. The potassium would back this. There would probably not even be an inquest. Risky, and she had considered luring Dales somewhere outside – God knew Leeds had plenty of remote wilderness – but she couldn't handle the thought of spending all night digging a grave.